Light for a Vanished Sun: A Mission Deep into Navajo Country

By Midge Shusta

Brenda froze in the stable where she lay. Strangers with painted clubs crept through
the pueblo, starlight glinting off their silver necklaces, belts and ear loops. Quiet
as fog they entered individual houses. First came the crack as bones were crushed,
then the shrieks of terror.
A screaming woman ran past the stall with

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Dec 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781643670980

Midge Shusta

"MIDGE SHUSTA believes the English language, though a problem for some, is a beautiful living thing. English, remaining true to its roots, still adopts words from other countries and manages with few difficulties to insert them into ordinary speech, creating a rich, vibrant language perfect for the written word, "Gesundheit!" Midge Shusta lives in Martinez, California with her husband Bob and Kiera, the cat. They have three grown children and nine totally amazing grandchildren who adore her. Writing for Midge is like breathing to others. Her Cherokee father and Irish/ German mother have provided substantial fodder for her novels and most of her work comes from her heritage."

Book preview

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Light

for a

Vanished Sun

Light

for a

Vanished Sun

A Mission Deep into Navajo Country

Midge Shusta

Light for a Vanished Sun

Copyright © 2018 by Midge Shusta. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of URLink Print and Media.

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Published in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-64367-099-7 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64367-098-0 (Digital)

Fiction

27.10.18

This book is dedicated to all the short term missionaries and those on their teams whose desire is to bring the love and salvation of Jesus Christ to the world.

NORTHWESTSERN NEW MEXICO, NEAR THE DUSTY TOWN OF NAVAJO, A LITTLE known legend warns of a hollow in a red stone cliff that appears to encase a bronze mirror. It is said by some that those who pass through it never return. Only one man is known to have escaped. It is reported that, upon his homecoming, he could not recall his Christian name. He said that his captors called him, Denet-Sonie. The language he spoke was peppered with ancient intonations that only the oldest in the area had ever heard; they translated his name as, Yellow Hair. He insisted that he had been enslaved by a people who should have been long since dead.

When Yellow Hair died in a Santa Fe asylum in 1910, the almost forgotten legend was resurrected by newspapers which had little else of importance to report, and the town, too small for any map, was renamed, Mirror Rock.

Could it be that, somewhere in the high desert, there is a window in a stone that seems to frame a mirror and lure people into another time? If so, where do they go? And, why can’t they get back?

May, 1944

A fierce morning sun glinted off the high canyon walls as young Collin Rafferty scrambled to reclaim his slingshot. No one should be without a weapon these days. America was at war. He sat in the shadow of a weathered pinion pine, tucked the slingshot into his back pocket and took out the small wad of string his father had given him just before he left. It’s my lucky string, Collin, he’d said, getting out his penknife.

I’ll take this half with me and you keep this one until I come home, then we’ll tie them back together, okay? As Collin ran the length of red string through his fingers he remembered his dad putting his arm around him. Dad knew how worried they all were. Men died in war.

Along with the string came the newspaper clipping. The face of his father smiled at him from the newsprint.

—Squadron leader, James Rafferty of Mirror Rock, New Mexico leaves for Honolulu, Hawaii on Thursday to join his flight crew. They will be stationed there to complete training before being added to the ranks of the Nation’s crack Bomber squads. Rafferty’s wife, Cora, told this reporter that she would be proud to display the starred flag in her window signifying the service of her husband. Rafferty will say good-bye to his wife and two sons, Collin, 11, and Michael, 9, for his war time stint for Uncle Sam—

Collin stared at the picture a moment remembering what his father had told him: You’re the man of the house now, son. Mom’s going to have her hands full with Mikey and the sheep so I don’t want you to plague her with little things. Figure out what you need and use what you’ve got. Make the best of every situation. Can you do that? Collin folded the clipping carefully and replaced it, with the lucky string, in his shirt pocket. I can do that, he said.

It was getting late and he had to meet Michael at the sheep pen before the school bus came. He couldn’t miss the last day of school.

