A Phantom Herd

So this was it the big mistake. Well, I made it and I had to pay for it.

  During all the time that we had been telling the lady things she should never have found out, things that I was going to regret for many years, the Navajo went on with his sand painting design, meandering his fist of dribbling sand here and there, misting his fine stream of sand over his design on the board. He seemed to be drawing an intricate squashed world, a universe run over by a steam roller with those corn maidens lying out as though they were girder-bearing construction cranes that had fallen back from an impact crater and with the angular arms of flattened squash plants radiating out in many directions. Even the red and blue clouds had a flattened apocalyptic look that alarmed me. The hand of one of the corn maidens held the moisture pad which is a prayer to the rain gods. I remember a bunch of tobacco was in there for smoking in ceremonies. And pollen carried allergies to everyone and made plants grow. Navajos felt very dependent upon the spirits of the earth and the sky, but I have to say I was cynical about that stuff then.

  We stayed at the window and watched him dribbling sand for a few minutes longer. The crowd ooh-ed and ah-ed, but after a while the spectators at the edges began to disperse. Someone shouted that the rodeo parade would soon be rounding a nearby corner.

  "So the sands of time drift away and soon we shall all be dead, dead, dead," said Meredith unceremoniously.

  The woman gasped.

  "Come on," said Jack, "let's get out of here. This dumb old guy is never gonna finish his picture. We can't stay here all day."