THE TRICKSTER
Desert Dreams
Celeste slammed down the telephone receiver with a force that left it quivering in its cradle like a small frightened animal. The shaking extended up her arm and into her body, in hot pulsing waves. She realized she was sweating profusely, her shirt sticking to her back, her hair clinging to the base of her neck. Wrapping her arms around herself to still the trembling, she waited for the tears. This is where the tears always came, blurring the world, washing her wounds in salt that stung, shrouded, and finally soothed.
But her eyes remained dry, burning like the sun that was flattening the desert into a shimmering gold coin as it dropped into the west. As the still amber backwash of the sunset filled the room, she suddenly felt unreasonably frightened. There wasn’t a sound in the hot hush, except her own frayed breathing. The heavy adobe walls seemed to be getting thicker and thicker, closing toward her. She felt claustrophobic, unreasonably panicked, her heart beginning to beat rapidly in her throat. She ran out the door into the fading tawny light without locking the door behind her or remembering to take the keys.
She climbed into the hills, her feet following the red dirt road, her thoughts beating out a rapid tatoo that matched her hurried steps and told her she was being completely insane. She didn’t know where she was going. She didn’t know these rough, red mountains, or any mountains for that matter. The light was swiftly fading and she hadn’t even brought a flashlight. Still, her feet kept climbing and her mind kept racing. Words throbbed against the inside of her ears and echoed against her forehead. ‘Impulsive, imprudent, reckless, rash, wild.’
Darkness fell, suddenly, completely, the swift sable curtain of the desert night. She paused for half a heart beat and then began to climb again, pushing into the blackness ahead. ‘Irresponsible,’ the words pounded, ‘incautious, impulsive, dangerous, desperate, wild.’ She hated feeling like this. She hated this desert. She hated the hot, sudden darkness. She hated the dirt. She hated the dry stretched feeling of her skin. She longed for moisture, for green, for tears. Her labored breathing broke on a barren sob and she spoke out loud, “what the hell am I doing here?”
“Hell,” said a voice that rose creaking from the deep desert darkness, “yes . . . but, whose?”
She would have screamed, but it seemed that every whisper of air had been sucked from her lungs and all she could do was gasp as she spun wildly around, her eyes blindly searching the darkness.
“Misery,” continued the voice, “torment, agony. Alternately, The Inferno, The Abyss, The Bottomless pit, The Netherworld. I presume that you are referring to your state of mind, though from the way the sweat is pouring off you, it could be the temperature. You certainly will find hell, if you don’t know what is inside yourself.”
There was a sudden flash in the darkness. Celeste saw, sitting on the ground not two yards from her feet, a small Native American woman, holding her hands out to a fire that had not been there two seconds before.
“Fire,” the woman went on, “is usually a part of the package, though there are places where they will give you ice.”
From a myriad of wrinkles, her sharp black eyes peered out at the girl and she smiled a sly broken toothed smile. “If I read blood in those golden curls and not a bottle of peroxide, your own people would give you ice for hell.”
Celeste blinked and shook her head hard, half expecting the woman to vanish. More words raced through her head. ‘Hallucination. Apparition. Illusion. Delusion.’
“Phantasm,” the old woman replied mockingly, just as if Celeste had spoken aloud. “Mirage. Chimera. Fantasy. It is night and on several counts ‘Nightmare’ would apply, though I always find ‘Dream’ more flattering.”
Celeste’s hands had begun to shake and almost against her will she moved closer to the fire and closer to the tiny crumpled woman.
The old woman held up a gnarled hand. “Real,” she snorted, “come and see.”
Moving as if in a trance, Celeste knelt in the red dirt and stretched to touch the leathery hand. The old woman’s fingers were cool in spite of the heat of the night, peacefully cool. They lingered against Celeste’s hand and then reached up to cup her hot cheek. “Who are you?” Celeste whispered.
“No one to be trifled with,” the old woman snapped, turning the pat into a small sharp slap. “You have work to do.”
She reached into her dark, shapeless poncho and pulled out a small deep green velvet bag which she opened spilling its contents into the firelight. They were small, egg-shaped disks each engraved with a different mark. The old woman reached out two knobby fingers and plucked at the disks, turning them face down in the red dust.