He was new at this sheep business. Last year he and his family lived on the third floor of an eight story walk-up on Chicago’s lower east side. Now, because his step -grandmother had died and left Dad the land, he found himself in the high desert helping his parents work a sixty acre sheep ranch on the Navajo Reservation. There were still places he and Michael had yet to explore. He had made up his mind that, after school, they’d climb the high bluff beyond the tree line. He’d already seen what he thought might be antelope or elk tracks.

Collin headed down the slope, following the creek. There wasn’t much in it this time of year but that’s what made this country so right for sheep. The creek would be dry if it weren’t for the daily afternoon storm. But it was morning and the storm was hours away. He had learned that sheep were afraid to drink from fast moving water. They didn’t seem to need much, though he had seen some lick morning dew off fence posts and spiky yucca leaves.

Collin was a lot like his father. He fell asleep right after supper and rose before dawn. He liked the early morning. His mother asked him to stay inside when he got up but he couldn’t imagine why he had to stare at the four walls when he could laze on the roof of their sun-dried mud house to see the last star fade and watch morning rise over the red cliffs. It wasn’t that he was disobedient, he was simply curious about everything that surrounded him. Besides, he promised his dad that he would always stay on his own property and, like his father, Collin kept his word. New Mexico had so many places to explore he could hardly wait for the next day to dawn. He’d seen ring-necked pheasants mate and found the nests of prairie chickens. He’d seen prong horned antelope graze alongside wild horses. From a distance, he’d even seen naked Navajos run from their hot houses to splash into the cold waters of the very creek he followed now. His mother said it was not polite to stare, so he didn’t … after the first time.

He wished he had more time to look around but he knew that, without Dad, Michael would not be able to take the sheep out by himself, even with Tags, their border collie. He hurried up a hill he hadn’t climbed before and upon reaching the top he stopped, stared out over the valley. There was old Ned Curley’s house, barn and ceremonial hogan. His own house and the sheep corral was off to the left beside the dusty road that led to town. It followed the gully Mom said was formed long ago from an earthquake and deepened by flash floods. Then something else caught his eye. At first he thought it was just another outcropping of red rock, but upon approaching the boulders and the thick, fragrant mesquite and creosote bushes, he could see this one was different. It leaned in an easterly direction and looked as though a bronze mirror had been placed inside the rocky frame. The sun gleamed off the glass-like surface momentarily blinding him. Collin’s hands went to his face and he squinted through his fingers into the light. As he stepped closer, he could make out water on the other side of the window; a placid wondrous lake. Is this Mirror Rock? he asked aloud.

When the Rafferty’s first arrived in Mirror Rock, they’d heard a story that Collin’s parents had dismissed as nonsense; a legend for which the town had been named. The Navajos said that the rock swallowed people. Collin laughed nervously. Nah, he said. Like Mom and Dad said, it’s just another old Indian superstition. Still he looked for a way around or over the rock. Over was impossible. He’d need a long rope at the very least. Around would mean going too far out of his way and he didn’t have time.

Mom would really like that lake for the sheep, he said, knowing he should hurry and yet, shouldn’t he find out more? It was on Rafferty property, he was sure of it. Collin grinned, pulled the lucky string from his pocket. Carefully, he tied one end around a hefty stone, so it couldn’t accidentally blow away, and tossed the other end through the window-like opening in the rock. That, he thought, will break any old superstitious spell and it would help in finding the window later if he decided to do some looking around. He took a deep breath and climbed through. The upper elevation of the sloping ground was crowded with brush and stunted pine. To keep his balance on the steep terrain, he crept down the incline holding onto the trees as he made his way toward the water. Then he tripped on his own shoe lace and sprawled, as Grandma used to say, ‘end over tea kettle’, into the misty cattails and before he could get to his feet, he heard them. Moments later, crouched in the mud among the reeds, he saw them. Thirty or more Indians on horseback; all men, riding south. They stopped to water their bareback horses. None of them looked like the Navajos he knew. These men looked fierce, their hair cropped unevenly; their mouths hard, lipless lines and they spoke loud enough for Collin to hear that they weren’t speaking English. One man wore a skin head piece of some kind with spiked ears like those of a bobcat. The other men wore wide cloth headbands. The only thing they all had in common was lots of hand worked silver around their necks and waists. Most of them had long spears or bows and arrows and they all carried painted clubs at least as long as Joe Dimaggio’s baseball bat.

