The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(62)

He picked it up—a figure less than a foot high, with a straight body painted aqua and yellow, arms crooked at the elbows. It was dressed in a white leather skirt, a green mask and green moccasins, and crowned with a ruff of Douglas fir. It didn’t look any more remarkable than the others; in many respects, it looked much less so.

“The Hopis, they send the Hummingbird up to ask the gods for rain so the crops can grow,” Olin explained. “One time, when the whole world caught fire, it was the Hummingbird who gathered all the rain clouds to put it out.”

A colorful legend, I thought, but I wasn’t sure why a Hummingbird that could summon rain was any more special than, say, the Antelope or the Long-Haired kachinas, which could do the same.

“And the Apaches, they got a story about a warrior named Wind Dancer who saved Bright Rain from a wolf,” Olin said. “He died and Bright Rain took to grievin’, and the whole world settled into a long winter. Bright Rain, she set out on long walks, and a hummingbird took to flyin’ with her, whispering words of comfort in her ear, restorin’ the balance. Turns out, that hummingbird was Wind Dancer. And after a while, Bright Rain stopped her grievin’, and winter broke and spring come again.”

Laurel was tracing the crown of the Hummingbird kachina. “Too bad Bright Rain didn’t turn into a hummingbird, too, so they could be together.”

Olin smiled down at her. “When her time come, maybe she did,” he said gently. “Maybe heaven ain’t all harps and halos.”

But he wasn’t finished with the lesson. “Go back far enough,” he said, “the Mayans thought the hummingbird was the sun in disguise. And the Aztecs—to them, hummingbirds was warriors that died in battle.”

He was eyeing the figure thoughtfully. “And out of all of the kachinas, only the Hummingbird ever flew high enough to see what was on the other side of the sky.”

That intrigued me. “What did he find?”

Olin shook his head. “As the story goes—nothin’.”

Jessie’s voice rang out from the kitchen: “Supper!”

The lesson was over. We put the figures away and headed for the dining room.

“Mr. Olin,” Laurel asked, “do all old people know as much stuff as you?”

He chuckled. “Li’l gal, I been thinkin’. I figure ‘Mr. Olin’ is a mite formal for good friends like us.”

“But what should I call you, then?” she asked.

“What’d you like to call me?”

“Can I call you Opa?”

I shushed her. “Laurel, no.”

Olin looked puzzled.

“Opa is German,” I explained. “It means ‘Grandpa.’”

He considered for a moment. “Sounds easy enough to pronounce, for bein’ German. You call me Opa anytime you want. What should I call you?”

“My name’s Laurel.”

“True enough. But how ’bout I call you Honey Bunny?”

Laurel giggled.

“Only sometimes I might call you Honey for short, and other times just Bunny. But Honey Bunny for more formal occasions.”

Laurel took his hand. “What do you think heaven is, Opa?”

He looked around the room—from his wife to the hearth to the table set for supper.

“Well, Bunny, I think heaven is whatever, wherever and whoever makes you happiest.”


*

After supper, Olin and Jessie began clearing the table and Laurel headed upstairs to get ready for bed, leaving me to see Simon off. From the porch, I could hear bluegrass music on the radio inside. I pulled one of Jessie’s woolen shawls around me as Simon turned to leave.

He hesitated on the porch steps.

“It occurs to me you haven’t been to the pub yet,” he said. “I wonder if you’d care to rectify that.”

“What?”

“I mean, with your interest in Irish poetry, and the proprietor of the pub being Irish—it just makes sense.”

“You’re trying to set me up with the pub owner?”

He laughed. “I’m not trying to set you up with anyone. I’m asking, in my clumsy way, if you’d care to go to the pub some evening. With me. The pub owner’s married.”

“Simon, there are so many reasons to say no, I couldn’t begin to list them all.”

“Then don’t say no. Say you’ll think about it. Then think about it.”