Sister Salt realized if they wanted to find Mama they would have to leave the old gardens; if they went to Needles they would have to find some way to live. Sister Salt began to practice weaving yucca strips until the baskets she wove looked almost as good as Grandma Fleet’s baskets. Now when Indigo proposed a race to the springs, or a game of hide-and-seek, Sister Salt shook her head.
While Indigo roamed the dunes and climbed the precarious paths up sandstone formations in the canyon, Sister Salt stayed at the dugout house, peeling thin yucca fibers to weave into baskets the way Grandma Fleet showed her. It wasn’t easy: the sharp stiff yucca leaves had to be soaked all night, and even then, while she was working with it, the yucca dried out and cut her fingers until she wet it again.
Indigo did not understand her sister’s odd change in mood, but after a few weeks, Indigo no longer had as much fun playing alone. Sister Salt showed her how to take a dried gourd and make a canteen for their long journey. Sometimes they worked in silence, each girl with her own thoughts; other times they talked about what they would do when cooler weather came.
One morning as the weather was beginning to cool, Sister Salt felt a cramp in her abdomen, and later she noticed an odd wetness between her legs. Now she reached to touch the wetness with her fingers and saw her first menstrual blood. Both Grandma and Mama promised last year she didn’t have much longer to wait. That day the girls celebrated Sister’s womanhood with a picnic at the date palm grove. A light breeze kept them comfortable as they hiked the narrow trail along the precipitous sandstone formations; far below, the giant dunes appeared to be anthills. Ripe orange-yellow date fruit was scattered all around the ground where they sat; scores of big brown ants worked feverishly to carry away bits of the fruit dropped by the birds. The water from the canteen tasted especially good because the dates were so sweet.
When Sister Salt went to relieve herself, Indigo came along too. She wanted to see the menstrual blood on Sister’s legs. Indigo tried to peek, but Sister Salt frowned and turned away abruptly. When Indigo tried to look again, Sister whirled around angrily to face Indigo.
“None of your business!” she shouted. Indigo was too shocked to cry until Sister Salt strode away. Indigo meant no offense; how many times had they talked about menstruation with Grandma Fleet and Mama? Today was a day to celebrate. Why had Sister Salt acted so mean toward her? Hot tears ran down Indigo’s cheeks. She had been so excited for her sister. Now, if Sister Salt wanted a baby, she could get one; they could raise it together. If it was a boy, they’d call him Raindrop; if the baby was a girl, they’d call her Sweet Black Corn. They wouldn’t be alone then. But Sister Salt didn’t want her. She wanted a man who could give her a baby. Indigo cried for Mama and Grandma Fleet. Who loved Indigo? Who wanted her? Where was Mama? She must not want her two girls anymore.
Sister Salt walked to the end of the box canyon, where the sandstone formed a natural barrier; she sat on a flattop boulder and closed her eyes. The warmth of the sun felt good on her abdomen. She was tired of being the one who had to teach Indigo everything.
When she returned to the palm grove, Indigo had already left for home without her. Sister Salt felt regret over her short temper with her little sister. She had been fortunate to be brought up by both Mama and Grandma Fleet. Indigo had no one now but her. Sister Salt knew it wasn’t good for them to live alone for so long, and as she walked home, she began to think about what to do next.
The wind rustled the dry cornstalks and leaves as the sun went down. At that moment the sound of the wind in the dry stalks seemed like the saddest sound Sister Salt had ever heard; it seemed to say, “All gone, all gone”; her throat constricted with sadness until tears filled her eyes. She watched the evening star rise above the west horizon; somewhere Mama was watching the same star and thinking of her and Indigo.
The terraces in the dunes were still full of melons and squash even after their harvest; what a year for the old gardens! They grew enough to feed a whole family, not just themselves. What they could not store, they left to hungry creatures; ears of sweet black corn dried on the stalks, and big white tepary beans scattered themselves across the sand. Any hungry people who came to the old gardens were welcome to all the food they needed. Sister Salt was so lonely for another human face besides Indigo’s; she began to wish someone, anyone—except white men or Indian police—would come.
