Cayote

The road coming off the reservation is long and dusty. The only pavement you see is the invisible line between the rez and the county. Once on the pavement the cloud of dust that built up on the old pick up truck is bit by bit sailing into the wind. It's about ninety-five outside the truck and you can finally roll down the windows to get some air, but dust has a way of finding itself onto your black dress and you are covered in a light dun color that must be brushed off before you see the human resources director in town about a job. Beads of sweat evaporate as the air blows through your hair, it hasn't rained here in six months and it looks like it's gonna be another six before it decides to.

The highway is a long tongue of black stretching from horizon to horizon, east to west, with nothing but desert on either side. This old truck is the only vehicle on the road, well, road between the pot marks and large cracks that haven't been repaired since 1960. That's when the left front tire blows and for the next seventy feet of bad road, (better than the dirt washboard you just drove off of), you careen from side to side trying to control you sudden decent in forward thrust. A cloud of dust erupts on either side of the road and finally you come to a rest on the right side of the road on a sand bar that has already buried half of the remaining tires on your old pick up.

Safe for the moment you bang your head against the wheel and a loud beep of the horn blasts into the desert air and is sucked into the void without anyone else to hear the sound. There is a spare tire in the back of the pick up with a jack, but you are in your finest clothes and have no wish to soil them. That's when you notice that you are covered in dust from head to foot and the black dress is now embedded with dust that even a good brushing won't get out. Frustrated, you open the driver's side door and keep it propped open with one of your high heeled feet while you find a cigarette and lit up. Bits of dust fall from your hair as you smoke and glancing at your face in the mirror you see your fine black eyebrows have a nice dun color to them and dust is now embedded into the carefully done make up you spent an hour on this morning.

One cigarette turns into two and then three, ten minutes becomes an hour before you decide to move. It is now ten O’ clock and the temperature just rose another five degrees and sweat is beginning to turn your dusty figure into adobe. IT is flat in all directions and not even a buzzard is visible let alone another vehicle to offer any assistance. Right now you should be sitting in an air conditioned office building talking up your resume with the law firm you wish to be engaged with. The thought enters your mind that being a woman is one strike against you and being an Indian woman is like having the world against you. Even if they let you in it would be to clean the toilets instead of writing briefs and studying for the bar.

One way or another you got to get this wreck of a truck back on the road and decide which direction you want to go in no matter what the rest of the day brings.

Somehow preserving the slight chance that you might get to the law firm and produce yourself in a presentable manor your first consideration is to keep the dress as pristine as possible. Stepping outside the vehicle you remove your dress and pantyhose and high heels. The beads of sweat evaporate as soon as your skin is open to the air and clan only in bra and panties you go about the task of changing a flat tire.

An hour and a half later, you are on your knees with an old jacket to keep from scraping your skin and you are almost in tears. Not that the jack was any good to begin with, which it meets a marginal description of it’s name sake, it’s the soil beneath the tire. The flat part of the stand keeps sinking into the soil once the weight of the truck is put upon it thus never lifting the truck up but assisting the jack lower into the ground. This causes the tire to sink just a fraction of an inch lower each time she tries. Even using flat rocks to prop the jack on, the rocks sink. It’s a wonder why she isn’t sucked into the ground like quicksand.

This calls for another cigarette and she rises from her knees and pads on the hot ground to the open driver’s side door for her cigarettes. As she rounds the headlights, watching where she is stepping, she hears a voice.

“Excuse me, but can I help you sister?” The voice is the tongue of the Navajo and not Anglo and startles her to a stand still. Her head snaps up and there is an older man dressed in faded denim, His face is lined and creased by years of desert weather and his skin is much darker than hers yet he still sports long dark hair slightly graying and it is almost impossible to tell what his age is.

“I’m sorry little sister, but I do not mean to frighten you. I only wish to help.” His hands are outstretched in a universal offering of help; they have a look of old, dried leather imbedded with calluses upon calluses. His smile is weak but genuine and it is hard not to trust such a disarming smile. Yet, there Is not another vehicle anywhere to be seen, nor any type of home or even a path where he might have come from.

