Sample

Chapter Four
She was thirty-five and five foot seven in her bare feet with long jet black hair tied back; her skin was weathered from the outdoor life but not unattractive. Her mode of dress was very much in keeping with the ruggedness of her surroundings. She wore denim from her worn and faded jeans to the small waistcoat over a patterned shirt. The high-heeled boots were of the finest leather but had seen better days long ago. The headgear she wore alternated between a Stetson and a baseball cap. Today it was the turn of the baseball cap. Her wardrobe mainly consisted of variations on the same theme. She did however, maintain two dresses, three blouses and assorted lace underwear that served to remind her that she was still a woman and one generally considered attractive.
In a part of the world noted for its robust, muscular way of life the woman’s role had modified itself but still made sure that a degree of feminism contributed to the balance of things.
Clara Namingha’s family had settled in Colorado during the forties. It was her father who had moved there in ‘46 after World War 2 ended. Michael had brought his new wife of 6 months to live in Estes Park, a few miles north of Denver. Opportunities were good back then and Michael saw his chance of earning a better living by snapping up a few acres outside of town upon which to build his empire. The fact that this empire consisted of a tiny farm with a moderate 3 bedroomed brick house that had changed very little over the next fifty years seldom bothered him. He worked hard on the land and was content. His was a life of early rising, long hours of outdoor work, good friends and a solvent disposition.
He was a tall, strong, proud man who cornered the market in affability. The friendly helpful hand of Michael Namingha was always there for anyone who might need it.
His war record was undistinguished and he only served for the latter part of hostilities being mainly based in England at the time of the Normandy invasion. Michael had gone across the channel to France in a later wave on a mopping up exercise. Most of the heavy fighting had been completed and his was a secondary, though still important, part of the effort. Records had to be kept of territory re-captured and his job was to protect the men recording this information. To his personal thankfulness he had not been called upon to kill any Germans; most of the enemy he came into contact with were already dead and those that were living were now prisoners.
Michael was twenty back in 1946 and had married an Indian girl of Sioux decent called Maria who was the same age. She was a radiantly beautiful girl who captured the hearts of everyone who met her. Michael was the envy of the town when he married her. The only misgivings were borne out of long standing viewpoints between whites and native Americans. Many inter-race marriages had taken place in recent years and had worked so why not this one?
The traditional view of the Indian was and mainly still is that the land was seen as something sacred, a gift to use, share and preserve for future generations. The concept of owning land, of buying and selling it, remained foreign to them. Whites, on the other hand, have generally regarded land as private property to be possessed by individuals or companies, utilised for the benefit of the owner, to be bought and sold like any other commodity.
Theirs was a supreme, almost flawless marriage. They were the perfect couple. It was to be said of them many times that the Namingha’s never had a bad word to say of anyone else. They were in love from the start and deeper in love well into the late 1980’s. The event that ended this idyllic relationship happened in 1988. Michael suffered a partial stroke. He was then sixty-two and in generous good health. His doctor had gone one further by diagnosing cancer of the prostate. It was malignant and spreading fast.
There is no mandate for disease passing by the good people in this life and now was no exception. Everyone was shocked and sympathy reigned in abundance.
Clara’s reaction to the news was the same as her mother’s. The two women emitted an “Oh God!” and threw their arms around each other in the doctor’s private office.
When Maria had calmed down she asked the inevitable question.
‘What is the outlook, John?’
The doctor, a close friend of the family for many years, took off his glasses and appeared to have tears welling up in his eyes. Clara’s mind was numb; her only thought at the time was that it seemed unusual for a doctor to be emotional in front of a patient.
‘If you want it straight from the hip, Maria,’ he answered.
Clara and her mother sat either side of Michael as the doctor stood by the window. They watched him stare down into the street. Presently he turned to them.
‘From the hip.’
‘Well, the stroke was a mild one. It will leave you with a numbness in your left arm, Mike. You’ll feel a tingling sensation occasionally and your arm will be very weak. You might have some discomfort in the left shoulder, which is also normal!
He broke off to clear his throat. Michael stiffened in his seat.
‘And the cancer?’
‘Yes, right ... the cancer. I’m afraid your prostate is riddled with it.’
‘Can’t it be removed?’ His voice was steady.
