Santi

- Follow me, — he said and held out his hand. I grasped it tightly. Our leather gloves clapped loudly in the cold. The horses trotted and shook their heads quietly, sweeping snow from their manes and pink noses. His white mare thrashed the snowdrifts with her hooves, tapped the iron with her lips, and pushed the stirrup with her rough tongue. My gelding’s spotted brown-milk hide was almost all silver from the drizzle that powdered the sky. The harness rattled and the wind howled in silence. The northern plains were so snow-covered that it was impossible to cross the ridge-we had to stop here, at the crossing near Piney Woods, and resign ourselves to the fact that it would be just the two of us, he and I, celebrating Christmas. He jerked his hood down, pulled it off his chin, and spoke, looking into my eyes-his own, almost black as agate, and just as shiny: - If we stop over there, in the low ground behind the rock, it will be better to spend the night. Aren’t you worried? It was the first time I’d ever taken a horseback riding tour in Texas. I’d had the idea for seven years. I’d practiced dressage so I could take a long ride across the prairie under the guidance of guides. But I didn’t expect to be lost in a blizzard on the second day of the trek, or to be covered by a wet blanket of snow so thick you couldn’t see it if you stretched your arm forward. The tent was left with Daryl, my guide. I had rations, dry fuel, a kettle, water, a blanket. We were supposed to celebrate Christmas on the ranch tonight. We were all supposed to be back. I couldn’t use a tent. - I’m lucky! — I tried to shout over the wind, but it didn’t work well, and my companion wrinkled his nose and smiled. Wide and white-toothed. — I will celebrate in good company! To be honest, we were complete strangers. When the storm had swallowed the horse-crups in a great white monster and muffled the voices, a man emerged from the milky lace, exhaling steam from beneath his black skin over his cowboy hat. He was dismounting, with a white mare at his side. He smiled and waved his hand. - I’m lost, — I told him confusedly. — Where did they all go, did you see? - I got lost myself. Such bad weather… — he shook his head. — But it’s a big group, so it’s unlikely they’ve gone far. Before the tracks are covered, shall we follow them? He gave me his hand. We walked for an hour or more, talking. It turned out that his name was Santee, and he was Cherokee on his father’s side and Hungpapa on his mother’s side. I wondered: there’s no official Cherokee band in Texas, is there? He shrugged and said, “My grandfather lived here, my great-grandfather lived here. My father lived and died here. My totems and shrines are on this land. Why is there no band if there is a whole me here? Iron logic. Nodding and agreeing, I followed Santi. It was a long and arduous walk, we fell into the snow knee-deep and thigh-deep. I had no patience, because of my former couch-luxury lifestyle: unaccustomed to such conditions, I quickly got tired. But Santi shook his head when I suggested we continue on horseback, and said: - This is a dangerous canyon, Diggo Pines. We’re walking along the outer edge of it. It’s slippery and very precipitous, and in the blizzard you can’t see anything and you’ll stumble, believe me. It’s a bit high to fly down there. You might fall into the snow on foot and slide down to the edge, but I’ll pick you up, and if the horse stumbles… — he adjusted his hat. — In short, follow my lead and don’t worry. I didn’t like the fact that we were walking along the precipice, because the rusty stone pillars of the canyons are dangerous places. How did we even get here? We were on a flat trail. Why did I even come to Texas? You could have gone anywhere. I could have lounged on a lounge chair under a palm tree and sipped coconut water from a walnut hacked in half with a machete. I would swim in the water, light as a feather… However, I am almost swimming now — knee-deep in snow. It’s scary to take a step, the ground is going downhill, and the canyon is revealed from the storm by a high mountain range and a precipitous generation of rocks cut by the wild Texas winds. I keep thinking the snow is going to start moving and drag me and Santee and the mare and gelding into the icy abyss. I cautiously looked there and saw in the endless white haze the distant land, swollen with drifts and grassy bumps. A traitorous cramp ran up my legs, the ice brittle under my heels, and I froze, watching the snow fall over the rocky edge of the