Rojo the Navajo Boy

Rojo, The Navajo Boy, pulled himself up the last exposed overhanging section of his climb up the Navajo Beehive, a rock formation he personally named after its shape and location.  He loved it for the views of The Big Red River 1500 feet below and of the rock desert that stretched out in every direction, with shear, iron varnished cliff walls and spooky hoodoos, windy arches and massive bridges, over dry stream channels that raged only a few times a year with chocolate red mud and debris.  A warm breeze blew from the south sun and a curious raven named Caw hovered overhead inquisitively while Rojo’s partner Woody appeared from the easier climbing route to the north.

“How did you get up here Wood-man” he asked the happy, smart and athletic mutt, who could route find, chimney and scale vertical faces better than most of the Human Beings.  His intelligence was evidence as he surveyed and experimented with different options, planning and selecting the best multi-pitch lines almost every time.  He was smart enough for most human climbers to follow, but even he could not keep up with Rojo who climbed instinctively, smoothly and silently, like the big cats. 

Rojo pulled some pine nuts out of the pocket his mother had sewn in his deer leather loin cloth.  He shared a few with Woody as he laid on his back on the rounded peak formation and looked straight up at the cerulean sky.  He thought, hopefully, that the rainy season might be coming early.  It didn’t really come much anymore, hardly ever big, and not at all the last couple years.  He saw a Woody cloud, a puffy beaver cloud and a long lean fish cloud and one lenticular shape that he did not recognize but thought of the stories of alien visitors from the stars he had heard.  He wished he had some water to quench his salty thirst but there was less of that available now and none he could take on a climb.

Barely 14 suns and 2 moons old, he was no longer a boy, and not quite a man.  He was in his prime, feeling the random natural beauty and strength of youth in his body that seemed to grow stronger every day.  He wore a long black braid down his back that he had never cut and he had deep set, black eyes that often squinted blindly in the midday sun but never missed a thing.  His senses were taught, tense and always aware and alert.  His world was simple and safe; his only responsibility was doing everything that his mother and father asked of him.  Today was easy, hauling rocks for a small addition to their cliff dwelling his dad was building.  After helping for a while his dad signed for him to ‘go, run and explore’.  So he did.  Mom frowned but signed ‘careful’ as he left. 

As he lay there on top of the Beehive rock overlooking The River, full of verdant glens and coves at the bottom of steep red walls, lined with natural colors and the missing layer of the rock story, he thought about his future.  He would become a man soon, in secret, religious, sweat ceremonies in the tribal Kiva, and would have to help more in the hunting, farming, building and protection of the village.  He would become a warrior and find a wife, start a family and build his own dwelling space, but he would stay close to the tribe even though the choices were now limited in his small village on the cliff.  He would be responsible for the feeding and care of his family and protection of the tribe against warring bands that inhabit or pass thru the canyon, taking who and what they can and often leaving the vanquished dead or destitute.  Perhaps he would become a great father or leader, a Shaman or a Chief, planning the well-being and destiny of the entire tribe or fighting heroically in great battles with hostile neighbors. 

The future weighed heavy on young Rojo so he just rolled over on his stomach to take a nap in the mid-summer sun with Woody stretched out besides him.  He awoke, seemingly a short time later, from a fitful dream where he was running from his enemy in quick-sand and it seemed now that he was in a different place with a different sun in a different location in the sky.  Things looked hazy to him in his groggy state so he jumped up instinctively and defensively and scanned The River and the horizon in every direction.  The world seemed smaller, more familiar to him now and not as mysterious and majestic.  He caught a glint on the far horizon and perhaps a puff of smoke that seemed strange to him since it came from an uninhabited slickrock canyon and there had been no lightening.  He remembered his father’s story, when he saw a line of round tent covered boxes on big wheels, being pulled by strange giant elk with no antlers and driven by white people in funny clothes with thick beards and heavy metal walking sticks on their laps. They had stopped at The River edge below the great cliff with a hole in it.  They seemed perplexed by the cliff and The River.

Rojo headed home immediately.  He needed to tell his father, he would know what to do.  He had heard stories from the elders about funny tall white men on The River a few years ago, led by a one arm man in a chair on a fat canoe, who floated by, half naked and sunburnt, emaciated and hairy.  Warriors had watched them float from the bushes and heard their noisy camp down river and they spoke a language no one knew.  He remembered his grandfather’s story of the white holy men on horses called Fathers, with no children, who had crossed the same wide spot in The River they called The Crossing, several generations ago.  The Shaman had said it was a sign of change and disruption from the gods and an omen of visiting tribes or families with different colors and customs, needs and values.  The visitors had been forgotten, until today, when the man with one arm returned.

Rojo and Woody scrambled in a control slide down the Beehive, over a large exposed slickrock flat and down a slot canyon to the Wah Weeping creek where they lived.  He ran effortlessly and continuously stopping only at a small spring, where he and Woody previously drank from the water flowing from the rock down green mosey tentacles, that had recently run dry.  He was barely sweating when he entered the village of the Shade Seekers tribe despite the hot mid-day sun.  It consisted of several connected caves and masonry cliff dwellings that faced the midday sun, warming in the direct low winter direct sunlight but shady and cool in the growing season from the rock overhang and the recess.  The bottom lands were covered with corn and bean crops they watered with diversions from the creek, when it flowed.  There were racks with meat, fish and skins drying in the sun and rock shelves of pottery curing in the open air. There were also piles of waste and refuse, burial grounds and a small field for games and ceremony.  

At the end of a minor side canyon there was a small spring that was fenced off from the domesticated dogs and chickens they had collected.  He ran past the spring and spied his young second cousine Rojean, gathering spring water in decorated post, but did not acknowledge her shining eyes and their usual secret greeting.  They were old, best friends, maybe more.  His chest fluttered at the sight of her but Rojo quickly climbed the chiseled steps in the rocks towards his home and finally up the hemp ladder to their dwelling where he met his father.

As he breathlessly told of his discovery, the other men of the village gathered round and the women, children and dogs quickly followed.  They let him speak his piece and tell his story without interruption and when he finished, they questioned him on the details, locations, timing and veracity of his tale.  They did not doubt him, but this was serious, and they wanted to be sure.  The men immediately gathered together with the Chief and the Shaman and went down to the Kiva to smoke on, think and discuss this happening.  Rojo went to follow but his father stopped him with a firm hand to his chest.  ‘Not yet’ is all he signed. 

The women went slowly back to tending the children and their summer chores of grinding corn, tanning leather, sewing, beading, weaving and making pottery while chatting excitedly in fearful, hushed tones.   Rojo stood there alone, not knowing where to go and what to do.  He didn’t know where he belonged. He was not a man or a boy, a woman or a girl.  He was confused, ashamed and angry.  So he struck out alone, to deal with this situation on his own, like a man, with his dog.  He took his strongest rain stick, a stone knife his dad had given to him last summer and a sling shot he had made with rounded desert marbles he had gathered, and headed for The River.