Wild Blood

by Kathryn Lasky

  She buzzed off. Little Coyote was in a state of complete amazement. He felt he had entered some magical realm. He peered down the hole again.

  “Move over, dear. Quickly, please. I have a nice moist petal here. Must work quickly. Got to plaster it up. That’s how we get things to stick. A recipe handed down from the Great Os.”

  “Great Os?”

  “Our founder, dear. The first bee, Osmina the Divine. We’re all mason bees. We build our nests, our larval chambers, with mud. The Chitzen think they discovered it for their dwellings, but we were the first to use mud. We know where to dig.” Little Coyote had very keen hearing, and the flutterings of the creature’s wings and the little bristly hairs on her legs made for quite a racket. “And let me say this. We work alone. Independent. No colonies for us. No slaves. Worker bees, as some call them — what a euphemism!”

  “Euphemism? What’s that?”

  “A nice way of saying something bad.”

  Little Coyote cocked his head. He liked this creature. He liked her directness. She was … was … a word hovered in his mind. She was genteel. He had no idea where that word had come from. But he knew it was the right one.

  “What’s your name?” Little Coyote asked.

  “My name is Grace.”

  “Oh, it fits you! You make beauty. You know flowers. You turn mud into something lovely. You are magical.”

  “Not at all, my dear. An artist perhaps, a bit of a botanist and a builder with a knack for masonry. But not a magician.” She paused. ”And what’s your name?”

  Little Coyote broke away, lowering his head in embarrassment. “I … I … I … have no name.”

  “No name!” she said in a shocked voice. Little Coyote shook his head. “That is preposterous. We must find you a name.”

  We, thought Little Coyote. No one had ever said “we” to him.

  “I think …” Little Coyote began hesitantly. “I think my mum might have said my name once before she died. I can’t remember now. I was just a tiny pup. But I honestly think my mum had hopes for me.” Little Coyote said nothing about his father.

  “Well then, I shall call you Hope.” Grace fluttered her wings and made a happy buzzing sound. There was a shimmering vibration of color that radiated through the air as she placed another petal on the larval chamber.

  And Little Coyote, too, seemed to feel a shimmer within. I have a name! I am Hope! I am not my father. I shall answer my calling! Although he was unsure what that calling might be, he knew he would answer it when the time came.

  Hope glanced at the petal Grace had just stuck on.

  “Calochortus plummerae — that petal you just stuck on. Right?”

  “Oh, my, Hope, you are a quick one.”

  “It’s a fancy name for desert lily, right?”

  “Right you are again. You’re going to go places, Hope. That you are!”

  “Thank you … thank you. You have given me so much, Grace. A name to start with, and now that I have a name … I can continue on my mission.”

  “Then get along … get along, dear.”

  “Dear.” She called me dear. No one had ever called him dear before. The very word was like a drop of honey.

  “I might see you again,” Grace said. “When the Gilia sinuata bloom. Lovely flower. Bluish. It’s as if tiny pieces of the sky have drifted to earth. ”

  “Yes, yes … when the gilia blooms.” And Little Coyote bounded off, leaping over a low bush bursting with purple blooms. Hope, my name is Hope!

  Grace was calling after him. “The bush you just leapt, it’s a catchfly — Silene antirrhina. Similar to but not to be mistaken for the …” But the bee’s voice was caught by the wind and carried away in the opposite direction.

  Estrella led on with Tijo on her back. After much anguished thought, she’d decided to stick to her original plan and not follow Haru’s orders to split the herd. The grass was hardly tasty in the region, but it satisfied their hunger. And there was no denying that they were making good time. The Mighties seemed closer each day.

  They were within a day’s run of the plains of the thunder creatures. The filly knew that these plains was inextricably linked to Tijo’s earliest memories — that of the white blanket he had been swaddled in as an infant, made from the hide of the thunder creature that Haru’s mate had brought down.

