The Soul Survivors Series Boxed Set

by Vella Munn

  "Black Wolf, no!"

  Her exclamation left him feeling wounded when he believed he'd made his peace with his father's death. Speaking around the emotion took effort, and yet he wanted her to look into his past because that might help her understand who he and the rest of his people were today.

  "A rope was thrown over me, and I was forced to go with the leatherjackets. When we reached the mission, the padres felt my arms and legs, made me stand naked in front of them while they studied me."

  Her mouth slid open, but she said nothing, and he wondered how much she understood of what he was trying to explain. Father Joseph had told him that the Spanish protected their daughters and wives from the world beyond their homes and kept them innocent and pure and ignorant, but a woman who had watched a man being beaten to death had stepped outside those walls.

  "When they were done, they said I was to serve them, not work in the fields or tannery or tend the animals."

  "It... it must have been easier."

  No, she didn't know. "The padres insisted I learn their language," he said. "I wanted to hold onto my ancestors' tongue, but they refused to let me speak it in their presence."

  "But the neophytes speak Chumash."

  "It was different for me."

  She leaned forward, her knees drawn up against her body, eyes intent.

  Restless, he gripped his charm stone and pulled the thong taut against his neck. "Lucita, when I learned your language, I came to understand a great deal. The padres called us children and prayed we would see their light and be saved, that when we died our souls would go, not to hell, but heaven. But when services were over, my people returned to the fields and tannery and were made to work until they could no longer. The only escape was death."

  The day had promised bright sunlight, but a low, light fog had formed and was now spreading itself over the landscape. He felt himself being absorbed by grayness.

  "I prayed for a death yesterday," she whispered. "And for that man's soul to find peace."

  "Peace in the afterlife of the Catholic or the Chumash?"

  She opened her mouth but didn't say anything. Driven by a force he couldn't fathom, he continued. "We were Chumash since the beginning of time, Lucita. That man's father and father's father and all who came before them were warriors, but now we are told that was wrong and we must become this thing called neophytes. I am not here with you so we can throw words at each other. What I pray to the Chumash gods for is that you see the true world of my people, not what others tell you."

  "How?"

  Holding the charm stone so she could see both it and his wolf tattoo, he continued. "The padres want the world to believe they are saving our souls, but that is not the truth."

  "Then what is?"

  "The padres are here at the command of the inspector general, who obeys the king's orders. There would not be missions if your king had not been worried because those you call Russians were on land the Spanish had claimed for their own. He ordered the Church to establish outposts so the Russians would see Spain's strength and leave. Lucita, your God did not send the padres here. Your king did. Whatever they must do in order to tame what they consider Spanish land, they will. And if it takes the lives of all of my people, so be it."

  Instead of arguing, she kept her eyes locked on his, and in the silence that followed he wondered if there, was anything he wouldn't tell her.

  "You—the padres told you about Spanish royalty, about the Russian presence?"

  "Ha! I was not that important to them, but I listened and I learned. Many things."

  "What things?"

  Why had he said what he had? Feeling trapped, he sought a way to end what they were talking about, but maybe she was the only Spaniard to truly listen to a Chumash. If so, it was vital she see what was happening through Chumash eyes—at least, as much as he could bring himself to reveal.

  "There are memories which will not leave me," he admitted. "Instead of fighting them as I once did, I now keep them bound within me. What I can say is that when Father Patricio took over for the old padre, I became his houseboy, served him."

  She didn't move so much as a muscle, which he took to mean she wasn't looking beneath his words for the truth they rode on. "Lucita, Father Patricio tried to steal my soul."

  "Your soul?"

  "He ripped it from my heart, squeezed, and made it bleed." He had to stop speaking. Otherwise...

  She frowned. "Why would he do that?"

  What an innocent she was. "Because nothing mattered except his need for me." He forced out the words. "He calls himself a man of God, but I spit upon that image."

  "Black Wolf! No!"

  "No? Listen to me, Lucita. Your father killed a helpless man yesterday, but he is not the only one capable of doing unspeakable things."

  Her eyes were hollowing out. Every line of her body had become tense and alert like a doe sensing danger. "That's why you fled the mission?" she whispered. "Because of Father Patricio?"

  "In part. I was a child when I was taken from my village and had forgotten a great deal, but when my grandfather brought me back home, soon it was as if I had never left. I am no longer a child; who and what I now am can never be taken from me."

  "What is your life like now? Please tell me."

