Indian Affairs (historical romance)

by Parris Afton Bonds

  And, yes . . . yes, I am selfish enough to blaspheme my marriage vows. Selfish enough to forge a new life for myself based on who I am now, not what I was then.

  * * * * *

  At that altitude, rime coated the withered strawberry vines in the morning. Winter would be coming. Then the Be-Still Time, when there would be no riding of iron-shod horses, singing, wood chopping, or even hair-cutting within the plaza walls. Mother Earth would sleep.

  In his heart, his body, his soul, Bear Heart knew that sleep would not come easily for him for a long time, if ever. This white woman’s spirit called to his. Yes, his body wanted hers. If it were as easy as that, he would continue to mate with her and calm his lust. She was as much a part of his rhythm as was Wind Old Woman and Night People and Corn Woman.

  The inviolate mystery of the gods summoned her from afar for him to heal . . . but for him to love?

  Where then was his duty to his people? Could he become as his friend Tony, leave the tribe and forsake his calling as a shaman for this woman with her funny name and her funny ways? Then, too, what would become of Mud Woman? Could he hurt so many for just one? Could he deny the one for so many?

  This woman was blind and deaf to her inner strength, her undiminished beauty even in its most ravaged state, her ferocity when cornered, her resiliency in the face of odds that would crush another. A powerful woman this. When she awakened, she would discover her weapons, her gifts. She would be formidable. And, as always, desirable.

  If she didn’t die first. Not from lung weakness. From starvation. She was starving for love.

  Were she his, he would not storm her portal and take it rapaciously as he had before, but he would approach her with reverence, as one does the sacred, ceremonial kiva. She was that circular, ceremonial house that represented female fertility within Mother Earth and entered by runged poles. He would kiss the soft rosy lips that were a replica of her inner folds, and sink his sex into her womb, into her dark, compliant earth. Just as a high priest, with deep respect and adoration, he would enter her. Enter her womb until ecstasy, like that reserved for especially religious ceremonies, took possession of the heart, the body, the spirit. He needed her. Her heavenly magic, her earthly majesty.

  These thoughts occupied his usually calm and centered mind as he and the white woman descended canyon after canyon, ever following the Rio Pueblo from its Blue Lake source to the Pueblo plaza.

  At the plaza, all appeared as usual — the men lounging against a sunny wall and rolling corn husk cigarettes, the children wading among the stream’s bulrushes, a barefoot old woman splitting cedar for adobe ovens that resembled brown breasts. The wheat that went into a woman’s bread making, wheat the man had sown and scythed from the fields, this wheat was flesh of their flesh. In the winter, the men sang rhythmic grinding songs to their women as they cleaned away the chaff and ground the wheat. So life giving.

  Yet something dark hovered over the village.

  Then he saw Tony. The blanketed Indian strode with quiet purpose toward him. Only at the last minute did Tony seem to notice the white woman. He greeted her with a grave nod, then spoke to him in the Tiwa language. “The man Henri, he has been shot. Outside the Picuris Pueblo. Doc Martin says no good. For you to come.”

  Bear Heart glanced at Alessandra, weighing if he should tell her. He suspected his friend Henri also loved this woman. Her indomitable spirit overshadowed all other bands of light. Like Henri, she respond to Life’s questions.

  “Henri is hurt. Come with me.”

  Her eyes wide, she nodded.

  Off the plaza, a windowed alcove in a big adobe’s southwest corner served as Doc Martin’s delivery and surgery room simply because it afforded the best natural light. Many old-time Taoseños were affectionately known as ‘Martin’s babies.’

  Not a baby but a dying man lay on the alcove’s examination table. Doc Martin’s weathered, wrinkled face looked grim. “Henri took a hit in the chest.” He held up a mushroomed bullet. “A 30-ought, most likely.” The doctor’s droopy eyes shifted to Alessandra and then fastened on him. “Henri is bleeding internally. Massive bleeding I can’t get to. Nothing more I can do.”

  Alessandra gasped and tried to edge past the doctor, but he held her firm. She glanced over her shoulder. “Man, please!”

  “I can look?”

