Everything about the house was cunningly made. The closets and shelves were cut and fitted with the same precision as the tiles in the flagstone floor. Part of the house was very old. I could see where someone had begun rebuilding it, building up a wall here, opening a window there. An existing ruin had been taken and added to, walls rebuilt, a roof put on, floor added … or part of a floor. Out back there was not only a stable but a corral. There were two horses there, left for our use.
My father had taken off his gun belt and hung it over a chair back close to his hand. His rifle and his shotgun were there, too. There was a blanket hung in the doorway, and I tiptoed back and let the blanket down to cover the door. This was my home now. For how long, I did not know, for it seemed that now I was not to go to that fierce old man of whom I was so much afraid. On the table there was a loaf of bread, and beside it a knife. I went to it and cut off a thick slice. With the bread in my hand I went back to the outer door again and looked out upon the yard.
All around it was that living fence of ocotillo with its fierce thorns. There had been rain, so now there was a mist of green leaves along each cane, and a few bright crimson flowers. I stood there, taking bites of the bread and looking out at the yard of white sand.
Where the opening in the ocotillo fence was stood a thick cramp of greasewood. I glanced at it, started to look away, then looked quickly back. Something was there! From behind the bush I could see a bare foot, a foot almost the color of the sand, and the bottom of a pants leg of white. Lifting my eyes, I found myself staring into other eyes, very black eyes.
It was a boy, no older than myself.
Twelve
Torn between fear and curiosity, I waited, my heart pounding. The strange boy crouched, peering through the leaves at me. I was afraid. No! I was not afraid! “I am Johannes Verne,” I told myself, “and I am not afraid.”
The boy looked to be no older than I, and no larger. I knew I could lick him. Then I looked again as the boy slowly emerged from behind the bush. The boy looked brown and strong. He looked like a very rough boy. Maybe I could not lick him.
He wore a wide hat of straw, somewhat torn, and a faded blue shirt that hung outside his pants, which were of white cotton. The boy was barefoot. “Hello,” I said.
“Buenos dias.”
He came a step nearer. I did not know what to do. Trying to appear indifferent, I squatted and took up a twig. With the twig I drew a round head with long hair hanging down. Then I drew a hat on the head. I did not know what to say or do. I had known few children of my own age and did not know what they did. I added eyes and eyebrows, then ears to the picture.
“What do you do?” The boy spoke in English, although with a strange sound to it.
“It is a picture.”
He leaned over, studying it. “Is it me?”
“It is.”
“The mouth? It has no mouth. I have a mouth.”
I extended the twig. “Here. You draw.”
He took the twig and drew a mouth like a new moon with the ends turned up. It was a smiling mouth.
“Good! It is finished,” I said.
We squatted side by side, looking at our drawing with some satisfaction.
“You live close by?”
“I live where I am.”
“You have a house?”
The boy gestured vaguely. “Over there.” Then, proudly: “I am Francisco.”
“I am Johannes. I am usually called Honn-ess.”
The boy shrugged. “What else?”
He was a strange boy. I did not know what to think of him. I asked, “Where do you go?”
“I go nowhere. I am here.” The boy paused. “And you? You will live here?” “I do not know. We were to go to Los Angeles, but there is trouble for us there.”
“Stay here, if you are not afraid.”
“I am not afraid. I am Johannes.” Then, after a minute: “Afraid of what?”
“The house. Nobody stays in that house. It is the house of Tahquitz.” “What?” I was astonished. I pointed to the mountains. “There is the house of Tahquitz.”
Changing the subject, I asked, “Your home is here?”
Francisco shrugged. “My home is where I am. Sometimes it is in the mountains.
Often it is the desert.”
“You are not afraid of Indians?”
He stared at me. “I am Indian. I am Cahuilla.”
I was astonished. “You? An Indian?”
“I am Cahuilla.”
“Why do you say this is the house of Tahquitz?” “Much time ago my people went away into the desert to live. There had been rains and it was good there, but when they returned, this house was here, and it was lived in.
“Nobody saw he who lived here. Only … sometimes at night they saw something … somebody. Then it went away and came no more. It was whispered that Tahquitz had come to this house. That he built it with his hands.” “It is a good house.”
“What will you do if he comes back?”
“He will come back?”
Francisco shrugged. “Who knows? It has been long.” “There was a house before,” I suggested. “Part of this house was an older house.”
“Who knows? Perhaps.”
Francisco squatted by the step. I sat on the step. “I have a horse,” I said proudly.
“Of course. Who does not?”
“Someday we will ride.”
Francisco took a stick and poked at the ground. From time to time he looked uneasily at the half-open door.
“The mountain is large,” I said. “Is it far to the other side?” “It is far. Two times I have gone with my papa. We go for the chia that grows in a valley there. It grows many places, but not so much as in the valley. Once, the first time, there was fighting. There were others who wished all the chia for themselves. We gathered chia. Some chia.”
“Is this your land?”
Francisco shrugged. “It is land. We come here. Sometimes we do not come for a long time. When it is hot, we stay in the mountains, where there is coolness.” “You speak well.”
“It is nothing. In the store it is only your talk. My papa speaks much with people. He teaches me to speak.”
“Last night at Indian Wells, when it was very dark, I went down to drink. There was an Indian there. He did not speak.”
Francisco stood up. “I go now.”
“You will come back?”
“I go.”
He walked away, slowly at first, then faster. He did not look back. When I went back inside, the room was light, and for the first time I could really see the floor. It was astonishing in its simple beauty. Around the outer edge was an intricate design and in the middle a black bird with its wings stretched, a bird like a crow.
Sitting down on the bench, I looked at the design. The details of the feathers in the wings was amazing, and the bird had small red stones for eyes. My father spoke from his bedroom. “Is it you, Hannes? Are you all right?”
“I am looking at the bird.”
“I heard you talking, I think.”
“It was Francisco. He is an Indian. He is my friend … I think.” He came from the bedroom and closed the outer door. “After the sun is up, it is better to keep the door closed so it will be cool inside.” He put his hand on my shoulder as he so often did. “It is good to have a friend.” He glanced down at the floor for the first time. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. Squatting on his heels, he studied the floor. He ran his fingertips over the floor. “Beautiful!” he said. “Simply beautiful!” “It was Tahquitz. This was his house.”
My father looked up sharply. “What do you mean? His house?”
“Francisco told me. Nobody will live here because this is the house of Tahquitz. He built it, they say, but when they returned, he went away and did not come back.”
“Tahquitz? What was he like, this Tahquitz?”
“They did not see him. Only in the night.”
My father was thoughtful, but he studied the floor again as if he would find in its design the face of its maker. He pointed to the design that formed the border. “That purplish stone. That’s jasper. It comes in several colors. This is chalcedony. Both stones can be found in some of the canyons near the desert. “It is fine work. This Tahquitz or whoever it was is a fine craftsman. I should like to know him.”