Bluestone

SCREAMING, SHE GRABBED WILDLY at red dirt as the earth collapsed beneath her and the brilliant daylight of the desert sky abruptly faded to blackness.

Slowly, she blinked and tried to focus on a mixture of rock and shrubs. Her eyes were dry, and the blazing sun above made her wince as pain came at her from different directions. A fierce ache in her left foot rivaled the pain along her hip and right ribs. Both were overshadowed by the pounding in her head. Two feet away, a pink cell phone lay in the dirt, black and missing a chunk, its face shattered. Totally useless. Gingerly, she pushed up on her right elbow. The world immediately swam out of focus and the darkness returned.

Consciousness returned, and with it, first came the sense of smell. The sweet, smoky aroma of burning mesquite came to her and then a crackling sound she identified as flames licking wood. Motionless, she finally opened her eyes and looked about.

A few feet away a small fire burned, surrounded by a few larger stones on the far side that reflected heat in her direction. There was light in the sky, but she could tell the sun must be on the horizon and a cool breeze whispered through the arroyo. The warmth from the fire was reassuring but she wondered how it came to be. For a moment or two she thought she was hallucinating, but pain still flowed in waves from familiar places. An urge to move pulled at her, but she felt a strong presence that kept her still.

On the other side of the fire, partially obscured by shadow, a man sat cross-legged as if frozen in the moment. His dark eyes flickered in the firelight as he watched her. Long, black shoulder-length hair framed a handsome yet rugged face. Shirtless, his torso was muscular. His skin was taut and four parallel scars stretched across his left shoulder, like wounds from the claws of a bear or mountain lion. The man wore strange trousers and what looked like moccasins. Perhaps she was hallucinating. Then he spoke.

“You are awake,” he stated, his voice strong, yet gentle and strangely comforting. “That is good. It was not your time to pass. I think you have many, many seasons before you. Why are you here?”

She thought about her answer before speaking. “I . . . I was taking pictures with my phone,” she stammered as she nodded at the slab of broken pink plastic. “The edge of the arroyo collapsed and took me with it.”

As if detecting a half-truth, the man responded. “I was more curious as to why you are out here, in this place. Only ranchers and a few hunters come out here. It is a place where the old ones also hunted. And, it is some distance from your people.”

Your people, she pondered the term. “I was upset. I just kept driving, then had to walk. The desert and I are old friends, my grandpa introduced us and taught me to respect it.”

“The desert can be a good friend if one understands it, a harsh enemy if one does not. A sensible man, your grandfather. You are wise to have listened and learned. What are you called?”

“Willow.”

“Willow,” he spoke her name as if he were tasting it. “Many would think it a weak name, but it is strong. A willow bends with the wind and snow while an oak often breaks. Are you strong, Willow?” “I try to be.” “That is all people can do, to try.” “That bending and breaking business sounded a lot like Eastern philosophy.” He looked puzzled. “I do not know what that means.” “Eastern philosophy . . . teachings of Chinese philosophers, Lao Tzu for example. He wrote the Tao Te Ching a long time ago.”

“He must have been a very wise man. I know of China. The ancient ones came from that direction, but it is much closer from here if one travels west. Eastern is confusing.”

“What is your name?” Willow looked at him, forcing herself not to smile at his analysis of geography.

“I am Bluestone.”

“Nice. Is that your first or last name?”

“Just Bluestone.”

Willow forced movement, wiggling her legs and immediately regretted it. Her left ankle shot pain up her leg. It felt heavy and she had difficulty moving it so didn’t even try. Raising her head, she struggled to look at the ankle. Straight sticks of wood ran from her heel to her calf. Her ankle and foot were bound securely by leaves of green yucca, strong yet pliable. Willow looked back at Bluestone.

In one smooth movement, he stood effortlessly. He moved to the fire and placed a few more sticks on it. From behind the yellow-orange flames he lifted a small bowl and moved to her.

“Drink this. It will help the pain.

Taking the bowl, she looked up into his eyes and decided, what the hell. The warm liquid tasted terrible, like an old-fashioned medicine.

“Why were you upset?”

