THE WISHING PILE

The WISHING PILE By COZY McSPARRON

When Martha, the daughter of Etsitty the Maker of Silver, died many years before her time and of an obscure illness which was "unsung," the younger people asked: "Why did we not hear of this woman's sickness?" "How long was she ill?" "Where is she to be buried?"

To all these questions, the older ones who knew the facts made no answer, but in the shadow of the trading post wall they exchanged significant glances between themselves. Occasionally, one of the elders would gaze across the road to the cone-shaped landmark of the Chinle wishing pile. Then he would pronounce solemnly: "It was to be. From the beginning, it was to be like this."

Fact by fact casually picked up and carefully fitted into a growing whole, one could complete this story of Martha, oldest daughter of Etsitty the Silversmith.

Her father was respected and well-loved, truly a great man among the Navajos. He was considered the wisest of the Tribe. His talk was always good. Everyone listened when he spoke. Etsitty, as he was known by the Navajos, was the only real orator whom the Tribe had known in our times. When he died, he left a wife, four sons and three daughters, the eldest being Martha with whom this story is concerned.

Martha, when she reached womanhood, had married a wealthy young Navajo whom The People called Storekeeper. It was a fine match. Etsitty had been well pleased with his personable new son. Storekeeper had money, silverware and strings of old turquoise and wampum. Two trading posts he owned, in districts where The People prospered and lived well off store goods.

To their union four children, three boys and one girl, were born. Both Martha and Storekeeper had learned to speak English at Government boarding schools and now with their children they conversed only in the white man's tongue. On Sundays the family attended the white man's church.

When word of these innovations travelled from mouth to mouth of The People's grapevine, Etsitty stopped going to one or the other of his son-in-law's stores. There were rumors that Etsitty and his older daughter had quarrelled over religion and under her influence, Storekeeper, too, was giving up his belief in the Navajo faith. Said the oldsters: "This is not good."

"Bad luck is sure to follow."

"It's the woman," spoke up a grandmother in the Navajo custom, without naming Martha. "She has turned her back on her own people, she is working on her mate. The white man's education has taken her away from us. She, with her smooth tongue and sweet words, has taken our son from us. Bad luck to her!"

When he learned that Martha and Storekeeper had openly declared acceptance of the white man's religion, Etsitty found it hard to believe, and in time, a heavy worry to carry. Now it was that Martha began to preach wherever she went: "Navajos have no real religion. Medicine men are robbers who steal from The People on the pretense of curing their ills by singing them back to health. These Hotahle rob the sick people. They take for their pay-money, sheep and horses. Pay, pay, that's all they know! The good White Father offers us free medicine, good medicine that will really cure. And without pay-free!

Women, who heard Martha speak thus, made no answer. "Fools!" continued Martha, as she gazed into their expressionless faces, "That's what you are, fools, to listen to the medicine men! The Medicine House was built for you at the Agency. A white doctor and many nurses wait to take care of the sick among The People. There are clean rooms and comfortable beds. No more sleeping on the wet ground in draughty hogans! And good food, clean food, not like that which you cook in the common dish, into which all, even those with the Lung Disease, dip their fingers." Martha would work herself up to the climax of her sermon.

"No wonder you are all sick! No wonder you cough! Their way is right! Your way is wrong!"

By this time, only a handful of Indians would remain to hear the speech completed. These were close relatives of Storekeeper . . . and in time, Martha won them too, into the missionary's church.

Etsitty's death came as a great shock to the Tribe. Storekeeper and Martha, doubtless at his wish, were not asked to his last sing. Nor did they hear of his death and burial until the family's four days of official mourning had ended.

"A great man has been taken from The People," sighed the Navajos. And to themselves, the older ones were thinking: "He was not so old. He was strong and healthy. His death was earlier than it should have been. Did not his eldest daughter speak unwisely?"

Now, Storekeeper became increasingly active with Martha in evangelical work. Almost daily Storekeeper could be seen in company with the white missionary. They visited the hogans of The People and gave short talks.

But business fell off at Storekeeper's posts. One of them was rumored sold to a strange white man while the other, in his home valley, was left for Martha to tend to. Storekeeper was free to devote more time to mission work.

