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Turquoise Waters

by Nicole Givens Kurtz

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“Let me die,” India whispered, her voice soft against the hot hiss of bullets whizzing by her and Tish, her partner. She licked her cracked, full lips and struggled to find both spit and words.

“No.” Tish shook her head. It ain’t supposed to be like this.

The day had begun as a normal one, sunny with clear skies. Cornflower blue draped above vibrant red canyons and verdant cacti comprised most days in the New Mexican territory. She and India traveled by horseback on the road to Wild Sage, a mecca to all seeking freedom and autonomy. The west offered hope for anyone scurrying from the East’s societal trappings or the South’s ruin.

Around dusk, things veered off track.

For starters, the distance took its toll. Weary, hungry and thirsty, they slowly set up camp near an arroyo and within a cluster of rocks. Huge hunks of rocks formed eons ago by erosion formed a natural circular camp.

They ate some jerky, drank some water, and slept.

Just after first light, they awoke to loud shouts and the clatter of horses.

At once, India went for her guns. Tish struggled to wake but found her weapon and crawled to cover behind a large boulder.

Partially protected by red boulders, dust and gunpowder surfed the air.

“Who the hell you be? Git gone now!” India shouted, her dark eyes narrowed in concentration.

“It be the Jimbo Yankee gang and we ain’t leavin’ without the goods!” A male dressed in faded jeans and leather chaps shouted. His battered cowboy cast a shadow across his face. “We believe in sharin’.”

“Jimbo Yankee,” Tish said. “Damn our luck.”

When one came across Jimbo Yankee, their world become more violent. Everyone from Fort Collins to Wild Sage warned of him and his gang’s savagery. And the outlaws had ambushed them.

“Don’t worry. I got my good luck stone.” India patted her front pocket.

Tish tsked.

That had been before one of the bandits shot India in the stomach.

Some luck.

Folks traveling west fled from something—the law, the war, or their past. They carried their hate and fury along with their belongings. Surviving meant scars not only on the flesh but on the mind, as Tish knew well. Resentment had a habit of rooting underneath, in the heart, simmering. At the slightest poke it’d boil over. When that darkness spilled out, horrible things happened.

“Go!” India wheezed and yanked Tish’s arm, snatching her out of her musings.

A trickle of thin crimson streamed from India’s belly and down her dark brown fingers clutching the cloth there to stem the flow.

“I ain’t leavin’ you. I won’t.” Tish patted her hand.

“Stubborn cow.” A smirk split across India’s damp face.

Tish smiled, but only for a brief moment. She turned back to the clearing and fired a few shots in warning.

We still here.

They couldn’t say the same.

A chaotic scene scattered across the high desert landscape between Tish and her attackers. Corpses, both man and beast, horses and humans, baked in the early spring day. Overhead, the death buzzards flew, circling as an omen. The faint flies’ buzzes and the black birds’ flapping overhead dampened Tish’s spirit. The putrid odor of shit, blood, and piss hit her in the face as the wind shifted.

“You ain’t got no more bullets. Give on up now,” Jimbo Yankee shouted.

He spat tobacco out the corner of his mouth. The dark liquid dribbled down into his tangled thatched beard. In the battle, he’d crept closer. Empty eyes peered out from his now tipped-back hat. Thick, inflamed sewn-in stitches decorated his left cheek. The cruel thread held both flaps of his sliced flesh together. The way he leaned on the saddle spoke to how unbothered he was about the situation. Some members of his gang lay around him like broken and battered dolls.

“You whores gonna die if you don’t come on outta there,” Jimbo Yankee snickered.

The gang’s supply of bullets and men seemed endless. Sure enough, three, no four, men crawled out of the surroundings, ready to take part.

“Damn it.” Tish slid back behind the coverage and gritted her teeth.

The bastard was right.

India’s shallow and labored breathing worried her. At some point, she’d gone limp and slumped at the rock’s base. If Tish didn’t get her seen by a doctor soon, she wouldn’t survive. Back home, she’d seen uniformed soldiers with the same fleeting expression. Life ebbed from India in scarlet rivets, forming tiny puddles along her pelvis and thighs.

“We gotta get outta here.”

Tish scanned the hills, searching for something.

But there was nothing except the isolated, parched, and flat land. It stretched out in a sprawl of desolation. She searched the sun-bleached landscape for another route to escape or better coverage.

You whores gonna die here…

Yet, life survived here. Yuccas, lizards, and the native people persisted here.

And the town.

Life had been leeched out of the world and people flowed with the dust, nothing more than bones and battered spirits, prancing upon the horizon. They fought for everything, water, and food.

That wasn’t how it worked in Wild Sage.

