M22-The Sands of Time

He let the tiny grains of colored sand slip slowly through his fingers as each grain dropped in exactly the correct location to replicate the image he held in his mind.

John Bidziil Bisahalani, who was the Hatałii, or Medicine Man for his clan of the Diné, or The People as the Navajo thought of themselves, was mindful of the task he was undertaking. He understood how the sand painting that he was creating would affect his own life and the life of those he served. He knew the intricate designs and how each part of the image would help in the healing process. It was recorded in the history of his ancestors, as had been handed down for generations in the winter hogan stories of the old women and the secret teachings of the Hatałii to those chosen to take up the calling in their stead.

He knew the teachings, but he was beginning to doubt their effectiveness. He wondered more and more if he was just going through the motions expected of him, playing the part of the Shaman in the stories that he used to listen to as a child.

What he did not know was whether he was the first of his family to have these doubts, or were they common among medicine men. He could no longer ask his father for advice, since he had gone on to the Underworld. He would not show weakness for his clan by asking a medicine man from a neighboring band.

The white men that knew him called him by only his first name, John, so most other people also just called him John these days. The other parts of his name, the Navajo parts; Bidziil being the Navajo word for STRONG and Bisahalani, Navajo for SPEAKER, were given to him by his father, who had filled the role of Hatałii for The People before John took the role over when his father was too old to do the work, as his father had for his father before him. John's family had provided the medicine men for his clan many generations.

* * *

While John sat on one of the several stones arranged around a fire pit behind his hogan, he stared into the flames seeking answers to his doubts.

John was unaware of the dozen or so shadowy shapes weaving in and out of the firelight, pausing for a moment near his shoulder to whisper in his ear and then continuing on to dance between the stunted growth of the piñon trees. The aromatic smoke of some of that piñon drifted in the breeze. The starlight, bright in the clear, dark desert night did not reveal any hints of the dark figures.

Although John’s beliefs included many spirit beings who might behave in similar fashion, those teachings did not encompass Infidels. Infidels are mostly invisible ethereal beings who delight in causing mischief and problems for humanity.

He was as unaware of the antics in the shadows as he was of the heavenly beauty of the myriad of stars shining in the pitch dark sky above.

The Infidels could sense the turmoil caused by the doubts that he was experiencing concerning his religious beliefs, and gleefully fed them with whispered lies in his unsuspecting ears.

His reverie was interrupted by the crunch of tires in the gravel of the driveway. He knew that his friend, Father Hernandez, who was the priest of the local St. Jude Catholic Church in nearby Gallup, was coming by to talk to him, so he was not surprised.

After the car stopped, and the door opened then closed, he could hear the lighter crunch of shoes in the gravel as the priest approached. He knew that, if it had been daylight, Father Hernandez would have waited respectfully in his car to be acknowledged before getting out, even though he had been invited and the old tire on the fence post acknowledged that John was home.

John still could see nothing outside the ring of light given off by the fire, but he knew that his friend could easily see him.

“Hey, John. Nice night for reflection,” Father Hernandez said as he approached, alluding to the reason that his friend had invited him out to his hogan. “Find any answers in the firelight?”

John had shared his increasing doubts with his friend and they had agreed to discuss them tonight. The priest had been quietly trying to convert John for years.

Both men sat staring into the fire for some moments before Father Hernandez broke the silence again.

“I know that you asked me here because you were beginning to have doubts,” Father Hernandez began. “We are both leaders of our flocks and familiar with such doubts from those under our care. We are not immune to such thoughts ourselves.”

John continued to stare at the flames for a bit and then answered, “Yes. I have started to wonder why my clan is suffering so much more than the white community from this COVID scourge.”

“You already understand that we cannot fully comprehend the workings of the Devine,” Father Hernandez replied.

“I do know it in my head but my heart no longer agrees,” John said morosely.

“You could become Catholic,” the priest offered. “I am sure of the validity of our faith.”

The two friends continued to talk over the problem in this manner well into the evening. Eventually it was agreed that it was too late and Father Hernandez would spend the remaining hours on John’s sofa.

* * *

Elsewhere in the universe, Archangel Michael was having an even busier day than normal. His meeting with his Devine Mission Corps had gone pretty much as he had expected. He had reports that the problem caused by a flood in the town of Kerrville, located in what was known as “the hill country” in Texas, was getting worse. He was certain that the Corps would have to intervene soon.

He would visit Kerrville himself today, but first he had to interview Messenger Hashkeh Naabah, Angry Warrior, to see if he was interested in being elevated to becoming a member of the Corps. The Messenger, who had been Navajo in his earthly existence, had demonstrated outstanding initiative in his recent assignments.

