Durch Ferne Welten und Zeiten - 9. Chapter 9: What Rudy Couldn't Know

Chapter 9: What Rudy Couldn’t Know

Alexis leaned against a pile of pillows. One of the pillows was warm: it was a boy’s tummy. He thought it was Petrus. All the boys who shared the dormitory were snuggled together, arms and legs wrapped around one another. Alexis took a deep breath and nearly choked on the pheromones.

“A thousand lifetimes ago,” Alexis began, “ . . . or about two years ago, my master showed me in the book the first story Rudy had written about Phillip and Argon, and their journey to World. Mark and Kevin know that someone on their world had a copy of the book, translated some of the stories, and published them.”

“The translator wrote elsewhere that the same day the translation was published—made public—on Mark and Kevin’s world, he had received a message from someone who claimed to be Dine or Navajo.”

Email, thought Marty and Chandler, although they couldn’t say it.

“This person was very angry about how the story spoke of things that were supposed to be secret. He told the translator that he should be ashamed of himself for revealing secrets he was sworn to protect.”

“He thought the translator was Navajo?” Marty asked.

“On that world, I think they called themselves Dine, but I’m not sure,” Alexis said, “But, yes. The person thought the translator was a member of his people. The translator’s name was Oliver Linden, however, and he was not Dine, at least not at first. Oliver told the person, whose name was Tommy, he wasn’t Dine, but was only a translator.”

Alexis opened the book, and read.

The Translator’s Tale: Oliver Linden

I tried to reassure Tommy that his concerns that I had revealed secrets of his people were unfounded, and asked if he would like to talk more about them. We exchanged messages for two years, during which time the team was able to translate and publish more stories.

Tommy was concerned about secrets being revealed: his people’s origin story, the symbols of the lodges, their ceremonies, and the chants. That was a big part of it. We talked about other things, too. He wanted to know how magic worked on World, he wanted to know why Arthur and Jon were so disenchanted with the superstitions or religion of their worlds, and what I thought about that. He wanted to understand why science was different on World. He also wanted to know about me, about being gay, about being gay and a soldier. It was hard to answer the personal questions, not because they were personal, but because I didn’t want to get stung by the police for talking about sex with a 15-year-old kid.

Then, something happened: something he couldn’t write about. He wanted us to meet.

* * * * *

TomTom: Oliver we have to meet show you things tell you things please cant email its important!!!!!

Oliver: Tommy, your profile says you’re gay and 15. Just last week, they arrested a guy my age for setting up an on-line date with a 15-Y-O who turned out to be a cop. They do a lot of that, you know.

TomTom: cause he was lookin for sex thats not what youre looking for is it?

Oliver: No, Tommy. But that wouldn’t matter to these people. They would assume the worst; and “innocent until proven guilty” doesn’t seem to apply when someone cries “child abuse.”

TomTom: Oliver this is important please?

Oliver: I don’t know how. TomTom. I’m sorry, I just don’t know.

*****

TomTom: i talked to my uncle you meet him not me hell come with me public place he knows

Oliver: ?

TomTom: he knows im gay he knows i need to talk to you he read the stories coffee ship main street gallup please please please?

TomTom: Oliver?

TomTom: Oliver? This is Joe Leaphorn. I am Tommy’s uncle, an adult. Will you meet me, if not him?

Oliver: Mr. Leaphorn, I will meet you. In the coffee shop. Wait, please.

Oliver: I’ve booked a flight to Gallup. Is 10:00 AM this Sunday okay?

TomTom: This is Joe. That will be fine. The coffee shop is at 323 Main Street.

Oliver: I’ll be there. Joe Leaphorn, you’d damn well better be an adult relative, and not a cop, Oliver thought.