Rumors that spoke of a haven for coloreds had reached as far east as Tennessee, where she and India had escaped a life of servitude. A place of magic and money, of freedom and fellowship, but Tish had her doubts. Sometimes things happened to places. They hold on to the good or the bad, drinking in the townfolk’s experiences, their dreams, and their nightmares and enveloping them into their depth. This enchanted land held secrets and beliefs made manifest. Out here stories flowed like a river, providing soul to legends.

So, trusting India, and loving her, Tish believed in Wild Sage too. Though they were only twenty-five miles away, now it seemed like they might never reach it.

“Imma give you till three!” Jimbo Yankee bellowed.

“Gimme your weapons and your water!” shouted another man.

“He ain’t got no problem killin’ us, just like he done for the Confederates,” Tish said.

India groaned, her face drenched with sweat. “Tish…”

“I ain’t leavin’ and we ain’t runnin’. Tired of gettin’ pushed from place to place at somebody else’s wantin’.” Tish’s knees sank into the dirt as she crawled toward the front of the rock circle.

She wanted a life, not a mere scraping existence. They had freedom now. She intended to use it. Not only for herself but for all her people who wouldn’t ever get the chance.

“One!”

If she could help it, the likes of Jimbo Yankee wouldn’t get another day to hunt or hurt people again.

She peaked around to get eyes on him and his remaining crew. His stern pockmarked face was like stone. He rotated two guns—one in each hand—around and around. No doubt about it. He intended to kill them.

She slipped back into the shade, making herself small.

Tish reached in her satchel for more bullets. Her hand came out empty.

“Sage,” India said, wincing as she did so. Her eyes fluttered.

“Two!” Jimbo Yankee fired a shot to punctuate the urgency.

A chill zipped up Tish’s spine. She hurried to India.

India gave a sad laugh. “Tish…” and shoved something hard into her palm. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Tish opened her hand.

A smooth, oval piece of polished stone, a blueish green pulsated. Warmth flowed up her arms, into her chest, forcing her heart to beat faster. Her fingertips prickled with a strange feeling, an eerie power. A light glowed around her. With her chest hammering like a freight train, Tish looked over to India.

“What this be?”

“African. Turquoise,” India paused, moaned, and collapsed. “Life.”

Tish wiped her face.

“African?” She cast a glance back at India. Throughout their travels, they met many peoples with differing beliefs, including former slaves, like themselves.

India may not be able to hear, but she kept talking anyway. Maybe more for herself than her partner.

She wasn’t sure.

The only certainty—she didn’t want them to die here.

She wanted to launch herself at Jimbo Yankee and pump him full of lead, then gorge out his eyes. Her palms tingled and the tiny cuts in her hand stung. She pursed her lips and gazed into the stone. Her eyes watered. A humming filled her ears.

Suddenly, a rock exploded by Tish’s face. The bullet sprayed pellets. She flinched, gripping the stone tight in one hand.

Jimbo Yankee wasn’t a fool. He knew they’d run out of ammo. India had emptied her gun in the shootout, before she got a belly full herself.

It seemed like years had passed, but it had only been an hour or so, maybe less. Time stretched, elongated by panic, the roar of blood, adrenaline, and hope. She cradled India’s head in her lap. The torn fabric wrapped around her wounds became more saturated with blood. It risked infection.

Tish was in dire straits.

India could die.

She moaned. Her face pinched in pain.

“Stop ya shootin’. You gonna damage the goods!” Jimbo Yankee yelled at his men.

Silence followed.

Few wanted to bear his rage.

The sound of men dismounting and laughing snared Tish’s attention. She hugged India close while tears rained onto her face. The grueling miles, the battles with the weather, the terrain, and the bandits bore into her heart, clinching it in the cold fingers of death, the demise of hope.

Tish placed the stone onto India’s throat, where it would’ve been if it had been tethered to a necklace or chain. Maybe it would comfort her. If she had to meet her maker, she didn’t want India’s last moments to be filled with fear.

This can’t be it.

Boots crunched on tiny stones and announced their attackers’ approach.

Tish clutched India tighter. Those bastards would have to pry her from her cold, dead hands.

“Imma be the first to show you what a woman is for…” someone shouted.

Tish growled, low in her throat, a feral response wrenched from deep within.

“Whoa now! What is that?” another male said.

Tish found her current situation difficult to stomach. They’d come this far to try for freedom, the first of the American dream that’s offered to every Anglo upon birth, but denied to her and her people, that lured everyone west.

These men threatened to take it all away.

Tish released a long, slow breath. The fine hair on her arms stood in alert.

The stone’s pulsating increased. It grew larger as if blooming, unfolding in rapid shudders. In the distance, thunder loomed as the weather changed. Tumbleweeds rustled and rolled across the land, fleeing the approaching storm.

In the blink of an eye, rain fell. It hissed as the heavy clouds released their bellies. Curses erupted as the men raced to find coverage. Out here resources held more weight than gold. You couldn’t eat or drink money. Sure, resources could be bought—if there were any to buy.

