White Apache

by Len Levinson

  Running Deer drained the slightly bitter liquid, then Geronimo filled it for himself. He too drank it dry, then replaced it in its natural sepulchre. “Sit,” he said to Running Deer.

  The boy dropped cross-legged on a flat table of stone, surrounded by vague shadows. What kind of power is sitting in the dark? he wondered. Sometimes he suspected talk about power was a game the old warriors played to make children obey.

  As his eyes gradually adjusted, huge shadowy arches materialized out of the darkness, and he spotted murky pools of water. Geronimo chanted, “Once, long time ago, a warrior of the People found this place.”

  A rustling sound echoed through the chamber, but Running Deer couldn't determine where it came from. He perceived the murky roof of the cave covered with tall conical rocks as large as a man hanging down, while jutting from the rock floor were tall tapering rocks ribbed with strange designs. An acrid odor filled Running Deer's nostrils as drops fell across the vast subterranean chamber, one landing upon his head.

  At the moment of contact he noticed something move among the stone spears above his head. A shiver passed over the boy as he recognized an army of bats hanging feet first from the ceiling. They were the source of the rustling as they stretched wings and otherwise moved while sleeping through the day.

  His vision continued to improve—the rocks were hues of green, blue, and red, while drops hitting water sounded like bells. Running Deer had seen bats flying at night, but never imagined so many in one location.

  “Do you see them?” asked Geronimo, sitting beside Running Deer.

  “They look like sorcerers hanging by their claws.”

  “That is exactly what they are, and do you know what their power is?”

  “The power to hold on.”

  “It can only be felt in the flesh, like this.” Geronimo grabbed the boys's shoulder and dug in his finger-nails.

  The boy winced. “You're hurting me, Cousin Geronimo.”

  “It is nothing compared to what the bat will do. Are you sure you want to go on?”

  “You do not think I am strong,” replied Running Deer. “But my father is subchief Juh, and my mother is the warrior woman Jocita.”

  That's what you think, thought Geronimo, but Jocita had said the boy was advanced for his age. “So be it,” he uttered.

  Geronimo offered pollen to the four directions, then covered his face with golden powder. He danced about, chanting a language Running Deer never had heard. Geronimo's movements became more strenuous, his exclamations louder. He leapt and flapped his arms as if he were a bat.

  Above their heads a few scattered bats flew about, while others stretched wings. They didn't appear happy about being awakened in the midst of slumber, and then Running Deer's ears rang as Geronimo shouted loudly, his voice echoing across the great vaulted ceilings, trembling the stone spears.

  Geronimo picked up a rock the size of his hand and threw it at the roof of the chamber. It hit a bat hanging by his claws, the animal made an unearthly squeal, and suddenly the cave filled with flying bats. Claws swooped toward Running Deer's eyes, but he swung at them with his knife, placing his back against the wall. They were too much for him; he dropped to his knees, but they followed him down. Finally he lay flat on his stomach, covering his eyes with his hands.

  Tiny outraged bat claws and teeth ripped his body. He uncovered his eyes for a moment to see what happened to Geronimo, who stood nearby, swinging a club at the bats, fighting them off. Running Deer feared they might be eaten alive; then all at once, Geronimo grabbed a passing bat by the throat and dropped beside Running Deer on the cave's floor.

  Running Deer noticed the number of bats diminishing, evidently departing rapidly through hidden exits, while Geronimo held his captive tightly. Soon only a few bats winged at the top of the cave. Geronimo rose to his feet and said, “Get up.”

  The boy was covered with scratches and couldn't imagine what he was supposed to have learned through the ordeal, except stay out of unknown caves. Meanwhile, Geronimo held out his arm, and the boy saw the panicked bat clawing Geronimo's flesh.

  “Tell me one last time,” said Geronimo. “Do you want the power of the bat?”

  “Yes!” cried Running Deer defiantly.

  “Then take it.”

  Geronimo thrust out the bat, and now the boy understood the warnings about being too young. The bat would cut his arm too. “Pain is the warrior's friend,” declared Running Deer, “because it makes him fight harder.”