He doesn’t miss much, Willow thought, forcing down the remaining liquid. She paused, choosing her words. “I had a fight with the only person in the world that I truly care about. The one I want to spend my life with. It was stupid. I was stupid, and wrong.” She felt tears welling up in her eyes. “I should have bent like you said, but I didn’t, I wouldn’t back down. There should have been a hug and kiss, but instead there were harsh words . . . mine.”

“So, you came here, to your friend the desert, to seek comfort. Perhaps your thoughts remained on this person and not on the desert around you.”

Willow nodded in agreement. She had been angry at the situation and even more angry at herself. In a single moment of inattention, here she was, broken. There were no photos and the selfish anger was gone replaced by a profound sadness. She gently shook her head, whatever he had put in the drink, the pains were dissipating and it was making her sleepy. The sun was down and despite the fire she was getting cold.

Bluestone squatted in front of her as she fought sleep. “We are only given a very few special people in life to care about and even fewer who, in turn, care about us. If you find that very special person, be with them and be honest with one another. Many of the regrettable events of life, like you, Willow, can heal. It may take time, but there is healing. Then you may move forward, learning from the experience.”

Willow watched as the strange man placed more wood on the fire. Bluestone then moved around behind her and she felt him move close to her body. Oh, God, not this. She tensed briefly, but then relaxed as soothing warmth surrounded her and sleep took her.

A cacophony of sound engulfed her. Willow was instantly awake and alert. Glancing about she saw the fire was mostly out. Only a few thin tendrils of smoke rose out of the arroyo. There was no sign of Bluestone. The noise faded and then returned. Suddenly a helicopter passed overhead kicking up dust and sand. She closed her eyes against the flying grit, then it was gone, its sound retreating. Silence returned. As she attempted to move, the pain returned, but not as bad as before.

Time passed and she waited. After what seemed like an eternity, sounds of motorcycles came to her, growing in intensity. The noise finally stopped and suddenly a face crowned with a western hat appeared over the edge of the arroyo twenty feet above.

“Hello! Can you hear me?”

Willow lifted her left arm and forced a feeble wave.

“All right! We’ll have you out of there in just a bit. Hang on!”

She wasn’t sure where or how she could go anywhere else, but she nodded in reply.

Minutes passed and then she heard them approaching, coming up the dry arroyo streambed. Voices passed back and forth as they neared. Another minute ticked by and she was encircled by four smiling yet concerned faces of a rescue team, three men and one woman . . . all helping.

“Wow! How the hell did you splint yourself like that?” one of the men asked.

“I . . .” she stopped. “Where’s Mr. Bluestone?”

“Mr. Bluestone? There’s no one else here, miss and it doesn’t look like there has been for a very long time. No footprints, nothing, just you and what’s left of this small fire. You’re lucky we found you down here. You are one tough and resourceful lady.”

Confused, all she could do was force a weak smile their way. Willow remained still as they placed a precautionary C-collar around her neck, all the time answering their standard, “Who are you?” and “Where does it hurt?” questions.

“We’re going to roll you onto your left side, slide a backboard under you, and roll you back onto it. Okay?”

“Yes,” she answered. She was bewildered. Where was Bluestone? What was Bluestone?

Once the medical team had finished packaging her on the backboard so she was completely immobilized, they began the trek out. The journey lasted for about twenty minutes as they moved downstream around rocks and brush then up through a shallow, dry side creek that came into the arroyo some three hundred feet from where she had fallen. An ATV, specially outfitted to transport a person in a stretcher, was parked on top, well away from the edge. Next to it another ATV was parked with two men leaning against it wearing the uniforms of the County Sheriff’s Department. Willow recognized the one that belonged to the western hat.

“Sure glad you’re topside ma’am. That was a nasty fall. We found your pickup but it’s nearly two miles away. Good thing the sheriff was able to badger one of the oil companies to come up with a helicopter. The pilot spotted a wisp of smoke from the arroyo and then she spotted you.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t you worry, we’ll get your truck back to town and once the medical people get you taken care of we can visit about this,” the older deputy smiled down at her in a fatherly way as the emergency team finished securing the stretcher to the ATV.

The hospital bed was comfortable but the room seemed stuffy. She wanted to be out in the fresh air. The IV had been removed and she was given medicine to ease the pain. Through the open door she could hear hospital sounds and the televisions of patients who would be staying longer. A new walking cast surrounding the fractured ankle was the object of her study when she detected movement at the door. The older deputy from the arroyo walked in with a notepad and a small brown paper bag.