TomTom: thank you thank you thank you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Coffee “Ship,” Gallup

Oliver parked the rental car in front of the coffee shop and grabbed his satchel. The coffee shop was half full. Oliver took a table and sat facing the door. He looked around. Looking for an adult man and a boy; may look Dine. May not, he reminded himself. No one fits that description. White folks. A few couples. One family with two girls. Four old men playing pinochle in one booth. They could be Dine. No one who looks like a cop, Oliver thought. Not that I’m an expert.

“Just you?” the waitress asked. She looked at the three empty places at the table.

“Two more coming,” Oliver said. And maybe the entire police force. She might sell a lot of donuts. “I’ll have coffee, please, while I wait.”

At 10:00 AM, sharp, a shard of sunlight swept twice across the wall and Oliver’s face. The door had opened and closed. A man and a boy stood just inside the doorway. The boy pointed and spoke briefly to the man. The boy stood by the door while the man walked toward Oliver. Oliver stood.

“I am Joe Leaphorn,” the man said. “Born to the Salt People, born for Folded Arms People. TomTom is Tommy Chee, son of my sister, born to the Salt People, born for Red Running into the Water.”

“I am Oliver. My mother’s people were Hastings; my father’s people were Lindens. I bear my father’s name. Will you sit?” Oliver’s knees were weak with relief.

Joe nodded. “May Tommy join us?”

Oliver nodded; Joe gestured; Tommy skipped to the table.

“Oliver, thank you for coming,” Tommy said. “Thank you for your trust; it is a great gift. You wrote those words. I hope you believe them.”

Oliver took a deep breath, let it out, and then said, “Tommy, Mr. Leaphorn, I did not write the words . . . or the stories. I helped translate them from a language that is like Latin, but which is not. The book in which they were written is not from this world. The stories are true.

“But, yes, I do believe those words about trust. Thank you for insisting I come.”

“See, Uncle, I told you,” Tommy said. He grinned. “I knew the stories were true, I really did.” Tommy added. “Uncle Joe said only that he would wait and see. He is wiser than I am.”

“The person who wrote the stories knows a great deal about our culture,” Joe said. “He knows more than someone who is not an initiate should know; but there are things that are wrong.

“I not only have read, but also have studied the stories that tell of our people. I have shown them to shamans. The magic about which you write, it would not work. Some of the words are wrong; some of the herbs are wrong.”

“If the words were right, it would work,” Oliver said. His voice was flat. “The herbs do not make a difference; all that is needed—and that not always—is smoke: any kind of smoke.” What he said was not a question, but a statement.

Joe asked, “Do you believe that?”

“I do,” Oliver said. “I must. It meets the test both of the mind and of the heart. There is a reason the words are wrong. The translation team discussed this. Then, we changed the words because we knew they would work, and we didn’t want that kind of power to get out without being under control.

“I hope you will look at the words in the original document. You need not tell me if they would work, only satisfy yourself one way or the other.” Oliver pulled a heavy book from his satchel. He fumbled for a moment before he opened it and handed it to Joe. “This book is the original. Most words are like Latin; the chant is Athabascan, written with Roman letters. It is very close to Navajo. The herbs have Latinate names, they’re translated into English on the paper stuck between the next two pages.”

“May I show this to the shamans?” Joe asked.

Oliver nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Joe gestured to the four old men playing pinochle. They folded their cards and came to the table. Oliver was startled, but only for a moment. Joe was more prepared to believe than he let on.

Oliver watched the four shamans pour over the book. The waitress refilled their cups twice before they had finished. One spoke briefly to Joe in Navajo before the four men returned to their card game.

Joe turned his arms so that the palms of his hands were facing upward. He looked at Oliver. “You show wisdom and trust. We, too, believe that trust is a gift not easily bestowed. Will you extend that trust to joining me in kiva?”

“Uncle! He’s afraid. You said—” Tommy said.

Joe raised his hand. “Tommy will not accompany us. In any case, you should no longer fear that you are being entrapped. Your car? It is the one just outside the door?”

Oliver nodded. “How did you know? Oh. It’s not covered with dust.”

Joe nodded. “That and the rental car company’s sticker on the trunk.” TomTom giggled.

