Do I have to tell you, some time later, when I returned to the Little Horse Diner, it was not there? Nothing was left but a concrete pad where the diner stood, the gravel parking lot all but scattered into the ground around it. I say this now under the assumption you know the general drift of contemporary mystical mumbo jumbo and in an effort to avoid any "wow" that would come if I were to tell it to you chronologically. Life is enchanting enough. No one needs to have some mysterious Force capriciously overturning the natural order of things from time to time in order to keep my attention. It's worse if these notions inculcate some blind faith in miracles that set aside the laws of the universe to reward those who deserve a break in the pandemonium. We all deserve respite from evil, and it is this constant that is worth pursuing towards a permanent, enduring peace.
Let me also tell you now this story ends with the disappearance of Neffie, in one of the unspeakably sad chapters of my life. This I will explain as the tale unfolds, but not to the end of surprising you or creating melodrama. Of course, I did not know this as I drove behind her that morning to her house, a small adobe snuggled next to a low hummock and out of sight of the dirt road that led us both there.
She handled the big Harley like a seasoned rider, and when at last we came to her house she rolled to a stop, parked, and dismounted with a flair that convinced me she had been riding all her life.
The house was small, an old adobe probably built sometime in the forties. I sank into the couch in the main room while Neffie went in to a back room. I had not realized how tired I was and almost immediately drifted into a dreaming sleep.
I was in the hills looking out across a vast plain. Behind me I heard a rustling and turned to see a wolf coming from the Ponderosa pine that covered the hills. It was a big she-wolf slowly walking toward me with yellow eyes and a benevolent curiosity. I stood there unafraid as she approached. Wolves have always looked to me like big dogs and I have never felt any fear of them, so I reached out my hand as a gesture of friendship. I say I have no fear of wolves but I have never seen a pack or been the object of a pack's attention and when I saw another wolf appear at the edge of the trees, then another, my heart beat faster. The big female continued her slow approach, never taking her eyes off me as more wolves appeared until there were about fifteen standing in a great circle around me. I held my hand out, still, and when the big wolf got close enough she sniffed the back of my hand, then sniffed the air around us. The other wolves on the edge of the forest began to move toward us when suddenly she turned and through some unseen signal instructed them to stop, which they did in unison.
I reached out to touch the fur of this beautiful creature and began gently stroking her hair in one long sweep from her head to her tail. I was careful not to pat her since I instinctively knew this would be seen as too familiar and condescending. The other wolves turned and walked back into the woods, and as I stood there still stroking the silky fur of this animal, I woke up.
It was getting dark, the last rays of the sun leaving a lingering rose through the small windows of the adobe when, in the half consciousness of first waking, I saw Neffie, standing by the fireplace, building a fire. She was naked and as the fire began its first yellow glow of life she turned and walked to me and sat on the floor next to the couch, her long beautiful body backlit with the flickering new firelight.
She lay her arm across me and began to rain kisses on my face, caressing my shoulders. As I slid off the couch and into her arms I ran my fingers through her hair, feeling each thick strand throughout its extraordinary length.
I sank into her embrace and into her heart, engulfed in her gentle beauty as our kisses fell onto one another with a mounting intensity, meeting at a point between us we each could see. We stayed wrapped in each other until the day had gone and there was only the halo of moonlight across the room and shadows looming from the fire. We had not spoken a word.
When at last Neffie rolled over and turned to the fire, I fell back into a half sleep and had the same dream I had before, but this time the big wolf was standing next to me looking across the plains. I sat down on the grass and the wolf did the same while keeping a respectful distance. The contract between us was clear and we needed to do nothing more than be with each other, both gazing across and pondering the great expanse before us in silence, sufficient to only wonder, and be there.
This time Neffie's slight stir brought me instantly awake and I saw her sitting with her knees drawn up to her chin, her arms wrapped around her legs, her hair flowing down her back into rivulets on the floor behind her. She put another log on the fire and the yellow flame and sparks danced around her silhouette, throwing the outline of her fantastic face and figure against the wall.
"If you like I can tell you a legend of Neftoon Zamora."
I nodded and propped myself against the couch, stretching my legs forward so I could stroke the outside of her thigh with my toes.