Wow! Collin thought, suddenly frightened. I didn’t know Reservation Indians still went out on hunting parties.

As soon as they rode off, Collin left the reeds. It’s a good thing it’s the last day of school, he said, looking at his mud soaked shoes.

He had a thought to clean them in the lake but the position of the sun told him he was late and he’d already missed the bus to school.

Boy! Will Michael be jealous when I tell him about the old time hunting band. Ah, he probably won’t believe me anyway. Collin chuckled to himself and struggled to the top of the hill. As he stood, a shock surged through him. The landscape had changed. He saw no fences, no barns, no gully and no roads where they should have been. He recognized nothing but the familiar red bluff where he had recovered his slingshot. His heart pounded. He’d never been lost before and couldn’t understand why he was now. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the lake and, from where he stood, he should be right in front of the hole in the rock.

His gaze swept the rim in both directions. All at once his knees went weak. Was this mirror rock? Was the old legend true? Unblinking, he sank to the ground as his eyes settled on his half of the lucky red string sealed tight in the stone.

Collin had no idea how long he had been lying inside the dark hut. Strange words swirled around him like wisps of winter fog. Cool, gentle hands lifted his head and he felt water drizzle into his mouth. He swallowed and tried to open his eyes.

Time after time he felt the cool hands and the image of his mother blurred his inner vision. He was hurt, sick and he knew it, but other memories were as scrambled as the eggs of a prairie hen omelet. Though his mind kept telling him to go help Michael at the sheep corral, his body would not budge. His skin felt hot and dry, his bones useless flakes beneath a cobwebby crust. Collin pictured himself a pile of dead leaves and twigs with blue eyes. Sometimes he could even hear himself rustle as feet scuffed by. Surely he would hurt less if the wind simply scattered him . . .

A chill wind settled around Collin’s body as strong hands raised him from the warm blankets. Everything around him burst into white as he was whisked away and just as suddenly devoured him again. Tenderly, Collin was laid on the hard ground. It felt gritty, sandy. His legs were too stiff to move, though his arms were lifted and crossed, hands placed on his shoulders, head bent to his chest. He didn’t fight. He couldn’t.

Those around him spoke the same unfamiliar words he’d heard at the lake. They sang in irregular rhythms. The smoke here felt different, smelled peculiarly sharp.

Am I in Hell? he thought. I meant to say my prayers, God. I really did.

And he slept.

When he was finally able, he asked: Where am I? Where is my family?

No one answered. The men looked at him oddly. The women smiled behind cupped hands.

Don’t you understand me? Collin asked each blank copper face, and then he cried.

For two days he refused to look at anyone. He wouldn’t eat or speak. He simply slept or cried and was left alone. On the third day, the cool hands touched his forehead again. He sat up, clung to her and wept for the last time.

What’s your name? Collin asked the young woman as she fed him sips of lean broth from a pottery bowl.

She looked at him, her head tilted to one side. She smiled, her tea-brown eyes sparkling as she quickly covered her mouth with her free hand.

She said, Chii, and tousled his hair but he didn’t know what it meant.

Your name is, Chee? he asked between swallows.

She shook her head, tapped her hair and said, shlizhn-e. Then, she touched his hair. Chii-e, she said.

My hair? Red hair? Collin wiped a dribble of broth from his chin with the back of his hand. Chee-so-nee?

Ah, she said, nodding.

Day after day the young woman tended him. In her mother’s hogan, Collin learned to crawl again and though they treated him well, he longed for home. Almost unnoticed the legend of the rock became lodged in his mind. He refused it, pushed it from his thoughts. Nonsense. No one believed it. Then, one day, Collin realized, it had to be true.