  Haru had described the scene of the hunt — how the massive herd of creatures rolled across the plains like a dark and tumultuous sky. Then, in the midst of this herd, a whiteness suddenly appeared. At first, the hunters thought it was a dust witch. The band was fearful and dropped back in its pursuit. All except Haru’s mate, Atah, who fearlessly charged forward and flung his spear. The other hunters gasped as they saw a spurt of dark blood against the blue of the sky. The creature was not a spirit, but made of flesh and bone. Atah was also clearly made of flesh and bone, for in the act of bringing down the beast, he had been felled himself and trampled to death. Nevertheless, it was his spear in the hide of the thunder creature, and therefore the hide belonged to his mate, Haru. Such were the rules of the clan.

  Tijo’s mind was filled with the vivid images of the story Haru had been telling him since he was an infant. Estrella, too, knew the story and felt a thrill at the prospect of seeing these thunderous herds. But it was with a blend of fear and hope, for across the plains the immense mountains known as the Mighties grew larger and more oppressive. Their ragged peaks loomed like the mouth of a beast ready to devour them. Should they have listened to the omo owl that sheltered Haru’s spirit? Estrella could turn the herd now. They could still go the long way. She glanced at them. Was it possible that despite this coarse grass, they had grown even thinner? Doubts began to swirl in her head.

  The herd gathered on a promontory overlooking a shallow basin they had to cross before reaching the plains. A chill wind sprang up and rattled the thin branches of the trees they stood under. The high clouds crawling above began to shred, revealing slashes of blue — blue like a river they had recently crossed. A single bird was framed between the clouds. Estrella tipped her head up and traced its flight. The bird was soaring effortlessly on the drafts of air and moving closer and closer to the highest of those ragged peaks of the Mighties. If only … Estella thought. If only to be a bird and soar over the crests. Then they would be safe. Then they would be beyond the reach of humans, of everything that threatened their existence as the first wild herd in this land. They needed to reach this safe place behind the mountains. This Beyond where the sweet grass grew. Estrella felt a sudden thudding in her veins, a quickening in her mind’s eye and on the very edge a glimmering. The tiny horse! This was a sign surely that they were on the right path.

  “The animals, Tijo, the ones you call the thunder creatures. They are big, aren’t they?” Estrella asked, trying to prepare herself for what lay ahead.

  Tijo’s eyes widened. “They are huge!”

  “How huge?”

  “From its withers to the ground, maybe about as tall as you, Estrella.”

  The filly was perplexed as she tried to imagine an animal that stood as tall as herself but wasn’t a horse. “Are they like deer?”

  Tijo thought how to explain this. He had only seen a thunder creature’s face once, when men of the Burnt River Clan had dragged back the carcass to the camp to butcher. “A thunder creature’s face is as long as I stand tall.”

  “What?” Estrella snorted and laid back her ears. It was freakish and profoundly disturbing to try to even imagine such a creature.

  “We have to be careful to stay out of their way. They can be very dangerous when they’re frightened.”

  “They sound like monsters, Tijo.”

  “We’re all monsters to ones who haven’t seen us before.”

  At this same moment, Pego stood under the cooling shade of the brush arbor the chieftain’s people had erected for him. They treated him well. Like a monarch. A god. The people of the clan approached him with a trembling deference, as if they did not just respect
this peculiar beast, but feared him.

  The wind shifted, and a new scent wafted on the warm morning breeze. A familiar scent. Pego whinnied nervously and pawed the ground. El Miedo! The dogs were stirring, as they had picked up the scent as well, and now the people were alerted. For the clan was so attuned to their dogs that the creatures did not even need to bark before the humans began moving out of their shelters, spears in hand. The chieftain strode toward Pego and swung up onto his back. Pego was anxious. He was a god to these Chitzen, but not to the Ibers. Not to El Miedo, who had been betrayed when Pego balked at the ravine, refusing to jump and then tossing the man onto the ground.

  The chieftain met El Miedo and his men at the edge of a grassy swale. Pego surveyed the scene and was instantly suspicious. The Iber men did not ride. Odd, he thought. The only creature they had brought with them was the mule Jacinto. Pego bared his teeth and whinnied shrilly. The chieftain stroked his shoulder to calm him. Me … need calming? thought Pego. Not me. You, my friend, will be the one who needs reassuring. I can throw you off in two seconds and be gone.