  He raised his little arm, and Geronimo hesitated; the child would be scarred for life. But Juh had pleaded, Geronimo had taken the payment and could not refuse to deliver his final lesson. Silence descended upon the underground chamber, except for squeaks emitted by the terrified bat fighting for its life.

  The boy hesitated as razor-sharp claws sliced the air a short distance away. Then he remembered his warrior father and mother and the amulet around his neck, the one that carried the power of the White Eyes god. The boy held himself steady as he reached for the bat's throat. His hand came within range, he felt tiny frantic lacerations, and his arm shredded before his narrowed eyes as his small fingers wrapped around the bat's throat.

  Geronimo let go, took a step backward, and watched with intense scrutiny as the boy clasped the bat's throat tightly. The trapped creature scratched, clawed, bit, and wrestled madly, flailing the air with its wings, its saliva entering the boy's bloodstream.

  “Kill it,” said Geronimo.

  The boy tightened his grip, the bat fought valiantly, and pain became more than the boy could tolerate. But he flexed his fingers one last time; finally a wing flopped limply, and the boy let the bat fall to the floor.

  “Now you must eat its heart,” said Geronimo.

  Running Deer's arm ablaze with pain, he kneeled in front of the bat, pulled out his knife, positioned the point on the bat's bony chest, and made his incision. It didn't take long for the experienced young hunter to find a heart the size of a baby's fist, cut it loose, and raise it to his lips.

  It tasted salty, with the consistency of gristle, but the boy had eaten other animal organs, not to mention the occasional ant, and had no qualms about swallowing it down. As he arose, he felt his ears coming to points, wings extending from his arms, and claws growing onto his feet. His vision seemed more sharp, the cave brighter, and he heard resonance in every sound, as if he could locate the site of each drop.

  Geronimo placed his big hands on the boy's finely molded shoulders. “The ceremony is over. I cannot guarantee that the power has taken in you. Only you know that. Kneel.”

  Geronimo bathed the boy's arm in warm mineral waters, then they drank from the stone cup. Running Deer followed Geronimo out of the labyrinth, and he felt as if fur had grown over his body. He wondered if he could fly like a bat. In the narrow tunnel his new claws scraped against the stone, while his eyes noticed veins of gold in the rock floor. Running Deer found no fear in the confined space, for he believed he could wriggle or battle out of anything.

  They emerged outside, and sunlight blinded Running Deer instantaneously. When his vision cleared, his wings and tail had gone, and he was a boy again, except for his scarred arm. All the blood had washed away, and each wound looked like a tiny bat eye.

  “You did well,” said Geronimo, mussing the boy's hair. “You were not too young.”

  Running Deer raised his eyes to a sky filled with giant bats emitting high-pitched screeches. They greeted him, gathered around, then lifted him gently and carried him into black voluminous heavens.

  Geronimo kneeled over Running Deer, who had passed to the vision world. This truly has been an auspicious beginning, thought Geronimo. I shall nurture and teach this boy.

  At the post in Albuquerque infantry soldiers practiced open field maneuvering, while dragoons rode their horses across valleys, pretending to attack Apaches that fortunately never were there. The training schedule had been devised by Colonel Bonneville to accustom the men to conditions they'd face in the months a
head.

  One gloomy drizzling morning in late March, Beau and his dragoons prepared to attack an imaginary Apache village on a desert near the Sandia Mountains. The men formed two long ranks, and their commanding officer rode back and forth among them, lecturing in his loud southern drawl. “The success of the attack depends upon the integrity of the formation, so remain dressed right and covered down at all times. If you meander too far from the rest of us, you can be cut off, and that's the Apaches’ favorite game. So stay together, and whatever you do, don't shoot the soldier beside you. Are there any questions?”

  Private Kevin Madigan from County Cork raised his hand as he always did. “How're we gonna stay dressed right and covered down if'n Apaches is a-shootin’ at us?”

  “That skill is what separates the soldier from the civilian. We're not a gang of shoulder hitters, Madigan. We're the American army.”

  Someone snickered, and Beau snapped his head in the direction of the sound. “Who was that?”

  No answer.

  “Whatever his name, if he's worried about getting court-martialed, I'll take off my shoulder straps back of the picket line, and we'll settle it man to man. But in the meanwhile, we have a cavalry charge to perform, and those figures yonder are Colonel Bonneville and his staff. So let's do it properly, gentlemen.”

