This book is dedicated to Thomas Edward VanEtten who with his patient love believed in me. Also, Nicole Diane and Claire Marie who waited patiently for me to finish.
1985 by Teresa VanEtten
Illustrations 1985 by Fred A. Cisneros
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Printed in the United States of America
Published by Sunstone Press in association with Southwestern Arts Institutes in 1985
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data:
Van Etten, Teresa, 1951-
Ways of Indian magic
Contents: IntroductionVoice of rolling thunder Wings of wrath [etc.]
1. Pueblo IndiansFiction. 2. Indians of North AmericaSouthwest, NewFiction. I. Title
PS 3572.A4365W3 1985 813.54 85-2722
ISBN: 0-86534-061-7
ISBN: 9-78161139-160-2 (e-book)
Published by
SUNSTONE PRESS
Post Office Box 2321
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87504-2321
FOREWORD
It seems I have known Teresa VanEtten forever, when in fact it has been just under four years. In person she has the rare talent of becoming a part of your life immediately. I find this is also true of her writing.
Teresa spent most of her first twenty years of life growing up in an Indian Pueblo in Northern New Mexico. It was then that the Mercantile, a general store, became a central part of her life. At first it was her playground, then a place where she worked and later a store she managed. The Mercantile was a gathering place where people would come to purchase, or perhaps trade for, needed supplies. It was also a place where stories were told. Stories of the ways of a Native American People. Stories Teresa enjoyed and now remembers. Stories too important to forget.
Stories, handed down through generations, somehow remain the same. The storytellers are different. The words may be different. Yet, the stories do not change. Stories bridge generations, cultures, and time.
Teresa VanEtten is an artist. Words are her paint and your imagination is her canvas. These are stories you will not just read. You will also hear and see them. Yes, even feel them. You will be there, in the Mercantile, with the stock of supplies and the potbellied stove. The Storyteller will be there too. You will feel her presence as each story begins and again as it ends.
In the meantime you will be magically carried away from the Mercantile, the potbellied stove and the Storyteller. You will find yourself in another place and time. Characters will be real. You will be with them, not on the sidelines.
Throughout this book the warmth you feel will not come from the potbellied stove. It will come from within as you accept, not question, the ways and magic unknown to you. You will experience what others before you have experienced and be richer because of it.
Maynard Herem
Santa Fe, 1985
INTRODUCTION
There was a time when reality was too sharp. The names, faces, shadows of the past stung strung together at the entrance of every unknown place or gathering.
Stories, sacred stories, told from a long ago time were told in confidence. Stories that hold a meaning deeper than words can relate deeper than the sacred soul pumping life through time.
Beauty, innocence, morality, a biblical format passed through time by 'The People' who were sacred in the art of telling. A confidence that must not be broken is a heavy responsibility and a friend to confide in is important.
I stood beside an old man huddled over the river gathering willow withes. "There are those who were born, raised, praised, loved, helped and condemned in a safe environment." His hand reached up to mine.
"Folks have a sense of comfortable security, modest defenses and find no need to consider hiding. Hiding is a place where feelings, raw, red with cold timidity overcome comfort. Comfort protects you no need to hide if you're comfortable. If one has worries over comfort they hide."
The willow withes were handed up to me, he continued, "I hide. Cleverness is not something one is born with, it is a tool gained from good and bad experiences. I hide from experiences that should not be shared. Shared experiences to some are terrible and horrifying. Others grin and remark how experience makes one all the wiser."
The river gurgled and slapped against the river's bank.
"Experiences are unique, words cannot give them the needed understanding. It is true that one man's meat is another man's dog food with different taste values from one to the other." The old man stretched out his arm to slit the green willows.
"Stories of pain, disillusionment, fear, or death are a sorry note to hear. Yet, when telling them a relief awareness or an escape from these stories gives satisfaction and inner understanding to the teller."
The old man stood upright. His thin, grey braided hair shone in the sunlight. His wrinkled hand touched my shoulder. "Words of joy, hope, beauty, and celestial triumph have a tendency to worry the audience. Their feelings on such matters were never that ecstatic, perhaps the audience is faulty for not having equal feelings. Once these glad tidings are out the teller has lost them sharing can be draining."
Again the old man shook his head. His eighty-year old eyes stared into mine. "These stories are purely fictitious. a life game challenge with a hidden source in each story. These stories are up to you and your understanding of each experience is only to awaken the awareness that the past never leaves anyone, one can never be too comfortable, alone.
He turned his back on me and walked away.
Early the next morning I stood in front of the old Mercantile. I was sixteen years old, working very hard in the store my father owned and trying desperately to be accepted by the people with whom I had grown up. My father had moved to this ideal spot when I was only days old and unaware of ways different from my own.
My brown hair was brushed back in braids. My ears listened to the quiet. The Pueblo was asleep. This Pueblo was mine, yet I was an outsider. The schools I went to were in town thirty miles away. We kept to ourselves, on our farm and our lives were very separate. My brothers were more outgoing. They had learned the language while playing baseball, racing cars down dirt roads, and helping with the land. I was female and the Pueblo women were a secret society.
One grandmother befriended me. She was an outcast from most of the others. When the winter winds blew she would come in early to the Mercantile and tell stories only to leave before the other elders came in to warm up by the potbellied stove. I treasured this one grandmother for she knew the feeling of being an outsider. She had married into the Pueblo and had learned the language, customs, and the stories on her own.