  The instant Pego spotted Jacinto with the heavy wooden chest strapped to his back and the two bulging saddlebags, he knew the plan. The game! It had begun. A strand of pearls dripping out of one of the saddlebags confirmed this.

  And now the seduction begins. How often had Pego seen this played out before. The Ibers would advance into a village, offering baubles in colors these people had never before seen. Bright twinkling jewels, all worthless glass beads, but still they caught the eye. The fabric, however, had the greatest appeal. There was all manner of richly embroidered cloth, some with designs of flowers or animals. A favorite of the Chitzen to the south showed illustrations from the Bible, and yet these people knew nothing of the Bible, the Virgin Mary, or the saints.

  Now, the two groups faced each other and a silent scene began to unfold. It was like a pantomime. Each gesture was greatly exaggerated by El Miedo and his men. The slow opening of the chest. The long strands of glass beads lifted and then spilling like liquid jewels in a shimmering waterfall. There was much bowing and head nodding. The chieftain appeared unmoved, but Pego could feel his knees grip harder and sensed a growing excitement in the man. Suddenly, the stallion felt a pair of eyes fastening on him. Jacinto. He had barely acknowledged the stupid beast, so why was the mule staring at him so hard?

  They’re doing it … Jacinto thought. Pego knows the Ibers’ deceit … I know it. Jacinto had seen this done before. In the beginning, the baubles and bright cloth captured the Chitzen’s imagination, and then the Ibers captured their bodies, enslaving them.

  Jacinto knew El Miedo was looking for the perfect place to build a city, not just a city but a capital in the New Land. The Iber had not given up on finding gold, but a city in many ways was as valuable as gold. A city could even draw gold to it, as a magnet draws iron filings. If he had a city, he would declare himself the governor general, the first in this territory. And every city needed a road leading to it. “El Camino … El Camino …” How often had Jacinto heard the captain say those words. This camino would not be simply a road, but a highway — El Camino Real to welcome His Majesty, the king, and his queen to the New Land. For that, he needed human workers who would become slaves just like Jacinto.

  You fool, Jacinto thought, looking at Pego. That chieftain you carry will soon be in a harness like me. And then the words that had haunted him since the night Yazz escaped burst in his mind. Why didn’t I go that night? Why didn’t I go! Because he had been too frightened. He was a coward. Only the brave deserve miracles. He felt the scout and a lieutenant remove the heavy chest from his back.

  Until this moment, these Chitzen had never seen an Iber. If they saw a gun, they, too, would flee, and El Miedo would lose his future slaves. “Ya habrá tiempo para las mosquetes y las pistolas. Créame. Ahora es el momento para la fe.” There will be time for muskets and pistols, but for now, faith.

  Faith. Jacinto laughed as he caught the word. He thinks his future slaves should have faith. He whinnied and twisted his head, feeling the pressure of the bridle against his face. “Faith for fools.” He brayed. “There is no such thing as faith.” But a gust of wind had blown up, shredding the sound of his voice, slamming the words back into his own long ears. What use anyhow? he thought. The Chitzen did not understand the language of mules or horses or Ibers.

  The Chitzen had been born wild. What did they know of Ibers and whips, and these people’s strange world of God, virgins, and priests? They would soon wear harnesses and be yoked into human jerklines — beast of the Iber burden and lust for gold.

  Before the first herd saw them, they smelled them. The musky scent of the thunder creatures rolled across the plains.

  “Are we halfway there, to the Mighties, do you think?” Verdad asked, trotting in place, unable to contain his excitement.

  “Verdad, you’ve been asking that since the last full moon!” Angela scolded gently.

  Estrella wrinkled her nostrils. It was a dark and damp night. Dew hung in the air. Thick clouds roiled across the sky, obliterating the stars. But still she could see the Mighties, and they did seem closer than ever. She was sure she had made the right decision. Had they gone around, there could have been rivers to cross, rivers with strong currents to swim against. The herd was energized now. There was a quickening to their steps. Even the old mares were infused with a new vigor.

  “I can’t see the Mighties; I can feel them,” Hold On snorted. And indeed there were cool drafts that must have blown down from their lofty peaks.

