by Vella Munn
After another prayer, he started toward El Camino Real, the trail the Spanish had made during their seemingly endless travels, which came too close to sacred Humqaq, where all Indian souls entered and left the earth.
When he reached the trail, he dug with his toes in the dust until he'd obliterated a section of the hated tracks. Ants had built their underground homes on the side, and if no one ever came this way again, eventually grasses would grow up through the ruts and the ants would have back their earth. Rabbits would once again build their homes on this spot. Deer would graze undisturbed, and the children of the Chumash would again play their games of shinny and peon. The spirits of the dead would be at peace, and he wouldn't need to have Wolf always at his side.
Standing with his head lifted, he turned in a slow circle while breathing in the scents of earth and ripening blackberries, dust, and what of the sea reached this far inland. His heart pounded like a drum being beaten by a powerful shaman; still, he heard everything he needed to. The birds had come to life, coating the air with their countless songs. Even the buzzing insects were no match for the birds. High overhead he spotted a xuyaw—hawk. Like him, the hawk circled, but Hawk was a hunter, not hunted.
Wolf, hear my prayer. I do not fear death. My life is nothing if my people are safe. But I have a son. If I am not there to show him the way to manhood, he will need you.
Thoughts of the child who had remained behind with his mother softened Black Wolf, and for a moment nothing else mattered. For Fox Running, life was discovery and freedom; he didn't yet know what the enemy had stolen from the People.
I make you a promise, my son. When you know to remain silent, I will show you Humqaq and where the deer sleep, teach you to listen for Wolfs howling so Wolf's courage becomes yours. We will stand hand in hand, father and son, and I will prepare you to be a Chumash as my grandfather prepared me.
Would he? Or would he be dead and Fox Running a prisoner inside the too-solid mission walls? Without him, his son would have no one to fight with him against the padres, who believed that the Catholic religion was the only way Without Black Wolf and other Chumash warriors, Fox Running and the rest of the children would never learn how to touch the spirits of their ancestors, take wisdom from the star that didn't move and thus guided night journeys, never learn how the Chumash came into being.
A sound. Distant. Different. Instantly alert, he held his breath. It was a rumbling and yet more than that. Squeaking. Although he continued to listen for several more minutes, he already knew that wagons and horses or mules were heading his way.
By the time the procession came into view, Black Wolf had returned to the hill overlooking the trail and crouched in the grasses. Dust rose in a steady dark mist around the newcomers, reminding him of the way the endless and ageless sea looked as it ate its way up the shore. There was a rhythm to the sounds, and he might enjoy it if he didn't hate what it represented.
A finely dressed man on a lean, long horse rode at the head of the small group. The newcomer, tall and broad-shouldered, wore a large plumed silver helmet that caught the sun's rays and surely made his head sweat. That, like the black boots and silver spurs, tight-fitting pants, and stiff black jacket decorated with medals and ribbons, made Black Wolf ask himself why anyone who lived to fight would burden himself with so many clothes when summer sucked all moisture from the ground.
Black Wolf might not know much about the ways of what the Spaniards called soldiers, but only a man as full of himself as a buck in rut would dress in such finery for a long, hot trip. Maybe the others wouldn't obey him unless he presented himself as a powerful leader.
There were two wagons filled with belongings and driven by two leatherjackets who looked as if they had been left out in the sun to dry like discarded hide. The mules plodded with their heads down despite the men's attempts to hurry them. Maybe the Spanish were trying to reach La Purisima before the worst of the heat sapped them. If so, they wouldn't make it.
Although he wanted to turn his back on the sight, wanted to face the mountain Seneq and think about nothing except how clean and pure the peaks looked when winter's snow shielded them, he forced himself to take in everything.
Not all were men.
The sight of two females compelled him to slip closer. If the leatherjackets had Indian women among them, he had no doubt of what they would be used for. This time he wouldn't stop until he'd spilled every drop of the men's blood; this time he wouldn't allow his anger and outrage to blind him to the need for caution.
No, he soon concluded, the women weren't prisoners. They rode handsome, strong horses adorned with ornate saddles and bridles. The heavier of the two was dressed in layers of black and gray, with a dark cloth covering over her head. If the new corporal was uncomfortable in the heat, surely her suffering must be even worse.
Was she being forced to wear that thing? Unlike Chumash women, who clothed themselves in short fringed buckskin skirts, this one's long, heavy skirt must touch the ground when she walked.
Continuing his study of her, he took in her bowed back, her hands gripping the reins and folded like those of the padres at prayer. She looked only at the ground, as if afraid of her surroundings or so caught within her thoughts that she was unaware of anything else. If her horse hadn't continued to plod along, she would be as motionless as the dead. Despite the little he could see of her, he knew she wasn't young.
The other woman, too, had on a long skirt, but in a great many ways she was different. This one's loose white blouse left most of her arms bare and exposed her throat and neck. What he could see of her flesh was dark and smooth. She had nothing on her head except for a black mass of hair pulled off her neck and caught in a knot so thick it made him wonder if her hair reached below her waist. Even from here, he could tell she was young, no longer a child but note yet weighed down by life as his wife was.