As he thought of Hashkeh Naabah, the Messenger appeared before him.

“Yáʼátʼééh, Hashkeh,” he mentally greeted the arriving Messenger. There was, of course, no physical speech in the ethereal realm where the Messengers resided. “Before we talk about why I have asked you to meet with me, let me mention another brief assignment that I would appreciate you attending to.”

“Certainly,” the Messenger responded.

“There is a matter that needs doing, but not your full attention,” Michael said. “There is a boy, White Fox, that has great promise but needs a boost. An Angel Candidate, Susan, is nearby and a word in her ear should be sufficient for her to take up the task.”

“I am at your command.”

“Once you have seen to that matter, your primary task will be to help another Angel Candidate, Walks with Horses, to transition at the nearby Navajo hospital.”

Michael went on to discuss the details of both missions.

* * *

While the good Father snored on his sofa, John was spending some sleepless hours examining his ceiling for answers. He knew that his friend had been half in jest that he should change his religion, but it did offer some advantages.

Once again, a band of Infidels swarmed over him whispering doubts and general insults. As unseen as these shadowy beings was the invisible figure of a Navajo man standing at the foot of the bed. If he could have been seen, one would have noticed that he was in typical casual attire, consisting of jeans, a faded denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his long black hair braided on either side of his head with the woven strands falling forward over his shoulders. His head was covered by a flat brimmed black hat, called a reservation hat by locals, with a colorfully beaded headband.

The Messenger, for that was what he was, flashed brightly for just a moment. John had just closed his eyes, trying again for sleep, or he might have noticed it. The flash would have appeared like the burst from heat lightning not quite seen but noticed out of the corner of the eye.

The Infidels definitely noticed the flash. It dispersed them instantly and they slithered away chittering their displeasure. The Messenger then leaned in and whispered in John’s ear, ‘Do not despair brother. Your faith is as strong as your friends and you will find it again.’

Having said this, the Messenger brightened briefly once more and was gone, for he had only stopped for a moment on the way elsewhere when he sensed the activity of the Infidels, leaving John to sleep deeply for the first time in days.

* * *

The next morning, John was called to the hospital. Another member of his clan was nearing death’s gate.

John no longer feared proximity to the dying as was common among the Diné. He had visited many of those near death and had no ill effects from chindi or other spirits following him or creating mischief. Of course, he was unaware of the Infidels which were drawn to him recently, but in any case they were not the chindi of those who had moved on to the underworld.

Naashá Łį́į́ʼ or Walks with Horses was not old, but the COVID had come on quickly and strongly, overcoming defenses made less viable because of a life enjoying too much alcohol. He now lay in his bed sleeping and was not expected to awaken.

John stood at the foot of the bed quietly chanting an Enemy Way sing. His goal was to cure Walks with Horses of all the hateful or resentful memories fueled by his addiction to alcohol and thus to help him restore his hózhǫ́, or balance, to his spirit that he might have a smoother journey ahead.

As he performed his ceremony, he became aware of someone else in the room behind him. Turning his head, he saw a middle-aged Navajo man standing in the corner.

“Please, do not let me interrupt,” the man said when John’s chant faltered. “I am here to help too.”

“You are Hatááłii also?” John asked.

“After a fashion,” the visitor answered somewhat cryptically, then joined in, continuing the chant that John had started. When the two had finished they both stood quietly contemplating the life of Walks with Horses and his journey to come.

John felt that the man with him had great understanding of The Way and, since he did not know him personally, thought that this could be his chance to get some of his doubts discussed, at least obliquely.

“You sing well,” he started. “You must have practiced long.”

“Yes, I have many years of experience,” the visitor replied.

“I am John Bidziil Bisahalani, Hatááłii of the Honágháahnii clan.”

“Hashkeh Naabah, the stranger replied. “I am just passing through, and not so angry as my name implies.”

Taking a breath, John broached his doubts, “Have you ever wondered if our teachings are not enough? The medicine of the bilagáanaa, the white people, seems to help more than ours, but even it is not always enough.”

“They say that there are times when no medicine will delay what will happen,” the stranger counseled, using the Navajo custom of assigning knowledge to others instead of trying to sound self-important.

“This is true, but you have traveled. Does it not seem to you that our beliefs are too limited,” John continued. “Take for instance the explanation of the four sacred mountains.”

“Yes their traditional role in our religion are as boundaries and protection. According to our teachings they define the Diné Bikéyah, or the homeland of the Navajo, and yet you are correct in saying that these are not literal expressions. Our Way, like every other religious belief, is made up of stories and parables which contain the meaning of the truth more than the literal truth itself.”

