by Len Levinson
“In a way.”
“How did you become so big?”
“A gift from the mountain spirits.”
"I must prepare for the dance,” the boy said, drawing backward. “It will be fun. The women are making tizwin.”
“Whaf s tizwin?"
“Something to drink.”
Running Deer pointed to a fire, where a woman stirred an iron pot, then he departed. Nathanial followed him as far as his eyes would permit. He walks like my father. Nathanial then recalled his other son and daughter, who resided with his first wife, a Mexican named Maria Dolores Barrington, in Santa Fe. He hadn't seen them since he remarried, and reckoned that little Carmen was two, and the boy Zachary Taylor Barrington, would be about Running Deer's age. I've got women and children all over the North American continent, mused Nathanial. What kind of man would do such things?
In Santa Fe, not far from the Palace of Governors, Maria Dolores Barrington was having dinner with her two children. “I've made an important decision today,” she said, hoping to convince them with her self-assurance. She was a tall, large-boned woman with a surging bosom and straight black hair gathered into a bun behind her head. “The most important element in a man's life is education, and I have decided to send you, Zachary, to a boarding school in the East.”
The boy was a rosy-cheeked replica of his father, minus the beard. “I'm not going,” he said casually as he speared an enchilada with his fork.
“You should not make up your mind before you hear what I say.”
“I don't care what you say,” the boy retorted. “I'm staying here.”
“But schools are better in the East, and your father's relatives are wealthy and influential. I don't think you realize how important is education.”
“I don't care what you say,” said the boy. “No.”
“What if I insist?”
“I don't care.”
Little Carmen piped up. “I want brother here.”
“You can study in the East as well when you're old enough,” Maria Dolores told her.
“You want to get rid of us,” said Zachary, so you can be alone with him.”
The children hated her man, whose name was Mc-Cabe and who lived in one of their mother's hotels. Maria Dolores blushed before her children. “It's not true.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” said Zachary. “I want to be here when my father returns.”
Maria Dolores paused to recollect herself. “But he's not returning, Zachary. You father has been killed by the Apaches.”
The boy leapt to his feet and pounded the table with both hands. “No—no—no!” he hollered.
Carmen copied everything her big brother did, so she joined heartily in the protest. “My papa alive!” she screamed.
Maria Dolores wanted to smack them, but the death of their father had shaken them deeply, as it had her. It also caused them to hate her new man, whom they suspected, in their young minds, of causing their father to leave home.
Maria Dolores had learned to her dismay that characteristics she disliked in her former husband, such as thick-headed stubbornness, had been transmitted to their children. “You do not need to go East,” she said wearily, “but maybe you will change your mind next year.”
“I'll never change my mind!” shouted Zachary.
Juh crawled into Jocita's wickiup. “How do you feel?” he asked.
She lay still, except for faintly moving lips. “I want you to do me a favor,” she whispered. “I want Running Deer to have the power of the bat.”
“But he is too young!”
“In the old time boys rode even younger than he.”
“True, but Running Dear. . . is a delicate child.”
“Riding lessons will toughen him, and Geronimo is your cousin. He will do it if you ask.”
“How can I refuse you?”
“You have done far worse than refuse me, I am afraid.”
“Why can't you forgive me?” he pleaded.
“Because you do not deserve to be forgiven. In your heart you are Ghost Face.”
Her words felt like lashes on his heart. “If you were a man, I would kill you.”
“If I were a man, I would have killed you long ago.”
“Once we loved each other, and now we threaten to kill each other. How low we have sunk.”
"You have sunk, not I,” she accused.
“What about your Pindah lover?” he inquired sarcastically. “Don't pretend to be chaste with me, my dear wife. Perhaps, to impress you with the seriousness of my love, I should kill him.”
“Look at me,” she replied.
He leaned closer and peered into eyes burning like red-hot coals. “If you kill him,” she said evenly, “you will need to look over your shoulder the rest of your life . . . for me.”