‘Yes it can. However, the contributing factor is that the surrounding areas are infected too.’
‘It’s spreading then?’
‘Yes.’
Maria’s hand tightened on her husband’s.
‘But how ... when, John? Michael’s always been in perfect health ... you know that. He’s as strong as an ox. He could outwork men half his age.’
Her voice trailed off at the sight of the doctor shaking his head.
‘Michael is the last man to visit his doctor ... eh, Michael?’
Clara’s father nodded his head.
‘Perhaps we could have caught this thing earlier but the indications are that the disease took hold fairly rapidly. It’s no good my harping on about regular check-ups. What’s done is done.’
‘But what can be done?’ Maria said. ‘What’s happening to him? Why has he got it? Can’t you get rid of it?’
The questions came thick and fast and the doctor returned to his desk. He took a drink from his coffee cup and continued.
‘Listen. Cancer is not a single disease. It’s a process that can affect any part of the body, and each one will have different symptoms and different prospects of recovery. It’s a disorder of cell growth in the body. Cells become uncontrolled. They multiply rapidly. Because of their growth they form a swelling that may become ulcerated. Cancer can develop at any age but the disease tends to become more likely as people grow older. When people reach forty the likelihood of getting it increases. Roughly 9 people in every 1000 get it at 60. The highest percentages of affected areas are the stomach and bowels. As for symptoms ... well, a troublesome and persistent cough, unaccustomed indigestion, constipation or diarrhoea, abdominal pain and pain or difficulty in urinating. There could also be a blood or mucous-like discharge in the faeces or urine. Michael has the latter coupled with abdominal pain. His appetite is starting to deteriorate too.
‘But what can be done?’ Maria repeated.
‘There are various treatments. Because the exact nature and causes of cancer are unknown, there is no single group of effective drugs that can be used against it - as, for example antibiotics in the treatment of infection. We can surgically remove the prostate. It’s possible we could use radiotherapy to treat the surrounding cells. There are certain drugs that destroy cancer cells without damaging normal cells. These are called cytoxics. They must be applied with great care as they can destroy normal cells and kill the patient. This is called Chemotherapy. There are a number of unorthodox treatments including homeopathy, which uses minute doses of drugs that in a healthy person would produce symptoms similar to those of the disease. Whatever treatment is used, it works best if given at the earliest possible stage. This emphasises the importance of regular check-ups and screenings - and so catching any cancers in their early stages.’
Maria shuffled uneasily in her seat at this last comment.
‘And Michael didn’t believe in visiting doctors!’
‘To be blunt, Maria, ... no.’
‘I’ve always felt so strong and well. Like a prize bull!’ added Michael.
Maria asked another question.
‘So what’s the verdict. What are his chances?’
‘To be candid - about one in four. Today, with advancing medical knowledge and skill, cancer no longer means an inevitable death sentence. A growing degree of optimism is justified.’
‘What’s the next step then, John?’ enquired Michael.
‘The next step is immediate surgery to remove the prostate. It’s then that we can see the extent of infected surrounding cells and decide on further treatment.’
‘Better book myself in then!’
‘I’ll call you, Mike. It won’t be long.’
As they left the room the doctor stood up and replaced his glasses.
‘Remember what I said - with the knowledge we have today there is a growing degree of optimism.’
Seven weeks after the operation Michael was dead.
Estes Park is at the eastern gateway to the Rocky Mountain National Park, one of America’s crown jewels. A tourist-friendly town named after rancher Joel Estes, who settled there with his family in 1860. In the early 1900’s a colourful character called Freelan O. Stanley rolled into the valley. He was the inventor of the Stanley Steamer automobile and promptly built the Stanley Hotel. Its handsome white clapboard exterior still shines against a backdrop of granite peaks. On lazy evenings in the fall, herds of elk wander down the mountainside to graze on its lush green lawns. One of Stanley’ pals, a naturalist by the name of Enos Mills, hatched an idea for a National Park. He spent years lobbying Congress who finally gave approval in 1915.
As is the custom with many Native Americans Clara had been given another name. Hers was Standing Elk. She had a habit of just standing and seeming to sniff the atmosphere of a given situation. It was her way of assessing things. So standing Elk she was and she liked the name enormously.
