THE HERO'S MASK

Originally published for First North American Serial Rights, in a slightly different form by FABLES, now only an archived magazine. Please note that the author employs Di'neh rituals poetically as a work of fiction. It is not meant to be an accurate depiction. Please go to the embeded links, and the links below the story, for a more accurate understanding of Di'neh (Navajo) culture, mythology, religion, society, and history.

Navaj Hogan Hogan, the traditional home of the Navajo (Di'neh) - represents their cosmology
(image courtesy of American Indian Art & Photography - Pinterest.com)

Dedicated in honor of R. Carlos Nakai, Navajo-Ute musician (see video below)

From the hogan's roof a thin tendril of smoke snaked into the rosy chill of an awakening high desert sky. Within the cedar log home, the Dineh mother sang an old harmony song to awaken her child, evoking memories of her own childhood.

"Mother, why didn't Father wake me?" he asked from beneath a thick, woven blanket, rubbing a web of dreams from his small dark eyes.

She briefly wrinkled her wide brow, and then forced a smile. To the boy, her missing tooth enhanced the beauty of a smooth round face. Her fingers played with the frayed edges of the colorful blanket she kept tightly wrapped about herself. "Son, Auntie's coming." She bit her lower lip. "It was not easy yesterday? When the men in the suits came to Father and Uncle."

He gazed into the central hearth, trying hard to put on a disappointed face. But the slowly licking flames simply evoked years, perhaps ages, of peace-instilling memories. As far back as he could remember, his mother and that central fire had been his significant reality. Disappointments and joys all seemed to burn and transform from within it. Cooking and ceremonies, the same; mother and aunts, uncles and father, the clan... and the sun. A lick of flame broke free from an ember, briefly danced in the air, then dissolved into a puff of smoke. He couldn't help himself; he grinned.

She laughed and lightly patted his face. "Up, dear son."

Auntie entered the hogan. She walked a clockwise path around the hearth and took his mother aside to whisper something.

He rose almost defiantly from beneath the blanket, demanding, "I want to hear also."

Auntie shook her head, silvery hair dancing around a creased and intent face. "You wish to know everything? And at once? What if I were talking about monsters?"

"Monsters?"

Auntie threw his mother a look, who nodded her head. "Come, son," said Auntie. "Come on a walk with me. We'll have breakfast down by the river."

He dressed quickly. Minutes later, he grasped Auntie's gnarly, comforting hand as she led him out the narrow, east-facing entryway into the crisp morning air.

"Do you know the story of Creation?" she asked, vaporous breath washing across her bronzed face.

He briefly grimaced, but as he sat down to tie his worn sneakers' shoelaces, a warm beam of sunlight struck his ruby-cold face. It had the same effect as the hogan's hearth, and tempered unmet wants with a more ancient sense of presence. Still, he answered with an edge of impatience. "You have told it, and so has Uncle. Everyone knows it."

He tried understanding the roots of that brusqueness. Such eruptive thoughts were unusual, except at school sometimes when that blond-haired student teacher from off the reservation came and seemed to be the embodiment of unmet wants, and now those men in black suits.

His aunt caught the tension that came with his words and escaped from his eyes. It reminded her of what her great aunt had told her, of Great Aunt's Great Aunt who had sat with the White Men From The South On Horses, who had told them that they must have a religion because they had none. And an elder had said: "Every breath we take, every word we utter, is like your religion; we just don't glorify nailing a Hero to a tree. Why can you not see that?" And the men on the horses had gone on to torture some of the valley-dwelling Hopi, just like the hero they prayed to...

She flung off those thoughts like a flame breaking free of fire when the boy tugged on her shirt to gain her attention, seemingly out of the blue.

"It is how we came into this world through the hole in the sky after the big floods," he finally said. "The good creatures showed the way, but some bad ones followed."

"Where did these bad creatures come from?"

"In the other world, the fathers raped mother."

The old woman frowned. There were a hundred ways of telling the story; this was one way.

"So you know of Dinehta?" she prompted.

"That's our home. This land."

"Who is that, peeking his golden face at us from behind that butte?"

He jumped up. "Can we go, Auntie? What're we going to eat?"

