Touching Darkness

this short story is almost a warning

   

     When I walked into the little museum, a sound system was on, playing the Black Hills Singers in full voice. Powwow music for everyone. It was a good introduction to the junior college's small place, called the Helmsman Native American Museum. There was a girl behind a desk near the door, but she just glanced up and went back to reading her book. There was no one else around, no sign of the museum director/curator, a man named Anderson, who had called me there.

     I spent a few minutes looking at various displays.

     They had a lot of kachina dolls, most made by the Hopi, according to the little cards. They were largely unidentified beyond that. I didn't linger around them as, to my knowledge, they're often powerful in the spirit realm. I appreciated them from a distance. They were fairly large, well-done, and freestanding, kept on shelves and nooks between displays that were behind glass. It seemed a pretty cavalier way to treat kachinas, but I'd seen many sold to tourists in New Mexico and Arizona, and the museum gave them enough room in comparison.

     They need room. The spirit realm, while always close to every living thing, comes to the fore if let in by a kachina doll. If a person doesn't really know what they're doing, or why, that realm can become a dark place, misty and confusing. The kachinas were made in forms suitable for specific tasks, but many people, including me, aren't really familiar with what they are, and mistreatment is close at hand. To those who know, the dolls are gateways to a spiritual way of being, either uplifting and offering good insights into life, or down and dark and grasping.

     So I gravitated toward the display case that said "Plains Indian Beadwork." They had some really old work there that used more porcupine quills than beads, and a lot of dyed horse hair. They also had newer work that was stunning in its own right. Those were done with tiny cut-glass beads and they were intricate, colorful and beautiful. The beadwork was mostly on powwow costumes, with a few belt buckles, a headdress and hair ties; it was a good collection for its size.

     Someone coughed, and I turned to see the girl go outside while a middle-aged man shut the door and flipped the sign to "Closed."

     "Mr. Anderson?" I said.

     He turned and came toward me with a smile. "Yes. And you must be Mrs. Follows-Along. Your son looks a lot like you."

     We shook hands while I corrected him on my name. "Just call me Jo, please," I said. "I got a divorce years ago. Nice to meet you! Tommy talks about you quite a bit. Your place and the chance you give students to learn about the things you have here are really good."

     "Oh, well thank you," he said. "I do what I can. We have a wonderful network of donors. Please come upstairs with me so I can show you more, especially the item I mentioned on the phone. And I have a fresh pot of coffee up there."

     "I'm right behind you," I said. We climbed a steep set of stairs to reach a combination office and storage place.

     "I guess Thomas got his black hair from his dad," Mr. Anderson said, "but he still looks a lot like you. Would you like some coffee?"

     If Mr. Anderson was intent on Native American-type of hospitality, he had to offer me something to eat or drink, and I had to accept.

     "Of course," I said, though it was already evening.

     "Be right back with it. Take a look through the drawers there and make yourself at home, if you like."

     I did 'like.' I'd only been in the "backstage" of a museum once, when I met Tinker at the Natural History Museum in New York, and Tinker showed me a room downstairs full of Native clothes stored on several racks. I was very impressed, but also sad that so much was hidden and collected for, apparently, no good reason. We only stayed a couple of minutes; of course I wasn't really allowed there.

     In this museum, the emphasis was on smaller things. I opened the shallow drawers to see many more beaded things nestled on white cotton - barrettes, key holders, belts and buckles, bracelets, designs to add to dance costumes and more. I swore I saw work my ex-mother-in-law did when I lived near her in Oklahoma. I had a bracelet and hatband at home that matched a set in one of those drawers.

     It made no difference though, really. Rose was long gone, and if her work was collected, that seemed okay.  

     Mr. Anderson brought the coffee with sugar and milk next to it on a tray. "Here we are," he said with a big, genuine smile.

     While we both added far too much sugar to our coffees, I asked about the reason I was there.

     "Mr. Anderson, when you called you said..."

     "Please call me Andy. Everyone does, even Thomas."

     "Okay. When you called, Andy, you said you had something you think I can identify. Is it a type of beadwork? I never did much of that."

     "No," he said. "It's something else I got in, well, under some really sort of mysterious circumstances. I don't know what it is, and hope you can tell me."

     He put down his coffee and left the room once more to bring back something in a cardboard box.

