A Kachina Dance Read online




  A Kachina Dance

  by

  Beverley Andi

  Cover design by Kim Blake.

  This novella is a work of fiction. The names, characters, localities and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copy right © 2012 by B. M. Andi

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this novella or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  To Jaspur, a Hopi

  Contents:

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Introduction

  Dear Reader,

  Before you read my tale let’s get some things straight. One, there are such things as “happily-ever-after” endings and not just in picture books. Two, people over thirty still have a chance to fall in love. Three, don’t look for Prince Charming on a white horse because he may be on a motorcycle instead. Four, this is hard to say, especially if your mother comes from New York, but sometimes your mother is right!

  Now, I need to give you a little background in case you’ve never heard the word Kachina before. It is important to our story and, of course, to the Hopi and their beliefs.

  The Kachina is the center of the complex religious system of the Hopi culture. Kachinas can take 3 forms: a supernatural being or spirit, a dancer personifying the spirit, or a wooden doll carved in the likeness of the spirit. Though not gods, these spirits are believed to be messengers for human prayers. It is believed that at one time Kachinas lived with the Hopi but the people became disrespectful. Thus, the Kachinas moved to the Underworld. Yet, the Kachinas promised to return once a year to bring needed rain fall, healing, and protection.

  Returning from their home in the San Francisco Peaks each year on the winter solstice, they enter through the kiva. A round shaped adobe structure, the kiva is used for religious rites and initiations into the tribe. This is where the Hopi Kachina Society meets. It is here, too, that the Kachinas immerge for the home dance starting on the summer solstice.

  “Niman”, Kachina, or home dance is a sacred ceremony, not a social dance. Hence, this dance is often closed to anyone other than the Hopi because tourists, over time, have photographed, recorded, and desecrated this solemn ritual. I have seen it with my own eyes and was appalled at people’s ignorance. The “going home ceremony” begins on the summer solstice and continues into July.

  The Kachina dancers in costumes and beautifully carved masks perform a day long ceremony which overpowers all watching by the chanting, the music, and the rhythm of the Kachina they represent.

  If you are lucky enough to see a Kachina dance, remember you are a guest of a noble people. There is so much more to learn about the Hopi cultural, their paintings, pottery and carved Kachina dolls. If you haven’t traveled to the Four Corners area of the U.S. then I hope my story will at least prompt you to read about the Native Pueblo peoples.

  Kate Knightly

  Chapter 1

  I’m hanging on to the back of Jay’s motorcycle as we pull off the main highway and head up the dirt road to the Second Mesa. He’s gunned the engine to climb the steep incline. The road to the mesa is already heaving with cars and trucks filled with families. The sky isn’t awake yet, it’s still a dusky violet grey. It must be about 5:30 am but it’s already warm. Soon the sun will become an orange ball streaking the sky with pinks, lemons and mauves and bounce off the red stone cliffs.

  I only met Jay yesterday at the Hopi Cultural Center. He was giving a tour and I seemed to be the only one asking questions. When I inquired about seeing a home dance he said they were closed to all but the Hopi. I must have showed how disappointed I was because he found me later in the gift shop. He simply said, “You looked sad about the home dances, but remember it is the white man who has broken our rules over and over again even to this day. We have no choice but to close them to outsiders.”

  My knowledge of his people must have impressed him as well as my coming from the east just to see a Kachina dance. I’m sure the fact that I was single and alone didn’t escape his notice either. He told me there was a home dance on Saturday, the next day.

  “Give me your cell number and I’ll call you later.”

  “Sure, I’m staying at the Hopi Motel next door.” That’s how it all started.

  It was about 5:15 when I heard his knock on the door. I had just come back from touring, had taken a shower and was about to dry my hair. I was in a large towel with wet hair when I opened the door a crack. Jay appeared dazed at what he saw for he said nothing.