In New York City, on the north side of Washington Square, the postman placed mail into the slot of a three-story brick building and heard it fall to the floor on the other side. While departing, he heard footsteps, then the door opened. A Negro maid in black uniform and gray apron stood with a handful of letters. The postman accepted them, then the maid picked up the delivered mail and closed the door in the postman's face.
The maid, Belinda, carried letters into the fashionably appointed home, frowning when she found one marked New Mexico Territory. Her mistress, Amalia Barrington, had been bedridden since her son had been killed by wild Indians in New Mexico Territory, and Belinda hoped it wasn't more bad news.
She carried the letter through the parlor, where paintings of Barrington ancestors stared down at her. Belinda had been a house slave on a plantation in South Carolina, then Nathanial bought her, set her free, and found her a job in his mother's home. Still, she performed chores as in South Carolina, but now was paid for her labor, saved money, and her son attended school.
She climbed the stairs, passing a painting of Nathanial in his West Point uniform, sword at his side. If the truth be told, Belinda and Nathanial had felt a certain attraction, but neither dared cross that treacherous color line. Belinda walked down a corridor and knocked on the door.
“What is it?” asked a faint voice on the other side.
“A letter from your daughter-in-law.”
Belinda opened the door, and a wave of mustiness struck her nostrils. “You should let me open the windows, Mrs. Barrington.”
“Leave them alone,” said the figure on the bed.
Belinda placed the envelope into the pale, withered hand. “Can I bring you anything, madame?”
“I want to be alone,” sighed the voice beneath the covers.
Belinda closed the door, then paused in the corridor, ear glued to the door. She heard the tear of paper, then the letter was unfolded eagerly. Belinda wondered what news it contained, but she had much work to do, for she and her husband, Otis, another of Nathanial's former slaves, managed everything themselves, including caring for horses in the stable.
On the other side of the door Amalia Barrington read the letter rapidly. A bony wizened woman with uncombed gray hair, she prayed Nathanial had been found alive, but instead he'd finally made captain, although he couldn't enjoy the honor. A tear came to Amalia's eye because he'd wanted so desperately to make captain. Perhaps he tried to impress his commanding officers by exposing himself needlessly, and got killed, reasoned Amalia.
She believed herself responsible for Nathanial's death, because she'd encouraged him to apply for West Point, recognizing that he needed discipline. When a plebe, he'd wanted to resign, but she'd forced him to continue. Now he was dead, due to her insistence
Only the prohibitions of the Episcopal church prevented her from committing suicide. She felt like a failure because her husband had left her for a younger woman, and then she'd killed her son. I destroy everything I touch, she thought, then read the rest of her daughter-in-law's letter. She'd known Clarissa as a child, and considered her an outstanding musician.
Amalia discovered that Clarissa had become mother of a healthy baby, the fi
rst good news since Nathanial had been killed. The child had been named Natalie, because the name was similar to Nathanial. Ordinarily, Amalia saw no point in getting out of bed, but she was moved to open one of the windows, put on her robe, and sit in her chair, to read the letter again. Nathanial will live in Natalie, thought Amalia. All is not lost.
The Apache camp was still as the sun sank behind distant mountains. Nana, carrying a clay drinking cup, strode toward Nathanial. “Have some of this,” he said.
Nathanial never questioned the remedies of Nana, so opened his lips and let the di-yin pour sour tangy liquid into his mouth.
“It will make you see strange things,” explained Nana.
It would be difficult to find anything stranger than this camp, reflected Nathanial.
“Subchief Juh has invited you to join him and his family at his wickiup.”
Nana nodded to his apprentices, who lifted Nathanial's bed and carried him across the encampment. Children walked alongside, staring at him curiously. Weak, asleep most of the time, his body was mending, and he hoped to be upright in a matter of months.
Nathanial spotted a figure lying on a grass bed in front of a wickiup and realized it was Jocita. Only her bloodless face could be seen, the rest of her covered with soft buckskin, yet her cold beauty stirred him in areas that he thought had become permanently disabled. His bed was placed a few feet from hers, and nearby sat Juh, an unhappy, artificial smile disturbing his swarthy features.
