Published: 21 Oct 2019

What Rudy Couldn’t Know

Alexis leans against a pile of pillows. One of the pillows is warm: it’s a boy’s tummy. He thinks it is Petrus. All the boys who share the dormitory are snuggled together, arms and legs wrapped around one another. Alexis takes a deep breath and nearly chokes on the pheromones.

“A thousand lifetimes ago,” Alexis begins, “or about two years ago, my master showed me in the book the first story Rudy wrote about Phillip and Argon, and their journey to World. Mark and Kevin know someone on their world had a copy of the book, translated some of the stories, and published them.”

“The same day the translation was published – made public – on Mark and Kevin’s world, one of the translators received a message from someone who claimed to be Diné or Navajo.”

Email, Marty and Chandler think, although they can’t say it.

“This person was very angry about how the story spoke of things that were supposed to be secret. He told the translator he should be ashamed of himself for revealing secrets he was sworn to protect.”

“He thought the translator was Navajo?” Marty asks.

“On that world, I think they called themselves Diné, but I’m not sure,” Alexis says. “But, yes. The person thought the translator was a member of his people. The translator’s name is Oliver Linden, however, he is not Diné, at least not at first. Oliver tells the person, whose name is Tommy, he isn’t Diné, but is only a translator.”

Alexis opens the book, and reads.

The Translator’s Tale: Oliver Linden

I try to reassure Tommy that his concern I revealed secrets of his people is unfounded, and ask if he would like to talk more about this. We exchange messages for two years, during which time the team is able to translate and publish more stories.

Tommy is concerned about secrets being revealed – his people’s origin story, the symbols of the lodges, their ceremonies, and the chants. That is a big part of it. We talk about other things, too. He wants to know how magic works on World, he wants to know why Arthur and Jon are so disenchanted with the superstitions or religions of their worlds, and what I think about that. He wants to understand why science is different on World. He also wants to know about me, about being gay, about being gay and a soldier. It is hard to answer the personal questions, not because they are personal, but because I don’t want to get stung by the police for talking about sex with a 15-year-old kid.

Then, something happens: something he can’t write about. He wants us to meet.

TomTom: Oliver we have to meet show you things tell you things please cant email its important!!!!!

Oliver: Tommy, your profile says you’re gay and 15. Just last week, they arrested a guy my age for setting up an on-line date with a 15-YO who turned out to be a cop. They do a lot of that, you know.

TomTom: cause he was lookin for sex thats not what youre looking for is it?

Oliver: No, Tommy. But that wouldn’t matter to these people. They would assume the worst; and “innocent until proven guilty” doesn’t seem to apply when someone cries “child abuse.”

TomTom: Oliver this is important please?

Oliver: I don’t know how. TomTom. I’m sorry, I just don’t know.

TomTom: i talked to my uncle you meet him not me hell come with me public place he knows

Oliver: ?

TomTom: he knows im gay he knows i need to talk to you he read the stories coffee ship main street gallup please please please?

TomTom: Oliver?

TomTom: Oliver? This is Joe Leaphorn. I am Tommy’s uncle, an adult. Will you meet me, if not him?

Oliver: Mr. Leaphorn, I will meet you. In the coffee shop. Wait, please.

Oliver: I’ve booked a flight to Gallup. Is 10:00 AM this Sunday okay?

TomTom: This is Joe. That will be fine. The coffee shop is at 323 Main Street.

Oliver: I’ll be there. Joe Leaphorn, you’d damn well better be an adult relative, and not a cop, Oliver thinks.

TomTom: thank you thank you thank you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Coffee “Ship,” Gallup

Oliver parks the rental car in front of the coffee shop and grabs his satchel. The coffee shop is half full. Oliver takes a table and sits facing the door. He scans the room. Looking for an adult man and a boy; may look Diné. May not, he reminds himself. No one fits that description. White folks. A few couples. One family with two girls. Four old men playing pinochle in one booth. They could be Diné. No one who looks like a cop, Oliver thinks. Not that I’m an expert.

“Just you?” the waitress asks. She looks at the three empty places at the table.

“Two more coming,” Oliver says. And maybe the entire police force. She might sell a lot of donuts. “I’ll have coffee, please, and the egg sandwich while I wait.”

At 10:00 AM, a shard of sunlight sweeps twice across the wall and Oliver’s face as the door opens and closes. A man and a boy stand just inside the doorway. The boy points and speaks briefly to the man. The boy waits by the door while the man walks toward Oliver. Oliver stands.

“I am Joe Leaphorn,” the man says. “Born to the Salt People, born for Folded Arms People. TomTom is Tommy Chee, son of my sister, born to the Salt People, born for Red Running into the Water.”

“I am Oliver. My mother’s people are Hastings; my father’s people are Lindens. I bear my father’s name. Will you sit?” Oliver’s knees are weak with relief.

Joe nods. “May Tommy join us?”

Oliver nods again; Joe gestures; Tommy skips to the table.

“Oliver, thank you for coming,” Tommy says. “Thank you for your trust; it is a great gift. You wrote those words. I hope you believe them.”