  Beau rode to the front of the formation where his bugler, guidon bearer, and Sergeant Henderson were waiting. Beau looked to his right, as his horse danced excitedly to the side, eager for the fun. Beau then inspected his left flank, pleased to see the men properly arrayed, awaiting his command. Beau drew his sword, turned to his first sergeant, and said, “Forward . . . at a trot!”

  The sergeant passed the order as Beau's spurs tapped the withers of his horse. That bored animal bounded ahead, straining against the reins, shaking his great head up and down, happy to exercise his immense musculature. Hooves smashed grama grass and kicked stones into the air as Company B advanced across the open range. Beau hollered, “Forward . . . at a gallop!”

  The men urged their horses to greater speed, and . the lines began to wobble, but not too seriously, as Beau glanced behind him. An all-consuming sensation of speed, power, and driving force overcame him, and he'd be first to make contact with the enemy, likeliest target of all, but no Apaches were facing him as he raised his sword one last time and shouted, “Bugler—sound the charge!”

  The bugler blew the high staccato notes that dragoons both love and fear, as they stormed forward, pistols pointing straight up so they wouldn't shoot anyone by mistake, although all pistols were empty, Congress not authorizing sufficient ammunition for training.

  They roared forward, their brave captain standing in the saddle and circling his sword over his head. Any Apache village would be in serious trouble if it happened to get in the way of Company B that morning.

  No village lay open to destruction, but Apaches were in the vicinity, unbeknownst to Captain Beau Hargreaves. Warriors maintained the Pindah-lickoyee under constant observation, and Victorio lay on his stomach near the mouth of a cave, gazing in wonderment at bluecoat soldiers pretending to make war. They are accustomed to gathering in large flat places and attacking each other in rigid formation, he deduced, while we strike when enemies are asleep, when they are marching, or taking baths. But if they take us by surprise, catastrophe would result.

  Chief Mangas Coloradas would not appreciate information gathered from a long distance. Victorio needed to take a closer look, and stealing Mexican clothing was not an impossible task for a warrior of the People. Victorio spoke Spanish acceptably and decided to infiltrate Albuquerque that night to obtain valuable information for Chief Mangas Coloradas.

  Nathanial, and Nana rode across a desert tinged with green buds and brightly colored flowers, while snow could be seen on the high peaks, the days warmer as the sun rose. Nathanial had never journeyed across New Mexico Territory without soldiers, wagons, tents, and bags of beans, so it was a revelation to be unconcerned about Apache attack.

  Distant mountain vistas astounded him with their complexity of shapes and hues. Multicolored birds flitted among cholla cactus and chinchweed bushes, while the fragrance of greasewood was coming on. What a beautiful land, he reflected, when Nana moved suddenly and a split second later, a knife was at Nathanial's throat.

  “You can never be a warrior,” said Nana sadly. “Your mind is frozen in ice, I think. One of these days, you will be killed unless you change your ways. What if you were alone, and a cougar stalked you, noticing you admiring the scenery in your usual hallucinatory state? How can you appreciate scenery if you are dead?”

  Nathanial shrugged. “As long as I've got my Colt Navy handy, no cougar will ever creep up on me. I may daydream a bit, but don't forget that I too am a warrior, and have fought many wars.”

  They came to the top of a rise, and ahead a stream wound across the desert, lined by cottonwood trees. Nathanial couldn't understand how the middle-aged warrior could outquick him every time. At first it was fun, but had become embarrassing.

  They stopped at the stream, loosened the cinches beneath their horses’ bellies, then kneeled to drink. Nathanial didn't want to open himself to attack, so scooped water into his palm and brought it to his lips, his hand near his Colt Navy. I'll demonstrate that I can stop him, because I don't think an Apache is not inherently faster than an American.

  But Nana appeared disinterested in Nathanial as he spoke in soft tones to his horse and petted his great neck while the beast slurped water. Nathanial filled his deer intestine, then sauntered toward his teacher. “Don't warriors eat their horses after you have ridden them to death?”

  Nana nodded solemnly. “Sometimes in battle, a warrior must die so his brother might live. A horse cannot eat a man, but a man can eat a horse. Horses understand far more than you realize.”

