Free Jemez Spring by Rudolfo Anaya

mesmerizing sight, he thought, an eighth wonder of the world. In the summer tourists flocked here, to eat fry bread with honey or the tasty tacos the women sold. March, which could still turn cold and blustery, was not yet tourist season. It was worth a trip to sit in the silence and feel the spirit of the place.
    â€œTi-wa-sho-beh,” Sonny greeted Mrs. Cota.
    â€œTi-wa-sho-beh, Yang,” the old lady replied.
    â€œYou have soom-bela?”
    â€œYang always hungry.”
    â€œYes, coyote always hungry,” Sonny said, laughing and rubbing his stomach.
    â€œWhere’s your woman?”
    â€œLike you, she cooks for people. I came with my cannu.”
    â€œToo early for fry bread.”
    â€œCoffee.”
    She poured him a cup. Sonny sat on a tree stump to enjoy the strongest brew east of Window Rock.
    â€œThe car?” he asked.
    â€œNaomi.” The old lady nodded toward the red rocks and turned to tend the fire.
    Sonny watched Chica scouring the ground, back and forth, picking up scents.
    Naomi, Sonny remembered. So, she was back. But what was she doing in the Red Rocks?
    Where is she? he was going ask, but put the thought away. None of his business. A person came into the world of the pueblo and a lot of things were not his business.
    He enjoyed the coffee and the warmth of the sun. Sun the father, the old abuelo. Don Eliseo had taught him to say his morning prayers facing the east as the sun rose over Sandia Crest. Then the Lords and Ladies of the Light chased away the dark mists that hung over the river.
    Life was movement, the cycle of the sun entering the world, creating a dance, the clarity the living sought, the soul’s food. Dark was a place. Dream place. Nightmare place.
    Here in the Jemez Valley the light was a living substance, and it could tear apart the many layers of ego, the stress, the false identities, the veils of illusion some called reality. As the light entered the soul, it became soul.
    We never are, we are always becoming, don Eliseo said. Painters paint light on canvas, we use light to paint our spirits. Light has will, the particles make choices, choose direction, how to go. It’s not constant, Sonny. It is alive.
    Yes, Sonny smiled. That was true. In New Mexico the light was alive, entering the mountain peaks, mesas, arroyos, chamisa, and every living organism—even the rocks, for light made the boulders and rocks come alive and share their song with the day.
    â€œTi-way-peh, Mrs. Cota,” he said when he finished his coffee.
    â€œTi-way-peh,” she replied.
    He was putting Chica in the truck when a long, yelping cry rang from the cliff.
    Some doings, Sonny thought, and started to get in the truck. Then a woman cried out.
    â€œA woman,” Sonny said, looking toward the red rocks.
    He glanced at Mrs. Cota, but she looked away. None of your business, her demeanor said.
    The cry came again, a cry for help. He had heard a cry like that before, and he couldn’t just pretend it wasn’t his business. He slammed the door shut and ran toward the red cliff.

5
    As Sonny rounded the huge boulder, two hundred pounds of painted flesh slammed into him. He caught his balance, only to feel another painted man push him into the arms of a third.
    â€œOra, muchachos!” cried the fat man, pushing Sonny into the middle of the small clearing. There were six men from the pueblo in a circle, painted as if going to war, and standing near a juniper tree, Naomi dressed in white buckskin.
    â€œHey!” they shouted as they cuffed Sonny, pushing him back and forth from one man to the next.
    â€œHey! Sonny Baca!” the fat man called out. Sonny recognized Bear and a couple of the other men.
    They were playing a game, the way hunters might strike the young initiate with the first jackrabbit he kills, smearing him with Brr-da-eh blood. The way a child might be frightened by a man masquerading as a bear, so that he loses his fear of bears.
    Sonny