Something outside himself seemed to have control of his mind and movements, and a powerful urge possessed him to leave the lodge. He had some sense of walking past other villagers; they seemed not men but ephemeral shapes, not quite transparent, not of ordinary density; he had no desire to speak to them or be spoken to.
By the time Hart reached the open desert, he knew he was not light-headed simply from the cleansing steam, but that a kind of freedom from the restraints of matter had stolen over him. He had somehow cut all ties to the material world. He was setting out on a great and seductive journey, which he must make alone, into an unknown dimension of reality, and nothing of the earth could stop his footsteps now.
Hart sat, naked but for a breechcloth, on the desert sand; tingling, expectant, he waited for whatever was to happen.
"You will recognize it, if your Power comes to you," Gokhlaya had said. "If none comes, you will not lie. If you did that, you or one you love would die." What if no Power comes, or if it comes and destroys me? he thought, suddenly seized by irrational panic. Why had he never asked, while there was still time, if the Power could be malevolent? Terror rose and receded, fear, curiosity, exhilaration, anxiety... as if one after another compartment of Hart's being was explored and emptied by some mysterious process over which he had no conscious control.
Never in my life have I simply sat and waited for the unknown, he told himself, and then he felt even his thinking process drain inexorably, as if stolen by the eternal quiet. Perhaps this is what the vigil of Death is like. He sat and waited for a moment or eternity, until a silence more profound than any he had ever dreamed lapped at him and sucked out what was left of his will. The being that had been Hart McAllister was gone, and what was left was enveloped unresisting in the keeping of the Unknown.
Sounds began to creep into his emptiness—night sounds, wind sounds, tree whispers, rocks speaking to each other—and then something more that he couldn't name. Feathers touched Hart's cheek and he reached out to seize the bird, but none existed, although he'd felt its powerful breath and heard its shrieking cry as it grazed his face with beating wings.
A great gust whistled by him, a cyclone against which it was impossible to breathe; Hart looked around himself in panic, for he'd been admonished not to move from his spot unless his Power led him, and he saw with astonishment that not a single grain of -and or clump of sagebrush had stirred in the still desert air.
Lights danced before Hart's eyes and he felt himself sucked up violently into a vortex that carried him high, high, higher into the heavens. He saw himself deposited upon a vast plain in a Place of Infinite Light. I am no longer alive... I am something else. Four noble horses pawed the ground to North, South, East, and West and he knew they were no earthly horses, for their coats gleamed iridescence and their eyes glowed red as coals.
"Ride!" a voice commanded him, and unable to resist, Hart moved toward the buckskin horse of the East. He knew it was the voice of one of the Grandfathers of the People that had commanded him, for he'd been told of the Old Ones who guided the ways of men, from the place of Spirit, but no one could have explained the incalculable age and power in the timbre of that awesome voice, and surely no mortal had the ability to resist it.
Hart was drawn first to the buckskin; the horse was like his own dun had seemed to him long ago, when he was young. Hart was suddenly atop the incredible beast without ever having mounted; he was riding, flying through the clouds toward the eastern horizon at a speed so dizzying, he had all he could do just to cling to the magical horse's back to keep from falling like Icarus to the earth, a million miles below.
The sun was rising at the same angle as the great buckskin's path, and as horse and rider rose, so rose the dawn to suffuse the world with blinding light.
"Have courage!" commanded the voice of the Grandfather of the East. "My Power shall be with you to shed enlightenment between two worlds. Long will your vision be seen by other men." The voice ceased and the horse froze into perfect immobility, so that Hart was catapulted from his back and whirled through the vortex, to the glittering withers of the great sorrel of the South.
Into the blazing heat of the afternoon sun the steed and the seeker plunged, until Hart felt his hair and skin and beard singed by unearthly fires. His heart pounded and his eyes were blinded by the clear yellow light, as he struggled to hold his seat on the mystical beast—but a dizzying weakness sucked out his strength and he had to clutch the mane like a desperate child.
"Help me, Grandfather!" Hart screamed, and he knew as the words were formed, what a perfect act of faith it was, for in that instant he believed with all his being that the Grandfathers held his fate in the palms of their ancient hands.
"The colors!" the mighty voice boomed out at him. "Now must you learn the rainbow of life!" And Hart saw himself transparent, as if made of glass, with colors rising up inexorably within him. Red from the base of the spine, robust and sexual; orange at the belly, emanating creativity and will and strength. A pulsing brilliant yellow at the solar plexus, of an incandescence he could not describe, and in that saffron color was all wisdom, in all time. Soon, green suffused his heart, the green of emeralds and malachites, of jade and moss and jasper and all the grass and trees on earth... all mixing and pulsating with love and harmony, health and abundance.
Hart found he could ride the magic sorrel now with ease, and as the colors grew within him, so did his ecstasy. Sky blue enveloped his throat and he was exalted, inspired, filled with radiant calm. The blue became indigo as it reached his forehead, it opened a new sense of seeing within him and without. A mystical borderland had been passed and Hart, for the first time, knew himself, and in so knowing, tasted wisdom.
