Chapter 12

Wild Mustang was all kinds of excited and agitated at the mention of a sweat lodge: he stopped rocking. He got up and went inside to the kitchen and dialed a number. Somebody answered and Mustang grunted some, then said something in Navajo. He must have gotten an answer he liked, because he came out to the porch area and said, “Change clothes. Then we go to lodge.”

Wolf said he wasn’t going to the sweat lodge, it would be just White Owl. Wild Mustang clucked and shook his head like a Jewish grandmother who just found out her grandson wasn’t going to medical school. I went inside and changed into my buckskins. When I came out, there was an old, rusted-out Ford pickup sitting outside the nearby garage. Well ... what passed for a garage here in the desert. The amazing thing was Wild Mustang was sitting in the driver’s seat.

He drove, slowly, down the road. There weren’t any seatbelts, in this vintage truck. Then off the main road onto a dirt track. Then he turned off that onto a beaten down horse trail. Then off the horse trail on what only a coyote would recognize as a trail. I looked for roadrunners for many miles, listening for his famous ‘Beep-Beep.’ Finally, we came up to a small adobe building with a wooden roof. Outside the building was an honest-to-God Indian, in full Navajo garb. Well, he was kinda dressed: he had a loincloth and his face was smeared with face paint. He was pretty tall, and sported a nice six-pack. He did have cowboy boots on. There was a beach umbrella stuck into the sandy soil. He was stacking logs near the door. He showed a nice, muscular butt when he bent over. The sweat lodge was surrounded by old, weathered, bent and twisted small trees. I think they were mesquite.

I swear he came to attention when the Ford stopped. It bucked and coughed a bit before it acknowledged that Wild Mustang had turned it off. We exited and the old man turned to me before we entered the little building and started to raise my blouse. I startled a bit.

Wild Mustang said, “Too much wrapping. Too hot. We go to doctor again after, if you need more wrapping.”

I looked apprehensively at the honest-to-God Indian, then at Wild Mustang. “You are safe here. No one bothers you,” said the old man. So, I stopped objecting and pulled the blouse over my head. With a delicate touch, he began removing the tape. He had me turn around and around as it came off. I got a little dizzy. When I was de-taped, I felt freer; but also it hurt a bit to breathe. Crying Wolf had been right: I needed to be taped up for a little more. I took shallow breaths, and struggled to put my buckskin blouse back on. The h-t-G Indian took a step closer and gently pulled the blouse down over my head and into place.

The old man shucked his shirt and then his pants. I was surprised to see a snazzy pair of boxers, with Indian designs, of course. The ever-present pouch of medicine man stuff hung by a leather thong around his neck. He kicked off his cowboy boots at the door.

Wild Mustang entered and bade me follow him. It was dark inside, lit only by the glow of a fire centered in the room. It wasn’t hot, yet. But the sun was beating down on the adobe and the fire was giving off a nice heat. Wild Mustang said something in Navajo and, soon after, the h-t-G Indian came in with two plastic bottles of water. He placed one near the old man and one near me, and left as silently as he came in. The old medicine man started a slow chant and settled to the ground. When his butt hit the dirt, he stopped chanting.

“Painted Rock my grandson. He take care of this sacred place,” said the nearly naked old Indian. I nodded and settled down into my mediation position. I looked around and didn’t see anything sacred about it, but ... when in Rome.

I had no sooner closed my eyes than Painted Rock said something in Navajo, loud enough for Wild Mustang to hear. He said, “Your white owl comes outside.”

An owl? MY owl? This place must be a hundred miles from anywhere a big owl would call home. And it was near noon. What was it doing here?

I decided to relax and try to find my center. I smelled the mesquite smoke, and just concentrated on breathing.

I zoned out and lost track of the here and now. At the edge of my consciousness I felt Wild Mustang get up and leave. He came back in a few ... Minutes? Hours? Weeks?

The two drawings I’d made drifted through my mind, and were carried off by a really, really big owl. Too big for an owl but there was no other word to describe her. It was a her-owl, I knew. Then the owl dropped one of the drawings and a small factory grew where they touched the earth. It was a very complete vision: I could even see the power lines leading to it from someplace far away. There was a road, but no cars. It was dusk.

The owl in my dream flew off with the other drawing.

I opened my eyes and saw Wild Mustang, sitting on his ass, across the fire. “You awake now. It is time for us to leave.”

I was soaked in sweat and it was very hot in the small building. I took a long pull at the bottle of warm water, and noticed a sandwich nearby. I didn’t even bother with what it was, but it sure was welcome in my belly.

I started to get up but my legs weren’t up to the task and I fell backward on MY ass. Wild Mustang called out in Navajo, and Painted Rock appeared in the doorway, and helped me to my feet. My legs tingled from being in one position too long. How long did I meditate ... or dream ... or whatever, I wondered?