The land Clara lived in was as diverse in its nature as America is diverse in its culture. The Capital Denver has a dry, mild climate with an average of 300 sunny days per year. Spring is mild, summer is very warm with low humidity and cool evening breezes. Winter is cold, sunny and crisp. The Rockies enjoy all of this and have a magic all of their own.
The main route through the park is Trail Ridge Road. It winds through high-country meadows filled with summer wildflowers before climbing above the treeline into a fascinating but harsh world of alpine tundra; where gnarled whitebark pines, mostly no larger than a bush, whisper “look at us - we’re 2 to 3 hundred years old.”
It was this environment that made Clara think the gods had kissed the land.
Her farm, which she now ran for her mother, lay situated some 4 miles out of town on the south road. The house was surrounded by a tiny barn and corral for the horses. The family had a small stock of mustangs and pintos. Their cattle were mainly Herefords crossbred with local cattle. The other animals on the farm numbered several dozen chickens, a dog and a cat.
From the human point of view Ben accompanied Clara and her mother. Ben was Maria’s father who had only last week turned 88 and celebrated in style with a party to end all parties. He had become a father at the age of 16 and made it his life’s ambition to remind people of this fact.
Ben was a real character and a walking encyclopaedia on the Rocky Mountains and all things appertaining to the Old West. Even the local historical society in Georgetown had asked him to speak at their meetings. He was well known in Denver too. The old man now left the physical running of the farm to his daughter and granddaughter along with the part time help of a man called Dan who came over from town once a week to help with the heavier stuff.
The 93 Chevrolet pick-up wound its way around the snaky road and at the top of the hill, pulled over to the side. Clara got out and slammed the door. The air was fresh and beginning to get warmer. Her nostrils searched for familiar fragrances of mixed wildflowers that made her head spin. It was so quiet, there being no-one on the road for miles. This was the best time of the day at 8 a.m. in the morning.
She thought of all the times she had pulled the truck over to the side, got out and just walked around. This place was hers. No buildings, no people, no sign of the twentieth century. Just scenery. Wonderful, unadulterated, God be praised scenery. She sat down on the dusty floor, her hands clasped in front of her knees and stared at the mountains in the distance. The ground was beginning to get hard now in January. In the stillness her senses became intensified and she thought that she could hear a bird a long way off. She couldn’t tell what kind of bird it was and smiled to herself.
The light fall of snow on the previous day had had no impact on the terrain and refused to stick. But there was more to come. She could feel it in the air. Even though it would become a little warmer by mid morning there was snow on the way. Her mother, a Lakota Sioux by birth had taught her some of the ancient ways and now in her thirties Clara believed she could sense things that other women perhaps could not. Only last week some of the other women in town were commenting on how Clara had successfully predicted the day and actual time of birth of Sally Morton’s baby.
‘Just luck, I guess,’ she had replied.
‘Bullshit woman - and you know it.’
The comment had come from Toni, a close friend of the family.
‘Don’t read stuff into things, Toni.’
‘Clara Namingha - if I didn’t know you better perhaps but - no way sister. The others might fall for your coincidence story but we know its bullshit. You’re half Sioux and that gives you...’
‘Gives me what, Toni?’
‘I don’t know. Gives you something that we don’t have. Gives you a deeper meaning of life ... gives you hidden powers ... extra sensory perception.’
‘Why, Toni, I didn’t realise you knew such words.’
‘It’s all bullshit anyhow.’
‘You sure like that word, don’t you?’
‘Yeah ................ it’s still bullshit though.’
The two women laughed and the conversation changed to other matters.
‘Better get going.’
Her words broke the silence of the occasion and she climbed back into the pick-up. She drove on down the main road into town to the strains of George Strait on the radio. He was singing a song about all of his ex-girlfriends living in Texas and Clara joined in at full volume.
The sun was getting higher in the valley and the rocks reflected its light back onto the rows of pines on her left. She circled the truck towards the looming town and as the song finished, her mind remembered the old poem her mother had taught her as a child.
‘Happily this land I walk over is free, free to all about,
It is a place to be touched and smelled and tasted,
You must cherish the land as you cherish your brother and sister,
He that watches over the land watches over the spirit of life,
Only then can he touch greatness.’

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