Suddenly, white-gold light burst through the top of his head with a benevolent violence... he felt his body vibrating as if a tuning fork had been struck far out in the universe and his energy responded to it in resonance. He knew joy and sorrow, the consciousness of all humankind; a transcendent love of all people in all time, past and future, suffused him and harmonies from a thousand generations and voices rang in his ears from the Place of All Music.
The white-gold fountain turned to rainbow, and all the colors he'd experienced were pouring out of him in a great rainbow fountain that arced the universe, as he was toppled from the sorrel and whirled through space to the back of the great black steed of the West, who caught him on his gleaming hide as if he were no weightier than a feather.
An eagle, whose wingspan was greater than the Rockies, swooped close to Hart and he knew the great bird was the Grandfather of the West, in his favorite disguise. Mythic horse and mythic bird raced through the heavens at such speed, Hart could merely cling to the hurtling stallion as time and eternity whirled by beneath the flying diamond hooves.
Below, the path of two raging torrents wheeled into view—one white, the other red as blood. The mighty rivers came to a place where they ran side by side and before Hart's astonished eyes, the white waters swelled and the red dwindled to a trickle, until the white waters overran the red completely, and as the waters mingled, the sounds of screaming, dying voices rent the universe. The cries were echoed by the soaring eagle's shriek... thunder cracked from his talons, and lightning forked from his glistening eyes.
"Make haste!" the Grandfather's voice cried urgently to Hart. "The time is coming and you must be ready."
Then a torrent of rain burst forth from the thunderclouds, and Hart was washed from the horse's back and hurled dripping onto the great white steed who ruled the North.
"I am the Giver of Experience," the Grandfather's voice chimed out, like all the bells that had ever rung. "I teach the Law and the Light."
Then Hart knew the rain had ceased and the Light of the Spirit had cleansed him; so breathtakingly pure was the Light that bathed him, it broke his heart to know he would never again in life see such as this.
"Behold the Circle of the People, for it is sacred," rolled the Voice and the music of the spheres wrapped round him
. I am in the Place of All Music, he heard himself think as the voice rang out again. "It is holy and endless and all Powers shall be one Power in the People without end. They shall be scattered and go forth on the Red Road, but the Grandfathers shall walk with them in their exile, until their knowledge shall be needed, and the Earth shall call them back again to save her from destruction."
The great white stallion reared one mighty time, and Hart was flung from his back out, far out into the universe, amidst a cloud of colored stars. He felt himself floating back to earth gently as a feather on the wind, but he cried out for what was lost, like a desperate child, and as he felt himself sucked back into his physical body that lay on the desert floor, all the weight of matter and of ignorance and of darkness settled upon him, for he was no longer a Being of Light but only a man. My name... he begged, and the voice of the Grandfathers called in unison, "You are the Witness."
Hart wept for the profundity of his loss, and then he wept for what he'd gained. He sacrificed pollen to the Four Winds, as he somehow knew he must, and he stretched himself out on the desert sand, exhausted beyond all human comprehension, and waited for sleep or death, uncaring about which should find him.
When he awoke, he was no longer Matthew Hart McAllister who had been before. He was Firehair, the Witness. He was an Apache. He was a man possessed by his Power.
Hart made his way back to the tribe the following day and he was conscious that the men could see clearly the change that had been wrought in him. The warriors smiled knowingly as he passed, and he could feel a bond with them that had never before existed. He longed to be able to tell Destarte of the experiences that had so transformed him, but he knew he must not, for these were men's mysteries and most sacred. It made him sad that a story of such magnitude must be kept from her whom he loved, but she seemed to understand implicitly the sacredness of what had happened.
It was shortly after Hart's Power came to him that General Crook defeated the People, and the Chiracahua were returned to the San Carlos reservation. A special sorrow wracked Hart, for he knew the moment was fast coming when he must make choices that would decide the future for his wife and child, whom he so dearly loved.
Chapter 93
General Crook's buckskins had seen enough wear to conform to the outlines of his body of their own accord. He was an analytical man who had earned that worst of all military epithets, "maverick," by his determination to make his own judgments, not merely follow the dictates of leaders who were, too often, wrong.
He wore the garb of a scout, not a general, because it suited him and the climate; it also afforded him access to places and information other generals would never be privy to. He'd made it his business to learn the Indian mind, when first he'd been sent to Arizona, and the more he'd fathomed, the more he'd respected his adversary. Crook was tough, as a lifetime in the cavalry makes a man; he rode like a Comanche and shot like a horse thief, but he was also fair and put great store in honor and the sacredness of his given word.
He eyed the redheaded, red-bearded giant, who towered over Geronimo, with an amused and interested stare.
"Lose your way, young feller?" he asked, squinting upward into the sun at Hart as the group assembled for surrender.
"Or found a better one," Hart replied; there was manliness about the general, he noted, and no discernible swagger. Crook nodded, accepting the answer.
"State your business, then, son, and let's see if between us we can't make peace look as attractive as war does to your friends."
Hart had been delegated to speak for the People, to avoid any trickery of language the soldiers might employ.