"But who is that?" she insisted calmly, pointing a crooked finger to the southeast.

"Auntie!" he said. "He is my ancient father, Sun Bearer."

"And such he has been since we emerged from the underworlds. We..." She began to walk toward the trail that led to her hogan at the bottom of the canyon by the river. "...have lived here in Dinehta longer than in any other world. Do you know why?"

The child had run ahead of her. "Because Monster Slayer, the Hero Twin, killed most of the evil creatures."

"You will wear me out too quickly! Come, walk by my side."

The boy grudgingly turned around and again took Auntie's extended hand.

"Such a cold hand you have," she said. "Are you dressed warmly enough?"

"You're just like mother, always worrying"

"I am your mother."

The boy smiled. "You know what I mean."

"Of course." She took a deep breath as the trail opened to a broad, sloping canyon. An eagle, high above, screeched.

"Son," she asked, "who is that?"

He looked at her and wrinkled his nose. "Auntie! You know. It's an eagle."

"Is that all it is?"

The boy put on an air of intense concentration, then he smiled when he saw Auntie nearly burst into laughter.

"It's special," he finally said. "Isn't it?"

"But why?"

"Auntie, can we go. I want to see father. He's down there with the sheep, isn't he?" The boy pointed a fat finger toward the canyon floor.

"Son, why is that bird special?"

"Oh, Auntie!"

The woman stared at her nephew and smiled. As the oldest "aunt" in her clan, she was considered "mother" to many clan children, but this one was her special one.

"Come, son. Let's sit on that rock for a moment."

The two walked to a large boulder overshadowed by a gnarly evergreen. They looked out to a spectacular red-rock, shrub-dotted canyon. The sky had turned to that deep shade of blue that gave wind to fancy.

"Tell me, child, who are the white people?"

"You mean those government people and the ones from the mining place in the shiny black car. --Auntie, they said awful things to father yesterday. I don't know their noisy language very well but I was afraid. Their eyes were mean."

The woman tussled the boy's thick, black hair and pulled him into an embrace.

"Oh Auntie, will Monster Slayer return?"

She took a deep breath and looked down at the lowlands, remembering the first time her Aunt had told her of the old creation legend and its heroes.

"Son, what is home?"

"The hogan."

"And?"

"Mother is home . . ."

"And is not all of this . . ." She stretched out her wrinkled brown arms. "Is this not your mother also?"

The boy made a long, drawn out sound. "Auntie, I'm hungry. I'm tired of sitting." He jumped to the ground and held out two hands. She took one.

As the two slowly walked hand-in-hand along the canyon rim, she abruptly stopped. The boy looked up, showing his impatience.

"Did you know," she asked, "that it was Spider Woman who showed Monster Slayer how to be brave?"

The boy became interested. "Uncle never told me that. Do you think ...? Oh Auntie, I hope he will come to kill these white monsters."

"Son, do you remember how cold it was only a short time ago."

The boy nodded.

"A very long time ago, right after the flood and our emergence in this desert, Cold was our enemy. But Monster Slayer tamed Cold; he didn't kill him. Cold now brings needed rest to corn seed and snow to the mountains to fill our rivers when it's time for the seeds to sprout. --Remember that eagle we just saw?"

The boy nodded impatiently. He pulled on her tattered jeans to urge her forward.

"Once, that bird was a monster who ate humans every day..."

"--And Monster Slayer changed it into a good creature that lives only to help The People."

He smiled proudly when he saw how impressed that made her.

"Do you know how he did this?"

"I bet with pollen. --Auntie, you're walking too slowly!" He wrinkled his nose when he saw how that made Auntie wistfully looked up to the sky.

"Yes, Spider Woman taught young Monster Slayer how pollen can turn a troubled heart peaceful. Pollen is pure. It is filled with harmony and the promise of life, all locked up inside something so tiny..."

The boy remembered something. "Auntie, what did you whisper into Mother's ear?"

That brought a coy smile to her face, he saw.

"When did I do such a thing?"

"Auntie--!"

She patted his head. "Last night, all of the uncles and aunts to whom you were born met with your parents. We talked about old treaties and other problems. As a clan we made a very big decision about you."