  “Uh, can I help you? I need to dry off and get dressed.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I was wondering if you’d like to go for a drink. But if it’s a bad time…”

  “If you can give me 15 minutes, it will be the right time. I would enjoy a drink but more importantly I’d like to talk to you about the Hopi.”

  I figure my hair will have to air dry so I’ll concentrate on makeup and wardrobe. The fancy jeans, tank top and cowboy boots are the look I want; the excessive heat means the makeup will be light. Some earrings, perfume and my bag and I am ready to go. I head out the door 15 minutes later and see Jay leaning on a red motorcycle. I hold my breath, he looks so damn sexy.

  “You’re on time.” He gives me a slight smile.

  “I think it’s rude not to be. I hate to be kept waiting. I’m sure everyone feels the same.”

  He hands me a helmet and puts one on himself.

  “Oh? This is your motorcycle?”

  “Hmm.”

  “I’ve never ridden on one. This will be my first time. Is it safe? I have a rental car, we could take that.”

  “You’ll be fine. Just hold on to me.” He gives me that slight smile again and I cave.

  Knowing no alcohol is allowed on the reservation, I figure we have to go to Flagstaff. Jay rides to a little roadside café along the highway that’s about fifteen minutes away. When we dismount, he asks how I liked the ride.

  “I like the feel of the wind blowing through my hair and the scenery rushing past and the way the bike corners with your body,” I say, but I don’t mention that I like holding on to his firm body, too. Kate, I tell myself, it’s been too long since you’ve had a BF. When I take off the helmet, I realize my long hair is dry already so I give it a quick brush.

  We walk into a rather seedy looking bar with some pretty rough Native characters hanging around. All heads turn and stare at me, the only non-Native in the place. It’s dark inside with some overhead fans whirring. There are some flashing neon signs and the juke box is playing country.

  “Why don’t you grab a couple of beers and we can sit outside,” I say to Jay.

  I’m not a beer drinker, wine is more my style, but this wasn’t the place to be different. Thankfully, I’m not a blonde. My dark hair blended in with the other women. But there’s nothing I can do with my blue eyes and freckles. We walk outside and sit around a rusty wire table. It is still hot but there are warm breezes blowing.

  “Those are pretty mean looking dudes,” I say, as I nod toward the bar.

  “Oh, they’re Navaho.” He smiles. “They’re not from my rez.”

  “Do you hang out here often?”

  “Me? No, this doesn’t do much for me. I’d rather be in the mountains on my bike.”

  “Hmm, that sounds cool especially on a hot evening like tonight.”

  “Tell me about yourself, Ms. Manhattan.”

  “How do you know I come from NYC?”

  “That isn’t hard to figure out. You sure d
on’t look like anyone from these parts.” He has his half smile on again.

  “Wait a sec, I’m wearing jeans and cowboy boots like everybody else.” Of course, I know mine are designer jeans and the boots are a bit trendy, but still.

  He stifles a laugh. “Yeah, but yours are spankin’ new and I bet pretty expensive. We’re all in faded jeans and worn boots, see the difference?”

  I have to laugh. “OK, point well taken. Next time I come, I’ll remember to pack my grubby clothes and forget about buying new clothes for the trip.” I take a swallow of beer as Jay’s eyes smile at me. “What?” I feel like his eyes can see right through me.

  “Oh, I was just imagining you in your grubby clothes. Now tell me about yourself,” he says with his quiet voice.

  “Well, my name is Kate Knightly as you may have found out already from the motel. I work for the American Museum of Art in Manhattan or AMA as it’s called. I’m an assistant curator.”

  “Hmm, impressive.” He nods and gives that slight smile again.

  “It sounds like a wonderful position and it is, but, remember, the museum is huge and has many curators and many assistant curators. I have always been interested in art and history.” I stop and take a swallow of beer as his gaze unsettles me.