"This is only one of the legends. It refers to this area and this history and these people. But there are other legends of Zamora that are of different times. I learned them out of curiosity and to keep Li happy. As you can imagine, when the first poor fool came in all pumped full of the land of enchantment and I could say nothing about Zamora, well, it was a heartbroken man that left and a very unhappy Mr. Li who watched a potential customer vanish without buying anything. Anyway, there are several legends of Neftoon Zamora, all of them similar and all of them different. No one agrees on whether Zamora was a man or a woman and whether he or she really existed or is, like you have heard, just Santa Claus. The only agreement I can find is, man or woman, Neftoon had long sand colored hair that hung below the waist and was worn loose, although sometimes gathered in a band.
"The first sighting of Neftoon Zamora was thousands of years ago, before the Anasazi, before any record of any people in this territory. This was a time of the most brutal and inhumane existence for man. There were not many people, and what few there were huddled together in small bands, you couldn't call them tribes because they had no social order. I say they huddled together because that's what they did. Man was not the master of the plains. He was prey.
"The rulers of the plains and all the territories around were the wolves. Now, these were not the breed you see today. They were enormous. The average size was over three feet tall at the shoulder and around one hundred and fifty pounds and they roamed in packs of fifty or sixty ... or more. Each pack had a certain area it hunted. They were not scavengers as they are now, and they were very territorial. Sometimes wars would break out between these packs and reduce the size of them, but these wars were always fought to a stalemate, so it would not be long before things would return to normal. You may have heard wolves are monogamous and mate for life but not these wolves. They were more like wild horses with one dominant male in a pack and many females he protected and sired children with. These dominant males were warlike and the cause of the trouble when it started.
"So, man was constantly in fear for his life and the wolf his greatest enemy. These people were also different than the people of today. They were small a big male was a little under five feet tall and they were stupid, having lived so long in fear that all they thought of was basic survival, running in terror at the slightest sign of anything off key. From the stories, I gather they lived in a small region to the south and stayed mostly in the cliffs and caves of the mesas, coming to the plains only for water.
"These forays for water were dangerous and only a few members of the huddle, as I have come to call them, would go. Here the wolves would stalk them, and if the humans made the mistake of going two days in a row at the same time, or if the wind was wrong, they were almost certain to die. The living conditions in the caves were wretched, but because man had prehensile hands and feet and the opposing thumb, he could climb to these cliffs and the wolves couldn't. So, while it was a wretched captivity for him, at least man was safe.
"Then, as the story goes, something even more terrible began to happen with the wolves. Somewhere along the line a giant male was born, and when he had matured was over two hundred pounds, standing almost four and a half feet tall at the shoulder. He fought and killed many of the other wolves and took over their packs one by one until he had over two hundred wolves in his pack and under his control. There was another wolf, the smartest of all, who had a pack nearly as big and between the two of them they controlled all the wolves in that small but all-inclusive world. Finally these two met in combat. This fight has a legend of its own, but suffice it to say, the big wolf was victorious and so consolidated all the wolves under his control, even the males that were born. Did I mention his fur was black? It was. Coal-black and shiny. The only spot of color was his yellow eyes ringed with gray. In the legend he is known as Black Wolf.
"Our pitiful humans by this time had dwindled to no more than a few dozen pathetic people grouped in twos and threes, not in any families, but randomly, wherever they happened to find themselves in the evenings when they would seek some cave to crawl in before the sun went down. They lived on wild berries and roots and had no central activities other than sex and watching for wolves. Except for one thing. Sometime in their past they had learned to make clay, so clay pots. This one skill was their protector, because it allowed them to live in the cliffs away from the springs and lakes, carrying the water in these clay pots up to the caves.
"It was into this sorry state that one day Neftoon Zamora came. The legend is vague on how she got there. You'll forgive me if I tell the tale with Neftoon as a woman but that is how she lives in my mind. So, one day she appeared at the doorway of a cave. By all reports she was immense, but it is hard to tell how big, since, as I say, the people were so small that anything over five feet would seem huge to them. Nonetheless the accounts have her towering, with her head in the tops of the trees and such, so clearly her height was impressive. And, as always, the long sandy hair.