Later that night, the wind blew in snow and sleet; Indigo fell asleep listening to the hiss of snowflakes in the hot coals. She wrapped up in her canvas shawl and pulled her share of the big quilt right in the doorway, close to the warm coals in the hearth outside. But as the direction of the wind changed during the night, raindrops sprinkled her face and she had to move away from the doorway, closer to Sister Salt. Indigo dragged her bedding across the sand floor, careful not to awaken Sister Salt, who stirred and muttered words in her sleep—something about a basket.
The air smelled wonderfully wet and cold, just as it had the night last year when the Messiah came to their camp at Needles. Indigo imagined Mama and the Messiah and his family and his dancers. The snow was their season; somewhere tonight Mama was dancing so beautifully in the big circle, wrapped warm in her white shawl like the other dancers. As Indigo drifted off to sleep, she imagined how she and Sister Salt would travel north until they located the Messiah and his dancers.
By morning the snow melted and the sky cleared to bright blue; the sun warmed the damp air. Indigo announced that she wanted to go to Mrs. Van Wagnen’s house to ask if she knew the whereabouts of the Messiah and the dancers. Sister Salt admitted she wanted to visit Grandma’s friend.
They would go to Mrs. Van Wagnen and if she had no news of Mama, they’d return to the old gardens and wait for her. They had plenty of food stored; no need to risk a trip south to the reservation at Parker. If Mrs. Van Wagnen was not at home, they planned to camp near her house, then head north to Needles to see if any of their Paiute or Walapai friends still lived there.
Before they left, Indigo helped Sister Salt heap up rocks and block the entrance to their dugout house to give the appearance of abandonment to anyone who might come poking around the old gardens while they were gone. They filled their gourd canteens at the spring the night before, and in the excitement the next morning Indigo forgot; it wasn’t until they reached the big wash and stopped for lunch that Indigo remembered: she forgot to say good-bye to Grandma Fleet and the apricot seedlings, and to the old gardens. Her thoughtlessness brought tears to her eyes and she wanted to turn back; at the same time she wanted to go on to find news of their mother.
Sister Salt noticed the sudden change in Indigo’s mood and guessed its source immediately; it was as if the old gardens and Grandma Fleet herself were telling them, “Come home. Don’t go.” Sister Salt gently patted Indigo’s back until she wiped her eyes on the back of her hand and glanced over her shoulder in the direction they had just come. She felt the old gardens’ call herself, but the old gardens and Grandma Fleet weren’t searching for Mama like they were. Indigo had the saddest feeling they would not be able to return to the old gardens for a long time.
They slept until moonrise, then made their way across the sandy plain of greasewood and cholla cactus between the high sandstone plateau and the sandhills above the river valley. When they reached open terrain, they covered their heads with their bundles and slept until darkness came to protect their travel.
Late the following day they reached the sandhills that overlooked the muddy red water that was edged in lovely willow green and dark cattail green. How exciting to reach the river! They put down their bundles and held hands and danced around to celebrate. Now that they were at the river, they had to be alert and watchful. Indigo wanted Sister Salt to point out Mrs. Van Wagnen’s house and gardens, but the groves of cottonwood trees and willows along the river concealed the place.
They followed game trails, sometimes on their hands and knees, through the willow and tamarisk thickets, to conceal themselves from anyone who m
ight also be there to ford the river. Sister Salt moved carefully, and stopped every four steps to listen intently, then motioned for Indigo to come on. The muddy red water slowly threaded between sand bars as its flow waned. In flood season no one crossed the river unless they took the ferry at Yuma, but when the river was low, as it was now, it was possible to wade across here, where the river shallows were bedrock. Sister Salt broke off two stout willow branches and stripped off the leaves for walking sticks to help them keep their footing when they crossed.
They waited for the twilight to darken before they crossed. Indigo gasped at the cold water up to her knees; out in the middle it might be waist deep, so they removed their dresses and tied them to the bedrolls that they balanced on their heads like odd hats. Indigo felt the pull of the river’s current, gentle at first but increasing in strength as they reached the middle of the river. The water was scarcely above Indigo’s thighs but she had to hold tight to Sister Salt and to the stick to resist the current.
