White Woman in a Red Man’s World

“Did you hear what happened?” Thus began the torrent of excited whispers that swept through the school. I intercepted bits of muffled conversations: three boys – no, four boys – had been hexed. The words “hexed” or “cursed” seemed to strike fear in everyone’s heart. Fear was reflected in the faces around me. No one seemed able to concentrate on the class assignment. I heard other snatches of conversation: “burglary…medicine man…”

When school was dismissed, I drove home as usual. But something was different about the house across the street. The curtains were drawn back in the large picture window as usual. But the beautiful hand-woven Indian rug that used to be on the wall behind the sofa and opposite the window was missing. I had admired that rug. It pleasured me to look at it as I prepared to turn into my own drive. I wondered if the nice Indian family who lived there had taken the rug down for cleaning.

My eldest son came home from band practice brimming with more information about the buzz heard at school. Four high school boys – “Jason, Hector, Alex, and Jerome”– had burglarized the house across the street while we were at school. Yes, they had stolen the beautiful rug, but the police had confiscated the stolen property and would give it back to the true owners. No, that was not the reason the students were so upset. It had to do with the hex. My neighbor’s old uncle – a medicine man – had been spending a few days with her. Of course, he had brought along his medicine bag. He kept it and all his other sacred paraphernalia in a shoe box. Yes, it was missing, but the boys did not have it with them when they were apprehended by the police. After intense questioning, the boys finally admitted that one of them had grabbed up the medicine man’s shoe box. But after they found out what the box contained, they had thrown it away. It had no street value.

No value! Just something to be thrown away! The very thought of how carelessly and thoughtlessly the thieves had discarded sacred property riled the medicine man to no end. In his extremely agitated state, the medicine man brought a curse down on the boys. “Before a year passes,” he predicted, “all four boys will be dead!”

Whether or not one believed in the power of medicine men, it was very unsettling news. Obviously many of the students were upset. While burglaries were almost common place in the little town, curses were not. Now everyone seemed to be harboring feelings of apprehension.

After a few days, the guilty boys came back to school. They swaggered in, appearing – or looking to appear- as macho as ever. One of the boys – “Hector”- was in my class. He tilted his chair against the wall and ignored my command to sit upright. When the girl seated next to him complained that he was bothering her, he smiled and referred to her as “Hot Lips.” I asked the girl to move to another chair. The rest of the class tried to shun Hector. Obviously, he had lost a few friends. I decided to ignore his rude behavior for one day, and I was glad I had not drawn further attention to him on that first day. One could see that he had put up a façade as a way to protect himself from his classmates. So when the first day had passed without a major incident, Hector returned to his normal sullen but otherwise compliant self.

Hector was a town boy from a prominent, well respected family. I knew his parents must be devastated by the news of Hector’s crime. Hector’s older sister was a senior. She was an honor student and president of her class. Hector was intelligent but he did not utilize his innate abilities. Hector just wanted to be popular with the wrong crowd. And perhaps his parents did not push him enough to achieve academic success although they indulged him with gifts, including a motorcycle.

It was still autumn, the beginning of the school year. On a bright sunny Saturday, Hector took his sister “Velma” on a motorcycle ride in the desert. They rode up to Crow’s Nest Mountain. The so-called “mountain” was a rough conglomeration of rocks piled haphazardly in a huge stack. It was a favorite hangout of teenagers. Lovers carved their initials in the soft sandstone, and brave hikers trod all of the way to the topmost ledges by carefully placing their feet in niches that earlier climbers had carved out of the sandstone cliffs. ATV drivers and cyclists liked to ride around the lower ledges. More daring cyclists leaped over the crevices of the higher rocks.

It was mid afternoon on a Saturday, when Velma half walked, half crawled into town. Her clothes were torn and bloody. Passers-by quickly rushed her to the Indian hospital as she cried, “Help Hector! Help Hector! He’s trapped under the motorcycle!”

Velma survived, but by the time help arrived at Crow’s Nest Mountain, Hector had breathed his last. As news of Hector’s untimely death spread, there was a continuum of shudders from throughout the community.

“One down and three to go,” was someone’s sage comment.