“I must thank you again,” said Juh stolidly, “for saving my wife's life.” From beneath piles of skins he withdrew Nathanial's bloodstained blue uniform with a bullet hole in the back, plus his rifle, two pistols, ammunition, saddlebags, and even his wide-brimmed vaquero hat, marred by a few drops of blood. “for you,” he said.
The camp fell silent as the glowing red orb kissed mountainous sprawls on the purple horizon. To Nathanial's left a rank of men sat on the ground, drums between their knees, swathes of black cloth covering their faces. Not far off sat more musicians with crude one-stringed lutes. Fire crackled in the pit, and an explosion in a log sent sparks flying.
Nathanial noticed movement higher up the mountain, and his hair stood on end at the sight of creatures with fantastically shaped heads descending toward the camp. They looked like monsters, but then common sense intervened, and he realized they were Apache warriors in costumes, with bizarre, tall headdresses and knee-length kilts.
In a line they descended toward the camp, their faces painted with esoteric designs, scepters in their hands. Nana moved closer to Nathanial. “They are called the Gahn, and they represent the mountain spirits who once lived among us, and treated us as their children.”
A roll of drums assaulted Nathanial's ears, and the lutists began to pluck. It was no slow waltz, or even a Virginia reel, but a frantic driving beat. The dancers circled the fire, waving their scepters and kicking high. One of them, all in black, leapt into the air, seemingly defying the laws of gravity. The dance appeared erratic and insane, unlike the smooth choreography that Nathanial had seen in ballrooms or theaters. What madness is this? he wondered.
He tried to keep an open mind, yet could not deny there was something savage and frightening in the erratic movements. It was unreal, unlikely, totally new. A chant began among warriors and women as they joined the masked dancers. They're thanking their pagan gods for helping them steal livestock, Nathanial surmised. How odd.
The last sliver of sun disappeared beneath jagged mountains, the sky pulsated with blue and red streaks, and Nathanial felt mildly intoxicated. Strange multicolored elves cavorted in tongues of flame arising from the fire, reminding him of a painting by Hieronymous Bosch. I wonder what poison they put into that tizwin.
The shoulders of the drummers rolled in unison as they pounded stretched antelope skins. Children and dogs joined the dancers, everyone supplying his or her expression of the beat. This was not a prim and proper gavotte, with everyone's foot pointing in the proper direction. It was whatever the dancer wanted it to be, provided one kept the beat.
Nathanial's masculine eyes paid special attention to women silhouetted by roaring flames, shaking their buttocks and breasts beneath deerskin skirts. Occasionally one would whirl, and a certain lascivious officer would receive a glimpse of dusky leg. Even in his weakened condition, Nathanial could feel sparks of desire rekindling his veins.
“Another drink?” asked Nana.
The di-yin took Nathanial's clay cup and filled it with murky brown liquid from a matching clay pitcher. If my medicine man says it's good for me, who am I to disagree? Nathanial asked himself as Nana raised the cup to his lips.
The West Pointer drained the putrid-tasting liquid; it burned all the way down. What am I worried about? he asked himself. Why don't I simply relax? The eyes of the masked musicians glittered in the firelight, and all around the campsite, warriors, wives, maidens, children, and dogs gamboled merrily.
Even Victorio joined the festivities, and then Juh dived into the throngs, disappearing behind swarms of dancers. The great chief Mangas Coloradas emerged from the crowd, hopping on one foot, then the other.
They're celebrating the renewal and rebirth of their tribe, Nathanial realized, and it's similar to the Mass in Christendom, except a roast haunch of mule is a far cry from a holy wafer, and a sip of sacramental wine does not produce the same effect as tizwin. Nathanial's head spun as gaudy colors exploded within his eyeballs. He tried to arise from bed, but fell backward onto the straw.
He wondered if his eyes were deceiving him, because it appeared that bare-ass naked women were dancing salaciously at the edge of the gathering, shaking their hips lewdly, naked breasts bobbing in the cool night air.