“Grandfather, thank you for your offer but I do not wish to put you to so much trouble, least you hurt yourself at my expense.” She is amazed that she even remembers her own language after all the years she was punished at school for speaking it.

“Do not worry, little bird, I am stronger than you think.” He smiled and his face seemed to smooth out just a bit, as if he lost some of his wrinkles.

At this moment the realization that she was clad only in bra and panties overcame her and she blushed. Flustered she tried to do something with her hands to cover herself up but had no idea how and this caused her to shift positions slightly and raise goose bumps all over her torso.

The old man, still smiling, removed his old faded jean jacket and placed it around her arms in a fatherly move and she was comforted. On closer observation, she noticed that he might not be as old as she first thought and had that kind of rugged masculine look about him. The image sent an erotic pulse through her and her nipples hardened and she felt moisture between her legs. She blushed again at the thought.

He wore an old oxford shirt that once had been white but with age and dust and repeated washings had turned a sepia color. The top buttons were unbuttoned and showing a bronzed chest without hair. On his feet was hand made moccasins paper thin in appearance yet durable enough to scratch gravel for thousands of miles. He was as tall as she was and rail thin, like a man who ate once every other day weather he needed it or not.

She pulled the jacket around her and felt as though she had been covered in a cavern of denim, yet the jacked was only a size or two larger than one she would wear herself. As she did so, her palms passed over her hardened nipples and she let out a silent sigh.

“Excuse me little one,” and he passed around her and went to the heart of the problem, the flat tire. He got down on one knee and inspected the problem from all angles and then sat back on his haunches and pondered. “Have you some tobacco, sister?”

She retrieved the partial pack of cigarettes and mover to him and offered him one by extending the pack forward allowing a smoke to protrude. His face was on the same level as her panties and he seemed able to smell her scent by a slight hesitation prior to plucking the smoke from its package. To obscure his attention she flicked her lighter the instant the cigarette touched his lips. His eyes looked up at her and the deep hazel with the black pupils froze her. He inhaled deeply and pushed the still lit lighter away from the edge of the cigarette and the spell was broken, she shook her head and asked, “What do you think, Grandfather, can it be fixed?” All the Navajo in her seemed to come back in a flood. Not just the language, but everything. How one treats elders, the traditions, the old songs and stories, late night fry bread, long sweat baths, lodges, herding sheep, everything came to her all at once and she was more native than she had ever been in her life.

“This problem is not insurmountable little one. It is like climbing a mountain, once you are on the top; all you have left is downhill.” They both laughed at his remark. With his hands he dug around the area where the jack and the rock had been. It took a while but he found something solid to replace the rocks on and requested her to find as many flat stones as she could.

Carefully picking her way through the desert, picking up stones and returning them she pilled up a nice little pile in the course of an hour or so. He created a rock bed to place the jack on and succeeded in raising the truck only a few inches. He cleared the silt under the axel and placed flat rocks under the axel until the axel rested on the stones. Together they dug out the flat tire enough space to replace it with the new tire. It took them some time for all of this and it was almost two when they were done and the temperature was hovering around a hundred degrees. Sweat poured from each of them and evaporated just as easily in the dry desert thirsty for any moisture at all. To get the truck off the rocks and jack, she had to put it in the lowest gear and pull forward by an inch or two. Even then, they had to dig out the jack and remove some of the stones in order to drive on.

Thankful for all the effort that the old man went to on her behalf she asked, “Can I drop you anywhere, Grandfather?” He seemed puzzled at this question and she added, “I have nothing to offer you but the comfort of my truck, as it is, to take you where you wish to go.”

The old man seemed to sniff the air around him with his eyes closed. He turned completely around and when he opened his eyes he pointed with his nose in the opposite direction she was going in and said, “I have a place over there, past eagle point. If it is no trouble, I would appreciate a lift, little girl.”