“These are my bones,” she told Celeste matter-of-factly.
Celeste shook her head sharply again, peering closer. “I know what these are,” she said at last. “They are Runes. A fortune telling device, like the I Ching or Tarot cards. I work in a book store and we sometimes sell things like this.”
“You work at making yourself miserable,” the old woman snapped, “and you don’t sell my bones. Now,” she pointed to the small disks, “What is inside you? Why did you climb my mountain?”
Celeste forced down all the plausible, reasonable questions that bubbled to her mind. ‘Where did you come from?’ ‘How did that fire spring from out of nowhere?’ ‘What do you want from me?’ ‘Who are you?’ She forced her mind back to the stifling heat inside the adobe walls, the telephone call, the last in a long string of abandonments. She sighed.
“I started climbing because I couldn’t stay in that house for another minute.” She took a deep, shaking breath. “I got a telephone call from my husband. My exhusband I guess. It seems that after bringing me out to this godforsaken land and leaving me here, he intends to leave me for good.” Celeste paused, taking another deep breath, waiting for the tears. But still nothing came.
The old woman stirred the disks with her finger. She peered at Celeste, raising just her eyes. “So you know what is inside yourself? You find yourself . . . ?”
“Heartbroken,” Celeste murmured. “Miserable. Devastated. Alone.” Her voice broke on a dry sob. “He doesn’t love me. No one loves me. I can’t remember anyone ever really loving me. And now I can’t even cry.”
“Mmmmm,” the old woman hummed dispassionately, stirring the disks. “Remember,” she muttered. “Remember. Memory is a slippery thing.” Her voice became barbed again. “Do you know what is inside yourself? Draw.”
“I don’t need my fortune told,” Celeste cried despondently. “I know only too well what my fortune is.”
The old woman doubled over with laughter. “Fortune! ,” she cackled. “Affluence or accident? Chance or Coincidence? Kismet or Karma? Destiny or Doom? How could I ‘tell your fortune?’ You don’t even know what is swarming in your own insides.” Her old eyes grew quiet and seemed to soften. Then abruptly they were sharp and black again. “Draw!” she commanded.
Celeste reached out and picked up one flat disk from the red dust. She squinted at the marking in the firelight. It looked like a lopsided H. As she reached to hand it to the old woman, she found that her fingers were shaking.
The old woman didn’t look at the disk. She continued to look straight into Celeste’s eyes. “Anger,” she read.
Celeste felt the disk burning in her fingers. She looked across the fire and found herself staring into the grinning face of a Coyote. She was shaking all over now. A Coyote . . . wearing a dark, shapeless poncho, with an old woman’s gnarled fingers stirring the flat disks in the dry, red dust. An eternity seemed to pass as Celeste stared into the deep, golden eyes and felt her blood hammering in her ears. Time seemed to telescope, stretching and shrinking . . . distending and dwindling . . . waxing and waning.
“Ah,” Celeste breathed, at last. “I do know you. I work in a bookstore, as I said. I’ve read a lot of myths.”
“Myths!” snorted the Coyote. “Fables, falsehoods. Folklore, fiction. Legends . . . lies.”
“I always thought you were a man,” said Celeste.
“Sexist.” There was an ocean of laughter in the bottomless golden eyes.
Celeste smiled. “Then what shall I call you?” she asked.
“Grandma,” answered the creature as it grew larger, its fur turning from tawny to grey.
“Oh, Grandma,” gasped Celeste, “what big eyes you have.” And as she spoke the wild golden eyes turned a soft, smiling blue. The wrinkled old face returned, but it was suddenly one that she knew well. The gentle old hands reached out to hold her and she smelled lilacs in the dry desert wind. “Nana,” she whispered. “I do remember.” And she began to cry.
* * * * * * *
When the sun rose in splendor over the desert, Celeste came down from the red mountains and went home to her cool, adobe house. Her arms were full of wet purple lilacs and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that in the desert, “Godforsaken” is an oxymoron.