"Along with her height, she was strong, able to pick up a full-grown wolf, hold it over her head and throw it high enough so it would die from the fall when it landed, and she was fleet, able to rundown a wolf.
"Many stories converge here. It is told how she showed the humans to use clay to make bricks, and how to arrange bricks to form walls to create barriers to keep out predators. Here they could sleep, live close to the source of water, and safely keep their children. She showed them how to use a tree laid against these walls to climb over them to safety and then pull the tree in behind them thus making themselves secure.
"She also showed them how to build a fire with flint rock sparks and dry prairie grass and she showed them many other foods from the land, including the baby cactus.
"Black Wolf watched all this progress from atop his mesa, and the more he saw the greater grew his concern because he knew that the knowledge man was gaining was making him more secure and no longer a source of food. Black Wolf also could see the day coming when man might rule the land and the wolf as well and this was the most disturbing to him. He resolved to do something about it: Kill Neftoon Zamora.
"Zamora, of course, had encountered this type of hatred before, and knew to never let Black Wolf out of her sight. She always watched him, pacing back and forth along the edge of the distant mesa of his home. And even though Black Wolf's plans for Neftoon's destruction were palpable, Neftoon was so powerful she could handily win a confrontation with any single wolf, so she was not afraid of him alone. The only worry she had was of the pack, and because she was aware of Black Wolf's scheming, she was on guard for any sign he might try to mobilize the pack against her.
"But it was not Black Wolf she had come to conquer, it was the miserable ignorance of the people. The simple protection from the wild that she taught them took immense amounts of patience on her part, so paralyzed with fear were these people. They also had a small history they called on, full of old superstitions and politics that obscured the enlightened ideas she offered. It was months before the people came down from the cliffs and slept in the first dwelling Zamora built for them.
"You cannot imagine what it was like when she showed them fire for the first time. They all ran screaming back to the dwellings and huddled together for days until one ventured out for lack of water and saw the fire contained, providing heat and light.
"So it went, Zamora with her advanced ideas and desire to help, the people resisting her because of their entrenched stupidity and old ways, and Black Wolf pacing, menacing, waiting. Had it not been for one particularly good student the whole story would have come to nothing.
"There was a young boy who seemed to know intuitively the goodness and progress Zamora was bringing. Even though he was ostracized as a madman for it, he followed Zamora wherever she went and would fearlessly try many of her ideas. It was he who helped Zamora build the first shelter, he who harangued the tribe to try things out, and it was he who helped her watch for the wolves.
"As you may imagine, many years later, after Zamora had gone, he became their leader and went from being thought a fool who endangered the tribe to being venerated as the wisest among them, the one they turned to in crisis.
"I told you they had clay pots. These pots were a reddish color because so was the color of the ground in that territory. One day, when Zamora and her faithful student had gone to the river to get some water, they had taken many of these pots with them. It was late summer and the black berries were ripe so Zamora picked a few to eat on their journey. When they got to the spring, Neftoon broke a branch from a green willow tree and chewed the end of it until the fibers made a brush. Then she mashed the few uneaten berries into a dark and beautiful ink into which she dipped the brush, and as her student watched transfixed, she painted a careful line around the rim of the pot. Next, she added a series of dots below the line and finally another line below the dots. She showed this simple design to her friend and he broke into a smile that lit the heavens. Keep in mind that this man had never seen anything like this, a design that did nothing but beautify the pot, and to see Zamora do this spontaneously was to him to see the face of God.
"Of course, that is exactly what it was. What manner of thought was this Zamora had exercised in the midst of the most terrible existence, except to give these people a glimpse of the higher idea, a sense of beauty that made no sense, loveliness for no reason other than its own loveliness. In that moment of recognition Zamora's student touched the idea of infinity. This was Zamora's real purpose in coming, and she thought at this instant she had succeeded. At least, that is what she thought for a few seconds. Because then, the boy took the brush from her, dipped it in the ink, picked up the pot and made the most grotesque scribble imaginable. And try as he might he could do little more than make horrid little scratches on the pot until at last he tossed it away in a rage. The pot shattered into a million pieces against a river rock.
"For the next few weeks Zamora tried to teach the boy this art, but it was of no use. The pots she painted seemed to garner no interest from the rest of the tribe and sat in a pile with the rest, undistinguished. After a while the student refused to paint, even though he would, with the same attention, watch her paint, but it was little more than a curiosity to him.
