The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(84)

Bree approached them with a smile, then motioned Jessie and me closer.

“This is Samuel, and he’s brand-new. Yes, he is. Yes, he is!” The baby gripped her forefinger in a tight fist.

Jessie patted the man’s shoulder. “Fine job, Jasper,” she said.

“Want to hold him?” he asked.

Jessie held out her arms and Jasper eased Samuel into them. She handled the baby with a midwife’s efficiency. There was warmth in her face, but I could detect an ache there, too.

This was, after all, a moment she and Olin had never been able to share. It reminded me of what she’d said when they’d first taken us in: A ready-made family.

Bree moved next to Reuben, who pulled her close. She hugged his waist, her thumb looped through the belt of his jeans.

“Jasper,” she said, “tell them about the ceremony.”

“Which one?”

“You know—the baby’s-first-smile ceremony.”

“Well,” he began, “the Diné believe that when a baby’s born he’s still of two worlds: the spirit people and the earth people. So we wait to hear the baby’s first laugh. That’s when we know he’s made the choice to leave one world and join the other.”

The choice to leave one world and join the other . . .

For a second, Jasper’s words rattled me.

“Then there’s a party, with gifts,” Bree was saying. “And people bring plates of food so the baby can salt it—why is that again?”

It was Reuben who answered: “To show a generous spirit.”

“And how does a tiny little baby manage to put salt on food?” I asked.

Jasper held up his thumb and forefinger, barely an inch apart. “With a tiny little saltshaker.”

We laughed, and Jasper took Samuel’s walnut-sized fist and waggled it gently in a pantomime. “Actually, with a little help from his father or mother.”

Simon appeared at my elbow with two bowls of mutton stew. “He could start right now, if he likes.”

“Don’t rush him, Simon,” Jasper said with a smile.

Simon handed me one bowl and offered the other to Jessie. She waved it away as she handed the baby off to his father.

“I’m off to find that man of mine,” she said. “You two youngsters enjoy yourselves.”


*

Simon led me to the back of the house, where there was a screened porch warmed by a wood-burning chiminea next to a sofa. We sat to eat, spreading a wool blanket across our laps. Through the screen we could see the river snaking past, and the earthen dome of the hogan. We could hear the faint sound of drums and chants.

“They’re doing a Blessing Way,” Simon explained, nodding toward the hogan.

I’d heard of the ceremony. “They do that for expectant mothers,” I said.

“For others, too. Someone who’s sick, for instance. Or a warrior going off to battle. Sometimes they hold one because it’s been a while and it seems like a good idea.”

“Who’s this one for?”

He hesitated. “This . . . is to restore balance,” he said vaguely. “Health. Strength.”

“Did they have one for you, when you went off to war?”

He paused again.

“Not before I left, but when I came back,” he said. “It’s a different ceremony, though, when you come back. Called the Enemy Way, and it’s more . . . intense. Lasts about a week. It restores balance, too, but first you have to drive away the ugliness, the violence, of battle. Chase off the ghosts of men you’ve killed.”

As he went quiet, I reached for his hand. “Whenever you’re ready,” I said, “you can tell me anything.”

“I know, sweetheart. But not yet.”

There was a movement in the doorway, and Reuben and Bree entered.

“How’s the fire?” Reuben asked. He hiked up the sleeves of his sweater and laid a small mesquite log inside the wide mouth of the chiminea. Then he and Bree sank into nearby chairs.

“We were just listening to the chanting,” I said. “Is it for your brother?”

“The Hozhooji ritual,” said Reuben. “It should last a while yet. It’s for him and . . . whoever might need it.”

He was gazing at me frankly, his dark eyes suddenly unreadable, and it flustered me.

“For little Samuel, then,” I said. “Who’s his mother?”