  “I remember,” Arriero spoke in a soft voice that signaled he was reaching through the past to the time when he was a war horse in the Old Land. “We were in the north, in the Sierra del, oh … how did they say it in the Iber tongue — árboles blancos, I believe.”

  “Oh, you mean birch trees, those thin white trees,” Corazón said.

  “Except nothing was white after the battle. It was all red with blood. We lost many. But the enemy lost more.” He snorted. “They might have changed the name to the Sierras del Sangre, the mountains of blood.”

  A shiver ran through Estrella. Had she made the right decision? Or would these plains turn red with their own blood? She knew that the horses would die before they would let themselves be captured again. She picked up the pace.

  Sensing her anxiety, Tijo leaned forward and stroked her neck, then changed the subject. “That smell is the hair of the thunder creatures. It’s long and thick, and gives off a strong scent.”

  “Do you mean their manes?” Hold On asked.

  Tijo shook his head. “They don’t have manes. Not like you.”

  “No manes?” Angela tsked in disapproval. “How sad. My dam always said my mane was my crowning glory. How she used to groom it.”

  “I groom it,” Corazón huffed.

  “Of course, dear, of course.”

  “If they don’t have manes, what do they have?” Sky asked, shaking his own mane to convey his shock.

  “It is as if all their pelt is a mane. It’s all long and shaggy. Each strand as long as this!” He pulled an arrow from his quiver.

  “By my withers!” Angela exclaimed. “It’s amazing they don’t trip over themselves with manes that long.”

  “They never trip,” Tijo replied as they continued to canter along in an easy loping gait.

  “Remember the Infanta Eleanora , daughter of the Princesa Sofia?” Angela asked. “She had braids down to her ankles, and she used to trip on them all the time.”

  “Until she died,” Corazón offered dryly.

  “Died?” Tijo asked. He rarely paid attention to the two old mares’ gossip. “From tripping on her braids?”

  “Oh, no,” Corazón replied. “One got caught in a carriage wheel. ¡Terminado!” The two old mares could on occasion be rather maudlin about their old days in the royal courts, and would unconsciously lapse into the language of the Ibers.

  “Were you pulling the carriage, Angela?” Estrella a
sked.

  “We both were,” Corazón replied.

  “You don’t seem terribly sad,” Estrella said, twisting her neck so she could exchange a glance with Tijo.

  “Oh, the Infanta Eleanora was a horrid little brat. Ghoulish. She had her servants sharpen her spurs when she would ride us and delighted to see blood run from our flanks.”

  “What?” Estrella asked, startled. She didn’t understand how the mares could speak so casually about such horrors.

  “It’s true,” Corazón said. “Oh, how we celebrated when she died.”

  “But then came the bad part.” Angela’s voice had lost its air of amusement, and her eyes had a slightly haunted look.

  “The bad part?” Sky asked. The herd had stopped cantering and was now gathered around, listening to the mares’ story. “What was the bad part?”

  “We were sold,” Angela said, closing her eyes, as if to shut out the painful parts of the memory.

  “Sold to different owners. We were separated for … what was it? Five years?” Corazón continued.

  “More like six,” Angela said.

  Estrella shuddered. She and Hold On had only been separated for a few weeks, and the pain had been nearly unbearable. That’s what it was like, being part of a herd. Losing a member was like losing a part of yourself.

  “You always exaggerate, Angela. It wasn’t six. But it felt like ten. I’ll never forget the day that you showed up. I had just weaned my little colt, and they took him right away to sell. I hadn’t even named him yet. He was such a beauty. Oh, how I ached for him! I thought my heart had broken, and I’d be alone for the rest of my life. But then suddenly in the pasture I saw a mare with spots on her muzzle coming toward me. I would recognize those spots anywhere. ‘Fea!’ I whinnied. For, as you all know, Angela had been named Ugly for the spots on her muzzle. But to me, she was not ‘Fea’ at all but the most beautiful sight in the world. My Fea was back. It was consolation after losing my colt …” She trailed off, the memory of the joyful reunion with Angela still marred by the shadow of grief.