cliff. My shoulder was touched, and Santi put a hand on it. He stepped confidently toward me, moving across the sloping shale as if he were glued to it by the soles of his boots. His eyelashes were frozen with white frost. It shrouded his eyebrows, it laced his frosty blue-black hair. Santi lowered his hood again and smiled, and the smile was so sobering good-so good that the tremor in his hands disappeared and the cramp in his feet was as if pricked with a needle. - Don’t falter, — he said softly and grabbed me by the sleeve of my jacket. And so we led each other. Santi the mare and me, me and the gelding following obediently. Four points on the body of a white giant as tall as a house ten stories high, maybe more. The wind whipped our faces and backs with a whip. Our horses were tired, falling chest-deep in the snow. Santi dragged on. And finally I noticed that the path went under the slope… … We descended lower, overcoming meter after meter of mountain ridge. Anyone else would have crashed on the tight turns of the canyon’s tricky labyrinths, wouldn’t have seen the path. He would have thought that there was a snowdrift under his foot, but it turned out to be a wrong stone and an abyss. The white world around us slowly became less blinding. We twisted along the path like a lace ribbon, barely keeping our feet on the slippery stones, but Santi was like a mesmerized man. He went on and on, and finally brought us all down. All I had to do was look up to the sky and whistle, because the canyon was now a shadowy pillar above us. Santi had left the horses in a windless spot, loosely harnessed and untethered. - They’re not fools to run far in a blizzard like this, — he grinned, and pulled some sticks, branches, and wooden poles off the mare. I frowned for a long time, not understanding what he was doing — a fire, or something — but then Santi led me into a grotto in the rock and built there, very quickly, the semblance of a very small tepee. - There, — he exhaled and shook off the snow. I hurried closer and helped to sweep the snow off his shoulders and back, which made my glove wet. — Wait outside for a moment, and I’ll set up a place to sleep. I nodded and licked the blood from my cracked lip. I was a little embarrassed: the tent was tiny, and Santi was at least six feet, right. I’m about shoulder height to the top of his head. But here you either live or survive — there’s no time to be a prude or wrinkle your nose, so I squatted down and watched with curiosity as Santi’s hands lit a fire. He took from his horse a tightly wrapped plaid, embroidered with Native American’s designs and a big eagle. He spread it on the ground and separated the hearth with stones. I took my things off the gelding and suggested that we put the food in the wigwam at once. Santi agreed. They poured snow into my wok and put it on the hearth to stoke it. I climbed inside and only then realized how cold I was. - Take off your gloves and boots, — said Santi, and he pulled off his first coat and pulled off his hat. — You’re soaking wet in the snow. I nodded, looking at him more closely. His hair was long, wrapped around his shoulders and back, and in the firelight the blackness played off the purple highlights in the strands near his face. His skin is swarthy, tight and smooth over his cheekbones. The face is precise, the features as if carved with a knife skillfully and boldly. The eyes are small, and the gaze is heavy, like the folds of equally heavy eyelids. The smile is wide, but there is little warmth in it. A man of contradictions. Santi — picked up, outlandish and wild — an native god from a totem. For a moment I was afraid to be in the same tent with him, but there was a crackling smoke from the hearth, the smell of pine… - I have to undress, — he said and rolled his eyes. — Don’t be embarrassed. You’ll get sick, and I won’t bother you. Wait, I’ll give you a blanket. Right away. He stood up nonchalantly and walked out into the snowfall, though he’d already thrown off his jacket. Only now did I realize that it was tanned leather and sheepskin on the inside: an old-fashioned style, sewn with beads and scarlet threads on the stitches. - Here, — Santi brought the blanket, and the tepee smelled like a horse. — Take off your clothes and we’ll have a drink. It’s going to be a long, gloomy night. It’s a good thing it won’t be completely snowed in. It’ll be cold, but don’t worry. You won’t freeze here. He grinned and clapped his hand on my shoulder, not hard: - No one has ever frozen at Santi’s before.