Eagle point was thirty miles away and who know how many miles into the hills he lived. Her appointment was blown anyway so, why not. He was so kind and helper her when she needed it, besides, he was an elder and it was good manors to do his bidding. “Climb in Grandfather and we ride in comfort.”

As they rode she spoke of her childhood and how she had grown up and he listened. She knew he was taking in her beauty. It was too hot to put dress on and she felt comfortable with him. He snuck glances at her long legs as they operated the clutch and gas pedals and her thin arms turning the wheel and was obsessed with the curve of her breast and flatness of her belly. She knew he was looking and she liked it. Even felt like he might be an interesting if not temporary lover. As he looked at her he seemed to change into a man that was younger than she first met. Gone were most of the wrinkles on his face and his long hair seemed to have more color in it. She must be imagining it because she was kind of horny and he was a nice guy and maybe, just maybe the day would not be a total loss.

Past Eagle point they turned off on a dirt road and rose into the hills rapidly. At the top of a hill a small track led off to a hollow hidden from view and they turned on it. It led to a dilapidated wooden shack that had antlers and skulls of deer surrounding it. Next to it was a beautifully done, well made, sweat lodge. She wondered if he lived in the sweat lodge or the shack. He took her inside his home and inside it felt like her home as she was growing up. Familiar smells and the similar sights of her youth, along with the décor was a dramatic difference than what the outside looked like.

He excused himself and disappeared as she wandered around his home. It was a three room building and in one of the rooms she found herbs hanging from the ceiling and various herb concoctions in jars and bottles. It struck her that this was a medicine man, a healer, and a man of knowledge.

When he returned, he held her dress and panty hose and shoes and asked, “May I clean these for you my flower?”

Why not was her reply and she questioned him if he was a medicine man or a witch. He smiled and told her he was a medicine man and dancer, a healer. However, the folks around him labeled him a shape changer and a coyote which was unfair, since they still brought their sick to him for healing. He did not mind the slur to his abilities, but wished people would treat him with more respect like she has done.

There was no running water but he had a tank with drinking water stored out back and filled a basin and washed both the dress and panty hose and hung them to dry.

“What you need little flower is some healing.”

This startled her a bit, “Healing?”

“Yes, you suffer because you are like two people and cannot decide which one you will be. You must learn to integrate the people inside of you and become one in order to live, otherwise, you will die and your body will keep walking until it is dead also.”

Usually, Navajo did not mention the dead in any instance, but this somehow fascinated her, “How then, Grandfather, will you heal the two me’s?”

He pointed to the sweat lodge outside. There was some confusion on her part because the sweat lodge was used mostly by the elders and men; women did not enter the man’s territory in any instance. He noticed the puzzlement on her face and using words she could not remember he gently guided her to the sweat lodge. She found herself seated on a low bench that circled the perimeter of the lodge and he offered her a mug of tea as he prepared the fire. She sat with her knees together sipping on the tea with an unusual flavor that tasted of many things, with the overriding smell of nutmeg. He chanted something in ancient Navajo that she did not quite get, it was half singing and half chanting and the words flowed together and became a long stream of tones, punctuated with slight pops and squeaks. When the fire was going she had finished her tea and he had her drink a second mug full and then a third.

As the place warmed up and he put rocks onto the fire and bunches of sage on the hot rocks she removed her bra, which was soaking wet with perspiration and discarded it to one side. He helped her slid out of her panties and she leaned back against the wall and let the steam heat encircle her body. She closed her eyes and felt as if she were lying on water. Just floating on a sea, with her arms extended and her legs extended, but the water was thick and would not let her sink, perhaps she was like oil and lighter than the water itself, yes, that was it.

AS she floated she felt soft hands touching her. First she felt fingers gently parting her hair and cupping her face, tracing her lips, eyes and nose. Soft kisses lighted on her eyelids and on the cheek bones. They felt good and soft, like the wings of a butterfly. She could feel herself smile and the finger traced her lips and the butterfly kissed her lips again and again and she liked that.