Oliver takes a deep breath, lets it out, and then says, “Tommy, Mr. Leaphorn, I did not write the words … or the stories. I helped translate them from a language that is like Latin, but which is not. The book in which they are written is not from this world. The stories are true.

“But, yes, I do believe those words about trust. Thank you for insisting I come.”

“See, Uncle, I told you,” Tommy says. He grins. “I know the stories are true, I really do.” Tommy adds. “Uncle Joe says only that he would wait and see. He is wiser than I am.”

“The person who wrote the stories knows a great deal about our culture,” Joe says. “He knows more than someone who is not an initiate should know; but there are things that are wrong. I not only have read, but also have studied the stories that tell of our people. I have shown them to shamans. The magic about which you write, it would not work. Some of the words are wrong; some of the herbs are wrong.”

“If the words were right, it would work,” Oliver says. His voice is flat. “The herbs do not make a difference; all that is needed – and not always – is smoke: any kind of smoke.” What he says is not a question, but a statement.

Joe asks, “Do you believe that?”

“I do,” Oliver says. “I must. It meets the test both of the mind and of the heart. There is a reason the words are wrong. The translation team discussed this. Then, we changed the words because we knew they would work, and we didn’t want that kind of power to get out.

“I hope you will look at the words in the original document. You need not tell me if they would work, only satisfy yourself one way or the other.” Oliver pulls a heavy book from his satchel. He fumbles for a moment before he opens it and hands it to Joe. “This book is the original. Most words are like Latin; the chant is Athabascan, but written with Roman letters. It is very close to the Diné language. The herbs have Latinate names, they’re translated into English on the paper stuck between the next two pages.”

“May I show this to the shamans?” Joe asks.

Oliver nods. “Yes, of course.”

Joe gestures to the four old men playing pinochle. They fold their cards and come to the table. Oliver is startled, but only for a moment. Joe is more prepared to believe than he let on.

Oliver watches the four shamans pour over the book. The waitress refills their cups twice before they finished. One speaks briefly to Joe in their language before the four men return to their card game.

Joe turns his arms so that the palms of his hands are facing upward. He looks at Oliver. “You show wisdom and trust. We, too, believe that trust is a gift not easily bestowed. Will you extend that trust to joining me in kiva?”

“Uncle! He’s afraid. You said—”

Joe raises his hand. “Tommy will not accompany us. In any case, you should no longer fear you are being entrapped. Your car? It is the one just outside the door.”

Oliver nods. “How did you know? Oh. It’s not covered with dust.”

“That and the rental car company’s sticker on the trunk.” TomTom giggles.

“Tommy, you will drive the truck home and wait. Mr. Linden will drive me to the kiva. If you will?”

“Yes, sir; gladly. Tommy, is this okay with you?”

“I obey my uncle,” Tommy says. “He will tell me what I need to know, when I need to know it. He always does.”

Joe is laconic, speaking only to give directions. “North on 491.” “Turn left, here.” “Right, here.” “There’s a parking space, there.”

“Window Rock,” Oliver says. “Across the parking lot. May I visit the memorial, later?”

“You know of it?”

“I served with young men of your nation. Not all of them came home,” Oliver says.

“You honor them and us. Later. Now, through this door.”

Diné National Headquarters, Oliver reads. He said “kiva.” Oh! There’s a kiva behind this modern façade! Makes sense, actually.

Joe speaks in Diné to a receptionist who looks startled, but picks up the telephone and presses buttons. Joe turns to Oliver. “Oliver, born for Hastings, born to Linden, you must be purified before you enter kiva. Will you do as I ask, speak only what I say, and tell no one not allowed to know what you see, today?”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

“Do you know why I do this?” Joe asks.

“You will bind me by oath not to reveal that which I have already hidden. You do this to protect your people, their culture, and their destiny. In return, you will give me something.”

“I understand why Tommy is fascinated by you. You are honorable and perceptive.” Joe pauses, and then asks, “Why do you think I will give you something?”

“Everything I know about your culture says it is based on balance – harmony,” Oliver replies. “You ask something of me; you will give something to me. It likely will be intangible.”

The twenty men who participated in the ceremony have left. Oliver and Joe are alone in the locker room. Oliver runs his hands across the beaded tunic and leather pants he had worn, and then folds them into a basket.

“Among us, you are my brother, member of the Salt People. You are now family,” Joe says. “Tommy wishes to spend time with you. You know he is gay. Are you?”

“Yes,” Oliver says without hesitation. “However, I would never ask—”

“No. But he will ask you,” Joe interrupts. “I do not want our nephew hurt. If you refuse him, please do so gently, with kindness and love. If you accept his invitation, do so with kindness and love, and please be gentle.”

“You’re okay, either way?” Oliver asks.

Joe nods. “It was Tommy’s dream that led to your invitation – and your initiation. It is Tommy’s dream that will take us to the next step. You need to hear it from him. Tommy has been initiated in kiva. He is adult by our law and custom.” Joe smiles: the first time Oliver has seen him do so. “You never needed fear being entrapped.”

Oliver

Joe directs me to his home where TomTom greets us. He is bouncing on his toes, eager to know what had happened. Joe tells him I am now TomTom’s uncle, and that he may speak with me as with his other uncles.