  Doc Martin nodded and stepped aside. Bear Heart left Tony and crossed to the table. He picked up Henri’s still-warm hand. No life pulsed there. But his spirit hovered near. Trying to intuit what was wanted, Bear Heart stared at Henri’s noble brow, the closed lids behind the shattered glass lenses, the pallid face and blood-speckled lips.

  Did Henri’s soul want to remain?

  Bear Heart wanted deeply to help his friend, but Bear Heart’s power animal, Brother Raven, whispered, “Be Careful.” He felt great pressure and a twinge of anxiety with these others in the room looking on. Breathing deeply and slowly, he began to raise his own energy.

  Remember the connection we have with all life. Remember our connection with other circles in nature — the moon, the sun, the earth, the drum.

  He felt life force pumping through him, coming in through and going out into the hand he held. He felt cosmic blood pulsating through every vein of his body. A tremendous amount of heat rose up through him, into his solar plexus and arms, into his chest and, lastly his face, suffusing it with heat. He felt very big. Bigger than the room. His thoughts centered on his heart. On guard against evil. He was drawing from the power of Life and giving back to it at the same time.

  It was time to begin.

  He splayed his upper torso diagonally across Henri’s body, his heart positioned over his friend’s, and he began to chant. Softly, at first. Then, moderately faster, until his mind whirred, until he no longer was aware of who he was.

  He had the sensation of slipping down through his drum, down through its tree’s core, down through the holy cedar tree trunk, down into the Lower World where he went for soul retrieval.

  Brother Raven perches on a limb, awaiting.

  How is Henri’s soul?

  Raven explains, “It has been stolen from its body by an enemy. Not of Henri’s but of the Ancient Ones.”

  “I want to talk to Henri’s soul.”

  “Then you must follow me to the Middle World.”

  To move through and past time and space, the journey is always scary. The soul might get caught up in otherworldly things, unable to return to earth’s siren song.

  With Brother Raven on his shoulder, Bear Heart can travel to the Nonordinary World and walk with stealth to the river’s edge. Standing by the canoe, waiting, is a member of the Ghost Clan. He wears a Kachina death mask.

  Politely, Bear Heart asks, “Take me to Henri’s soul.”

  The Ghost Clan Kachina’s coal-glowing eyes search his soul, determining if he is a One-Heart or Two-Heart, then nods acquiescence.

  Paddled by the Kachina, the canoe floats in the dark along the underground river that is Henri’s lifeline. Sulfur fills the dense air. Somewhere, water boils, hissing like a dragon. Steam pours forth like lost souls frantically searching. Bear Heart’s pulse pounds harder. The thought to become lost here for eternity terrifies even his soul.

  At last, the canoe comes to rest beneath Blue Lake. The Kachina’s head rotates to face him. The mask is smirking.

  Brother Raven shrieks a loud “Caw,” and with rapidly beating wings, streaks upward. Bear Heart follows, swimming against the water, until a subterranean current lassoes him, pushing up, up. He has no breath left.

  Far above, Brother Raven flies upward through the ascending whirlpool. Bear Heart must follow. Chest bursting for want of air, he emerges into the Fifth World.

  Henri sits cross-legged on the banks of Blue Lake, exactly where the woman Alessandra stood, her beautiful white body contrasting with her midnight-darkened hair. Brother Raven perches on Henri’s shoulder.

  Henri rises, smiling sadly. His eyeglasses are still cracked. “I’ve been waiti
ng, Man.” He reaches his right hand out to touch Bear Heart’s chest, where his heart pounds. “I knew you would come.”

  “I’ve come to bring you back, if your soul wishes, my friend.”

  “I would like that, but — look.” Henri’s hand sweeps out, indicating the vista.

  Where the once blue mountain range shimmered like wave after wave as far as eye can see . . . as far as eye can see, in the far distance, is water. Only the Pueblo Land rises above the water. Where once sand had blown, now lush trees grow.

  “I must stay here to help the Fifth World. True to your People’s prophecy, the old countries of India, China, Egypt, Palestine, and Africa destroyed the world you come from.”

  He nods. “I understand.” His hands clasp Henri’s thin shoulders. “Farewell, friend.”