For Martha, her time was divided, but not equally, between her kitchen, her church work and her husband's remaining store. The home store was sadly neglected. Indians coming in to trade found the door closed and locked. All had to call at the kitchen door to have the store opened. Upon entering, they found little on the shelves for which to trade. Word soon went around that Storekeeper was going out of the trading business. And it was not long before two white men came in a truck and carried out what little stock remained, hauling it to the store of a white competitor.

But Storekeeper did not remain inactive. He set to work vigorously developing his land. He put in alfalfa and corn.

While her husband worked at farming or went about with the white missionary, Martha spent her time reading books to her friends and followers. "God's talk," she called it. Every afternoon a few women in their full dusty skirts and moccasined feet would gather at her home and sit quietly while she read aloud in English, explaining in the Navajo tongue, stories from the Bible. On Sunday these women would follow her to the missionary's church and listen with much attention to the white minister.

But as time went on, the number did not increase and two or three of the original group dropped out. They gave no reason nor did they criticize Martha. No words were spoken for or against the white man's religion.

"We shall see." The old people bided their time. "We have seen before. Now we shall see again."

Storekeeper had success with his farm while others around him had crop failures.

"Our good luck," said Martha, "is because we live right. Accept the faith of the white man and you too will have good crops. God is good to all His children."

When Storekeeper had come into his patrimony, many were his sheep and cattle, for this was before the Taylor Grazing Act, and any man's flocks could roam the range. Storekeeper found it too great a task to look after all of his livestock as well as to farm in the white man's modern way, so he hired other Navajos to watch his sheep and cattle. But when head-counting and fleece-shearing time came, Storekeeper was always surprised and a little hurt to learn that now he had many less animals than when last he counted them. The same sad facts were true of his horses.

Something, he knew, would have to be done.

Discussing this problem with Martha one night, Storekeeper made a decision. He would round up his cattle and horses and sell them. He would keep only what he needed on his home farm. His sheep he would hold a while longer, checking more frequently on his hired herders.

After disposing of the cattle and horses at a good profit, he purchased an automobile. This was the first car to be owned by a Navajo in his section of the reservation. And needless to say, he and Martha were both proud. They loved the shiny brass lamps and cloth top that swelled in the wind at high speed and flattened down again when the brakes were applied.

The People looked on but said little. Some of the older Navajo men remarked:

"Storekeeper becomes more and more like a white man."

"He must have lots of money," snapped an old woman.

In his flapping shiny car Storekeeper found it easier to visit his sheep camps but in spite of his attention and kindly concern his flocks continued to decrease.

"Deep snow and cold weather brought about heavy losses," his hired men explained.

But Storekeeper became discouraged, and the following summer, sold for cash the small flock that remained, and turned his efforts towards farming on a large scale. An ambitious and hard worker, he could be seen early in the morning working in his corn fields or late at night diverting flood water to his alfalfa. He bought modern equipment-a hay-baler, mowing machine, plows and harrows. His fine teams of draft horses with new harness and wagons caused the Navajos to stop and consider as they passed his farm.

"Just like a white man," was their only comment.

With her four children now in Government school, Martha had even more time than before to read aloud from the Bible to her women followers. They admired her and tried hard to imitate her good ways. She taught them how to sew, how to cook, and how to dress better. In their hogans she helped them plan more sanitary ways of housekeeping. Her followers bought dishes, chairs and tables. Some even bought beds. A few put windows into the sides of their hogans to let the sunlight in.

Although Martha was a leader like her father Etsitty, eloquent and forceful, she was so domineering that The People turned from her words and she made no new converts.

"My people," she entreated, "I do not ask you to take my word alone for the truth I speak. Only watch us, my husband and me. Watch us get ahead by living the right way, God's way. We have good crops, while you have failures. Why? Don't be fools any longer. Stop listening to the medicine men. They lie to you. We are wiser. Come, let us help you.

The People, always courteous, moved off slowly to mount their horses or climb into their wagons.

"Fools," grieved Martha, shaking her head, "they are very stupid."