“I’m Deputy Monroe, and I need to ask you a few questions about your accident. Nurse tells me they’re going to get you out of here this afternoon. Said you’re doing fine, but they need the bed for people from the emergency room, bad car wreck. That probably doesn’t hurt your feelings too much though, I guess.” He smiled at her.

“No. I’m ready to go,” Willow replied as the deputy sat down in a stuffed visitor’s chair. She was still confused about what had really happened.

“Just tell me in your own words what took place and why, as you remember it,” Monroe said, opening the notepad and clicking a blue pen.

Willow recounted everything. She told Deputy Monroe what she had told Bluestone and how he had helped her. When it was all over, she looked at the man and could feel streams of wetness upon her cheeks.

The deputy chewed on his lower lip and made notes. Finally, he looked up at her, a perplexed expression on his face. “I talked to the medical responders and examined the place where you fell. I walked up and down both sides of the top of the arroyo and up and down the streambed itself. There were your tracks just like you said, the medics’ tracks going to you and bringing you out, Deputy Ortega’s tracks where he stayed with the ATV, and my tracks. No other tracks at all, except lizards, rabbits and roadrunners.

The medical folks told me that there was no way whatsoever that you could have splinted your ankle and made that little fire. Besides the ankle, you have two cracked ribs and a slight concussion.

"I’ve worked and explored around this desert for longer than you are old and have heard and seen things that I can’t start to explain. Life’s lesson to me is that there are indeed more things in heaven and on earth than we can ever know or understand. At one particular campsite of the ancient people, I know that I heard their voices in a wind that sprang to life from a dead still afternoon. I don’t think either of us is crazy or a liar.” He closed the notebook and put the pen away.

Pushing himself out of the chair, he moved to the bed and placed the small bag next to her. He took her hands in his and their eyes locked. A tingle of energy passed through her body. “I think your Mr. Bluestone may be what some might refer to as a spirit guide. His message held truth. Let all your wounds heal, both of body and heart. Those are your things from the desert,” he nodded at the paper bag and released her hands. Turning to go, he said, “I believe someone is coming to see you. Take care of yourself and those you care about.”

Deputy Monroe’s words resonated within after he departed. Some kind of inexplicable bond now existed between them. For several minutes, she stared at the ceiling, focused on nothing. Finally, her eyes closed.

The caress across her cheek was gentle as a warm breeze. “Willow?”

It was the voice she loved to hear. Immediately her eyes were open and the face above lowered, their lips firmly merged with lovers’ passion. Willow felt her hair being stroked and lifting her arms, pulled the other into a tight embrace. After a very long moment, they separated.

“You’re a mess, but the nurse said she would be here in a few minutes to wheel you out. What’s this bag?”

“My stuff from the desert, the deputy said. Look and see what’s in it,” Willow suggested.

Out came a fractured pink cell phone, then a small leather pouch. “That’s not mine.” “Must be if they found it with you.” Clutching the bag, Willow felt the softness of supple animal skin then carefully opened it. She shook the contents into her hand and gasped. They were two of the finest, matched pieces of turquoise she had ever seen. Immediately she understood their meaning.

Native Americans believed the blue copper mineral brought healing and strength, there was one for each of them.

A gift from the heart . . . from Mr. Bluestone.

A native of western Colorado's high country, Michael McLean has packed on horseback in Montana's high country wilderness, mined gold and silver thousands of feet below the earth's surface, fly-fished Yellowstone Park's blue-ribbon waters, and explored the deserts of the West. Through personal and professional experiences he has collected a wealth of information to develop story settings, plots, and characters. His work has been published in New Mexico Magazine, Rope and Wire, and The Penmen Review. His story “Backroads” was the winner of the 2012 Tony Hillerman Mystery Short Story Contest. McLean believes the less travelled and often lonely back roads of the West offer intimate access to the land, its people, and their stories. A mining engineer by profession, McLean also has technical publications to his credit. He now works in New Mexico's oil and potash-rich Permian Basin and lives in Carlsbad, New Mexico, with his wife, Sandie. “Bluestone” is his third short story to appear in Saddlebag Dispatches.