  “I guess I began reading about the Anasazi in my early twenties and became fascinated with the beauty of their pottery and their mysterious disappearance. My first trip was to the Four Corners Area to visit the cliff dwellings. Of course, in doing so I fell head over heels in love with the beauty of this land. So every vacation I can, I end up back here learning a little bit more about the culture. That’s why seeing the Kachina dances is so important. Your people are the descendants of the Anasazi. I am trying to understand the society. Oh, and one more thing…I’m not the kind of woman who usually goes off with men I’ve just met, especially on the back of motorcycles.”

  My words rush out; I talk fast when I’m nervous.

  “So why did you come?”

  “Hmm, good question. Well, let’s just say I had a hunch you weren’t like those guys inside. There’s something about you…” I take a breath. “I sense an artistic nature in you, am I right?”

  “So it shows…you are very clever.” He gives that slight smile. “Yes, I am a painter.”

  “A painter! I knew it. Your hands give you away. You have remarkable hands for a man. They foretell your artistic nature even before you speak. There’s something else…your voice...” I stop, trying to find the right words as he gazes at me with a quizzical look. I sit up in my chair more animated, more excited. “I know what it is. Your voice is soft but has a sensitive quality to it. I can image you reading poetry or even playing a guitar and singing…”

  “Whoa, you do get carried away.” He grimaces and drops his head.

  “Sorry,” I say softly, knowing I’ve embarrassed myself. “Have you ever been to New York?”

  He looks up. “Yeah, I worked in Manhattan for a while in my twenties, as an art handler for some of the galleries in SOHO. That was right after my two years at community college. Something I did for my mother. She wanted one of her sons to go to college so I went.” He takes a swallow of beer. “That’s when I first knew I had to paint…that first college painting class. I was never much good at expressing feelings in words but once I got a paint brush in my hand I could talk.” He smiled ever so slightly again. His voice is soft; his manner is calm.

  “Did you go to New York to study painting?”

  “No, I couldn’t afford classes. I could hardly live on what they paid me. No, I was young and foolish and thought I’d take the art world by storm. It didn’t happen and I felt suffocated after a while by the city. I couldn’t see the sky, something a Hopi needs to breathe. So I came home.” He drinks his beer and looks off in the distance.

  “I’m sorry; I guess we all have those knock-em-dead daydreams in our twenties. There’s more to your story, would you go on…single? married?” I feel myself drawn in. I sip my beer and wait.

  “Divorced. Well, painters can’t live off their paintings unless their work hangs in mega museums like yours. So I work at the Hopi Cultural Center in the summer and do odd jobs around. Sometimes I work for galleries in Flagstaff, Sedona, and even Santa Fe.”

  “So you’re a bit of a drifter.”

  “Or a wanderer.”

  “That looks like quite an expensive bike you’re riding. I would guess you’re not in the poor house.”

  He laughs and his brown eyes twinkle. “The bike is my Nirvana. My escape. My freedom…and it’s good on gas!”

  “Of course.” I laugh, too, noticing how relaxed I feel now. “I’m going to be around here until the weekend. If it doesn’t seem like I’m imposing could I see some of your paintings? Or you could show me slides?”

  Jay looks surprised. “Sure, you can see them. I have a series that I just finished that I’m kinda’ excited about. I’d appreciate your feedback. Nobody here has ever asked me about my work.”

  We sit and talk for a few hours. We have more in common then we both realize because of our art connection. We discuss artists we like, exhibitions we’ve seen and interesting people we’ve met along the way. We have another beer and when he suggests dinner, I say Dutch treat. We go to a diner and continue our talk, order coffee and talk until he looks at his watch.

  “I better get you home. We have to leave at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow morning if you want to see the Kachinas come out of the kiva.”

  “You mean I can go?”

  “Yes, you’ll come as my guest.”

  “Oh, how wonderful! Thank you. Now please let me pay for dinner. I know museum workers don’t get paid big bucks.” That was a huge faux pas. I saw his face and I knew I had hurt his pride.

  “That may be the way they do it in Manhattan but that’s not the way we do it here.”