She felt the fingers along her arms and they made intricate patterns weaving in and out but light as if a ladybug were walking on her skin. The patterns rose along her shoulder blades and neck and felt good. NO, more than good they felt like reassurance and comfort and allowed all tension and stress to leave her arms and shoulders. She had spent the last six years in law school working seventy hours a week to graduate and all the tension and frustration and cramming left her. She felt free of herself, yet, she felt as if she was more of herself.

Intricate patterns began to weave themselves along her chest and belle and she felt aroused. Her smile behind closed eyes deepened. She did not wish to open them for fear of breaking the spell of the magic that was being done. She felt her nipples harden and her breast swell and she may have moaned but she was still floating on water in a place where sound did not occur. There was a lot of work In the intricate patterns on her torso and she felt them on her back as well. She wondered how one could do that while she was floating in water, but the thought evaporated as every muscle in her back seemed to loose it’s taught strength and she gave over to the soothing effects that no massage on earth could ever achieve. She was like rubber or clay, moldable and loose. Her arousal was still there and she felt the butterfly kissed on her breast and nipples and she made a moan but no sound found the air to her ears. She didn’t mind, it was pleasant and she enjoyed the feeling. Each moment brought a new sensation to her and she reveled in it.

She felt the designs on her legs now, and with brief interruptions for a butterfly kiss to the nipples and lips, she felt all the tension in her legs drain out and replaced with something that seemed to build. She could not discern what was building just that something was building and she liked it, what ever it was. She felt fingers along her pelvis and her Vagina as well as her buttock. This was not an invasion of her but somehow a need by her. She wanted the fingers to linger a little longer and she wanted to feel the butterfly kisses she felt elsewhere.

AS she floated in the water she began to feel fingers and hands all over her body, seeking places she never knew existed and she was like a rag doll to it all. She let the sexuality of the touch seep into her like the tension seeped out of her and she began to hear her own breathing. At first it came in short gasps and sharp intakes, and then she began to really breathe hard and fast.

She felt her legs as they wrapped around something and then blended into it and became one. She felt someone penis inside of her yet it was not a penis but something that was a part of her. She knew another body was there, but she seemed to melt into the body and become one with it. She was both male and female at the same time, copulating with herself. She felt her body jerk and move involuntarily as the pace of her own love making picked up. She knew just where she wanted to be touched and it happened. She knew just what she wanted and it happened. She felt the orgasmic explosion and screamed out loud feeling beads of perspiration fly from her skin. Yet she was not done with herself, she kept going and going. Her whole body rolling and squirming, feeling every fiber of her core tingle as she came in waves upon waves, deepening with each wave and broadening with each moment. Each movement brought pleasure and intense erotic pleasure. She reveled in this way for what seemed like days.

When she woke up, she was lying on the old mans bed in his shack. She was naked to the core and every square inch of her body had tattoos all over. Designs she had never seen before and some that were familiar to her from the old stories. The color was beautiful and compact, very delicate. Yet she was in shock when she could not rub them off. There was a snake that wound itself around her waist and down along one buttock passing along one side of her vagina and around the crest of her pelvic bone and down the other side of her vagina, up the other buttock and ending with the head of the snake, mouth open just above her clitoris. The length of her legs sported graceful elk and deer in a running stance, while her arms had flowers and vines that sprouted from the shoulder to her wrist.

She jumped up from the bed and felt as if she had been rode hard and put up wet, which is most likely what had happened. She was sore to the bone in her Vagina and ass and her nipples felt like someone had pulled them two feet longer than they were willing to go. She was weak in the knees and walked as if she was bowlegged. There was no Mirror in the shack and she had no idea what was tattooed on her back side or face, but she, strangely enough, did not feel angry. She was concerned, but not overwhelmed. She wondered about the shack looking for the medicine man but he was nowhere to be found. She poked her head into the Sweat lodge but he was not there. Still naked she began to look for her clothes and found her dress hanging from a clothes line in the back looking as if it had just been pressed. Next to it were her panties and bra and pantyhose. All clean and ready to wear. She dressed and found her shoes on the floorboards of her truck.