The Watch RWISA Write Showcase Tour continues. The purpose of the blog hop is to highlight the work of nineteen outstanding authors. The RWISA (Rave Writers - Int'l Society of Authors) is an elite branch of the outstanding Rave Review Book Club, featuring the best of the best in writing.
Today I have the pleasure of featuring Marcha Fox.
The Curse of Dead Horse Canyon
by Marcha Fox
Charlie Whitehorse caressed the soft texture of the
wool blanket as he gathered its folds around himself against the evening chill.
He savored it's earthy scent, unlocking an onslaught of memories. This wasn't just
any blanket. Over three decades before, he'd watched his ama'sa'ni create this
one from scratch. Sitting cross-legged on the floor of his log cabin, gazing
into the roaring fire, he recalled how he'd longed to hunt deer with his father
and the other elders. But he was a child of seven, his job to help his
grandmother, one of the tribe's weavers. The process of making blankets was
long and tedious, one far too boring for a young Navajo boy who felt
embarrassed and demeaned performing chores assigned to squaws.
Even now, he remembered every step. First, she'd shown him
how to separate the shoulder sections of the fleece, which were the cleanest
with the longest staple. After that, she'd instructed him how to prepare the raw
wool for spinning. This involved teasing a few locks with his fingers to
separate the fibers. Next came combing them with a pair of carders that looked
like large, flat dog brushes, manmade imitations of the prickly teasel. Then
he'd place the resulting bats in a reed basket, miniature clouds of fluff awaiting
her skilled hand. Pure lanolin coated his fingers, making them squeak when
rubbed together, its odor one he'd never forget. Nor how it softened callouses
earned practicing with his bow. Often he couldn't work fast enough to keep up
with her spinning, accomplished using a spindle to twist the prepared fibers
into yarn.
Fortunately, once she spun enough yarn, his part became more
interesting. Then he no longer had to sit for hours on end, arms aching from
carding. Now he could explore a bit as he gathered the materials she needed to
dye the yarn into a variety of warm colors.
The collection process for some substances required a knife
or ax, which contributed to the feeling of it being a worthy task for a young
brave. Bloodroot, hickory twigs, pokeweed berries, and oak bark were some of
the things she requested. Among the most challenging were cochineal beetles which,
when dried and ground into powder, would yield crimson. It could take an entire
day to gather enough bugs for a single batch, but to both him and his ama'sa'ni,
it was a day well-spent.
In fall, goldenrod blossoms were gathered to produce vibrant
yellow, though color and intensity depended on various factors. When ama'sa'ni
was ready to start the dye process, he'd haul water from either the iron-rich
spring to the north side of their village for reds, or the alum-rich one to the
east for the yellows, the resident minerals necessary for the fiber to
permanently retain its color.
When she'd prepared sufficient yarn, Charlie helped her warp
the loom constructed from tree trunks, then wrap the different color yarns on separate
sticks that served as shuttles. Then, the best part--weaving--began. He
marveled as she'd skillfully alternated shuttles, colorful geometric patterns emerging
with each row of weft, until at long last their collective labors produced a
finished blanket that was not only functional but a work of art.
Only now, as a grown man, did the wisdom of that experience impress
itself upon his mind. Not only the work itself, but what it taught him about
nature, going full circle from the vegetation the sheep ate to dyeing the yarn
with some of those same plants. Yes, the process was tedious and long; yet the
result was well worth it. It taught him patience, perseverance, and
appreciation. For simple things. Like a blanket that felt softer to the touch each
year, improving with use, unlike so many things that didn't last. Analogous to
life itself. And old friends. A cherished cover that had kept him warm for what
would soon be thirty winters, many of which were spent in the frigid Colorado
Rockies.
His cultural roots demonstrated man was intended to be an
integral part of nature; stewards, not conquerors. Unlike those who'd invaded
their land, forced Indigenous population to settle in inferior regions, then even
drive them from there, when a wealth of silver, gold, copper, and other
minerals were discovered beneath what they considered sacred ground.
Rather than extracting and processing it in a way that
honored the earth and showed gratitude for its abundance, they'd virtually
raped the land, leaving gaping holes and tunnels behind. Some hundred-fifty
years before, his people had sadly admitted defeat and had no choice but to
tolerate such behavior.
Yet, their misfortune didn't end there. It was harvest time
in 1869 when a band of drunken Whitemen raided the village, waiting until the tribesmen
were away for the final hunt in preparation for winter. The invaders not only
ravaged the women and burned their homes, but stampeded the horses that
remained in camp. A few young braves, not yet old enough to join the hunt, had
attempted to save the steeds, only to be driven by a hoard of deranged miners over
the edge of a cliff to be decimated in the ravine a hundred yards below. Charlie
recalled when he'd first heard the story as a youth and how he'd imagined
himself as one of them.
Was it any wonder that when the tribesmen returned and found
the resulting devastation that their medicine man, likewise a shaman, cursed
that canyon? So far, however, the
Whiteman had continued to benefit from exploiting and abusing the entire area. Perhaps
the dawn of the curse resided in the
aftermath of the leaching and other processing methods used to extract the
precious metals. These involved noxious substances such as arsenic and mercury.
Their residue poisoned the ground and eventually migrated to nearby streams
when abandoned mines filled with rain and snow melt. The toxic drainage
eventually killed all aquatic creatures and drove away wildlife that depended
upon such channels for drinking water.
The mines were mostly exhausted, yet water continued to
accumulate in their cavities. The latest bitter irony that they were using the
excavations' polluted aftermath to further devastate the ground. The acid mine
water was being used for hydraulic fracturing, commonly known as fracking,
again dishonoring the earth while stealing from its depths.
It was easy for Charlie to question whether or not the curse
was real. So far it was questionable, no apparent consequences answered upon those
who had wreaked so much destruction for the sake of greed. Only the earth and
local wildlife had suffered.
Local tradition dictated that the curse would manifest in
its entirety when their actions reached the pinnacle of evil. After that, it
would dissipate, but only when the Whiteman and his Indigenous brothers mended
their ways; when they closed the persistent rift between them in friendship and
cooperation. Unlike many, he was one of the few who had tasted of such
sweetness with his friend, Bryan Reynolds. They'd met in their teens, when
Charlie had moved north to live with his father in his male parent's native
Cheyenne country. Oddly enough, the two boys even shared the same birthday, spending
dozens of adventurous summers together, exploring, hunting, fishing, and growing
up in separate cultures, yet being of one heart.
But now Bryan was dead. His life terminated in that very ravine
known to his people as Dead Horse Canyon. Charlie suspected his friend's tragic
accident had been orchestrated by those to whom the curse had been directed. Yet
so far, no guilty party had been identified, much less suffered due consequences.
It didn't make sense. Seven generations has passed. Surely it was time. And intuition
assured him fulfillment was in progress.
But why Bryan? Why now? And what, if anything, was Charlie's
role?
The blanket's warmth enjoined him to patience. From that
first bat of carded wool to its liberation from the loom, it had comforted and
instructed him in the ways of life. Legend assured him that the curse would end.
Soon. And in some way, currently unknown to him, he would be part of it.
****
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour today!
We ask that if you have enjoyed Marcha's writing, please visit her Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of her writing, along with their contact and social media links, if she's turned you in to a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent.
Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about Marcha Fox:
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