Over time, Collin healed. He learned that he had been pushed into a wash, probably by one of the chinde’, the ghosts of Earth Surface dead. It didn’t sound true but, all he could remember was falling down the steep bank toward the lake then running and screaming.

A silver trading party found him on their way back from a bartering mission in the South. Both his legs were broken and he was unconscious. But, he had been healed by the medicine woman who had had him placed in the center of a special sand painting. When the ceremony of rattle shaking, prayers to appease each of the hundreds of holy people, and chanting was finished, and the healing power of the sand painting had been transferred into Collin’s body, he had been pronounced cured. The next day, he sat up by himself.

The new language and customs came quickly to Collin and the memory of his white family began to slide slowly into his past with one exception; the newspaper clipping of his father.

Collin was adopted by the family of his young nurse, whose name was Crystal Eyes. Once he even took her to the place by the lake where he found his lucky string still locked in the rock. A few times he limped the long way back to the lake alone, just to see if anything had changed but it hadn’t and, on one of his journeys, he cut the string, rolled it around his fingers and put it with the clipping. Eventually the string in the rock dissolved and so did his hopes of ever returning home.

They called him, Chii-Yazhi, Little Red. His skin bronzed in the summer and faded in the winter.

On his first trip south to trade for silver with the Mexicans he traded his bundle of blankets for more silver coins than anyone else. But, Chii-Yazhi also distinguished himself in other ways. He rode the night raids on the nearby Hopis, Pimas and Papagos, wielding his club with fierce accuracy. It was on these raids that Collin learned he was not only one of the people who called themselves, Dineh. He was a head cracker … the Hopi word was … Navajo.

CHAPTER ONE

July, 2004

Volcanic rock forms jutted from the desert grit, worn and beaten down by the winds and rains of centuries past. Though some of their surfaces were pitted with holes large enough to reach through, their stunted forms no longer made an impression upon those who sped by on U.S. Interstate 40.

The seven cars and trucks in the little caravan traveled east at the speed limit, the sun at their backs. Rick James, the lead driver, glanced at Heather, his wife and four-year-old daughter, Merrilee, who dozed peacefully next to him. In his rearview mirror he could see into the back seat where his older daughter, Brenda, was busily pointing out the various geological developments of sandstone, limestone, silt stone and granite to her new friend, Sarah.

A rock is a rock is a rock, Sarah said, annoyed. If it’s big enough, it’s used to break windows or, little enough it makes you crazy until you dump it out of your shoe. That’s a rock.

Did most teenagers have weird hobbies or was it just Brenda? In his job as a police sergeant, Rick considered all teens peculiar but Brenda had her face in anthropology or geology books most of the time. She was a good kid and, except for a bedroom you could misplace an elephant in, she was nice to be around.

Sarah Casanova was a different story. Her parents had divorced seven years ago when she was eight. She grew up taking care of her little brother while her mother worked and tried to make a life for herself. She didn’t mean for it to happen, of course, but when you asked Sarah about her mother she almost always said, What mother?

Sarah’s father told Rick he thought this trip would be good for her; get her away from things for a while, let her see and meet people with major problems and maybe she could work out some of her own or, at least, understand that her challenges at home weren’t as bad as she thought.

Brenda rummaged through the sack of books she’d brought and chose one on the ancient Navajos, opened it and settled back against the seat.

Sarah shuddered. If I read in a moving car, I’d hurl my lunch all over my socks. She took off her sunglasses and hung them on her shirt front as she reached into her purse for her comb and redid her long, dark pony tail, securing it with the soft pink ribbon that matched her lipstick. Want some gum? she asked Brenda.

No thanks.

Sarah shrugged and shoved a folded stick of gum into her mouth. She stared out the window and watched the desert speed through her reflection. Going to work on the Navajo Indian Reservation was not her idea of a summer vacation. Disneyland was more what she had in mind but, her father said these two weeks would, help her grow. She sighed hopelessly and wondered if he had meant up or out.

