Nom was Indian like my brother and I, while Taes was anyone’s guess. They were brother and sister but Taes was adopted. Nom read extensively about Shamans and her other main interest was in animals: she envisioned using the two interests together and knew she would eventually become a veterinarian.   Her way with pets was magical and while only in the sixth grade she started a small home obedience school where she trained the masters more than the pets. Folks liked her way with animals and would often bring their critters to her house at all hours of the day. Often she had to turn them away, as she was simply too young and inexperienced to treat the animal. To watch her was an event in and of itself: the previously frantic animal would become calm in her presence. She would say soothing words and sounds to the animal; neither Kye, Taes, or myself ever understood a word, and when we asked her about what she was saying she would reply that she was simply comforting the animal. We all knew better. The odd thing was, though she could comfort and tend to wounds, if it was a small animal and I simply held it firm, the wounds seemed to heal faster.

Late one warm October afternoon we received a letter from the government. Not only did we have to vacate our land, but also the cemetery would have to be moved. Grandfather got very silent. Days went bye before he finally spoke; “I will move him”. There wasn’t any argument or discussion, nor did anyone ask how or offer any help. It was understood that grandfather would break the sacred soil over his father’s holy resting site. When the time came, he woke me from a deep sleep. His warm leathery hand covered my mouth so I wouldn’t alert the others. He could say so much with his eyes.

We met in front of his work shop, the bare single bulb swaying in the gentle breeze cast eerie shadows over the worn interior. With just a single shovel and an old dark green army duffle bag, we went out to the grave. Silk kept guard. Not knowing better, I simply started digging as soon as we arrived and it was one of the few times my grandfather ever hit me. Standing over me, he started to chant, slow and barely audible at first. Over the course of half an hour the pitch and frequency escalated until he was bellowing out words I had never heard: nor would I for quite some time.

Bones do rattle in a bag, and I found it both fascinating and creepy. We finished back where we had started, at the workshop. We had five weeks left at our old homestead, and then we were to move into the big, dark, forbidding city. The bright open sky, the animals moving in sync, and all we held dear were to be submerged permanently under water so cotton could be grown where it shouldn’t. During that dreadful five weeks we rarely laid eyes upon grandfather; though we heard a lot of chanting emanating from the workshop. On the last day, grandfather emerged from his intimate shop and held up for all to see the most wondrous site. A relief, all in an albino white material, of the surrounding land our family had lived with for generations. It wasn’t particularly large, but extremely detailed. As a family we all knew what it was created from, which made it all the more fascinating. There were no seams, no joints. It appeared to be carved from a single piece of rock.

Word spread quickly though the reservation: there was something special at the Shaman’s homestead. Though I was young, I will always remember him, the stranger with the tattoo. Silk had announced his arrival with her low growl, barely audible to most. He was only a stranger to me, but obviously an unwelcome guest to grandfather. Stranger first tried to buy, then steal the sculpture. Dad fired a relic of a pistol into the air, Silk charged the man but he quickly fled. We would move to the city, away from the stranger, for now.