Outlaws operated under the saying: why spend when you could steal?

The wind picked up. It dried Tish’s tears. She laid India down and got to her feet.

A bluish green smoke uncoiled from the stone, as if reaching out to her.

Release me.

Tish stumbled, her throat dry. “It speakin’ to me?”

Yet she didn’t hear it aloud so much as in her head.

Release. Me.

Tish swallowed to ease the knot of shock. How? She didn’t know how to release whatever spoke to her and even less about what would happen if she did. It could be a demon speaking to her.

India opened her eyes and held the stone out to her. “Take. It.”

Tish did as told. Once she closed her hand over it, a rush of heat burned through her. She screamed and grabbed the neighboring rock for stability.

India rose up on one elbow. “She gonna save us.”

“Who?”

“Her.”

“How?”

“Let her out.” India slumped down again.

With her heart still beating a mile a minute, Tish inched back to her former position and looked out to check the outlaws’ positions.

“Come on now! We gettin’ wet!” The words came out as part English and part guttural rage. Jimbo Yankee whistled. “Gimme the weapons and the gear!”

“You ain’t gettin’ nothin’,” Tish said to herself. “You ain’t gettin’ no more for free.”

Now or never.

She stepped away from the rock’s coverage. With her gun in one hand, she held the stone in the other. India told her to release the being, but she didn’t have a clue how to do it or what it meant. But she had faith in her love.

“Girl…” One of bandits laughed.

“Woman,” Tish corrected.

One of the bandits rushed toward her, a round man wearing a faded cowboy and extra chins. She raced to meet him. When he did, she slammed her pistol into his face. The gun crushed his nose. A sickening crunch and splat of blood rent the air. He fumbled backward into another outlaw while holding his face and howling in agony. The two of them collided and tumbled to the earth, grunting and fussing all the way down.

Outnumbered and outgunned, Tish swore. What to do now?

Something wet dribbled down her face. When she wiped it, her fingers came away bloodied. In the tussle, she’d been injured, maybe from her gun, maybe from her attacker.

The robbers waited. Each punch, kick, and curse cost energy. Fighting required more effort than pulling a trigger. With limited resources, folks burned out fast.

They breathed hard, hands on their narrow hips.

Jimbo Yankee didn’t.

Devils don’t git tired.

“Ain’t no use in puttin’ up a fight, girl.” He smiled, exposing empty black holes where teeth had once been. A few remained in the front, hanging on by gold and spite.

“No!” Tish clutched the stone tight in her fist. “It’s rainin’. Go on home now.”

At that moment, a drop of blood fell onto her hand, and slipped between her fingers where it touched the warm aqua-colored stone.

Wind whooshed around Tish, levitating her into the glow, enveloping her in its earthy scent. It cloyed into her nose and her mouth. As she whirred about in slow circles, Tish fought to open her eyes. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. Hovering in the twister’s eye, 100 feet from the ground, a quiet draped her.

“What the hell?” One of the men shouted.

Below her, outlaws fled.

Except one—Jimbo Yankee.

Why he ain’t run off like dem others?

Probably his hatred and stubbornness rooted him to the spot.

A blue hue covered everything, turning the red rocks green, the desert browns a darker color. A drop of greenish-blue—turned liquid—rose in the calm space in front of her. A crackling flash made Tish wince. Her arm shot up to shield her face. The droplet expanded. A youthful energy radiated from it, but at the same time, felt old, worn, like used clothing. The beam proceeded to stretch out arms, hands, legs, feet, and a head. The head contained hair, flowing like a river, rippling to smooth shoulders cresting into a white foam. The wet limbs squelched against each other. There was no face.

The waters formed a person.

A person!

Tish screamed.

Be still. Hear me. The voice spoke in her mind again.

You feel nothing. No pain. Only fury.

Tish understood.

India’s words floated forward in her memory. She gonna save us.

Her. The being was a woman.

The being drifted closer to Tish. Unable to flee, Tish remained stuck in mid-air, at the mercy of the approaching entity. She didn’t halt her approach, her watering hair flowing longer, growing wider like a swelling creak.

Tish tried to shout, but only a strangled gurgle came out. An undercurrent of suspicion, of fear, made her tremble. What this be?

Be calm, daughter, the being encouraged.

But Tish’s festering emotions erupted. Once the pulsating entity reached her, she squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath, awaiting the pain. Hot fury at the injustices, the emotional wounds of being colored in a white country, and wrongs done to them—her and India–smoldered inside her.

The impact didn’t come.

Instead, a soft plop, like one dipping into a comforting bath, sounded seconds before a light mist sprayed across Tish’s body. It was a step forward into cool waters. Almost instantly, every ache, pang, and injury disappeared.

We be one.

Tish nodded numbly in agreement. Her eyes flapped open.