  Returning to the Ordinary World is more difficult for him because he is exhausted. With an immense flapping of wings, Brother Raven leaves him when they reach the Sacred Cedar Tree.

  Alessandra’s tortured wail drew him back through time and space into the doctor’s room. Drained, Man opened his eyes, straightened, and worked to re-center himself before he turned to those in the room who watched, waited anxiously. Alessandra, her palms covering her face, wept softly.

  He spoke with truth, with compassion for her, wishing to shield her from all pain, if only he could. “Our friend’s heart is no longer right for here.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Driven by a chilly north wind, tumbleweed bounced across Kit Carson Cemetery’s mounds, each one topped by a blue cross. Alessandra hadn’t seen Man in the three days since Henri’s death at Doc Martin’s clinic. Here, looking across the collection of fresh flowers, she saw no passion in Man’s eyes. Only deep compassion.

  Sympathy, pity, compassion. She cringed at these passive sentiments. She wanted his raging-against-life/death-passion again. At the moment though, her need of his passion warred with her need for vengeance. She still couldn’t quite comprehend that Henri was no longer.

  Father Joe, his fat concealed in his black cassock, finished the last of the requiem. No family, no wife, stood there to mourn.

  At Peg’s request, Man began to speak, performing the Indian burial ritual Henri would have wanted. Man’s patrician face held no emotion. His prayer was simple, short, powerful.

  “. . . that you would fall asleep of old age, my friend. Since this cannot be so, then, like great priests, may you join the Cloud Beings rather than make the four days’ journey to the Land of the Dead.”

  Then Man sprinkled the sacred corn meal to the four winds. Solemn-faced, some sniffling, the locals turned to file away. To return to living through their allotted days until their moment for transition also came.

  Man’s touch on her arm stopped her. Her vision blurring with unshed tears, she stared up, up at him in silent question.

  He took her hand and placed Henri’s beret in her palm. Inside the cap was a fired cartridge.

  “Where did you get this?” she whispered.

  “I backtracked to where Henri was found shot.”

  She searched his face. “Do you know who shot him?”

  He shrugged. “What for it matters?”

  She gaped. “It matters, goddamnit, because whoever fired — ”

  He turned his back, stopping her tirade, then left her to walk with dignity and self-containment toward his pueblo.

  The mourners adjourned to Los Gallos, its hand-painted door draped with a black wreath. Alessandra’s sorrow and grief and rage at Henri’s death was muted in the presence of the people who had come to pay their respect to the courageous little man. But afterward . . . when the mourning period was over, she raged again, ready to do battle. The fierce anger simmering inside her demanded she do no less.

  * * * * *

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” Peg asked.

  “Very.” Alessandra paced the Rainbow Room. She rubbed her palms together. Thinking. Thinking. How do I pull this off? She wouldn’t go into this admitting anything but the prospect of winning. Wasn’t that how Brendon fought? Never underestimate the opponent?

  The saying was “You can’t fight City Hall.” Well, she could and she would. And she would win. She felt so angry. Incredibly angry. Only shattering something would serve to vent her frenzied wrath. So she would shatter this governmental conspiracy to rob the Pueblos of their lands! She would do that for Henri!

  But she, and the Puebloans, needed so much more than rage to win this battle. They needed legal advice. Money. Political muscle.

  The process overwhelmed her . . . until she reminded herself one step at a time. “I’ll need transportation to the Pueblos . . . and an interpreter,” she said.

  “Tony can drive you in my Ford to the ones accessible by automobile, but as far as interpreting . . . Well, you know, since he married me, he’s not permitted at the Pueblo council meetings.”

  Alessandra paused to slide a sideways glance at the older woman. Deep in her own thoughts, Peg plied her amber knitting needles almost viciously. “Do you think Man would? That is . . . do the interpreting for me?”

  Peg shifted uncomfortably. “Shamans don’t usually become involved in politics.” She didn’t look up from her knitting. “Their business is in the spiritual field.”

  “You’re hedging. Say what it is you’re really thinking.”

  The steady clicking of the needles halted. Peg looked up, her gaze anxious. “Alessandra, are you prepared for the consequences?”