  Nathanial peered into the horse's eyes, and that creature gazed back triumphantly, or so it appeared. An eerie feeling came over Nathanial. No, Apaches can't actually communicate with horses. It's impossible, or is it?

  Suddenly, Nathanial was unconscious, dropping like dead weight to the ground. Nana had hit him solidly on the side of his head with a big rock that he'd picked up while Nathanial had been contemplating horse communications. Nathanial landed in a heap, his ear turning purple. Nana then cut four stakes with his hatchet, pounded them into the ground around Nathanial, and tied Nathanial's hands and feet with hand-woven twine.

  When all was ready, Nana poured the contents of his water bag onto Nathanial's blond-bearded face. Nathanial sputtered, opened his eyes, coughed, tugged his hands and feet, and then bellowed, “What the hell's going on!”

  Nana sat cross-legged nearby, placing tobacco and other vegetative matter into his clay pipe. “You said you wanted to become a warrior. Well, your lesson is about to begin. All else has failed, so we are going to smoke together, and then I shall leave you here. If you survive, perhaps we will let you become an apprentice warrior, and if you do not survive, we shall smile when we meet in the spirit world.”

  “Whoa,” replied Nathanial. “Not so fast. You can't—”

  Nana interrupted him. “There is no other way to teach a thickheaded warrior, I am sorry to say. I have given it much thought, and even have spoken with Cuchillo Negro and Chief Mangas Coloradas himself. You are a sincere seeker, and we must teach you with identical honesty. It is not enough to dress like a warrior. You must become one.”

  Nathanial panicked whenever his movement was hampered. “I don't want to become a warrior!” he hollered. “First you stole my clothes, and now are offering me as a meal to anything that passes by. I wouldn't be surprised if you took my rifle and pistol!”

  “You rely too heavily on them,” agreed Nana. “All a warrior needs is his knife.”

  Nana placed the stem of the pipe between Nathanial's lips, whereupon Nathanial took a deep puff, hoping the pungent smoke would calm him, because he wanted to shriek at the top of his lungs. “I don't like this lesson, Nana,” he said
after he exhaled. “I think you should free me.”

  “But you said you were serious about becoming a warrior.”

  “Perhaps I wasn't as serious as I thought.”

  “It is too late, because a warrior must cleave to his word.”

  “What if a cougar cleaves to my throat, or an army of ants happens by, and decides to chew out my eye-balls.”

  “A warrior does not let those things happen.”

  “But I cannot move. I am a sitting duck.”

  Cuchillo Negro chuckled. “Perhaps we should have named you Sitting Duck, because you walk like a duck, yet you cannot fly. If you want to be a warrior, you must fight for your life.”

  “I've changed my mind. I want to be a . . . farmer.”

  “I am getting ready to leave.”

  He jabbed the pipe into Nathanial's mouth once more, and Nathanial took his last inhale. Then Nana opened his pouch of sacred pollen, bent over Nathanial, and touched a dot to his forehead, chin, and each cheek. He tossed a pinch to each of the four directions while chanting prayers. Finally he removed a handful, which he proceeded to sprinkle over Nathanial's body.

  Nathanial felt dizziness coming on, as if the earth were opening, preparing to swallow him. Desperate, frightened, he fought wildly against stakes embedded firmly in the ground; they budged not at inch. “You can't leave me like this!” he yelled.

  “If you need help, feel free to call upon the mountain spirits. You have lived the life of a fool, and now I wonder if you will die a fool.”

  “If you ever see me again, you'd better start running, you son-of-a-bitch Injun. Because I'm going to kill you.”

  “So be it,” said Nana as he made one last mystical gesticulation, then rode off with Nathanial's horse.

  Nathanial could beg for his life, but knew it would accomplish nothing. Seething with fury, he attacked the stakes, but they refused to budge. Hoofbeats receded into the distance, and then everything became still except for chirping insects and birds.

  Nathanial stopped fighting, struggled to catch his breath, and saw himself rotting to death or eaten alive by a pack of wildcats. A wave of panic came over him, and he nearly fainted from the sheer horror of his predicament. The more he struggled, the more he realized how futile was his task. Surely, Nana didn't leave me to die, or did he?