Come.

Tish’s body jerked forward, then shot down toward the ground, fast, like a bullet. The radiant ether cloaked her movements from Jimbo Yankee.

Once Tish’s boots touched the earth, the winds halted, and Jimbo Yankee fired.

“I told you to gimme the gear!” Only ten feet away, he threw back his head and laughed.

Tish flinched and braced for the burning injury.

He had no desire to just leave them be. Oh no. That privilege didn’t belong to them.

Nothing happened. She opened her eyes. The gun along with Jimbo Yankee’s right arm had been severed and laid on the ground. His gnarled and tanned hand remained clutched around his pistol. Splats of blood decorated the neighboring yucca.

“Fuck!” He howled.

Blood sprayed form his wound. Down on his knees, Jimbo Yankee held his shirt’s tattered pieces to his stump.

A whip of water shaped like a machete hovered near him. A spent bullet rested in the space between them.

“W-w-what you be?” he bellowed, his face flushed with agony.

That what I wanna know, Tish thought.

Startled, Tish’s mouth moved, making her uneasy as her vocal cords worked independent of her will. Her lips acted at the behest of the entity. The words popped between seconds of silence, like English didn’t come naturally. Tiny fingerlike tendrils plucked words from her mind.

“I be woman…all woman.”

“You a whore like all the others.” Jimbo Yankee reared back on his knees, his face twisted in a mash of disgust and pain. He snatched a knife from his belt.

With a grunt he hurdled it.

The protective waters smacked it to the ground.

“You talk like the dead talk,” Tish said under the spirit’s direction.

With that, a lash of thunderous waves culled from the swirling well and struck Jimbo Yankee like a whip.

Caught by surprise, the bandit uttered a soft, “oh,” seconds before impact.

His head made a thud as it smacked the barren land, gleaned from his body.

It was gruesome.

It was fast.

It was done.

“Tish?” India exclaimed, eyes wide and mouth agape in wonder. She stood at an opening in the circular rocks.

“India!” Tish whirled around to the voice, to her love, her heart thundering in her chest.

“I healt!” India stepped out, into the clearing. In disbelief, she lifted her reddish-brown stained shirt revealing smooth, dark flesh.

Tish’s heart leapt and tears of relief stung her eyes as they took in her love, standing, smiling, and whole.

The shimmering spirit divorced herself from Tish with a loud slurping sound. A whirling whoosh accompanied the blue waters as they returned to the stone.

And Tish returned to India.

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Host Commentary

Here is what Nicole had to say about the story. “I lived in New Mexico for six years where I taught Navajo, Zuni, and Hobi students in the Four Corners region. Growing up a fan of westerns, I longed to know about the other people in the West.”

This made me think about how we have seen The Wild West. It’s symbolized with wide open prairies and deserts spreading to the horizon, so shouldn’t the stories it tells be that vast too. But by and large we got too many stories mired in patriarchy, racism, and homophobia as well as many many tropes burned in it with a branding iron. In recent years, people have tried to deconstruct, expand, and modernise those legends of the Old West. From spaghetti westerns to the Yellowstone Cinematic Universe, we have seen an attempt to at least have a little variety. Try to talk about extractive colonization instead of Minifest Destiny.  Include indigenous voices talking about crimes against humanity instead seeing them as NPCs. Reflect other groups instead of just the cishet white guy.

This is obviously represented by Tish and India. Lesbian women of color. You’ve heard of the meme “This is the future liberals want”? Well this is the past that liberals want. They want what the frontier has always offered. A fresh start. Where the strictures and baggage of the Old World are at least lessened and they can write their own story.

Of course, we have to deal with That Guy.  We all know That Guy.  The one who says The Odyssey isn’t “Historically accurate”.  The one who wonders why superhero movies have to be led by a female. The one who chants “Go woke go broke” That’s Jimbo Yankee.  He wants a West where he can do whatever he likes because of the little bit of power and ego he has.  That there are people who differ from what he desires and are to be destroyed. It’s about him, not two women whose wants are different from his. Of course he is creating a world that is barren and as monotonous as the desert.  But as long as he is the ruler and has people to subjugate, he doesn’t care.

So Jimbo Yankee is the horror.  So how do you fight him? This is where the story does something interesting.  We have been set up for a Western style confrontation, guns blazing at a last stand.  The problem is that Tish and India can’t win.  Jimbo has been playing this game for too long and knows the rules way too well which are having way more bullets and men than your opponent and being such a scary son of a bitch that the men would rather die from being shot than deal with your wrath.  However, the game changes. The paradigm shifts. It becomes a matter of deep heritage and being willing to trust. Tish wants to fight Jimbo’s way but out of desperation and trust in India’s belief, she accepts help from a stanger. A very strange stranger. A stranger who knows that cool water is even more powerful than hot lead. That water is life and death.