Storekeeper continued his hard work in the fields. In August, before the rains were due, he carefully cleaned out his irrigation ditches. But no rain-bearing clouds appeared in the brilliant sky although his neck often ached looking for them. Days and weeks passed as he continued to watch and wait. Hot winds came instead of rain and his fields turned brown under the blazing sun.

"This is my first crop failure," Storekeeper confessed to his mate.

"But we have cash," Martha reminded him. "You can buy feed for the stock at the store."

"Yes, I know. I was only thinking about what you said to The People-and their crop failures."

"But they too will have no crops." Martha quickly pointed out.

"No," Storekeeper spoke slowly, "not all of them."

"Let's not think about it anymore," Martha said uneasily. "It will work out all right. We must not let The People think we are disturbed over this bad luck. We are still stronger and wiser than they. It has been a dry year. We have had dry years before."

They gazed together over the fields of corn and alfalfa that had appeared so green and beautiful a short time before. Now, the corn blades were bleached almost white, the alfalfa a sickly gray green.

"Once when I was a boy," Storekeeper spoke softly, "I remember an old medicine man singing for rain. It was a dry year like this and everywhere The People had prayed for rain. But none came. The wind blew. The water holes dried up. Even the drinking water was scarce."

Martha watched his face in silence.

"And then," continued Storekeeper, "someone happened to think of the old man who lived on the Black Mesa who said he could always make it rain. He was sent for. Many days passed before he came. When he arrived, he said, 'Yes, I can make it rain, if you pay me.' "And did they pay him?" asked Martha scornfully.

"I don't exactly remember. But I think they did."

"Did he make it rain?"

"Well," laughed Storekeeper, "it rained while he was singing. It kept on raining for three days."

"And how long did he sing?" questioned Martha.

"Three days."

Storekeeper stood in his doorway and watched the pitiless sun drop down behind the Black Mesa. In the air was the odor of heat-scorched alfalfa mingled with dust.

A miserable winter followed the dry season. Deep snow and bitter cold lay over the land of The People. Throughout the Reservation there was much sickness, everywhere the Navajos were dying. Some new and dreadful disease was spreading like wild fire among them. From the hogans and the grazing camps they came, seeking aid from the white man. Over the snow-blocked land they journeyed slowly and with difficulty, gathering at the mission, the trading post and the government agency. As they met one another, they asked: "What terrible thing is this that has been sent down to

The dry twigs blazed up and the fire leapt through the air channels between the heaped stones. In a few moments only a red glow remained inside the collapsed mound. The children looked quickly from one to the other of their parents' faces. Deep in Storekeeper's eyes was a hint of fear. News of Martha's act spread everywhere. The old women muttered: "Bad luck will surely come soon to her now." "Coyote, she comes from the grave," declared the older men, shaking their heads. "No good will come of this." New green twigs began to appear almost immediately on the blackened Wishing Pile. Before many months had passed it would have been impossible to tell that there had ever been a fire. The People too seemed to have forgotten the incident. They used the Wishing Pile more than ever before. Not one passed without making a wish, and many came from afar for that purpose alone. Daughter of Etsitty, she whom the white men knew as Martha, lay sick in her home. The Agency doctor came daily to see her. But never a medicine man. His soft chant, the sweet smell of crushed herbs in his medicine basket and the circle of saddled horses standing in front of the hogan, were absent. Yet Daughter of Silversmith lay mortally sick.

Her neighbors saw the missionary come hurrying early one morning to Storekeeper's house. Already the Agency doctor's car was there. Martha came out with Storekeeper and the doctor helping her, one on each side. She was lifted into the doctor's car and driven away. All this the neighbors saw. Said the old women: "They are taking her away." "Yes," answered Storekeeper, "to the Medicine House of the white man. There they have good food, clean beds and doctors to care for the sick." Two days later, Storekeeper came home alone and closed the door. A week passed before he was seen again at work in his fields. One of the elders, on his way home from the trading post, noticed for the first time since Storekeeper's return a lone lamp burning in the window of his house. In the gathering dusk the bent figure hesitated. "It was to be." He spoke softly in acceptance. "From the beginning, it was to be like this."