Joe then excuses himself. He comes back in uniform: a captain of the Diné Nation Police.

I am not afraid. We are brothers; the bond is as strong, although not sexual, as the bond between best friends on World. That’s not to say I am not startled.

TomTom’s Dream

“Your father’s brother Jim and his husband are in Farmington,” Joe says. “They have been approved to foster children for Diné Family Services, and are to receive the first one, today. I told Jim I would cover his shift. I’ll be back by morning. Aunt Doli left supper in the refrigerator.”

“Are you hungry?” TomTom asks after Joe leaves. “It’s only four o’clock, but I know you didn’t get lunch.”

“The egg sandwich I had at the coffee shop is still sitting on my stomach,” I say. “But if you are hungry…”

“No. I had lunch. Let me show you around.” TomTom grabs my hand and steps toward a hallway.

Now would be the time to say “no,” I think. If I let him hold my hand, it will be harder to say no, later. In less time than the thought takes, I grip the boy’s hand, and follow.

We walk past Uncle Joe’s bedroom and then his office. “He is on the Council. He’s like, their historian.”

TomTom whispers, “I think he’s their consigliore, too.”

“This is my room.” TomTom pulls me in.

The room is bright. A large window faces north, overlooking the National Headquarters and Window Rock. Mountains extend as far as I can see. Those in shadow are colored like a purple-gray; those in sunlight are bright reds and oranges. “This is beautiful, and truly awesome, TomTom,” I say.

The boy squeezes my hand. “Oliver, you’re pretty awesome, too. Will you share yourself with me? I asked Uncle Joe, and he said I might.” TomTom’s voice drops to a whisper, and raises an octave as his vocal cords tighten.

What is that in his voice? Fear? Anticipation? I wonder. “My brother, who is your Uncle Joe, also spoke to me, and said I might say ‘yes.’ But first, TomTom, my nephew, you must tell me what is so important you could not send by message.”

“Oh!” Tommy ducks his head. “You’re right. You’ve always been right.” He sits on the edge of the bed.

“Please sit beside me?” He asks. “Please hold me while I tell you.”

I feel his request is serious. His fear is palpable. I sit beside him and put an arm around him.

“My Uncle Jim is a shaman; I study with him. He showed me the Dreaming Way: it opens the mind to dreams. Sometimes the dreams are good; sometimes they are bad; sometimes, sometimes they are a warning.

“We were in Uncle Jim’s hogan – you know what that is, right?” I nod.

“I lay on my back. Uncle Jim burned herbs. They smelled good. Uncle Jim chanted. I fell asleep. I dreamed.

“I dreamed that Uncle Joe and Aunt Doli and her boys were standing on this hill, and that the wind carried a river of dust down the valley past Window Rock and toward them. I dreamed that the wind and dust stripped the flesh from their bones and then covered the hill.”

TomTom shudders. I tighten my hug, take his hand, and press it briefly against my lips. I don’t say anything; I know there is more.

“I dreamed that Uncle Jim and his husband and three boys – I recognized one of them, but don’t remember now who it was – are running from a wild fire that swept up the hill toward their home. Behind them, it looked like the whole world was burning. I dreamed that the littlest boy fell. Uncle Jim turned back to help him; they were both covered with flames. The fire reached the others. I heard them scream.”

TomTom’s breath catches in his throat. I see tears form in the corners of his eyes and spill down his cheeks. He sniffles.

“Then, I dreamed that Uncle Joe, Aunt Doli and her boys, Uncle Jim and his husband and their three boys were at a kiva. There was a line of people outside the kiva. Everyone carried baskets and bags. Some led sheep and dogs, or horses pulling travois. They entered the kiva. Shamans were in the kiva, chanting. As the people walked to the center of the kiva, they disappeared.

“I dreamed that my family disappeared in the kiva and then stepped into a new world, one with blue skies, green grass and trees, clear lakes and streams.

“I dreamed that I saw the book that held the shamans’ chant. I saw that the book had been brought to us by a bilagaana – a white man. I saw his face. I saw him with the book. I read the cover, and I knew it was you.”

TomTom smiles. “That’s how I recognized you in the coffee shop; I’d seen you in a dream. That’s when I knew for sure the stories are real.

“Uncle Jim says the dream is real, it is a warning, and it shows us what we must do. He says that our shamans need a kick in the ass to get them to accept that the climate is changing and we can’t stay much longer in this world. He figures if a bilagaana – a white man – came with a book full of our magic, it would shake them up enough they would do something.

“Uncle Jim wanted to go to Georgia to find you … oh, Uncle Jim’s husband is a computer guy; he hacked the site and traced your IP address. We knew what city you were in. Uncle Joe said it would be impossible to find you in Atlanta, so I got the job of convincing you to come here.”

TomTom giggles; he has put aside his fear. “I’m glad you came.” He turns his head toward mine. “I’m so glad,” he whispers.

This book wraps up many of the stories of World, though we hope it is not the last from the fertile mind of David. Let David know you are reading: David dot McLeod at CastleRoland dot net. He deserves your feedback.

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