The young Navajo man froze for a moment and dealt with his fear.
Even all these years after the accident, looking at the vast expanse of cold lake water still left him frightened. When the
nightmarish idea arose that his boots might slip and that he could tumble down the pale sandstone and into the lake, he shoved
the thought to the back of his brain. But his palms had started to sweat. He took a deep breath and ordered himself to get
a grip, to calm down, to go in beauty.
His apprehension had begun years before, when Lake Powell was higher and he was smaller, just a boy. He had been walking along
the shoreline, looking for insects. Then he tripped on a rock and lost his balance. He could still taste his panic as the
icy, bottomless water enveloped him. He could still feel the iron grip of the terror that paralyzed him. Unable to keep his
head above the deadly lake, he sank, breathless, too scared to struggle.
Finally his brotherās strong arms pulled him back to life, to the surface where he could gasp for breath. After an eternity
they reached the dry safety of the shore.
He was only eight, but the experience changed him from the inside out. His brother wanted to teach him to swim, but he had none of it. He knew Lake Powell was a lurking, evil monster, ready to suck him into its frigid depths. He respected its power, and now, after decades, he could sometimes see its beauty. But only from afar.
When the ancient ones he admired, the ones who had left their marks on the rocks here, saw water, they beheld rivers, the
areaās flowing lifeblood. Not this giant, human-made pool trapped by a dam.
The young man forced his gaze from the waterās dangerous, seductive shimmer to the sky. He took a long breath and made himself
move with caution across the unforgiving sandstone, heading back toward his campsite and then to the boat dock.
But a sound behind him stirred his curiosity and he turned, careful not to lose his balance on the steep slope.
Time compressed. First, a whooshing noise, then a heavy thunk against the back of his head. He fell forward with the sound.
The searing pain lasted only a moment. After that, his damaged skull couldnāt protect his brain. If he had been conscious,
he would have noticed the warmth of the rock cliff, a gift from the October sun, against the skin of his torso. But he had
transitioned to the space beyond human senses. He didnāt fear his bodyās growing momentum as the energy of the fall and gravityās
pull drew him toward the water. He didnāt feel the abrasive stone bloodying the skin of his arms, cheeks, and forehead. When
his physical self finally slid into the deep icy water of his nightmares, he didnāt even flinch.
Death had come quickly. And now the place that had long terrified him began to make its amends. The lake gently rocked him
as it washed away the blood.
Jim Chee looked out at the broad expanse of water known as Lake Powell.
The huge dam that created this immense desert lake had destroyed the sacred junction where two vital rivers merged. The San Juan River, the Male Water, forms one boundary of the Navajo Nation, whose people Chee served as a police officer. The water from the San Juan flowed into the Female Water of the Colorado River, whose spirit is called Life Without End, when they met in Glen Canyon. The old stories spoke of the two Navajo deities embodied in the rivers. When they joined, they created the Water Children of the Cloud and Rain People.
Some said that the damās dishonoring of the confluence led to the long-standing drought that had reduced the volume of the lake itself to less than half.
Chee stretched his tired legs along the sand and readjusted his back against the cliffside. A few more moments of rest, and then heād hike on toward Rainbow Bridge. This combination of vacation and personal retreat had left him frustrated on several levels, but standing in the presence of that sacred site should provide a cure. Then the three-hour drive to Shiprock, reuniting with his smart and lovely wife, and finding time to further contemplate the future and shake off his disappointment at yet again failing his mentor, the retired Legendary Lieutenant, Joe Leaphorn.
Perhaps, Chee thought, the imprisoned water from the two sacred rivers had washed away the images of the Holy People that had left Leaphorn in awe decades before. Perhaps the water had transformed the sand paintings Leaphorn recalled so vividly into rainbows of tiny specks of colors and washed the sand away. Perhaps the sand rested on the bottom of the lake or had washed onto a beach where coots and grebes strolled and boaters pulled ashore.
Or perhaps the rising water had stopped before it reached the cave that sheltered those precious things. Perhaps. Perhaps.
This morning, as he sang his morning prayers in this soulful place, he realized that he knew of nowhere else to search for the cave that still burned in his mentorās memory. Using the Lieutenantās old map and his own acute sense of the geography of the Colorado Plateau, he had discovered a few caves that seemed appropriate, but none sheltered a trove of sand paintings.
He looked forward to Rainbow Bridge, a holy place near the lakeshore. He would be there in a few hours.
And then he would go home. He missed Bernie and their cozy little place along the San Juan River. He missed the men and women he worked with at the police station and beyond. He missed those assignments where his presence and something he said or did made life better, or at least more tolerable, for the person who had called for the police. He missed being of service.
But he didnāt miss the reports. He didnāt miss his role as backup in charge at the substation when Captain Largo was away. And, especially and with all his heart, he didnāt miss having to be Bernieās boss when the captain left.
Chee took another sip of water and listened to the distant, muffled roar of a powerboat. Then he unzipped the backpack that sat in the sand and spread the map Leaphorn had given him on his lap. He studied it again. According to what he saw and the Lieutenantās story, the cave should have been inside the cliff that warmed his back. But he had looked there, closely, and only found solid rock. The expansive, rugged landscape between Lake Powell and Navajo Mountain could have confused the map maker. Or, Chee thought, perhaps he had misread the map and made a mistake.
He heard the low vibration of the boat motor again.
Later, he realized that if he had positioned himself with eyes toward the lake instead of away from it, and if he had pulled out his binoculars at the sound of the boat, he might have seen something important. He might have seen a murderer fleeing the scene of the crime.