“They are the bizahn women,” whispered Nana. “Not bad, eh?”
“Are my eyes playing tricks, or are they naked?”
Nana smiled. “Your eyes are not playing tricks. They are widowed and divorced women, and they are trying to win articles of value.”
Nathanial considered himself a man of the world, but never had he witnessed a spectacle like bizahn women. They swiveled their hips suggestively, licked the air with their tongues, and held their breasts before the drooling faces of warriors.
It was erotic beyond anything Nathanial had ever witnessed, and deep in his heart he'd always wanted to make love with a dark-skinned female, whose passion would melt the meat from his very bones, or so he hoped. But he couldn't move, and then realized the most beautiful Apache of all lay a short distance away, Jocita herself, the warrior queen. He struggled to turn toward her, and for the first time, his neck gave way; she fell into his vision.
She was looking directly at him. “Thank you for saving my life,” she said simply. “Were you lost when you rode in the direction of the People's retreat?”
“I didn't want my comrades to put you in jail or shoot you. I knew exactly what I was doing, but didn't expect to get shot.”
“The mountain spirits guided your hand,” she said.
Even in his infirmity, he could imagine her naked beneath buckskin blankets, those long muscular legs and limpid bottomless eyes. And he knew that after he was well, he would endanger his life and hers in an effort to kiss her. The luscious large-breasted bizahn women at the fire paled in comparison with Jocita of the smoldering eyes. No, I definitely must not follow my natural instincts with this woman, Nathanial cautioned himself, and I shall exercise my much-vaunted self-discipline to the maximum, because most of all, I want to return home to my beloved wife, whom I hope hasn't married another gentleman by now.
The identical crescent moon shone on Fort Craig, where Clarissa Barrington made her way down Officer's Row. She wore a plain black wool suit, which a New York seamstress had made for her, beneath a long black leather coat from A.T. Stewart's in the same city.
It was her first social evening since the birth of Natalie, a reception for visiting Colonel Benjamin Louis Eulalie de Bonneville, “Old Bonney Clabber” to the men. He'd recently taken temporary co
mmand of New Mexico Territory because General John Garland had gone on leave back east.
A private stood in front of the door and said, “Good evenin’, Mrs. Barrington.”
She recognized Dillon, one of the dragoons in her husband's former command. “How are you tonight, Private Dillon?”
He appeared nervous, as if worried about being court-martialed. “Fine, ma'am.” A boy of sixteen, he looked at the ground sheepishly. “I feel sorry about the lieutenant, ma'am. He was just what this post needed, because he knew his business, unlike some I could name.”
The soldier realized he'd insulted the officers whose doors he was guarding. It appeared he wanted to jump out of his skin, but Clarissa placed her hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for your sentiments.”
The guard opened the door, and a Mexican maid stood in the tiny vestibule. Clarissa turned around, the maid removed her coat, then Clarissa entered a living room filled with officers and ladies, a painting of former President Zachary Taylor on the wall, illuminated by strategically placed candles that cast dramatic shadows onto everyone's face, and threw a gold halo around Clarissa's blond hair.
She approached the hostess, Libbie Chandler. “I'm so happy you could come, Clarissa. You look well, considering what you've been through. Come—let me introduce you to Colonel Bonneville.”
Libbie took Clarissa's hand and led her past guests sipping tepid wine punch. Clarissa felt self-conscious about the sympathy, or was it pity, in their eyes. She stiffened her spine as she came to a stop before a corpulent gentleman with a roundish face, small pointed nose, and puckish eyes twinkling mischievously as the beautiful blonde was introduced.
“This is Mrs. Clarissa Barrington,” said Libbie Chandler.
The smile vanished from his face. “I was sorry to learn about your husband, Mrs. Barrington,” said Colonel Bonneville. “They tell me he was a very fine officer.” The colonel's accent was a strange mixture of New York and Paris, for he'd been born in the latter city, and raised in the former.