     "I got this on a buying trip to New Mexico," he said. "Or at least I asked a man for Native American artifacts from that area. He's a Pueblo Indian I've dealt with before, but not recently. He mailed this to me. He never mailed anything before, and certainly nothing like this! I'm not even sure what it is, and to tell you the truth, I'm not sure that man was one hundred percent sober when we met."

     I said nothing. I opened the cardboard box and unfolded an old blanket from around another box, a smaller wooden one.

     It was narrow and rectangular, about half the width of a shoe box, and shorter in height. There was an old metal handle and two tiny hinges on top, and a simple metal clasp held it shut. Whoever made it fashioned it so the grain of the varnished wood matched.

     "Oh!" I said. "It's a peyote box, but..."

     "Peyote?" he said. "I don't want..."

     "But look," I said. "It's too small! It's half the size of an ordinary box. It's beautiful! Old, but well-cared for. Is there anything inside?"

     I was already opening it when Andy moved to stand next to me.

     "I never opened it," he said. "It seemed... wrong."

     I was enchanted. I'd never seen anything of the kind.

     "See this?" I said, holding up a gourd half the usual size. "It's used when singing, to add more percussion to the songs. But it's so small!"

     I shook it twice. "Oh my," I said. "It's exquisitely made, the beadwork and tassels, and the top, see? Care was taken with this gourd... but it's too small, and it has no little rocks or shells or anything inside it to make it work as a rattle. It's silent! How strange!"

     "Perhaps it's a mistake," Andy said. "Jo, are you sure about this?"

     "Look," I said again, "here's a little drumstick, too! It's wonderfully carved, isn't it? And it's small... and here's a cedar bag, bits of sage, look out! Leave that there. It's an old downy eagle feather, very special. It sometimes protects a child.  And under this scarf, there's a little piece of deer hide to make a drum. But there are no rocks or rope to tie it on a kettle. This all seems to be made for a child, for someone who won't really use it in the tepee. How interesting!"

     "I don't collect anything used in the Native American Church," Andy said sternly. "I'll send it back if it's for a peyote ceremony..."

     Then I spotted a square of worn leather, folded over on itself like origami. It felt like something was inside it. I opened that, too.

     Inside was a rust-colored powder. It couldn't be peyote, could it? I wondered. I licked my index finger and touched it to the powder.

     "Hmm," I said. "It tastes like dirt or..."

     At that moment, the leather square moved in my hand. It squirmed and snapped shut, literally shoving my thumb out of the way.

     I dropped it in the box and raised both my hands as if a robber demanded it. What had I done? What was in there? I'd never know.

     The two of us stood there, silent. I thought to myself, yes, it needs to be returned. It could be a funeral piece for a child. It could have come from a child's coffin. I almost heard the tepee songs winding their way between me and the small peyote box. I felt a draft for the first time, and it chilled me to the bone.

     All I could say was, "I'm sorry," my hands still raised in surrender. It seemed I'd briefly touched a place that was down and dark.

Author's Note

Does this seem real?
Do you like the story?
Any constructive comments are welcome. Thanks for reading!

Reviews

[Dave Brown]

II enjoyed that and it certainly seems real enough
The spirit word is always an unpredictable arena
I personally don't think things happen without an explainable reason but it is a wonderful fantasy land that lets us escape from endless reality.
I used to take a group of kids to the Native arts area of our museum (Victoria B.C,) to absorb the culture and we were all able to design and create some beadwork
A different art form in this area but also very rich

[LJ]

So glad you enjoyed this. That's the most important thing. And that it seems real isn't a big surprise, since some of it was real. Fantasy to escape is good, also, as long as a person doesn't stay there, so to speak. I'd love to see the Native arts in your area... I see a little now and then and really appreciate it. Thanks for your comment here.

[Brian Shepard]

Dark. Spooky. Gave me chills. Goosebumps. Reminds me of the Acadie folk tales my Gran told us when we were young. Every culture has magic and magic isn't to be trifled with! Damn... I don't even want to know the items history- I'd be afraid of child spirits drumming outside my window late at night...

[LJ]

Then this was a success. I wrote it originally for a Halloween story, in a contest. It got a "mention" and a few points. Anyway, yes! It's scary to me, too.