The boy's grin grew very wide. "Tell me."

"It'll mean a lot of hard work at school."

"I got an A in arithmetic last week. English is harder, but that new white teacher..."

"I know. We are going to save a lot of money and when you are old enough, we will send you to the best school in the whole country."

"Din'eh College?"

"No, far far away. Near the Sun Bearer's eastern home by the Great Water."

The boy put a foot down hard. "Oh, that's too far away. I could never make it home in time to help father with the sheep in the afternoons."

When she smiled, he leaned into her bosom, and the sudden weight in his heart lightened as she pulled him even tighter to her.

"Uncle Wolfclaw will make medicine to protect you." She placed a hand under his chin. "And Aunt Waterhole has even given you a white name to make you invisible."

He looked up to her and swallowed hard. "I want to stay here, with my mother and father and you..." He put his arms up to her neck and tugged, feeling ready to burst into tears.

"Don't cry, my little one. It won't be for many years. And if you don't want to, then that will be up to you. But we will make you invisible with the white name, James Johnson, if you decide to go."

* * *

Feeling more peaceful, maybe from the effects of the bitter tea, James Johnson recognized most everyone gathered around the licking, crackling flames in the hogan. He felt bathed in warmth. And not just by the ceremonial fire and gnarly faces it illuminated. The wafting of earthy scents, guttural chanting of the Singer, chirping of crickets outside, and even the clay and cedar log wall rising like a shadowy presence behind the singing shaman, kindled powerful feelings deep inside. It was good to be home.

The roadman chief, from the earlier ceremonial with the peyote and tobacco, threw handfuls of cedar chips and sage into the flames. For a moment, the fire dimmed. Then thick, redolent, eye-smarting smoke enveloped him. Had hours passed after drinking the foul brew from the bowl that had been passed around clockwise, or minutes, he couldn’t tell. He'd been told that this was not how the Native American Church did things; this was special for him, and only because Auntie had insisted on it. Feeling sick to his stomach, he started to stand up.

A hand touched his shoulder. Auntie. She wrinkled her furrowed brow. Her eyes told him to sit still. Soon, fire enveloped the herbs and the smoke disappeared up into the hole, the hole symbolic of the hole at the top of the world.

James' eyes still smarted as he again looked to the gathering. Their faces, many of them gaunt and old - some very young - no longer roused the quaint memories of his youth. With frightening clarity, he saw pain etched in their faces. Looking a little deeper within, he saw in their faces a reflection of his years of trying to fit into an alien world while at the university.

Sweat poured from beneath the Singer's colorful headband, streaming down the deep crags of his desert blasted face. To James he said, "Sit on Creation and let the Heroes transform your wounds."

His heart reeled at that statement. He didn't like being singled out. But the old man then said, "--As everyone gathered here has been hurt."

James' mother and father gave him quick, encouraging glances. This was not the peyote ceremonial -- that had been the earlier purification -- but was in fact a part of the Yeibichai Night Chant, a nine-day healing ceremonial. The Singer led him to the vibrant dry painting, showing him where to sit on its colorful and intricate design. First Man and First Woman stood side-by-side in the design, neither of them overshadowing the other. The Hero Twin arched between them, across the sky's dome, his face equal in size to all creatures, connecting the heavens with the world and The People. The four directions - the four jewel gifts - all of them perfectly equal to one another; nothing was all bad, nothing all good. Every aspect in the dry painting had equal significance.

James squirmed. The ritual seemed to conflict with what he'd learned at the University. He wondered if it might not have been better to have accepted the lucritive offer in Boston, after his MBA, and to have sent his family great sums of money instead of coming home with his degrees. Even the dirty Boston air, its angry people, and the honking of cars at the bizarre traffic circles seemed oddly comforting now, in contrast to this ritual.

Someone lightly tapped his head with a bundle of corn stalks. In the next moment, another helper sprinkled corn pollen over his head. He shook his head. His mind reeled, then swiftly receded into a swirling confusion. Out of the smoky confusion by the fire, a masked dancer burst forth. James gasped. Heart pounding, he looked down on the painting.

