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CHAPTER 1
The baby was the White Bead Baby . . . and her cradle is called natsi'lid eta cote, the rainbow cut short.
-- Sandoval, Hastin Tlo'tsi heeThe TwinsThe Ute horseman had seen their stern faces in all seasons. Whether bathed in blazing sunshine or veiled in a lace of softly falling snow, they were always the same. Massive. Silent. Awaiting the End of Days.
On this day, Julius Santos had taken no notice of the towering sandstone monoliths. The rider was blissfully beguiled by those sweet things a spring morning brings. On the mossy stream bank, startled willows trembling with excitement at the arrival of an unexpected breeze. A flood of melted snow crystals rippling over an avenue strewn with slippery cobblestones. The crisp whisper of a magpie's wing, a startled darting of rainbow-dappled fishes. He was distracted by these pleasures.
Any thought of trouble was far from him.
But the giants were infinitely patient. Relentlessly, they pulled at the corner of his eye.
Finally -- unable to resist -- Julius Santos turned his face toward Companion and Chimney Rocks. Separated by a three-hundred-yard gap, the towering brothers seemed isolated in stony loneliness. But it was all a matter of how one looked at them. The Ute knew of a special place -- a unique, elevated point of view. From the Crag, it was possible to see the Twin War Gods as the ancients had seen them - standing near enough to exchange whispers.
On horseback, the sacred overlook was barely an hour away. It would be necessary to cross GhostWolf Mesa, a knobby formation dotted with kiva and pit-house ruins. A dozen winters had passed since he had venturednear that silent, sinister place where old bones moldered under lichen-encrusted rubble. But there was no other way to approach the Crag. A narrow, precipitous causeway of crumbling sandstone connected the mesa rim to that upraised, wedge-shaped platform where the Old Ones had built a splendid temple to honor the Goddess of the Moon.
During his last visit, Santos had stood on the very tip of the stone triangle, contemplating the gigantic sons of White Shell Woman. While he'd stared at the Twins, something outlandish had happened. He had found himself leaning heavily on one leg . . . then the other -- as if a trillion tons of sandstone pitched and swayed under his feet. The tartled pilgrim had been overwhelmed by the illusion that he was on the deck of an enormous, storm-tossed ship. It seemed the illusory vessel was under full sail, toward some dark, alien harbor.
But that had been years ago. He sat in the saddle, squinting at the distant mesa -- that dark, haunted space that must be crossed to approach the sacred platform. In the Ute's lurid imagination, the lumpy sandstone formation was a massive hand reaching up from Lower World -- with all fingers folded except one. That long, crooked digit pointed suggestively toward the Twins. And on this morning, it beckoned to the lone horseman.
To ward off this enticement, Santos closed his eyes. In doing so, he encountered the inner darkness. And looked too deeply. The old vision enveloped him.
He is on the Crag, standing on the very tip of the soaring bow. Santos gazes over interlocked waves of space and time. A splendid illusion grips his mind. Just ahead -- separated by the merest slice of sky -- the towering giants stand shoulder to shoulder, knee-deep in petrified talusdunes. They are anchored to the depths of a ghostly sea, waiting fortheir mother's pale face to appear between them. These are the slayers of monsters. Ready to take on sinew and muscle over bones of stone. And -- as in the Beginning of Days -- slay those unspeakable monstersthat feed on human flesh.Santos's peculiar fantasy was interrupted by a sudden stamping of the horse's hoof; a heavy shudder rippled through the animal's frame. The rider took a deep breath, and turned his face away from the Twins. He assured himself that the vision was nothing to be concerned about. It was a mental deception -- a mystical mirage. The Ute turned his mount south. Toward home. This was a sensible decision. But . . .
The giants whispered their urgent summons.
You are needed.
Today you are needed.
The long finger beckoned.
Come.
Come quickly.
Santos pretended not to hear the call. But he turned his horse toward the mesa.
Though he was not a traditional Ute, Julius Santos did accept those particular elements of his culture that he considered helpful. This included sage advice on maintaining mental balance. And so -- to the extent that he was able -- he did not think bad thoughts. Not that a healthy man could possibly submerge his soul in gloom on such a fine day as this. The breeze was crisp as a new dollar bill and refreshingly cool against his face, the morning sun a warm smile on his back. He had a good horse between his knees. Moreover, he was feeling uncommonly young for his years. The moderately vain fellow considered himself a fine figure of a man. And believing so, he was. Santos was long and lean; his spine straight as a young aspen. He sat easily in the saddle -- a fluid, graceful rider who seemed grafted to his mount.
Having ascended to the crest of the mesa, his spirit was likewise lifted. This was not really a bad place. There were purple and yellow blossoms blooming in splashes of sunlight; patches of melting snow hiding in the shadows of fragrant juniper. The rider directed his mount to the rim of the sandstone cliff. Snuffy was a steady beast who would step over a prairie rattler without so much as a shudder. She approached the edge of the precipice.
Santos inhaled a deep breath of sage-tinted sweetness. It seemed that a man could see to the very edges of the earth. The Ute slitted his eyes, so the grand vision would not be absorbed too quickly. The endless space and deep silence engulfed and nourished his soul.White Shell Woman. Copyright © by James Doss. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