  “Like what?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  She looked Peg in the eye. “I love Man.” The admission startled herself no more than it did Peg. “I love Man as you do Tony. Look, I’m not asking him to commit to me, Peg. I’m only asking for him to commit to this fight for his people’s rights.”

  “For God’s sake, Alessandra, have you even given thought to the danger involved? The Anglos and the Hispanics don’t want a coalition of the Pueblo tribes. They don’t want anything to disturb the status quo. That’s why someone killed Henri. Do you truly think it can’t happen to you? Or Man? At least, consider his safety, if you won’t your own.”

  “Potts did it.”

  “What?”

  “Ed Potts. He shot Henri. The night Potts showed up at our Indian Defense Meeting at the Blumenscheins’s, Potts was toting a British Enfield. Specially made in 1917 to adapt to our Springfield 30-06. Remember, I’m a military brat.”

  Peg rolled her eyes. “A lot of rifles fire a 30-06.”

  “Yes, with a rimless cartridge.” She reached into her housedress pocket and withdrew the rimmed casing. “But a British Enfield uses this — ” she held up the fired cartridge “ — a 303 rimmed case caliber.”

  Peg’s eyes widened. “Where did you get that?”

  “Man gave it to me at the funeral. Told me he had backtracked to the area where Henri had been found shot.”

  Peg laid her knitting beside her bags of colorful wool on the banco. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing. It still doesn’t prove beyond all doubt Potts did it, does it? Besides, do you seriously think the authorities would do anything? A girl’s raped over at Peñasco. A Penitente is found dead, nailed to a cross outside a morada. Two Mexican youths stab each other over a girl at a Saturday-night baile. Do county authorities bother investigating the incidents? No. Why? Because no one wants to change the status quo. Which is what Henri was trying to do. Which is what I’m committed to do, by God!”

  * * * * *

  In one of her rare moments of self-searching, Alessandra admitted that commitment to the artists’ crusade for Indian rights was not totally in behalf of Henri’s memory. It was also and largely . . . self-serving. Not love but anger flared her dormancy into full-blown, outraged Life.

  Strange, she thought, how humans let the awful events of their own lives trample them, beat that life down like tall grass before marching conquerors. But devastation in the life of a dear one elicits a superhuma
n strength to do combat against the most formidable of foes.

  Man was right. There was nothing like walking, and the sun, to soothe the mind’s troubles, smooth the soul’s rough edges. The walk to the Pueblo served her as a respite for reflection. No duties to be attended to, no human distractions . . . only the distraction of nature. The warm fall day overflowing with its slowly gathering charm.

  On one side of her spread the cemetery strewn with pale blue crosses, one of those Henri’s. But on the other side, Life went on like Nature. Strong, resourceful, suffer as it may. Red sap had coursed out of the willow trees like her monthly flow—drops of blood, vital and resplendent with Life, within the cycle shared with Death. Green piñon, cedar and sage emitted fresh, pungent oils they mined from the living earth. The autumn morning’s high, illuminating light cast its magic over the halcyon, rose-colored Pueblo.

  She walked in long, purposeful strides. Energy welled in her, suffused her blood, her cells, every dancing atom in her body. Purposeful energy, directed. Today, at least, she felt truly alive.

  The Indians now acknowledged her with their eyes, gave her their faces. For this she was grateful. Horses whinnying, chickens clucking, men singing, drums beating, women chatting, children laughing. The Pueblo’s pleasant, everyday activities revealed to her the quiet joy found in simplicity and living in harmony with Nature.

  With Henri’s cherished possession in hand, she walked on through the village. Beyond its crumbling outer wall, she abandoned the Rio Pueblo’s path to follow the mother ditch that gave its life flow to wheat and alfalfa fields, fields that had opened themselves to the plow, opened themselves to be fertilized.

  The sharp clanging of an axe guided her to Man’s adobe. In back, near the ramada, he worked shirtless. Doing what she wanted to do: shattering something physical. Beneath his smooth, hairless brown skin, muscles in his shoulders knotted and rippled. Chips spurted with each downswing of the axe. The already dead aspen tree trunk cracked cleanly in half, then in fourths.