The colorful rainbow-hero arced across the top of the sand and bark-dust drawing: the path of the heroes. Monster Slayer stood poised to descend from the sky above the image of an antediluvian Dinehta - Home of The People - a place filled with alien challenges.

He looked up to the dancing figure. The dancer took off his mask and placed it over James' face. The echoes of the drums, shrilling from an eagle bone whistle... and the chanting... gently faded. His cousins and elders melted away. In another moment, he was alone with the dancer.

And in another moment, he was totally alone.

Briefly.

For suddenly, the voices of unseen entities made themselves heard from a distance. He recalled the stories of Crushing-Rock-From-Trembling-Mountain, Cold-that-brings-ice, Cactus-That-Tears, Sand-That-Devours-Humans, and even Humans-Who-Kill-Humans.

But that didn't make sense. All those hungry monsters had long ago been put to rest. They were just dreams now. Part of the creation legend.

He looked down. There was no painting. He looked up, high up. There blazed his father, Sun Bearer, the sky that shade of blue that gave wind to fancy.

From where she was tending her sheep, First Woman - or was this Auntie? - screamed out, "Monster Slayer, Son, watch out!"

He turned and saw a terrifying creature swooping down from above.

"I am the hungriest of all!" it screeched as it dove on him on silvery, roaring wings. Upon touching the earth, the creature changed into a gleaming beast whose large flat claws tore the earth, heaving plumes of stinking clouds into the air and leaving ugly scars in the soil, finally turning the air almost too hot to breathe. The demon approached threateningly. It mutated again, becoming very tall, as tall as the highest chrome-and-glass structure he'd seen in his James Johnson Boston dreams.

"Who are you?" he bravely asked four times.

"I am born of rape!" it screamed icily.

"Rape?"

"Silence fool!" it screamed. "I am born of mother-rape." In its anger it again changed, now to a large, low-lying, ugly, and smoke-belching citadel. Into the flame-spurting portals of its mouth entered all manner of rocks, trees, rivers and people. "I devour everything! And give birth to vengeful demons."

Another transformation occurred. Before him towered a person, sporting a crisp pin-striped suit. A diamond studded Rolex gleamed from one wrist. The other hand held a leather briefcase and Ethernet-connected notebook. The tall monster looked down on him and then to its watch, and roared, "3 P.M.! Time for the Market Report."

It looked down to him again and took a giant step, about to place a shiny black shoe on top of his clan's hogans. As the foot descended, the creature glared one last time at him.

He froze. The monstrous face staring down on him was his own, in the form of his invisible identity among the White People. From above came the booming voice of his father, Sun Bearer: "Monster Slayer, have you already forgotten Spider Woman's boon?"

He shook his head - Auntie?

Sweat flew from his long, dark hair as he took a deep breath, and screamed, "Put your feet down with pollen! Put your head down with pollen! Your feet, your hands, your body, your mind, and your voice are pure as pollen. The trail is beautiful. Be at peace, monster!" Four times he shouted the ancient incantation as he threw pollen from a leather pouch.

The creature hurled itself upon him. He threw up his arms to avert the fatal blow and closed his eyes. But instead of pain he felt a warmth permeate his heart.

He opened his eyes. Day had turned to night and dream to reality. He was sitting with his clan on the dry-painting. A helper pulled off the mask that had briefly been fitted over his face. It was the mask of Monster Slayer. For some fleeting moments, he had seen through the eyes and heart of the great Hero Twin.

He looked around, sweat streaming from every pore of his trembling body. The dancing flames of the crackling fire clarified the simple joy spreading across the many faces staring back at him. His old uncle gave him a knowing look from where he stood by the fire. The old man even managed a rare toothless smile. Auntie, sitting next to him, winked an eye, much like a spider at night that has caught the moonlight in her eyes while weaving her web.

sand painting Sand-bark painting

***

Navajo Creation Story, as taught by a Dineh instructor

Click on this image below to go to Medical Anthropology Quarterly, "The Navajo Healing Project." Research articles "dedicated to understanding the nature of the therapeutic process in contemporary Navajo religious healing."