  I wish I could have swallowed my words. He takes the check and heads to the cashier without another word. I muddle an apology which prolongs a bad blunder. When we reach the motel, I’m not surprised when he remains on his bike. I thank him for a lovely evening and say good night. His parting words are, “I’ll be here at 5:00 sharp.”

  As I ready myself for bed I realize I’m more eager to see Jay tomorrow than to go to the home dance. I put this up to my lack of a real love life. I go to sleep convincing myself he is just escorting me to the Kachina dance, nothing more. I dream of him with his slight smile riding that red bike high up into the craggy mountains. My sleep is shattered as the darkness turns to lilac dust, night is smudged into dawn and I lay awake waiting.

  Chapter 2

  Yesterday seemed so long ago as we ride to the home dance and, though still sleepy, I am now very excited. Jay stops the bike near a line of parked cars and says we have to climb the rest of the incline on foot. From his saddlebags he takes a thermos and a colorful, woven blanket.

  “I made some coffee because I knew we wouldn’t have time to stop for breakfast if we wanted good seats.” He gives me the thermos and smiles for the first time this morning.

  “Wonderful.”

  “I hope you like your coffee strong and black.”

  “This morning I will.” I laugh.

  People are milling about in the shade greeting each other. He takes my hand as we begin walking up the steep, rutted, gravelly road.

  It’s the first time he touches me.

  His hand is warm and gentle and I smile. I notice people nodding and saying something that sounds like ha’u to him as we pass. He simply nods. Though not tall, he has a presence about him that makes him appear regale. His lean body looks strong and fit in jeans and a tee shirt. He wears his silky blue black hair rolled in a knot, Indian fashion. I recognize from his strong profile that the Hopi blood line has not been broken.

  A shy wind catches us as we reach the sun-bleached plaza. I can see teenagers climbing the hand-hewn wooden ladders to sit on the edge of the mustard colored adobe houses. Families spread folding chairs and brightly colored blanke
ts in rows along the plaza’s edge. The excitement begins to crest as more and more people fill the tiny dirt plaza.

  Jay says, “We can sit on a roof but it will be very hot or we can sit on the ledge of one of the houses which is my personal choice.”

  “The ledge that’s in the shade looks good to me.” So we spread out the colorful blanket and pour the coffee. The gaudy scent of frying chili peppers comes from inside the house, agitated by a breeze. I feel the sense of family and community even though I am an outsider. I have a grin on my face as I watch the animated expressions of the little children. I sip the black coffee and have to smile again. He is right, it’s very strong.

  “Wow, this coffee is sure to wake me up.” I laugh.

  “Are you always this happy?”

  “Hmm, not usually at this time of the morning. I just can’t believe I’m actually here and going to see a home dance. You don’t know how long I’ve thought about coming.” I stop and give him a gentle nudge. “And to think I have a genuine escort to interpret all this…it is wonderful!”

  “You have a nice smile,” he says and I feel the intensity of his dark eyes. My body is starting to wake up in many ways.

  The sun breaks over the mountains when the faint beat of the drums is heard. The crowd grows quiet. Next comes the muffled chanting and soft clatter of rattles. Jay guides me to the edge of the plaza to see the Kachinas. The Mudheads, who are dancing today, walk slowly from the pines with several eagle feathers fluttering from each of their huge clay heads. From where we stand the kiva isn’t visible. The chanting grows louder and stronger and the drums swell as each Mudhead appears in the plaza. Goose bumps cover my arms. I am actually watching an ancient ceremony that has gone on for centuries. I scarcely breathe as I try to memorize the haunting beauty of the setting. There are about 15 dancers. They each have a turtle shell tied to their ankle with pebbles or beads that rattle when they move. As they walk to the center of the plaza to form a circle, they lift and bend, chant and sway, parade and leap to the rhythm of the drums. All of us are quiet, hypnotized by the rhythm.