Christmas On Snowbird Mountain

“Hey,” she called out to Kay. “What’s your last name?”

“Murphy. Yours?”

“Pelton.”

“I enjoyed meeting you, Kay Murphy.”

“Same here, Susannah Pelton. Have a great life.”

“I plan to.”

Susannah took a deep breath to shore up her resolve, and with three running steps, launched herself into the air.

Sitting Dog, North Carolina

One week later

THE ONLY SOUNDS in the forest were the faint chattering of the birds as they foraged for seeds and the crunch of Ryan Whitepath’s boots in the snow.

He could have driven the four miles to the school bus stop to get Nia, but he preferred the half-mile shortcut down the mountain, where he could free his mind from the projects he had to finish this week.

Work was going well. Professionally and financially he was successful. He had more commissions than he could handle and three upcoming gallery shows featuring his handcrafted tiles and display mosaics. But the obligations of his career were keeping him inside too much lately, and his personal life had gone to hell.

Disconnected was a good description of how he felt. His once-strong connection with the earth, which had always brought him peace and was the very foundation of his art, had experienced a short circuit over the past year. He needed to restore it before his creativity suffered.

He missed the feel of the wind on his face and the way it carried the faint smell of wood smoke on a brisk day. He missed witnessing the change of seasons up close, the brilliance of fall fading to the gray of winter, then the revival of color in the spring and summer.

All this land, as far as he could see across the Snowbird and Unicoi ranges, had once been the home of the Ani Yunwiya, the Principal People, but the nine hundred acres his family owned now had come to them only fifty years ago.

His father had taught him about the mountains as a boy, the places where the deer wallow and the wild boar root, where caves exist that can hide a man forever and wild berries grow in such abundance that you never have to worry about hunger.

Such secrets, gifts from parent to child for countless generations, were bonds to Elohi, Mother Earth, the Center. Ryan had neglected his obligation to pass along what he had learned to his daughter. Perhaps she felt disconnected, as well, and that was part of her problem.

She wouldn’t like that he hadn’t brought the truck, but maybe on the walk home they’d see wild turkeys or the pair of comical mink that had taken up residence near the stream, and it would make her smile. So little did these days.

The death of her mother from pancreatic cancer last March had been hard on the six-year-old, even though Nia had never lived with Carla nor visited her in London more than a handful of times.

Nia was experiencing what the therapist called Separation Anxiety Disorder. She’d lost one parent. Now she was afraid of losing the other.

Ryan had tried explaining about the eternity of the soul, that it’s alive before it goes into the body and remains alive after it leaves, but she was too young to fully understand. So he’d sent her to psychologists to help her deal with the grief. After three months of meetings with one and then four months with a second, he couldn’t see much progress. Nia remained confused and unhappy.

His vibrant, outgoing daughter was gone. In her place was a quiet child who cried for no reason and didn’t want to be alone, sleep or even go to school.

The doctor had suggested trying drug therapy after Christmas to control the anxiety attacks that had begun in the last month, but the thought frightened him. Nia was only a baby. Medications carried risks, especially in someone so young.

He didn’t know what to do. His grandmother counseled patience. She believed something besides Carla’s death was bothering Nia.

Nana Sipsey had taken of the sacred tobacco one night and had a vision: a redbird with a broken wing would heal his child’s heart and, in so doing, heal itself.

Ryan hadn’t voiced his skepticism, but it existed. His grandmother came from a long line of healers of the Ani Wodi, the Red Paint Clan. He trusted her knowledge of medicines for simple cures of headaches, colds and such.

Accepting prophecy was difficult for him, though, especially when something as important as the emotional stability of his daughter was at stake.

Ahead, John Taylor’s Trading Post came into view. The school bus pulled up outside just as Ryan left the woods.

This short stretch of road was the heart of Sitting Dog. A gas station-grocery store, an activities center and a volunteer fire station were the only buildings, but the eighty-four residents could find just about anything they needed, from tools to eggs, without driving the twenty miles to Robbinsville.

Their small community didn’t have a McDonald’s or a Blockbuster, but the store had videos for rent and its lunch counter served food that appealed to both Indians and whites.

A bank would be nice, but people who worked over on the reservation, Qualla Boundary, fifty miles to the northeast, took care of check cashing and deposits before driving home.

“Sa Sa,” he called out, and Nia turned. She’d gotten off the bus with two friends who lived nearby, Iva Williams and Mary Throwing Stick. “Hi, girls,” he said as he walked up. “How was school?”

Mary answered for them. “Buddy Henderson brought his tonsils in a jar and made Iva sick. It was so gross.”

“I didn’t puke, though,” Iva said proudly.

Ryan tried not to laugh, but it was impossible. “I’m glad to hear it.” He pulled Mary’s braid. “You didn’t puke on anybody, did you, Pretty Miss Mary?”

She giggled and wrinkled her nose. “Uh-uh.”

“Nia, how was your day?”

Nia shrugged and didn’t say anything. Ryan didn’t press. Simply getting her to go to school this morning had been a triumph. He was thankful she’d made it through the day without coming down with one of her stomachaches or headaches.

“How’s your dog?” Ryan asked Mary. “Did she have her puppies yet?”

“Six of them. All black. Can Nia come by for a minute and see them?”

“Maybe another day.” Darkness would fall soon and he still needed to recheck a couple of measurements at the activities center before the trek home. Workers were building an addition to use as a child care center and small library. Ryan had promised to complete a wall mosaic in time for the reopening, during the Christian holiday next month, and he was sorely behind. “I’ll bring Nia to visit this weekend, Mary. We have chores to do right now.”

“Can she come to my slumber party on Saturday? Iva’s coming. And Tracie. And Kimberly. And…” She rattled off the names of ten or more little girls in their class. They were going to make banana splits and play games, she added with excitement.

Nia didn’t jump in and beg to go, so Ryan hedged. “We’ll see. Her grandmother might have other plans for her. She can let you know tomorrow.”

The girls’ mothers arrived to drive them home, and Nia finally spoke, telling her friends goodbye.

Once they were alone, Ryan tried to talk to her about her reluctance to attend the sleep-over party. “Sounds like a lot of fun, doesn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

“You like Mary. And all your friends will be there. Don’t you want to go?”

“I want to stay home with you.”

Ryan didn’t push it. When she didn’t want to do something, no amount of cajoling would work. She was like her mother in that respect. In the few months he’d dated Carla, he’d learned two things: to let her have her way and to leave her alone when she curled up inside herself.

“I need to go into the center for a few minutes,” he told Nia. “Do you want to come with me or wait in John Taylor’s where it’s warmer? You can buy some paper to practice your writing.”