fighting him and . . .
I smoothed my hand across her thin forearm. “Oh, yes, Dee. We’ll find out. That we will. Never fear. We’ll make him pay.”
“What do you mean there are no photos of Didi’s reconstruction and the skull?” I stood, arms folded, and stared at Addy Morgridge until I was sure she’d relent and tell me she was mistaken.
“Sorry, Tal. No.” She waved a hand. “Please sit! You’re obviously distraught and dealing with that terrible sight of Didi’s corpse.”
“No, I’m not!” I said.
“Sit.”
The leather squeaked as my tush landed hard. “I am not distraught. Much. Not too much.” Suddenly I was fighting tears. “Why no photos?”
“The governor. His request, our acquiescence. We had to respect his wishes, Tally.”
“Ah, jeez.”
Addy lit a cigarette. Boy, didn’t I wish . . . “She was something, that one,” Addy said.
I nodded, chuckled. “A character. One of a kind.”
“All that talent, gone.” She inhaled deeply and allowed the smoke to dribble out her nose. “And here. How dare they.”
“Have you called the governor? Told him about—”
Addy nodded.
“Mind if I talk to him?”
She stubbed out the cigarette. “Yes.”
“Why?”
She lit another one. “Sergeant Kranak said you’d be trouble.”
A prick of pain. I was sure Kranak hadn’t said it like that, but . . . funny how those words hurt. I guessed he’d moved on, just like me.
“Sergeant Kranak’s right,” I said. “But I don’t work here anymore, which sure looks like a good thing.” I contemplated telling her about the two snaps I had of the reconstruction, the ones I’d taken with my phone and only pretended to erase. Later. I’d tell her later, after I’d talked to the Zuni governor.
Outside Addy’s office, I made sure I e-mailed the photos home. If they were the only pictures of Didi’s reconstruction, they were priceless.
Once I got home, I brought up my e-mail. There were the two images, one a full face and one in profile. I wished I’d ignored Didi and taken more. Didi. I’d caught her on camera, too. Just her back, bent over some hunk of un-formed clay, her bony hands and slightly hunched shoulders a portrait in intensity.
She was so damned good at what she did. So devoted to her work, to the past she wished to bring back to life.
The photo said it all. Life, there now, then—poof.Gone. In a blink. I looked at her image again. She was alive there, intensely so. And now . . .
I could not see the value in stealing a skull, a bunch of potsherds and a clay bust. I couldn’t see the value at all.
I failed to find the Zuni governor that night, at least in the flesh, so I Googled him instead. He appeared to be a complex man who aimed to blend old and new Zuni ways into one, much to the frustration of certain young Zuni firebrands.
He carved Katsinas for a living and also for the tribe. I flipped through pages of pictured Katsinas, once called Kachinas. According to Barton Wright, who wrote extensively about American Indian art, Katsinas represented the spirit essence of everything in the real world. White noted that the idea of the Katsina Cult is that all things in the world have two forms, the visible object and its spirit counterpart, a dualism that balances mass and energy. Katsina dolls are never toys—I’d known that—not even when given to Hopi or Zuni children. These spirit “dolls” can assist with prayers. They’re carved from cottonwood root, which had become increasingly scarce, and painted to represent the real Katsinas or spirit beings.
I’d seen Katsinas many times on my visits out West. Governor Bowannie was obviously a master carver. His pieces were sought after by many high-end collectors. They were worth thousands, and I knew the traders and retailers profited mightily. I had no idea what the governor himself received.
I continued searching, in part out of fascination, but found no way to communicate with the governor or learn where he was
I smoothed my hand across her thin forearm. “Oh, yes, Dee. We’ll find out. That we will. Never fear. We’ll make him pay.”
“What do you mean there are no photos of Didi’s reconstruction and the skull?” I stood, arms folded, and stared at Addy Morgridge until I was sure she’d relent and tell me she was mistaken.
“Sorry, Tal. No.” She waved a hand. “Please sit! You’re obviously distraught and dealing with that terrible sight of Didi’s corpse.”
“No, I’m not!” I said.
“Sit.”
The leather squeaked as my tush landed hard. “I am not distraught. Much. Not too much.” Suddenly I was fighting tears. “Why no photos?”
“The governor. His request, our acquiescence. We had to respect his wishes, Tally.”
“Ah, jeez.”
Addy lit a cigarette. Boy, didn’t I wish . . . “She was something, that one,” Addy said.
I nodded, chuckled. “A character. One of a kind.”
“All that talent, gone.” She inhaled deeply and allowed the smoke to dribble out her nose. “And here. How dare they.”
“Have you called the governor? Told him about—”
Addy nodded.
“Mind if I talk to him?”
She stubbed out the cigarette. “Yes.”
“Why?”
She lit another one. “Sergeant Kranak said you’d be trouble.”
A prick of pain. I was sure Kranak hadn’t said it like that, but . . . funny how those words hurt. I guessed he’d moved on, just like me.
“Sergeant Kranak’s right,” I said. “But I don’t work here anymore, which sure looks like a good thing.” I contemplated telling her about the two snaps I had of the reconstruction, the ones I’d taken with my phone and only pretended to erase. Later. I’d tell her later, after I’d talked to the Zuni governor.
Outside Addy’s office, I made sure I e-mailed the photos home. If they were the only pictures of Didi’s reconstruction, they were priceless.
Once I got home, I brought up my e-mail. There were the two images, one a full face and one in profile. I wished I’d ignored Didi and taken more. Didi. I’d caught her on camera, too. Just her back, bent over some hunk of un-formed clay, her bony hands and slightly hunched shoulders a portrait in intensity.
She was so damned good at what she did. So devoted to her work, to the past she wished to bring back to life.
The photo said it all. Life, there now, then—poof.Gone. In a blink. I looked at her image again. She was alive there, intensely so. And now . . .
I could not see the value in stealing a skull, a bunch of potsherds and a clay bust. I couldn’t see the value at all.
I failed to find the Zuni governor that night, at least in the flesh, so I Googled him instead. He appeared to be a complex man who aimed to blend old and new Zuni ways into one, much to the frustration of certain young Zuni firebrands.
He carved Katsinas for a living and also for the tribe. I flipped through pages of pictured Katsinas, once called Kachinas. According to Barton Wright, who wrote extensively about American Indian art, Katsinas represented the spirit essence of everything in the real world. White noted that the idea of the Katsina Cult is that all things in the world have two forms, the visible object and its spirit counterpart, a dualism that balances mass and energy. Katsina dolls are never toys—I’d known that—not even when given to Hopi or Zuni children. These spirit “dolls” can assist with prayers. They’re carved from cottonwood root, which had become increasingly scarce, and painted to represent the real Katsinas or spirit beings.
I’d seen Katsinas many times on my visits out West. Governor Bowannie was obviously a master carver. His pieces were sought after by many high-end collectors. They were worth thousands, and I knew the traders and retailers profited mightily. I had no idea what the governor himself received.
I continued searching, in part out of fascination, but found no way to communicate with the governor or learn where he was
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