"Then one day, when they went for water, her young friend brought a reed instead of a willow branch for Neftoon to make into a brush. The reed was hollow and brittle, so even though she could not make this type of stick into a brush, she said she would show him something else. Next to the water was a sharp granite rock stuck deep into the ground with only an edge showing, and Zamora took the reed and sawed it back and forth until she had cut a small wedge from one side. Then, using another more pointed rock, she punched holes along the stem. She blew into the end and a shrill whistle came out, rising and falling in pitch when she covered the holes with her fingers. I can tell you Zamora is no musician, but the noise the crude little flute made had an effect on the young boy that was far greater than the first time he saw the design on the pot. Zamora continued making little bleats and noises from the flute, when the boy reached out and took it and immediately made the most beautiful music. This time it was Zamora who was transfixed.
"With no training, no influence, no history to trace to an origin, the music burst forth in melodies. This new noise drifted across the plain to the dwellings of the people, and this time, instead of being afraid, they were overjoyed, and rushed from their houses to the spring, single file, making a long serpentine line that wandered through the fields of waving grass, running to this sound and gathering around the boy, swaying and moving their feet in rapture unconfined.
"Far away, on the mesa top, Black Wolf saw this exuberant procession and a final fear gripped his heart, for he knew this was the beginning of the end of his wild, and if he was to protect it, and prevail, he would have to make his move.
"The celebration at the river continued unabated throughout the afternoon, and as the day progressed, the young boy played better and better until, at evening, the music he piped flowed from him in great waves, like outbound ripples of a rock cast into a still, deep, pool, spreading slowly from its center to an unseen shore. If Zamora's designs on the pottery were the face of God, this was surely the voice.
"The sun was beginning to set when the boy stopped his playing. As each member of the tribe picked up a pot full of water and set off to their little village, the young boy came to Zamora and stood before her, grateful, obliged to her with an unpayable debt, a debt which Zamora canceled with a caress of her hand across his cheek. Then, standing by her side, he looked up at the mesa where the wolves lived. Together they watched Black Wolf surveying this little group heading to their home. As Zamora and the boy stood there, each was filled with an ineffable sorrow, knowing the one would never see the other again beyond that sunset.
"Zamora took the back of his hand in hers, and unfolding her fist like a blossom into his palm, gave the player a handful of dried blackberry seeds she had culled from the ink she made, letting them fall into his hand before using both her hands to wrap his fingers tight around the bounty.
"'If you put these in the ground, pour water on them, and tend to them for a season, they will grow into a plant with berries and you will have food.'
"The boy nodded his understanding then walked away after the others, never looking back, leaving Neftoon alone with the wolves assembling now under the leadership of Black Wolf.
"Neftoon could see the small figures in the distance as the wolves poured down from the mesa into the plain, coming to defend their sacred wild. She knew the only way for the people to be safe was for her to somehow lead these wolves away and destroy them forever. She had no particular plan but decided to walk towards her enemy, to meet them eyes to eyes.
"Black Wolf never lost sight of Neftoon and watched her as she began to move toward him. This was strange. He had always depended on his foe running, had counted on the panic, the fear of confrontation, the terrifying prospect of death at the hand of the pack. This enemy was different. Very well, thought Black Wolf, if she is coming to me instead of running away then I will see to it she gets what she seeks. He trotted confidently down a path on the side of the mesa and took up position in front of the five hundred wolves now at his command. Zamora continued to head straight for him.
"All the wolves spread out in a great half circle in front of Zamora and came to a stop. With unspoken communication each wolf, aware of the other's position, waited as the circle took shape. Black Wolf reached the apex of this arc and stood, waiting, as Zamora walked toward him, relentless and resolute. He was sure she would stop at the outer rim of the great half circle, for to proceed further would mean the pack could close in behind her, surround her, and then her death would be certain. Zamora would come no farther than the diameter line between the wolves stationed at the outposts of this terrible embrace, of this he was sure.
"The little tribe, back at their settlement, had gathered at the edge of the enclave to watch, certain as well that Zamora would not proceed to a certain death inside the pincers of the huge pack's waiting menace.
