“I don’t do scav, sergeant.”
“Everyone in this town parks stolen goods sooner or later,” Ooljee replied pleasantly, “but that is not what we are here about.”
The owner relaxed visibly, though his tone still betrayed some unease. “Shopping? Birthday present, perhaps, or something for a lady?”
“It would be a real present if you could help us.” Digging into a jacket pocket, Ooljee extracted the by now well-wrinkled eight-by-ten fax of the Kettrick sandpainting and shoved it toward the shopkeeper, who peered at it curiously. “Any idea what Way this is from?”
“Oh, you want advice? Why ask me? Why not try a museum?”
“We have traveled that road.” Ooljee tapped the fax. “The people I have talked with say they have never seen anything like this.”
“Really?” The man brightened, thoroughly at ease now. He squinted at the fax, the implant in his right eye giving him some trouble. After a moment he excused himself. His visitors waited impatiently while he removed the offending implant and replaced it with a jeweler’s lens.
“That’s better,” he murmured, as much to himself as to his guests. He examined the fax closely.
“Do you know anything about it at all?” Ooljee prompted him. “If not the Way it is from, then the style, or how old it might be? What it signifies? Any suggestions will be welcomed.”
The proprietor looked up from the picture. “I was kind of hoping you might tell me. I’ve never seen anything like it either. ” He bent again over the image, his left eye closed, working with the jeweler’s loupe installed in his right. “This is not a very good reproduction.”
“Sorry,” said Moody. “The original was pretty big. A full-size repro would be kind of hard to lug around.”
“These designs here,” the shopkeeper muttered as he traced part of the image with a finger, “and this up here; I don’t recognize any of it.”
“Do not feel bad,” Ooljee said. “You are in good company. Nobody else does either.” He reached for the fax.
The old man waved him back. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Don’t be in such a rush. You cops are always in such a rush.”
He’s having fun now, Moody mused. We’ve set him a challenge.
While the shopkeeper examined and compared and mumbled to himself under his breath, the detective passed the time studying the prints and paintings that filled the walls, trying hard to relate to the colossal landscapes, the abyssal canyons and immense skies. Everything in this part of the world seemed constructed on a grander, rougher scale, as if nature had set aside her fine-pointed tools and little brushes and had gone to work with the heavy machinery. This was country with spaces vast enough to give easy birth to mysteries and legends. There was little verdure in any of the pictures. Green was not an important color in this comer of the universe.
The old man finally paused in his inspection. “Where did you find this?”
“You do not need to know that, unless you can convince me it would make a difference in what you can tell us.”
The shopkeeper hesitated, chewing his lower lip as he examined the fax from a greater height. “It’s very strange. There is so much in here that is familiar but peculiarly arranged, and so much more that I’ve never seen before.” Again he tapped the picture.
“This sequence here is Red Ant Way, but all changed around. And this up here, this is definitely Nightway. But everything is all mixed up. It makes no sense. Not only are there pieces from Ways that shouldn’t appear together in the same painting, there are designs and figures and symbols that don’t mean anything at all. At least, they don’t to me, and I’ve been forty years in this business.” He ran a finger around the edge of the fax.
“Take something simple, like the enclosing guardian design. I don’t understand this interpretation of crooked lightning, and the specific guardians at the east opening I don’t recognize at all. It’s too aberrant to be traditional, yet too well rendered to be nonsensical. But this part here”—his finger moved to the upper lefthand portion of the fax—-“I think I may have seen something like it before. It’s not part of any ceremony currently in use, but you can see how distinctive it is. That’s why I remember it. Because the pattern is so distinctive.”
Ooljee straightened slightly. Moody ambled back from the other side of the store.
“You don’t see much stuff like this up here,” the proprietor was saying. “Most of the experimentation with traditional forms is done down in Scottsdale and Tucson, where the radical artists like to live. Ganado’s too stolid, too old-fashioned a place for them. I don’t usually deal in modem work, but you can’t avoid seeing some of it. Occasionally you’ll come across something that will stick in your mind.”
“You’re talking artists.” Moody leaned up against the counter. “Are you saying you know who did this sandpainting?”
“I’m just guessing.” He bent and rummaged through a drawer, produced a ten-inch square spinner which he placed atop the counter. It was an old model, beat-up and not molly-compatible. His fingers worked the keys with maddening slowness.
An eternity later hardcopy emerged from the single printer slot. He tore it free. “Here’s an address—of sorts.” Moody started to reach for it. “No, wait.” More paper chugged out of the slot. “Directions, as I jotted them down. I was on a buying trip, quite a while ago. I don’t carry much in the way of sandpainting anymore. A lot of the newer stuff is junk and too much of the good old work is in museums and private collections. It’s not worth my time to keep up. But this I remember. It was so different.” He indicated the fax.
“It’s not all of what you’re looking for, but maybe it will lead you to something.”
“Y adil. We could use some kind of a lead.” Ooljee scanned the printout before pocketing it. “Rez local,” he informed Moody, then turned back to the shopkeeper. “Thanks a lot.”
“Sure, sure.” The proprietor saw them to the door. “Do something for me, will you, if I’ve been of some help?” The sergeant hesitated. “My budget does not allow for…”
“No, not that, I don’t want that.” The old man was still eyeing the fax that dangled from Ooljee’s fingers. “All my life I’ve been in this business, and I’ve never seen anything like that picture of yours. If you find out what it is, what it means, what Way it’s from, would you maybe stop back in and tell me? I thought I knew all the Ways still in use, or at least all those that are still represented in fixed sand-paintings. Those I don’t recognize from memory, I’ve always been able to look up. But that one, it’s not just somebody experimenting, not just an artist playing around with old themes and new ideas. It’s too coherent. It hangs together, if you know what I mean. Whoever did that had an overall scheme in mind, and I’d sure like to know what he was getting at.”
“So would we,” said Moody.
“If we find anything out,” Ooljee assured him, “I’ll make it a point to let you know.”
“Thanks.” The old man smiled, nibbing his chin. “I’d appreciate it.”
He was still staring after them, intrigued, thoughtful, somehow younger-looking, as they climbed into the police truck and headed westward into traffic.
They checked in at the station, where Ooljee and his superior engaged in a brief ritualistic argument over the validity of the sergeant’s assumptions. Moody passed the time watching the more attractive spinner operators at their desks, until Ooljee emerged and solemnly beckoned for his partner to join him. A short drive returned them to the residential cluster, where Ooljee made his excuses to his wife and kids, explaining he would be away on work for a couple of days. Moody politely ignored the ensuing domestic scene and spent the time packing his travel bag.