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"
Well
,
I
don
’
t
know
.
You
get
them
out
of
bottles
.
And
when
the
bottles
are
empty
,
you
send
up
to
the
Chemical
Store
for
more
.
It
’
s
the
Chemical
Store
people
who
make
them
,
I
suppose
.
Or
else
they
send
to
the
factory
for
them
.
I
don
’
t
know
.
I
never
did
any
chemistry
.
My
job
was
always
with
the
embryos
.
It
was
the
same
with
everything
else
he
asked
about
.
Linda
never
seemed
to
know
.
The
old
men
of
the
pueblo
had
much
more
definite
answers
.
"
The
seed
of
men
and
all
creatures
,
the
seed
of
the
sun
and
the
seed
of
earth
and
the
seed
of
the
sky
–
Awonawilona
made
them
all
out
of
the
Fog
of
Increase
.
Now
the
world
has
four
wombs
;
and
he
laid
the
seeds
in
the
lowest
of
the
four
wombs
.
And
gradually
the
seeds
began
to
grow
.
.
.
"
One
day
(
John
calculated
later
that
it
must
have
been
soon
after
his
twelfth
birthday
)
he
came
home
and
found
a
book
that
he
had
never
seen
before
lying
on
the
floor
in
the
bedroom
.
It
was
a
thick
book
and
looked
very
old
.
The
binding
had
been
eaten
by
mice
;
some
of
its
pages
were
loose
and
crumpled
.
He
picked
it
up
,
looked
at
the
title
-
page
:
the
book
was
called
The
Complete
Works
of
William
Shakespeare
.
Linda
was
lying
on
the
bed
,
sipping
that
horrible
stinking
mescal
out
of
a
cup
.
"
Popé
brought
it
,
"
she
said
.
Her
voice
was
thick
and
hoarse
like
somebody
else
’
s
voice
.
"
It
was
lying
in
one
of
the
chests
of
the
Antelope
Kiva
.
It
’
s
supposed
to
have
been
there
for
hundreds
of
years
.
I
expect
it
’
s
true
,
because
I
looked
at
it
,
and
it
seemed
to
be
full
of
nonsense
.
Uncivilized
.
Still
,
it
’
ll
be
good
enough
for
you
to
practice
your
reading
on
.
"
She
took
a
last
sip
,
set
the
cup
down
on
the
floor
beside
the
bed
,
turned
over
on
her
side
,
hiccoughed
once
or
twice
and
went
to
sleep
.
He
opened
the
book
at
random
.
Nay
,
but
to
live
In
the
rank
sweat
of
an
enseamed
bed
,
Stew
’
d
in
corruption
,
honeying
and
making
love
Over
the
nasty
sty
.
.
.
The
strange
words
rolled
through
his
mind
;
rumbled
,
like
talking
thunder
;
like
the
drums
at
the
summer
dances
,
if
the
drums
could
have
spoken
;
like
the
men
singing
the
Corn
Song
,
beautiful
,
beautiful
,
so
that
you
cried
;
like
old
Mitsima
saying
magic
over
his
feathers
and
his
carved
sticks
and
his
bits
of
bone
and
stone
–
kiathla
tsilu
silokwe
silokwe
silokwe
.
Kiai
silu
silu
,
tsithl
–
but
better
than
Mitsima
’
s
magic
,
because
it
meant
more
,
because
it
talked
to
him
,
talked
wonderfully
and
only
half
-
understandably
,
a
terrible
beautiful
magic
,
about
Linda
;
about
Linda
lying
there
snoring
,
with
the
empty
cup
on
the
floor
beside
the
bed
;
about
Linda
and
Popé
,
Linda
and
Popé
.