This one seemed possessed of an endless curiosity about her surroundings because she turned her head first in one direction and then the other, taking in the world with the intensity of a young fox. Sometimes she stared down at the ground near her horse's feet; other times she rose in the saddle and studied the horizon. He was too far away to know what was in her eyes, and yet he sensed she was trying to commit the land to memory.
She would have to do more than that if she intended to live here. She would need deep-running strength to hunt and till the land, to draw water out of springs, to survive the hot summer and heavy rains of spring.
Without knowing why it should matter to him, he wondered what would happen to her if he took her into the mountains and forced her to stay there through winter storms. Would she cower where he placed her or die of exposure trying to escape? Would she understand what the wolves and coyotes said when they threw their voices into the air, or would she hate and fear sounds that were as familiar to him as his heart's beating?
What had brought the women here? Would they be followed by more?
Fighting the unwanted thought and accompanying emotion, he took careful note of the five. The leatherjacket he'd wounded had been carried away, accompanied by his corporal. Now three newcomers were retracing the earlier steps, maybe replacing those who had left. Three when before there had been two?
And Spanish women?
The enemy had passed from directly in front of him and would soon be out of sight. He would wait until there was no risk of being spotted and then follow them so he'd know whether they were heading for La Purisima or continuing north. Much as he wanted to get back to his people, his return would have to wait until he discovered whether the fat corporal had been replaced by someone even more committed to ridding the land of what Fathers Joseph and Patricio called wild Indians.
Wild Indians! No matter how many times Black Wolf had heard the padres and leatherjackets call his people that, he didn't understand. Wild was a grizzly, an elk, a deer, a cougar, a wolf. Just because the Chumash—some Chumash—refused to bend their backs to the work ordered by the missionaries and reject Sun and
Moon, the spirits that dwell in whirlwinds, Humqaq, didn't mean they were animals.
Motionless, Black Wolf watched as; step by dusty step, the plodding group pulled away from him. The prickling at his back caused by the sun briefly distracted him, but he could escape from the heat in a few minutes. For now—
The younger woman swiveled in her saddle and looked behind her. Back straight, she took in her surroundings until she was staring at where he was instead of down at the ground like the others. He knew she couldn't possibly see him because, like Wolf, he had learned how to remain hidden.
It didn't matter. It was time for her to comprehend that she didn't belong here. Feeling strong and fierce, he stood and revealed himself. He held aloft his spear, then aimed it at her. Although she started, her gaze remained locked on him. She neither cried out nor motioned to the others.
Not understanding, he returned her study.
Chapter 2
Barely believing what she'd seen, Lucita Concha Arguello Rodriguez kept her reaction to herself. Still, she shivered despite the day's heat.
For a moment, she stared at her hands holding her mount's reins, but curiosity and apprehension became too much for her, and she again glanced at the horizon, then rose in the saddle and lifted a hand to shade her eyes.
Her father, Cpl. Sebastian Rodriguez, insisted that the savages around La Purisima Concepcion were little more than animals. According to him, the viceroy of New Spain, whom the Spanish Crown had entrusted with responsibility for developing the missions, should have placed the fledgling colonies under military, not Catholic, domain. That way, the savages would be made to respect and fear armed soldiers even if they were too feeble of mind to grasp the concept of a righteous God.
As a result of her father's harangues, she had half-expected to see the Indians down on four legs, but this one—a warrior, she remembered her father calling the man—had stood erect and proud, unclothed when she'd never seen a grown man undressed. Although she'd been too far away to look into his eyes, she'd sensed a certain intelligence about him. More than that, he'd pointed his weapon at her in acknowledgment.
Not simply acknowledgment. He'd warned, threatened. She should tell her father. He would know—
"Lucita! What are you doing?"
Teeth clenched, she faced her mother, who was riding on her left. Senora Margarita Inez Delores Rodriguez had drawn her short but sturdy body even straighter, and Lucita found herself wondering if her mother's bones were possessed of unnatural strength. No matter how tired Margarita might be, she never allowed herself to sag. If it hadn't been for the bright splotches of heat on her cheeks and the moisture glistening on her temples, Lucita would believe her mother felt nothing of the day's nearly insufferable heat.
"Doing?" Lucita stalled. "Trying to stay awake."
"You are calling attention to yourself with your constant moving about." Mouth pursed, Margarita stared at Lucita's exposed throat. "God warns against immodesty; you know that."
Oh, yes, she knew all about God's constraints and warnings, thanks to the lessons that had begun before she was old enough to understand what was being said to her. If she told her mother what she thought she'd seen on that dry and desolate hill, their conversation would turn into a lecture about the ungodly Indians destined to spend eternity in hell unless they sought salvation, and today Lucita couldn't take another lecture. Besides, it was too late for her father to do anything about the savage. As long as she was surrounded by soldiers, she was safe, wasn't she?
"We will be living in this land, Mother," she ventured. "Surely it isn't wrong for me to learn all I can about it."