“Tommy, you will take the truck home and wait. Mr. Linden will drive me to the kiva. If you will?”

“Yes, sir; gladly. Tommy, is this okay with you?”

“I obey my uncle,” Tommy said. Then he grinned. “He’ll tell me what I need to know, when I need to know it. He always does.”

Joe was laconic, speaking only to give directions. “North on 491.” “Turn left, here.” “Right, here.” “There’s a parking space, there.”

“Window Rock,” Oliver said. “Across the parking lot. May I visit the memorial, later?”

“You know of it?”

“I served with young men of your nation. Not all of them came home,” Oliver said.

Joe nodded. “You honor them and us. Later. Now, through this door.”

Navajo Tribal Headquarters, Oliver read. He said “kiva.” Oh! There’s a kiva behind this modern façade! Makes sense, actually.

* * * * *

Joe spoke in Navajo to a receptionist who looked startled, but picked up the telephone and pressed buttons. Joe turned to Oliver. “Oliver, born for Hastings, born to Linden, you must be purified before you enter kiva. Will you do as I ask, speak only when I say, and tell no one not allowed to know that which you see, today?”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

“Do you know why I do this?” Joe asked.

“You will bind me by oath not to reveal that which I have already hidden. You do this to protect your people, their culture, and their destiny. In return, you will give me something.”

Joe nodded. “I understand why Tommy is so fascinated by you. You are honorable and perceptive.” Joe paused, and then asked, “Why do you think I will give you something?”

“Everything I know about your culture says it is based on balance—harmony,” Oliver replied. “You ask something of me; you will give something to me. It likely will be intangible.” Joe nodded.

The twenty men who had participated in the ceremony had left. Oliver and Joe were alone in the locker room. Oliver ran his hand across the beaded tunic and leather pants he had worn, and then folded them into a basket.

“Among us, you are my brother, member of the Salt People. You are now family,” Joe said. “Tommy wishes to spend time with you. You know he is gay. Are you?”

“Yes,” Oliver said without hesitation. “However, I would never ask—”

“No. But he will ask you,” Joe interrupted. “I do not want our nephew hurt. If you refuse him, please do so gently, with kindness and love. If you accept his invitation, do so with kindness and love, and please be gentle.”

“You’re okay, either way?” Oliver asked.

Joe nodded. “It was Tommy’s dream that led to your invitation—and your initiation. It was Tommy’s dream that will take us to the next step. You need to hear it from him.

“Tommy has been initiated in kiva. He is adult by our law and custom.” Joe smiled: the first time Oliver had seen him do so. “You never needed fear being entrapped.”

Joe directed me to his home. TomTom greeted us. He was bouncing on his toes, eager to know what had happened. Joe told him I was now TomTom’s uncle, and that he could speak with me as with his other uncles.

Joe then excused himself. He came back in uniform: a captain of the Navajo Tribal Police.

I was not afraid. We were brothers; the bond is as strong, although not necessarily sexual, as the bond between best friends on World. That’s not to say I wasn’t startled.

TomTom’s Dream

“Your father’s brother Jim and his husband are in Farmington,” Joe said. “They’ve been approved to foster children for Tribal Family Services, and are to receive the first one, today. I told Jim I would cover his shift. I’ll be back by morning. Aunt Doli left supper in the refrigerator.”

“Are you hungry?” TomTom asked me after Joe had left. “It’s only 4:00, but I know you didn’t get lunch.”

“The egg sandwich I had at the coffee shop is still sitting on my stomach,” I said. “But if you are hungry?”

“No. I had lunch. Let me show you around.” TomTom grabbed my hand and stepped toward a hallway.

Now would be the time to say “no,” I thought. If I let him hold my hand, it will be harder to say no, later. In less time than the thought took, I gripped the boy’s hand, and followed.

We walked past Uncle Joe’s bedroom and then his office. “He is on the Tribal Council. He’s like, their historian.”

