The Blue Between the Clouds by Stephen Wunderli Page B

had told me. When someone dies, the whole family, or what they call the clan, comes together for four days of mournful singin’. They all bring some kind of gift, food or money. Somethin’ like that. They burn all the dead one’s personal belongings except for his medicine bag, then they dress him in new clothes and bury him in his house beside a horse they kill for his journey in the hereafter. No one is allowed to say the dead person’s name or his spirit will stay behind and haunt the village.
    Two Moons started up the stairs.
    â€œWe have a long journey tomorrow,” he said.
    The next morning, Pa was up early. He would drop us off at the reservation on his way to the mine. We got dressed quickly, and Ma handed us some biscuits on the way out the door. She was cryin’ and hugged Two Moons.
    â€œYour grandpa is with the angels now, honey,” she said. “He’s sittin’ at the feet of the Lord.”
    â€œCome on, boys,” Pa said. “We’ll be late.”
    It took a good part of the morning to get to the reservation. I fell asleep part of the way. Two Moons just looked out the window and sang. The road was long and dusty. Finally we came to a hogan beside a sweat house. The fire in the sweat house was already burnin’. Pa unloaded the sheep while four women embraced Two Moons and cried. Then they turned and spoke to my father in Navajo. I couldn’t understand their clicking tongues, but Pa could. He motioned to me and handed me the sheep rope. Pa must’ve told them the sheep was from me ’cause they came right over and started into huggin’ me. Pa drove away before I could say good-bye.
    One of the women took the sheep from me and tied him to the hogan. The other three spread out a blanket in the dust for me to sit on. It got pretty quiet then, and all I could hear was the chantin’ inside the sweat house. Two Moons was standin’ at the small openin’ covered with skins. He pulled off his clothes and crawled into the sweat house.
    You see, the sweat house is like a temple to the Navajo. It’s where they go to cleanse themselves, sweat out all the evil in their bodies. They build a sort of teepee out of poles, then cover it with skins. Then they build a fire inside and pour water on the hot stones. It gets all steamy and hot in there. The men sit in a circle on the ground and chant for hours. I knew they wouldn’t come out until they felt clean, ready to wash the dead body and get it ready for burial. That could take hours, even most of the day. I laid down on the blanket and watched the last half of sunrise.
    Late that afternoon, the men came out of the sweat house. They were drippin’ wet and wore only small loincloths. The women handed them bits of fry bread and gourds filled with water before they all gathered in a circle around a fire pit. Logs were dumped into the pit and a small fire was lit. Everybody was singin’ mournful songs while a brave kept rhythm on a drum. One by one, members of the clan threw the old man’s stuff on the fire: his hat, a string of beads, his blanket. They’d sing louder as the fire grew. This was the second day. The singin’ would go on for two more days. I tried to keep up with the chantin’, but late that night I fell asleep. The singin’ went on without me until the next morning when I awoke. The fire was still smokin’. Two Moons was standin’ with Spotted Deer, a very old man. Spotted Deer was pullin’ a silver chain from his medicine bag. His hands trembled and the silver chain looked like it was on fire in the early morning light. Two Moons bent forward and Spotted Deer hung the chain on his neck, then he drew his knife and cut a lock of Two Moons’ hair and put it in his medicine bag. Two Moons walked over and sat on the ground beside me.
    â€œMy grandfather,” he said, “believed that in every village lives a warrior who cannot sleep. He