"But when Zamora came to this line she did not falter but persisted, pressing step after step deeper into the center of the packs control. The lesser members of the pack, confused by this, looked to Black Wolf for instruction. Black Wolf waited. He suspected a trick but he knew that the farther Neftoon came the harder it would be for any plan to work. Whatever ruse she tried would get swallowed up in the sheer size and speed of the pack. He waited and waited. Then, when Zamora had over one hundred wolves to each side of and behind her, Black Wolf bolted, and with him five hundred wolves, each on its separate tack, fangs bared and yellow eyes narrowed, raced toward Neftoon Zamora, surrounded on all sides.
"At this same instant Zamora started her run. Slowly at first, a light jog, but directly toward Black Wolf, a fast-approaching figure stretched low and long in a galloping, ferocious run. Then, she ran a little faster, picked up speed with each stride until she was at full gallop, inhaling and exhaling with every step, her powerful legs hurling her forward at unimaginable speed.
"Black Wolf and Neftoon Zamora, on a collision course, now could see each other's face. Black Wolf showed his terrible fangs, glistening with saliva, etched in white against his black throat. Neftoon leveled her eyes into his, as her mouth drew a thin line across her face.
"They were only a few feet apart now. Black Wolf, swiftest of the pack, ahead of the closing circle of death, strained forward, ready to throw himself into the conflict, when suddenly Zamora bounded into the air, over the head of Black Wolf, who sprang up on his hind legs and snapped his huge jaws together under her. But they closed on air for she was instantly behind him. Black Wolf spun about and gave chase as Zamora leapt above each of the wolves that had been following him, landing behind each, as they too would spin and race after her, mad with anger and frustration.
"Black Wolf soon outran his pack, once again ahead of them all, leading them in outrage, and blind, aggressive hatred after her.
"Neftoon checked over her shoulder to see him only her shadow's length behind, closing much faster than the others. She did not want him too far in front of the rest, and she slowed her pace slightly as she loped up the side of the great mesa which was the wolves home. Black Wolf was almost within reach of her, but as he was about to jump, she gave an extra burst of speed and pulled ahead. The entire pack was swarming up the mesa now in enormous wriggling lines, giant snakes slithering up the mesa side.
"On the high mesa plain, far above the valley where she had come to pull a struggling people from their fear, Zamora veered sharply, heading away from the little plains and meadows below, to the back side, the cliff-side, of the mesa, to a sheer drop, hundreds of feet to a gaunt, rock-strewn desert, and once again she slowed. This time Black Wolf was on her with a mighty leap, throwing himself so all the force of his forelegs rammed into her back and circled round her neck. But she did not fall. No, to his great and horrified surprise she grabbed his paws with one hand and clamped them together, crushing them as she bound him to her like a sack thrown over her shoulder. With the other hand she reached around and grabbed his jaws and slammed them shut, holding them with a power so great Black Wolf knew he had no chance of escape.
"Then she slowed even more, darting a look back to see the rest of the pack at her heels. Before her was the cliff, and with no hesitation she threw herself over it holding Black Wolf in her death grip. And, as she had planned, the rest of the wolves followed, all five hundred in wave after wave, falling from the top of the mesa to the desert below and their death.
"All was quiet in the village. Everyone but the young flute player was confused by what had happened. They had no way of understanding this type of sacrifice no context, no point of reference so they stood there, mute, perplexed. They knew only that Neftoon Zamora was gone and with her the wolves. It was this legend they told and still tell of how Zamora destroyed the wolves and made the land safe. Our young student knew something more had happened, something much more important and lasting. But because he had no words for it, he, too, stood there silent."
In firelight from the dying embers, Neffie stood up and walked to the back room, her lithe shadow undulating across the walls of the adobe. I stared at the coals of the fire, contemplating this lovely story, when, after a moment, Neffie returned, dressed in buckskin pants, high white-fringed moccasins with silver conches, a dark burgundy velvet blouse draped with strands of turquoise nuggets on silver threads, magnificently beautiful. Saying nothing, she sat beside me.
There was a light knock on the door.
"'S'open" she said.
I turned to face the door and in walked a young black man, twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old, handsome, casual, and obviously at home. I recognized him. It was Jefferson Washington