"Geronimo, and the chiefs of the Chiracahua and Nedni bands, wish to know your policy toward the Apache, if they agree to return to San Carlos."
Crook scratched his chin and thought a minute before replying. "I can't say as I have what you could call a policy for Apaches... by the way what do I call you, son?"
"I am Firehair the Witness, to the tribe," Hart replied, surprised by the man's civility. "I was born Matthew Hart McAllister."
The general raised an eyebrow and examined Hart more closely; the young man was eloquent and educated and damn near the size of a barn. He couldn't help but wonder what on earth had placed him in Apache garb, in the midst of an Apache surrender. It was obvious he was trusted by the chiefs and his Apache name suggested he'd been through vision quest, a most interesting conundrum.
"Today I speak for the People as Geronimo's representative, so perhaps my tribal name would be best."
The general smiled a little. "Firehair it is, then; can't say it isn't appropriate.
"In answer to your question, I guess I'd have to say it's always seemed to me a man is a man, red or white, and should be treated accordingly. I have orders from the President that I intend to carry out and they include getting all the bands back onto the reservation with all due haste, but I've got a thing or two to say that come from me and not from Washington.
"The simple fact is, the white settlers are crowding in all over this territory, game is going to get scarcer and the hunting grounds are going to become farmlands. It will be far better in the long run for the Apache to make up his mind to plant and to raise livestock. If they can do that, in no time they could be wealthier than the Mexicans, for the simple reason that they're more industrious.
"I have no desire whatsoever to punish any man or woman for the sins of the past. So long as the Apaches behave themselves, I'll do my damnedest to assure them of the fullest protection of the U.S. Army. But I'm telling you straight, son, if they stay on the warpath, I'll hunt them down every man, woman, and papoose, if it takes me fifty years to do it. I'm a soldier and I'll do my duty as the Lord gives me the light to see it." The general's mouth was a tight line that left no question of his intent.
"But this much I'll give my word on, Firehair, I'll not tell one story to you and another somewhere else, I'll not make promises I can't keep and I'll play square with you, if you play square with me."
Geronimo, who had listened carefully to every word, conferred a moment with Naiche, then stepped forward.
"We will need our sacred hunting grounds."
"That I can't give you, Geronimo," Crook replied, unflinching. "Those lands have gold and farms I'm sworn to protect. The best I can offer you is arable land in the vicinity of San Carlos."
Hart glanced at his friend's consternation.
"The chiefs need time to discuss your offer, General," he said. "They've heard promises before and while they respect your word, sir, they have reason to doubt that the government will follow through on what you promise." Geronimo nodded to Naiche and the two men walked away to hold council with the other elders.
Crook lowered his voice so only Hart could hear. "You let them talk all they want, Firehair McAllister, but you know well as I do they haven't the chance of a snowball in hell unless they do as I say."
"And not much more than that, if they do, General. You and I both know General Sherman said 'The more Indians we kill this year, the less we'll have to kill next,' and his lackey Sheridan thinks the only good Indian is a dead one."
Crook pursed his lips and looked at Hart speculatively.
"Where'd you hear that, son?" Crook asked.
"At Yale, sir," Hart replied, and the general choked back a smile.
"Well, then, if you're smart enough to know all that, you're smart enough to know there isn't any fairness to life, and not a whole hell of a lot of justice either. I respect the Apache as men and warriors, but I also know their days are numbered. Do what you can, son, I can see these men are your friends."
With that the general left Hart standing in the hundred-degree desert heat, the truth of what he'd stated making his own decisions all the more difficult. The Apache had no choice but to do as the general bade them—Matthew Hart McAllister could take his wife and child and leave.
The Chiracahua and the Nedni returned to the country close to Camp Apache, near the headwaters of Turkey Creek
and the White River, all part of the San Carlos Reservation. Firehair, Destarte, and Charles Paint-the-Wind went with them.
"What would a woman of your kind do to show her love?" Destarte asked Hart as she patted the cheek of their sleeping son. He'd grown handsome, as well as intelligent, this young son of two worlds. Even Gokhlaya had remarked that the boy showed strength and promise far beyond his years; he was larger than the other boys, taking in everything he saw and digesting it in his own way, often startling his parents with his observations. He is the best of both of us, the young mother thought with pride; he will be a great warrior. Destarte straightened, still kneeling, and smoothed her dark silken hair back from where it had fallen forward on her face; the gesture made her look soft and vulnerable.
Hart watched, amused and in love; she asked often about white women, wanting to know everything about their skills and seductions. It pleased him because he thought it meant his wife of many summers loved him as much as he loved her.
"Nothing nearly so wonderful as what you do, my Destarte."
"I really wish to know," she pressed, not intending to be put off with flattery. "They are my rivals for your heart and I wish to know what magic they could use to lure you from me."
Hart laughed softly; when he did, the skin at the corners of his eyes wrinkled a little and his heavy eyebrows came together to form a furrow in his brow. His skin had darkened with constant exposure to the elements and his hair had burnished in the harsh sun until it gleamed with a thousand yellow glints among the deep copper.
Paint the Wind Page 66