At this moment, Father Hernandez entered the room. He saw John standing at the foot of the bed, apparently contemplating.

“John, I thought that I would find you here,” the priest said and then continued, “Do you think that Walks with Horses would mind if I perform the Last Rights for him?”

“There is no harm in such,” Hashkeh Naabah responded.

“I agree,” John said.

Father Hernandez, who only saw and heard John and not the invisible to him Messenger, did not quite think that agreement was permission but began the ceremony. “I know that our beliefs are different, but our goals are the same.”

“Yes,” Hashkeh Naabah said. “Quite so.”

As the priest continued the Last Rights, John wondered why his friend seemed to be ignoring the other visitor, but said nothing.

When the Father completed his task and turned his back on the stranger to face him, John decided that he had to say something.

“Hashkeh Naabah and I were just discussing how beliefs could be understood.”

“Who?” Father Hernandez asked.

“Our visitor,” John said. “Right there behind you.”

The priest turned and looked behind himself and then back to John.

“There is no one else here with us, John.”

John looked past Father Hernandez at the stranger that he had been talking with in confusion.

At that moment the stranger began to emanate a glow which grew in intensity until the priest noticed it and turned around, raising his cross to his lips.

“Forgive me,” the stranger said. “I had not intended to interfere. ”

The priest dropped to his knees saying, “An angel from heaven.”

“It is true that I am sometimes mistaken for an Angel. I am Messenger Hashkeh Naabah, or Angry Warrior in the white language. I have been sent to help Walks with Horses transition,” the glowing figure said.

“I was enjoying a conversation with John and did not need to display devine light to appear only to him,” he continued to explain. “This somewhat more showy display is required when more than one mortal is present.”

When neither John nor the priest said anything, the Messenger continued, “There is no need to be on your knees before me, my friend. We are all men of faith here.”

“But, …” Father Hernandez started but could not complete the sentence.

“True, I am no longer living in the mortal world, just as Walks with Horses now no longer is.” the Messenger said. “But be assured that your Last Rights did not conflict with his beliefs, for all beliefs try in their own way to explain where I am taking him now.”

“You are taking him to heaven?” The priest asked.

“Some call our destination that. Some call it the Underworld, or Valhalla, or many other names. It is all the same. We will leave you now.”

“Wait!” John interjected, forgetting the typical Navajo etiquette of waiting patiently for a speaker to finish. “Do you mean that both Navajo and Catholic believe the same?”

“Yes,” the Messenger said. “Each religion teaches the same message but in a way that those hearing it can understand, based on their circumstances and culture. For example, we Diné teach that life is a chain of events or causes resulting in naturally inevitable effects. The priest’s people teach that you should forgive others as you would wish to be forgiven. Hindis have the concept of Karma where all actions balance each other to tip the scales one way or the other.”

“After death, it is the same journey for all. I must go now. I am needed elsewhere.” With a bright flash, the Messenger was gone.

John and Father Hernandez looked at each other for a moment, then stepped over to Walks with Horses. The hospital staff were coming into the room in response to the changes detected by the equipment attached to the patient, and confirmed that he had, indeed, passed on to the next stage of his journey.

* * *

John stood in the center of the clan hogan, surrounded by friends and relatives.

“My friends,” he began. “We have lost another of our brethren. Walks with Horses has gone to the Underworld to continue his journey.”

He paused to let that statement sink in and to afford those listening the polite opportunity to respond. There were mumbles of agreement and also some deeper rumblings of discontent.

“I know that many of you will miss our brother Walks with Horses, as will I, but I assure you that he will be happier where he has gone than he was in the life that he left.”

Another pause and more sounds of agreement and fewer of discontent.

“Our Clan has suffered greatly these last months. We need now, more than ever, to pull together as one, supporting each other through the remainder of this trial. I am told that the COVID is weakening and the bilagáanaa vaccines will become more available.”

“By working together, Diné have survived worse. They say that we are stronger as a Clan than as individuals.”

John continued in this fashion, encouraging and informing his people, most of whom survived to see the pandemic if not eradicated, then at least managed. He and Father Hernandez had decided that the facts related to the Messenger were better left unsaid for now. Each wanted to mull over the information passed on by the Messenger before sharing it with others.

*****

Author’s Note: Much of the information presented here on Navajo customs was gleamed from the writings of Tony Hillerman. His series on the Navajo Tribal Police Detectives Leaphorn and Chee is being carried on by his daughter Anne Hillerman. I highly recommend both authors works if you find this story interesting.