©Edwina Peterson Cross
Celeste slammed down the telephone receiver with a force that left it quivering in its cradle like a small frightened animal. The shaking extended up her arm and into her body, in hot pulsing waves. She realized she was sweating profusely, her shirt sticking to her back, her hair clinging to the base of her neck. Wrapping her arms around herself to still the trembling, she waited for the tears. This is where the tears always came, blurring the world, washing her wounds in salt that stung, shrouded, and finally soothed.
But her eyes remained dry, burning like the sun that was flattening the desert into a shimmering gold coin as it dropped into the west. As the still amber backwash of the sunset filled the room, she suddenly felt unreasonably frightened. There wasn’t a sound in the hot hush, except her own frayed breathing. The heavy adobe walls seemed to be getting thicker and thicker, closing toward her. She felt claustrophobic, unreasonably panicked, her heart beginning to beat rapidly in her throat. She ran out the door into the fading tawny light without locking the door behind her or remembering to take the keys.
She climbed into the hills, her feet following the red dirt road, her thoughts beating out a rapid tatoo that matched her hurried steps and told her she was being completely insane. She didn’t know where she was going. She didn’t know these rough, red mountains, or any mountains for that matter. The light was swiftly fading and she hadn’t even brought a flashlight. Still, her feet kept climbing and her mind kept racing. Words throbbed against the inside of her ears and echoed against her forehead. ‘Impulsive, imprudent, reckless, rash, wild.’
Darkness fell, suddenly, completely, the swift sable curtain of the desert night. She paused for half a heart beat and then began to climb again, pushing into the blackness ahead. ‘Irresponsible,’ the words pounded, ‘incautious, impulsive, dangerous, desperate, wild.’ She hated feeling like this. She hated this desert. She hated the hot, sudden darkness. She hated the dirt. She hated the dry stretched feeling of her skin. She longed for moisture, for green, for tears. Her labored breathing broke on a barren sob and she spoke out loud, “what the hell am I doing here?”
“Hell,” said a voice that rose creaking from the deep desert darkness, “yes . . . but, whose?”
She would have screamed, but it seemed that every whisper of air had been sucked from her lungs and all she could do was gasp as she spun wildly around, her eyes blindly searching the darkness.
“Misery,” continued the voice, “torment, agony. Alternately, The Inferno, The Abyss, The Bottomless pit, The Netherworld. I presume that you are referring to your state of mind, though from the way the sweat is pouring off you, it could be the temperature. You certainly will find hell, if you don’t know what is inside yourself.”
There was a sudden flash in the darkness. Celeste saw, sitting on the ground not two yards from her feet, a small Native American woman, holding her hands out to a fire that had not been there two seconds before.
“Fire,” the woman went on, “is usually a part of the package, though there are places where they will give you ice.”
From a myriad of wrinkles, her sharp black eyes peered out at the girl and she smiled a sly broken toothed smile. “If I read blood in those golden curls and not a bottle of peroxide, your own people would give you ice for hell.”
Celeste blinked and shook her head hard, half expecting the woman to vanish. More words raced through her head. ‘Hallucination. Apparition. Illusion. Delusion.’
“Phantasm,” the old woman replied mockingly, just as if Celeste had spoken aloud. “Mirage. Chimera. Fantasy. It is night and on several counts ‘Nightmare’ would apply, though I always find ‘Dream’ more flattering.”
Celeste’s hands had begun to shake and almost against her will she moved closer to the fire and closer to the tiny crumpled woman.
The old woman held up a gnarled hand. “Real,” she snorted, “come and see.”
Moving as if in a trance, Celeste knelt in the red dirt and stretched to touch the leathery hand. The old woman’s fingers were cool in spite of the heat of the night, peacefully cool. They lingered against Celeste’s hand and then reached up to cup her hot cheek. “Who are you?” Celeste whispered.
“No one to be trifled with,” the old woman snapped, turning the pat into a small sharp slap. “You have work to do.”
She reached into her dark, shapeless poncho and pulled out a small deep green velvet bag which she opened spilling its contents into the firelight. They were small, egg-shaped disks each engraved with a different mark. The old woman reached out two knobby fingers and plucked at the disks, turning them face down in the red dust.