"I did not say you should not exhibit curiosity about your surroundings, but your father's men... they have been too long without.... They look at you and—"
Before she could decide whether to ask her mother to continue, a rabbit sprang from the brush in front of her. Pulling on the reins to keep her horse from shying, she pointed at the little creature. "It's so different from home. I did not realize..."
Her voice trailed off as she thought of Mexico City with its university, majestic cathedrals, and massive government buildings. If she'd had any choice, maybe she would still be there, but she didn't, even if her parents didn't understand her reasons for begging to be allowed to accompany them here.
"The world beyond your soul does not matter, Lucita. Only your relationship with God does."
"I know, Mother," she said as she always did. "Still, surely God would not take offense because I am curious about a land so few will ever see?"
"Was the Son of God distracted from his tasks by where his feet walked? No. He knew and embraced his mission just as I do, as you should."
"You are right, Mother. Please forgive me."
"It is not my forgiveness you must seek."
"I know," she muttered and bowed her head in a gesture of acceptance. A few moments later she heard her mother's soft whispering and knew she'd once again lost herself in prayer. Unless disturbed, Margarita wouldn't be aware of where her physical body was until she'd finished, which might take the better part of an hour.
Despite herself, Lucita didn't attempt the familiar journey to her own soul. Instead, she looked out from under her lashes at the dry, soft hills surrounding them. Although the land was quite different from her home in the Valley of Anahuac, sheltered by the snowcapped peaks of Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl, she loved the clean smell of the air here and felt alive in a way she never had before.
Unfortunately, the everlasting creaking of leather and wagons, the endless thud of hooves, even the occasional snorts and sighs of the plodding animals made it almost impossible for her to concentrate on anything else. Still, there must be other sounds, sounds that would tell her more about this uncivilized place that would become her home.
Even rabbits made sounds, didn't they? she pondered. Their little bodies looked all but weightless, but it seemed impossible that they could move through the brush and dry grasses without disturbing the plants in some way. She'd heard the soldiers her father had brought with him grumble about how they might have to supplement the meat provided by the mission's cows with deer. Did deer call out the way cows did? Was it possible that some understanding, some form of communication, passed between deer and rabbits, between deer and bears and wolves even?
The warrior, if that's what he'd been, knew about deer sounds and how rabbits moved, whether wolves felt remorse at taking life.
Certain her mother would disapprove because she was once again drawing attention to herself but unable to stop, Lucita ran her free hand over the back of her neck in an attempt to wipe away the sweat that had pooled there. "Not sweat," she heard her mother say. "A lady is beyond such things."
Well, lady or not, her body reacted to the heat in the same way the soldiers' bodies did.
A hot breeze fanned a few strands of hair about her cheeks and throat, making her thankful that she'd put on a loose blouse with lace sleeves. Perhaps it was immodest—the way the soldiers looked at her made her uncomfortable—but how could her mother stand the layers of heavy black cloth? It was summer. Surely even God understood that a person needed bare forearms and throat in order to survive the heat.
The warrior...
Her thoughts hung up on the word, forcing her to wonder what it meant to be a wild man who cared not at all whether he wore anything, who was free to do what he wanted, who lived with deer and rabbits instead of surrounded by walls as she'd been all her life. Who would have gone through his entire life with no knowledge of God if it hadn't been for the padres.
"Mother?" She kept her voice low so the others couldn't hear.
"Yes." Although Margarita looked at her, her eyes didn't quite focus, and Lucita knew the older woman was still lost within her prayers.
"Are there ever times—I mean, you are so close to God. You have embraced him and he has embraced you, but was it always that way?"
A frown disturbed Margarita's usually immobile features. "Why do you ask?"
>
Because I'm not sure it will ever be like that for me. "I was wondering.... I mean, you were so determined to come here that—"
"It is my calling, Lucita, as it must become yours. God wants me to save the savages' souls."
"You never questioned that calling?"
"No. Never."
"But this land—you didn't know what it was going to be like. Surely you had questions about how you would tend to your personal needs, where you would live, whether we would have a roof over our heads."
"I trust in God. As long as I live for him, he provides. And I pray daily that you will one day accept him as I do."
"I do accept. How can you—"
"I know what lives inside my daughter's heart. You have not immersed yourself, without reservation, in a religious way of life. You have—" She glanced over at her husband. "Your father's blood runs through your veins."
"I don't know his thoughts; he has never shared them with me."
"It does not matter. The military is his life; you have seen that passion, and it has made its impact on you."
Was that it? Feeling suddenly heavy and old, Lucita simply nodded before letting her mother go back to her meditations.
Although they seldom spoke, the two unkempt soldiers her father commanded remained close to each other; not that she blamed them. Despite her mother's attempt to keep her isolated from the soldiers at Santa Barbara during their stay there, she'd felt compelled to learn everything she could about what their future might be like, and the only way she could do that was by talking to those who already lived in Alta California.
Although most of them had been reluctant to speak to her, a corporal's daughter, she'd persisted until she'd learned something about the area's past. One event stood out in her mind. It had happened more than thirty years ago, but the soldiers still talked about the night when over eight hundred armed savages attacked the mission at San Diego, burning it to the ground and murdering Fr. Luis Jayme.
