Three months before, the Shalako ceremony had shown Calliope the rigors of impersonating the gods, wearing the masks, and dancing. She had not been allowed to participate, as a woman and a non-Zuni, but she could see just wandering through the village watching those chosen how difficult it was physically and mentally for the boys and men who took on the role, the challenge, and the honor of becoming a god. She’d asked Chance if they really became gods. The answer was no, but their thoughts and actions were influenced by their role. In a way, their Spirits were given over to the gods they imitated. The masks were heavy and thick, smothering with heat, difficult to breathe in, headache-inducing. Those who wore them would practice the dances for hours and hours on end, perfecting each step.

Shalako meant messenger of the gods. And Calliope had seen the procession down the mountain and into the village square. She’d heard the steady beat of drums and wailing call of the flute signaling their arrival. In one of the Shalako houses built specifically for the occasion by all the Zuni, she’d watched the beaked and feathered, horned and striped, fierce-eyed and spotted gods dancing, rhythmically, forcefully, beside a row of altars, bristling with plumed prayer sticks. Her eyes had blurred with tobacco smoke and incense, her stomach knotted with apprehension. She hadn’t been scared, not really, but she’d felt the power stirring from the dirt floors, the haze of dirt clouds scurrying through the stale air, the crowds of people knit closely together on chairs and benches, watching, praying. For moments at a time, she couldn’t tell the difference between the masked dancers and the gods themselves—they were as real as the Suuke she and Chance had killed. The heat and a foreboding sense that she would be punished too had made her dizzy.

She’d left the Shalako house with the corn girl in her cradleboard strapped to her back and stood in the front doorway of Malia’s empty house; everyone else was still attending Shalako. She hadn’t realized Chance had followed her until he was beside her on the porch.

“Why rocks?” she had asked, staring at the threshold floor. “I don’t understand.”

He was quiet at first, took a deep breath, leaned against the doorway. The question lingered in the air before he finally said, “You’re an anthropologist, mujer. You do understand.”

She didn’t bristle at his tone, which she might have deemed condescending at one time. She understood his mannerisms, his ways of drawing truth from truth. Her own question seemed to swirl above them in the Shalako night air. Why rocks. Beneath the dust and sandy loam—they were alive with the past. They were a connection to other times, other worlds. That’s what she loved about uncovering meaning in the layers of earth, finding road maps back. He was right. She did understand.