***

It was so hot in the tepee that I would have been cooler even in the Bahamas in the sun. I was drowsy, but I held on. The herbal tea that Santi slipped into my hand was so fragrant that it was not rocks, but fresh pine forest. Santi himself undressed to the waist, took off his pants, too — under his warm suede leggings were breeches — and sat down in a Turkish chair. Without asking, he took my foot, which was icy and frozen from my damp boots. Slowly kneading it and my toes with calloused hands, he was silent. But in a strange way this silence seemed cozy. Slowly, gradually, my toes began to feel and sting — so much so that I whimpered. Santi had already taken hold of my other foot, and then stretched my purple frozen hands in the same way. Instead of drinking his tea, he splashed boiling water on his palms — I stared at him — and washed my face. Pine, incense, wood shavings-it smelled in my nostrils, and I involuntarily buried my nose in his hand. My tired mind told me you’d be guaranteed frostbite. I couldn’t feel my hands. - How did you do that? — I exhaled, because I looked at my fingers. Instead of purple, swollen, frostbitten, they were normal. My cheeks stopped stabbing, my lip no longer bled. - They were… - I said, — he smiled, — with Santi you won’t freeze, will you? We laughed and started drinking tea from one cup — we didn’t have another. I passed it into Santi’s hands, taking another sip, and circled my hand around. - It’s so hot here. - Yeah. I took the cup from his hands and sipped again. His face and body were glistening. He was all beautiful in a strange way, unlike anyone else’s beauty. His lithe muscles glistened with heat. Breathing in the tipi was like breathing in a bathhouse, damp and hot. My lungs cleared with every inhale, every exhale. I pulled the blanket off my shoulders, because it was hard to bear the heat, and I didn’t care that I was only in my underwear. Santi didn’t look at it at all. He was looking into my eyes. Christmas night was really fierce. The horses snorted and squealed. Santi went out to check on them — more than once. I was worried, looking at his broad, wet back — wouldn’t he freeze! — but he came into the tipi and brought with him a cold blizzard, snowflakes and canyon freshness. - Today is Wakan, the holy day, — Santi said subtly. — Christmas for you — if otherwise. - And you celebrate it? — I was surprised. — Are you Catholic? He shook his head silently. - Baptist? Protestant? - I have nothing to do with your faith, — he said. — But Wakan is celebrated by so many people that the earth is humming with your happiness. Children’s joy is transmitted by currents in the soil, tapping in the rocks. It rings in the air. Wakan is a great joy for everyone, which means it’s a great joy for me too. At least until midnight… I had never heard of native’s celebrating Christmas, so I asked about it. Santi hesitated. - For me it’s a day of mourning, — he squinted, sitting down more comfortably and further away from me. — A lot of bad things happened during that time. After Christmas, four nights later, the whites came to a Lakota near Wounded Knee. Eighty-four men, forty-four women, and eighteen children were killed. I can still hear them screaming that day because their pain was not washed away with blood. There was no one to wash more. There was no one to avenge. I went cold. The hot air of the tipi floated and melted in my head, but it was as if icy fingers ran along my vertebrae. Santi extinguished a cruel smile and looked ahead, into the fire: - Ten nights before these day, Sitting Bull, the great Sachem, was killed by two shots. It would seem that only one man’s life was cut short. But the falcon gathers by the vein. After his death, the Hunkpapa, his tribe, fled to the Minnekonge. Their camp was sacked by the whites. Three hundred died there, two hundred of whom were women and children. It was cold in the tipi, as if the cape had been swept away and a gale had crept in under the hulks. I shrank back and threw the blanket back over my shoulders, looking anxiously at Santi as he spoke harder and slower. I looked at his hands and felt cold. A frosty blue snake ran through his veins. His eyes drooped, his eyelids grew heavy, and his jaws moved forward as if only his skull remained of Santi’s face. - The morning after this day, two hundred years ago, thirty-eight Indians were hanged here in these canyons, — the words came off his lips in a bark. — The skulls were scalped, the bodies were stripped of their weapons. They left them for the crows and vultures to nibble on. They were good prey then… I was shivering. The air was so hot my hands were numb. The fire was almost out, flickering with pale sparks deep in the dry branches. A crust of ice crawled over it, and Santi suddenly shrank. My eyes were watering from the cold, but I could see that he was stiff and frozen like a motionless statue. Only his pupils burned hungrily and angrily, absorbing the last flashes of the fading crepe. - Santi, — I wheezed pathetically, blinked away my tears and saw that the shadow that had fallen from the ceiling of the teepee onto him had hidden the monstrous image beneath him. A muffled groan came from the shadow, and then a whistling sound came from the blizzard outside. — For you, Vakan is washed in blood. Is it dishonorable not to celebrate? His vertebrae crunched. His veins strained. Frosted and lifeless, he turned his dead head toward me and nodded slowly. Alone with the dead man — here. In the cold teepee. I carefully pulled back the cape and saw that the white mare was nowhere to be found-just a horse skull and bones strewn across the snow. Santi grunted and squawked unhappily, swaying from side to side and glaring menacingly at me. His black hair fell over his face, disfigured by death, contorted with venomous anger. A chill ran up my ribs, spread over my naked body. Steam escaped from my mouth, and under the frozen canopy I took off my blanket and on my knees slowly moved towards the creepy thing lurking in the corner of the teepee. I must remember that it was Santi who had kept me from falling off the cliff. The night was getting angrier and colder, it did not want to give me the good Santi, it left only an evil dead copy of that undead man who had been left to smolder in the noose so long ago. Somewhere in the distance I heard human shouts and again a lone rumbling whistle. - It’s an native’s custom, — my lips were barely moving. — When you choose someone you like, you cover him with your blanket. Did they do that at your place? The creaking didn’t stop, but grew stronger. The smell of decay touched my nostrils. I reached out a trembling hand and touched his chest, ice-cold, unbreathable. With my other hand, I clutched the blanket tightly, and hurriedly, if anything, pulled the cloth around Santi and myself, hugging him under my arm. I pressed my cheek against the protruding bone collarbone, felt a prick in my chest — the needle was thin and cold — and plunged into the heart of darkness. The wind outside howled and scratched angrily at the teepee, but I felt — not immediately, when I was so stiff that the blanket was falling out of my fist — that Santi twitched and fell silent. Midnight was receding. He picked up the cloth himself and covered both of us. He glanced at the hearth, and it burned as if it had never gone out. With his chin on the top of my head, Santi asked quietly: - Vakan is the only night for me to roam the earth. And wandering in desire for vengeance and death is not something I want to do anymore. Every year I am so cold it hurts my soul. Warm me.