“Use your stick to hold you!” Sister Salt said after she turned and saw Indigo hesitate in midstream. Indigo pushed the willow stick hard into the river bottom ahead of her to keep from being carried along by the red water. Two more steps and the water wasn’t as deep; two more steps and the water barely reached Indigo’s thighs. It was easy then, and Indigo walked faster; she let go of the willow stick too soon, and as she went to step up on the riverbank she slipped and fell. Sister Salt was only inches away and grabbed hold of Indigo’s bedroll to help her out; at the river’s edge, the water was only ankle deep. Indigo scrambled up the sandy bank, breathless but smiling because her bedroll and dress were still dry.
There was no moon. At the old gardens the sand dunes reflected the light of the stars, but here the willows and big cottonwood trees seemed to absorb all light. Indigo wanted to go to Mrs. Van Wagnen’s house immediately, but Sister Salt said they might frighten the poor woman if they showed up after dark. They would sleep there tonight and go to Mrs. Van Wagnen’s early in the morning just before sunup so no one would see them. The coolness of the river bottom settled over them as they ate parched corn and dried pumpkin. They each shared part of the big quilt as they huddled together. Indigo wanted to build a little fire, but Sister Salt was wary. Any strangers nearby would find them, and Mrs. Van Wagnen might see the fire or smell the smoke and be frightened.
Sister Salt listened to Indigo’s breathing; a great horned owl hoo-hooed to her mate from the cottonwood trees across the river. What a lovely evening for people and owls, she thought. Sand Lizard people weren’t afraid of horned owls the way some people were.
Sister Salt listened intently for a long time for any sounds that might come from the direction of Mrs. Van Wagnen’s house—didn’t Grandma Fleet mention that her Mormon friend had a dog? Mormons ate cooked food every night—Sister Salt tried to catch a whiff of wood smoke from Mrs. Van Wagnen’s stove, but the breeze smelled only of the river mud and the willow leaves.
The cold woke Indigo from her dream just as the sky to the east began to lighten; in the dream, she was at the train depot in Needles. She helped Sister Salt arrange the baskets for sale before the passengers got off the train that approached from the east.
Her breath made steam in the air in front of her so Indigo scooted down under the blanket and cuddled up to Sister Salt. It was too cold to get up without a campfire; she’d wait for the sun. The sky above the cottonwoods was pale yellow; the puffy clouds on the horizon were edged in red, pink, and gold. Although neither she nor Sister Salt had ever been to Mrs. Van Wagnen’s house, still Indigo imagined how it looked when Grandma Fleet described her visits there: surrounded by towering cottonwood trees that shaded and protected it from view, Indigo imagined; a big house like the ones she’d seen in Needles with flower gardens and rosebushes in the front yard, and corn, tomatoes, and squash in the backyard.
As they moved through the willow and cottonwood forest, the light of the sunrise was filtered through the flickering cottonwood leaves. Sister Salt listened: long-tail grackles chattered at two crows who scolded them from the next tree, a mourning dove called her mate to the river, and a fly buzzed near her hand. But she didn’t hear Mrs. Van Wagnen chop wood or the dog bark, and she signaled Indigo to continue but to move as quietly as possible. From time to time Sister Salt sniffed the air for the odor of wood smoke or the odor of cooked food, but she smelled only the willows’ sweet scent and the mossy dampness of the river.
Sister Salt let out a gasp when she saw the burned ruins of the house and the barn; the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She felt a wave of icy sweat break out on her forehead. Purple daisylike flowers with bright yellow eyes had grown up through the charred debris. The fire must have come in the spring or even last winter. The door to the root cellar had been splintered with an axe, and shards of shattered canning jars littered the ground around the cellar entrance; someone had dumped all that good food in the sand. Who had hated Mrs. Van Wagnen so much? Even the fence wire was torn away from the fence posts around the chicken yard and the backyard garden; here and there among the wild amaranth, wild asters, and mustard weeds were also a few bean and pea plants and a squash vine.
