“He came upon a spring where a man was fishing, and the man introduced himself as the boy’s father. The boy didn’t think he had a father because his mother had told him so. But the man took Water Jar Child to a village across the spring where many people ran to him and put their arms around him, glad he had come home. They were his family. He stayed there one night then returned to his mother’s home and told her everything that had happened.

“Soon his mother grew sick and died. The child went to the spring to find his father. And there he found his mother among the people of the village. He discovered his father was Red Water Snake and told the boy he could not live in the realm of humans so he’d made the child’s mother sick so she could come live with him. After that, they all lived together in the village across the spring.”

The rhythmic music of Chance’s story ended, and Calliope opened her eyes to the silence. She looked over at him to see whether he’d simply paused or was actually finished talking. When the silence grew unbearable she said, “That’s it?”

He nodded.

“So it’s the Tewa version of Jesus and Mary?” She could hear her Catholic mother’s voice drilling her on her prayers, the stations of the cross, readying Calliope for her first communion and then her confirmation, the last rite of the church Calliope had participated in, to her mother’s chagrin.

“If you believe there must be a Western counterpart.”

“Okay, biblical or not, why tell me this story? Are you saying I’m like the young woman? I’m no Mary, believe me. This was no virgin birth, Chance. Your story explains nothing.”

“Only if you believe story must explain anything, mujer.”

Her voice rising to an exasperated whine, she said, “You’re infuriating. Cut the Socratic bullshit. Why don’t you tell me what you think is going on or explain how any of this could make sense instead of speaking in riddles?”

“They’re only riddles if you don’t believe in the stories, mujer.” He wore an amused smile. “Haven’t you been following your bisabuela’s stories all along? Why say you trust something you’re going to fight at every juncture? If you believe the Ancient Ones, believe them.”

She had returned to New Mexico to prove Bisabuela right, that this was the Middle Place. That there was no land bridge. That the people had emerged from the earth. Right where they had said they’d emerged. Now she was at a Middle Place watching the earth perform incomprehensible acts of violence and recovery. The raw data was in front of her. Why couldn’t she believe?

“Where is my child? That’s all I want to know.”