Steven Casanova kept the lead car in sight. As his passengers played word games and passed a bag of popcorn around, he wondered how his daughter was getting along with Brenda. He had found Brenda a bit strange for a teenager but, the girls were close in age and he hoped they’d get along even if they were exact opposites: Sarah haunted the local mall while Brenda haunted the local library computers. Even their complexions were opposite. Beside Sarah with her olive skin, sharp dark eyes and heavy hair, Brenda looked almost ashen. Her pale blue eyes and light brown fly-away hair gave her a fragile, porcelain quality. Though he knew that Brenda was anything but fragile; neither of body nor of mind. Sarah was an all-state runner and hurdler on her high school track team. Still, he hoped she’d be able to keep up with Brenda and become interested in something larger than herself. Perhaps, come to enjoy, at least in memory, her time among the Navajos.

Dave Yuen drove the third vehicle; a station wagon heavily loaded with boxes of asphalt tiles and other supplies to replace the deteriorated flooring in the little Community Church where the members of the caravan would spend their days.

He patted his shirt pocket to make sure he’d remembered to put his tiny camera there. That camera, designed by him and his team for a NASA project, had become a symbol of life to him. When the little prototype had been completed and tested, he was allowed to take it with him to Hong Kong when he attended his grandmother’s funeral. Since his boss hadn’t asked for it back, he carried it everywhere. Not only did it focus itself from 14 inches to infinity, it had never yet taken a bad picture. So far the battery had remained charged simply by setting it in the sun for an hour or two and, though he didn’t think he would need it, he had brought along a spare mini-solar strip that could replace the one attached to the camera in case the original was damaged or gave out for some reason. They had also developed a slim cartridge they called an S.D.C.C. (Solar Digital Camera Cartridge) that slid, lengthwise into the camera itself that could take and hold 400 to700 pictures each. On his way out of work to come on the Mission trip, he had grabbed a handful of the narrow S.D.C.C.’s and stuffed them in his jacket pocket, just in case he found something interesting enough to share with his parents.

The camera was designed to the exact specifications ordered by NASA to fit into the nose cone of a, yet to be named, space explorer vehicle. Although it had only been tested on earth, Dave knew the camera would have no problem in the vacuum of outer space. They had named their prototype jewel, The Endeavor 1000ix MRC Tiara. Not much larger than a common credit card and just over a quarter of an inch in depth, it did everything bigger cameras could do and more. And, no one, outside its creators, knew anything about it. Dave recalled his boss saying excitedly: This is years ahead of what’s out there. It will be a decade or more before the public has any idea what this new technology can do.

Although the two women riding with him tried to draw him into their conversations, he was worried and simply smiled or gave one word replies.

How old are you, Dave? Sixty-seven-year-old Trudie asked.

Twenty-four, he answered.

Aren’t you ready to settle down yet?

Someday, he answered again in the same flat tone.

Don’t pester the boy, Trudie, said Esther.

But, the women agreed he was much too handsome to remain single for long.

Someday, he repeated, with a shallow, awkward smile.

How could he tell them that there already was a special girl? That’s why he was worried. He’d been so careful not to show his feelings for her. Why had she come on this trip? It would only make his life harder … seeing her every day.

He was Chinese, born in Hong Kong. He’d only become a U.S. citizen four years ago. That should help but, what would her parents say if he asked her out? He would probably never know because he didn’t know where he would find the courage to ask her in the first place. Besides, what would his parents say if he brought home a beautiful Caucasian girl and they learned that she was only sixteen?

He gripped the steering wheel at the top, squeezed until his knuckles whitened. He couldn’t let her know yet how he felt … if he ever could. He would have to stay away from her of course; work where she wasn’t working, go where she didn’t go. Stay where he couldn’t smell the sweetness of her hair, accidentally touch her hand or look into her eyes.

He had the honor of dragons in his past and the honor of America in his future. The honor that would protect him from rejection and embarrassment, would also protect her.

Dave, pull over! Trudie’s voice was as excited as a child’s. I want to take a photo. See that? She pointed forward to a yellow billboard that read, Here it is! "Look there. It’s the JACKRABBIT sign we were told about. This is part of the old Route 66. I traveled that highway in the late sixties all the way to Chicago!"