***

The windstorm was biting the teepee, but he did not care. The fire burned steady and high, and there was nothing more to be afraid of. Clinging to each other on the worst night of the year, we half-sitting close to the fire, both of us blinking sleepily. Wet with sweat, hot with heat, we fell asleep and shuddered, desperately hoping to stay up longer-but as the night passed the halfway point, we plunged into semi-darkness. And for the last time, the whistle sounded distant and sad. It made me clutch Santi tighter in my arms and hope that the whistle would leave him alone for ever….

***

Edmunds found me the next morning, miraculously not dead. The storm was so strong that it was pure suicide to go out at night. The group made it to the lodge, and as soon as the wind died down, the guides went after me. They found me on a whistle. Someone had led them from the canyon down here to the stone tomb. Edmunds asked me how I’d gotten up here, but I couldn’t tell him the truth. They found footprints, too, but they couldn’t ask me what they were. Wrapped in a dilapidated, decayed blanket, covered with branches, I looked desperately for Santi, but I couldn’t find him. - Lucky to be dead! — grinned Birdsdale, my second guide. He scratched the back of his head. — Sleeping on an Indian grave, my-my! How did you even get here? The locals are afraid of these canyons like fire. They believe that in winter the dead come to life and confuse their tracks, throw them into the abyss, freeze them to death. He ran his hand over the stone, brushing off the snow. - Here lie Ormond Black Feather, Loveland Thunderstorm, Santiago Red Harvest… My eyes glazed and frozen. I thought deeply, hid the name, memorized and sheltered, only Beardsdale’s voice echoed far, far away. No, my Santy didn’t freeze, he warmed. He didn’t kill, he saved. My palm touched the scratched stone. My guides fell silent. - See you next year, Santi, — I whispered to the grotto and smiled. — I promise to come back and warm you again. Happy Wakan, my friend.