TomTom whispered, “I think he’s their consigliore, too.”

“This is my room.” TomTom pulled me in.

The room was bright. A large window faced north, overlooking the Tribal Headquarters and Window Rock. Mountains extended as far as I could see. Those in shadow were colored like a purple-gray; those in sunlight were bright reds and oranges. “This is beautiful, and truly awesome, TomTom,” I said.

The boy squeezed my hand. “Oliver, you’re pretty awesome, too. Will you share yourself with me? I spoke to Uncle Joe, and he said I might ask.” TomTom’s voice dropped to a whisper, and raised an octave as his vocal cords tightened.

What is that in his voice? Fear? Anticipation? What? I wondered. “My brother, who is your Uncle Joe, also spoke to me, and said I might say ‘yes,’ ” I said.

“But first, TomTom, my nephew, you must tell me what was so important that you could not send by message.”

“Oh!” Tommy ducked his head. “You’re right. You’ve always been right.” He sat on the edge of the bed.

“Please, sit beside me?” He asked. “Please, hold me while I tell you.”

I felt that his request was serious. His fear was palpable. I sat beside him and put an arm around him.

“My Uncle Jim is a shaman; I study with him. He showed me the Dreaming Way: it opens the mind to dreams. Sometimes the dreams are good; sometimes they are bad; sometimes, sometimes they are a warning.

“We were in Uncle Jim’s hogan—you know what that is, right?” I nodded.

“I lay on my back. Uncle Jim burned herbs. They smelled good. Uncle Jim chanted. I fell asleep. I dreamed.

“I dreamed that Uncle Joe and Aunt Doli and the boys were standing on this hill, and that the wind carried a river of dust down the valley past Window Rock and toward them. I dreamed that the wind and dust stripped the flesh from their bones and then covered the hill.”

TomTom shuddered. I tightened my hug, took his hand, and pressed it briefly against my lips. I didn’t say anything; I knew that there was more.

“I dreamed that Uncle Jim and his husband and three boys—I recognized one of them, but don’t remember now who it was—were running from a wild fire that had swept up the hill toward their home. Behind them, it looked like the whole world was burning. I dreamed that the littlest boy fell. Uncle Jim turned back to help him; they were both covered with flames. The fire reached the others. I could hear them scream.”

TomTom’s breath caught in his throat. I saw tears form in the corners of his eyes and spill down his cheeks. He sniffled, and then continued.

“Then, I dreamed that Uncle Joe, Aunt Doli and her boys, Uncle Jim and his husband and their three boys were at a kiva. There was a line of people outside the kiva. Everyone carried baskets and bags. Some led sheep and dogs, or horses pulling travois. They entered the kiva. Shamans were in the kiva, chanting. As the people walked to the center of the kiva, they disappeared.

“I dreamed that my family disappeared in the kiva and then stepped out into a new world, one with blue skies, green grass and trees, clear lakes and streams.

“I dreamed that I saw the book that held the shamans’ chant. I saw that the book had been brought to us by a bilagaana—a white man. I saw his face. I saw him with the book. I read the cover, and I knew it was you.”

TomTom smiled. “That’s how I recognized you in the coffee shop; I’d seen you in a dream. That’s when I knew for sure the stories were real.

“Uncle Jim said that the dream was real, that it was a warning, and that it showed us what we must do. He said that our shamans needed a kick in the ass to get them to accept that the climate was changing, and that we couldn’t stay much longer in this world. He figured that if a bilagaana—a white man—came with a book full of our magic, it would shake them up enough that they would do something.

“Uncle Jim wanted to go to Georgia to find you . . . oh, Uncle Jim’s husband is a computer guy; he hacked the site and traced your IP address. We knew what city you were in. Uncle Joe said it would be impossible to find you in Atlanta, so I got the job of convincing you to come here.”

TomTom giggled; he had put aside his fear. “I’m glad you came.” He turned his head toward mine. “I’m so glad,” he whispered. We kissed.