Okay. Call everyone to let them know what we’re doing. Tell them we’ll catch up. Dave pulled the car to the side of the road. Let’s do this quick. Lots of big trucks around here.

Trudie urged him out of the car. I don’t take pictures of myself so bring your camera.

With a deep sigh, Dave pulled his camera from his shirt pocket, arranged the two women with the sign in the background and snapped the photo. Back in the car, ladies.

Esther leaned forward from the back seat. "Was that a real camera you took our picture with?" she asked, stunned.

Dave laughed. "Yeah, it’s real. It’s a prototype that my company is putting together. Don’t worry, you’ll like the picture.

Well, it sure doesn’t look like my camera.

It doesn’t look like anybodies camera, Esther, Dave said. It’s tiny but it’s mighty.

What are you talking about? Eleven-year-old, Angela Cole spewed her anger out on her sister, Emily.

Quietly, Emily answered, Just what I said. Indians like girls with red hair and blue eyes. So, if I were you, I’d watch out, that’s all. She went back to her embroidery, creating flower covered gates and trellises, bushes and pathways along the hem of the pillow case.

Emily, her mother said, glancing at her two girls in the rearview mirror, stop trying to scare your sister. Besides, Navajos don’t live in a vacuum. They’re pretty much like us. They have T.V. sets, they go to movies. I’m sure they’ve seen red hair and blue eyes before.

Not like hers, Emily said under her breath, her own blue eyes on her darting needle.

I heard that! Angela growled. Mom, make her stop making fun of my hair and stick to her stupid old-lady-hope-chest-stuff and leave me alone. Can I sit in the front seat?

Her father, his A’s baseball cap over his eyes, rolled his shoulders and slouched lower in the passenger seat. No, he said. Be quiet, both of you. Angela, I’ll give you ten dollars if you memorize ten more Bible verses before we get to New Mexico, He tugged his hat lower. You’re almost seventeen, Em. Stop acting like a child.

Angela faced her sister and stuck out her tongue. So there, she whispered.

One more remark out of you, Redhead, and you’ll finish the ride in the trunk.

But, Daddy . . . Angela scowled, folded her arms and started to pout, then she reached for her Bible and turned to Matthew.

Self-assured, Emily tied the last knot in her yellow rose and chose another needle already threaded with two shades of green.

Brenda looked up from her book, stared out the window as she tried to assimilate what she’d just read. Mom, listen to this.

Heather James, massaged her eyes and yawned. Listen to what? she sighed.

Brenda skimmed her finger down the page. A first effort to Christianize the Navajo was made in 1744. However, when the first missionaries arrived from Spain, they recorded that several bands of Navajos had already been evangelized by two messengers who, the natives stated, dropped from the sky." When these messengers arrived, where they went, when they left, and how long they stayed with the tribe is lost to time.

What do you think of that?

I’d say, God does work in mysterious ways.

Brenda frowned. You don’t find that story fascinating?

Heather turned to face her daughter in the rear seat. Of course I do. And, I also believe God works mysteriously, don’t you?

I guess so. It does sound a little far-fetched though . . . Heather shrugged. You’ll probably learn stranger things than that where we’re going. She turned back. Keep your mind and your eyes open.

If it’s true, I wonder who they were, where they came from. Think they were angels? Brenda reached across Sarah’s sleeping body to tap her mother’s shoulder. Want to help me find out?

If that book doesn’t tell you, Sweetie, how are we supposed to find out?

Quickly, Brenda flipped pages to the front flap. Somebody must have done some looking in the last thirty-five years and written it down someplace, wouldn’t you think? This book was printed in 1979. So, will you help?

Heather grinned and shook her head, turned again to see her curious daughter. As long as we get our work done, I don’t see why we can’t search for more information. Why are you so interested?

Sarah raised her head from her pillow. Because she can’t just let it go. She’s got to know everything about everything or she’ll pop and splatter us all with her unfulfilled ambitions.

Brenda giggled and Heather joined her as Sarah punched her pillow into a more comfortable blob