The girls ate the beans and peas right from the pods. Sister Salt found a patch of coriander and they ate it by the handful, though Indigo preferred it with rock salt. Sister showed Indigo the front yard with Mrs. Van Wagnen’s “garden ladies” dressed in pink, yellow, white, and red. The hollyhocks stood taller than the fence posts, and the blossoms resembled the sunbonnets Mormon women wore; the round corollas resembled tiny faces. Indigo pushed her way past the crowd of hollyhock ladies only to discover, wherever their wide skirts of leaves brushed her legs or arms, she itched.
The small garden gate was left untouched, and the climbing red roses grew around the gate so thickly that it no longer closed; long, leafy branches thick with roses reached out in all directions. Sister Salt picked a rose, sniffed it, and handed it to Indigo, who couldn’t help herself: the rose smelled so delicious Indigo nibbled the petals and swallowed them.
Beyond the garden gate where the orchard had been, the grass and wild aster grew taller than the girls; but all of the wonderful peach and apricot trees had been chopped down, their dry remains overgrown with weeds. Sister Salt knelt down to examine a dry branch, and among the dead twigs and leaves she found a tiny shriveled apricot. She felt herself give way inside; something broke, and she was overwhelmed by the loss of something that fed so many hungry beings as the orchard had—at the destruction of something as beautiful as the peach and apricot blossoms in the spring. If this was what the white people did to one another, then truly she and the Sand Lizard people and all other Indians were lucky to survive at all. These destroyers were out to kill every living being, even the Messiah and his dancers.
Indigo came running with a skirtful of marigolds and found Sister Salt crying. Indigo patted her on the back and tried to console her but Sister Salt angrily pulled away from her. If that was how her sister wanted to behave, then Indigo would go explore by herself. She avoided the ruins of the house and the barn because she detected a faint but terrible odor still there. She stayed on the ground in the garden, hidden among the hollyhock plants so dark red they were almost black as dried blood.
Later Sister Salt joined Indigo among the hollyhocks and the bees; they sat in silence on their bedrolls, shaded by long snaking branches of fragrant red roses Indigo liked to nibble. Sister still didn’t speak; Indigo thought she must be sick because she did not eat when Indigo took out the parched corn and the dried dates. She even refused the gourd canteen when Indigo passed it. All afternoon Indigo watched anxiously as Sister alternately dozed or wept softly.
As the sun made its descent, the great canopy of cottonwood leaves left them in deep shade; the burnt ruins of the house and barn seemed to loom larger in the shadows. The horrible scorched odor from the debris seemed to increase until Indigo could not stop it even with a handful of roses pressed to her mouth and n
ose. Suddenly Indigo knew they had to get away from this place right away.
“Hurry!” she said, tugging Sister Salt’s arm, “get up! I think someone is coming!” Sister Salt jumped up with a wild, confused expression on her face; Indigo grabbed her bedroll and canteen and ran for the river. Once they were deep in the willow thicket on the sandy bank just above the water’s surface, Sister motioned for Indigo to stop; the moist air along the river carried sounds a great distance. Now they could hear voices and the creak and low rumble of wagon wheels; they flattened themselves on their bellies in the sand and pulled their blankets over their heads. They held their breaths and listened. The river bottom was slipping into darkness though the sky to the west was still bright gold with the sunset. The wagon sound stopped and more voices could be heard, then the sound of an axe; not long afterward, woodsmoke wafted in the air.
A dog barked. They lay motionless for so long Indigo’s legs felt numb. She smelled meat cooking. The voices were no longer as loud and she imagined they were eating. She uncurled her legs from her belly and stretched; she slowly moved each limb one at a time, careful not to rustle even one dry willow leaf.
Sister Salt listened as closely as she could to the voices. They were white people, no question about that; no Indian, not even the Indian police, talked that loud unless they were drunk. If they were only white people, then she and Indigo had a good chance of escaping in the middle of the night; but if this was an army patrol, there would be Indian policemen. Maybe this was how it was meant to be, Sister thought; this is how we will find Mama.
Suddenly Indigo felt something heavy—a pressure on her back that pinned her to the ground; for an instant she thought it might be Sister Salt playing a joke. When she raised up it was too dark to see clearly, but she felt someone grab her by the shoulders and lift her off the ground. She twisted away and fought with all her strength to break free of the hands, but it was no use.