"You have a… boyfriend, right? In New Orleans?"
"There's someone I'm getting to know, yes. I'll be going out there in a couple of weeks. Why?"
"I was wondering. You've known Edgar Mayfield a long time, haven't you? You two seem very close."
Cree felt her serenity fall away, replaced by uneasiness. A feeling of exposure and doubt. When she'd seen Edgar and Joyce off, she'd been reluctant to physically let go of Ed. She'd wished he wasn't so blue, that he'd seen how much he'd helped her even if it wasn't in the technological or scientific sense. She'd resolved to try to tell him when she saw him back in Seattle. Then she'd gotten confused again, thinking about just what she'd say.
Julieta bit her lips. She looked like she wanted to say more, but then must have second-guessed herself. She stood quickly, brushing the dust from her skirt. "I should get back," she said.
Okay, Cree was thinking. Right, okay. She's right, and I don't want to wait eighteen years to figure out something that important. She felt close to crying and couldn't figure out just why.
But Tommy had emerged from the grandparents' trailer. He was dressed in new jeans and a bright white shirt, a broad silver-inlaid belt, a heavy turquoise necklace, and a brilliant headband. His red moccasins were exquisite, no doubt lovingly made by one of his aunts. He walked solemnly between his grandfather and his uncle Raymond, looking a little embarrassed at being the center of attention, sobered and intimidated by the seriousness of the ritual. Still, when he saw Cree, he tossed her a quick, shy smile before continuing on to the hogan door.
It was a smile Cree knew she'd remember for a long time, the kind you take out of memory and touch and treasure, like a favorite piece of jewelry from its box.
She watched them go into the hogan, and after a few minutes the compound was empty. It was quiet except for the low voices from inside, muffled by the blanket that hung over the open doorway. She shut her eyes and savored the feel of the event. A soft wind moved through the shallow canyon, past the derelict hogans and sheds, and caressed the cottonwood trees. The clean scent of the desert, tinged with sage, mixed with the smells of roasting mutton and woodsmoke. Cree realized again just how much she'd miss this place, these people. The thought of leaving broke her heart. Everything broke her heart.
She took off her shoes and pulled her feet onto her thighs. She shut her eyes and felt herself drawn into the hogan, the hearthlike place at the center where all those energies converged. The air changed when she heard Hastiin Ts'aa'lil'ini's voice inside, and though she couldn't understand the words she was spellbound by its rhythms, awed by his authority.
Cree intuitively felt what he was doing and tried to find a synesthetic metaphor that would describe it. It was a weaving together, she decided. In daily life, all the energies of living and dead were disparate, often conflicted and chaotic. But the ceremony had invited the living people here as well as the important ghosts and now the medicine man was bringing together all their separate lines. Through the prescribed actions of the ritual, he was gathering the strands of the individual lives and personalities and psyches one by one and guiding them into a beautiful weave of ancient design.
Basket Maker! Cree realized abruptly. Joseph's uncle must be an amazing man, to have known she'd discover the meaning of the medicine man's name.
Eyes shut, feeling like she was floating in the soft desert air, Cree could sense the ceremony, almost see it: Yes, it was like a basket, honoring each strand, giving each participant a purpose, containing and protecting each individual psyche. The People and their ghosts were the basket even as they were in the basket being woven here. Ts'aa'lil'ini was gathering the strips in his strong hands, bending them gently, weaving together living and ghosts and past and future into a beautiful thing much more durable than the fleeting present. The troubled ghosts would be acknowledged, included, and calmed. He guided each strand to where it must be, creating the basket that for thousands of years had proved so beautiful, practical, enduring.
Today Tommy would know he was safe in the center of the basket, and, just as important, that he was himself a crucial strand.
Cree just sat, awed and humbled. Stunned. Grateful. Heart wrenched wide open. Still on the verge of tears. There was so much she had to learn.
Yaateeh, she thought. It is good. Yaateeh.