“These are my bones,” she told Celeste matter-of-factly.
Celeste shook her head sharply again, peering closer. “I know what these are,” she said at last. “They are Runes. A fortune telling device, like the I Ching or Tarot cards. I work in a book store and we sometimes sell things like this.”
“You work at making yourself miserable,” the old woman snapped, “and you don’t sell my bones. Now,” she pointed to the small disks, “What is inside you? Why did you climb my mountain?”
Celeste forced down all the plausible, reasonable questions that bubbled to her mind. ‘Where did you come from?’ ‘How did that fire spring from out of nowhere?’ ‘What do you want from me?’ ‘Who are you?’ She forced her mind back to the stifling heat inside the adobe walls, the telephone call, the last in a long string of abandonments. She sighed.
“I started climbing because I couldn’t stay in that house for another minute.” She took a deep, shaking breath. “I got a telephone call from my husband. My exhusband I guess. It seems that after bringing me out to this godforsaken land and leaving me here, he intends to leave me for good.” Celeste paused, taking another deep breath, waiting for the tears. But still nothing came.
The old woman stirred the disks with her finger. She peered at Celeste, raising just her eyes. “So you know what is inside yourself? You find yourself . . . ?”
“Heartbroken,” Celeste murmured. “Miserable. Devastated. Alone.” Her voice broke on a dry sob. “He doesn’t love me. No one loves me. I can’t remember anyone ever really loving me. And now I can’t even cry.”
“Mmmmm,” the old woman hummed dispassionately, stirring the disks. “Remember,” she muttered. “Remember. Memory is a slippery thing.” Her voice became barbed again. “Do you know what is inside yourself? Draw.”
“I don’t need my fortune told,” Celeste cried despondently. “I know only too well what my fortune is.”
The old woman doubled over with laughter. “Fortune! ,” she cackled. “Affluence or accident? Chance or Coincidence? Kismet or Karma? Destiny or Doom? How could I ‘tell your fortune?’ You don’t even know what is swarming in your own insides.” Her old eyes grew quiet and seemed to soften. Then abruptly they were sharp and black again. “Draw!” she commanded.
Celeste reached out and picked up one flat disk from the red dust. She squinted at the marking in the firelight. It looked like a lopsided H. As she reached to hand it to the old woman, she found that her fingers were shaking.
The old woman didn’t look at the disk. She continued to look straight into Celeste’s eyes. “Anger,” she read.
Celeste felt the disk burning in her fingers. She looked across the fire and found herself staring into the grinning face of a Coyote. She was shaking all over now. A Coyote . . . wearing a dark, shapeless poncho, with an old woman’s gnarled fingers stirring the flat disks in the dry, red dust. An eternity seemed to pass as Celeste stared into the deep, golden eyes and felt her blood hammering in her ears. Time seemed to telescope, stretching and shrinking . . . distending and dwindling . . . waxing and waning.
“Ah,” Celeste breathed, at last. “I do know you. I work in a bookstore, as I said. I’ve read a lot of myths.”
“Myths!” snorted the Coyote. “Fables, falsehoods. Folklore, fiction. Legends . . . lies.”
“I always thought you were a man,” said Celeste.
“Sexist.” There was an ocean of laughter in the bottomless golden eyes.
Celeste smiled. “Then what shall I call you?” she asked.
“Grandma,” answered the creature as it grew larger, its fur turning from tawny to grey.
“Oh, Grandma,” gasped Celeste, “what big eyes you have.” And as she spoke the wild golden eyes turned a soft, smiling blue. The wrinkled old face returned, but it was suddenly one that she knew well. The gentle old hands reached out to hold her and she smelled lilacs in the dry desert wind. “Nana,” she whispered. “I do remember.” And she began to cry.
* * * * * * *
When the sun rose in splendor over the desert, Celeste came down from the red mountains and went home to her cool, adobe house. Her arms were full of wet purple lilacs and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that in the desert, “Godforsaken” is an oxymoron.
©Edwina Peterson Cross
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