  The padres refused to let his people speak of the Earth Goddess, Hatash; molmoloq iku, who were the First People; and Kakunupmawa, the sun, and worshiping them resulted in a beating, but Lucita had no weapons, no force beyond her words. Still, that wasn't the only reason he dug deep inside himself for the answer.

  His voice as impassive as he could make it, he told her about what Chumash life had been like before the first foreign explorer arrived and this land was theirs. She hung onto every word of how his ancestors had hunted and gathered, how they used reeds, deergrass, and three-leaf sumac to make their baskets, how they had built their round, thatched homes from willow, whale rib bones, and bulrush or cattails, the whistles, flutes, and bull-roarers that provided his people with music. Most of all she wanted to hear about Chumash gods and beliefs.

  "What does it matter?" he asked. "The time may come when there are none left to believe."

  "How can you say that? There are hundreds of Chumash living in the missions."

  "Those Chumash's hearts and souls have been taken from them."

  "Don't say that!"

  "When you look into their eyes, do you see pride and joy? Do they walk in freedom?"

  She shuddered. "No. No, they don't."

  For an instant he thought she was going to touch him, but although the distance between them decreased, the contact wasn't made. "Maybe you're stronger because of what you were forced to do," she whispered. "What is it like to be a Chumash woman? Does her father own her? Can he tell her who she must marry and how she must speak, when she can speak?"

  "That is not the way of the Chumash. Marriage strengthens the tribe. My wife was chosen for me because she is wise and thoughtful where I am quick to act. Her hands are those of a healer; my grandfather wanted to surround me with healing magic."

  "Maybe that's why you're still alive."

  "Maybe. And maybe it is because I embrace Humqaq."

  A crow flew overhead, its harsh cry momentarily making hearing anything else impossible. When it had left, Lucita repositioned herself so that she was now sitting on her left hip. "This is Humqaq? It... it doesn't feel different from anywhere else."

  She had pushed him too far today. Already he'd told her more than was safe, but her voice was like that of a songbird, gentle and filled with whispers of freedom. And she had fought to save the life of one of his people.

  "Humqaq is not at this spot," he said.

  "But close?"

  "Yes."

  "Will I ever see it?"

  "It is not for you," he told her. "Only those who have prepared themselves and know the truth about our ancestors and spirits and gods belong there."

  "I don't, do I?" she whispered. "Humqaq, wherever it is, is your plac
e."

  "Yes, and when I know you are safe, I will go to it."

  She said nothing for several minutes. Then: "Do you ever doubt yourself, Black Wolf?"

  "Doubt?"

  "I do." She got to her feet, brushed grass and leaves off her skirt, and looked around. "Sometimes I think I doubt everything about myself."

  "That is not right."

  "I know." Although she laughed a little, she sounded desperate. "I want... I want my mother's faith. To have the depth of faith you do. I think I even want my father's conviction. He... he beat a man until he died because he believed he had a right and a need to do that. It was a horrible thing, horrible!' And yet..."

  She kept looking around, her eyes darting from one thing to another. He felt overwhelmed by the need to help her in her search, but he didn't know what she was looking for.

  "My mother has never doubted her belief in God, never questioned it. It isn't that simple for me anymore." She ran her fingers deep within the mass of her hair as if she were trying to hide within it.

  "Your mother does not know what is in your heart?" he asked.

  "How can she if I don't? Sometimes... sometimes I feel as if there's a storm inside me and all I want to do is scream."

  It wouldn't take much for her to start screaming this morning, but if she did, would it shatter her? Not sure what, if anything, she needed from him, he spread his fingers over his knees and waited.

  Suddenly her restless movements ceased, and she looked up at the sky, drawing his attention there. He spotted a hawk, its flight slow and easy, as if it had been born for nothing except riding the breezes.

  "I wish I was a bird," she whispered. "To never have to come to earth again. A bird doesn't think; at least, I don't believe it does. It doesn't cry when something dies, does it? It doesn't question whether there needs to be death and..."

  She clutched her bruised wrist, winced but didn't let go, and he wasn't sure whether the pain registered with her. If it didn't, it was because the agony inside her head was far greater.

  Leaning down, she picked up the bridle and started toward the mare almost as if she'd forgotten he was here. The horse shied when she approached it, but she muttered something he couldn't hear and it stood still, its hide shivering slightly. After putting on the bridle, she swung into the saddle.

  Only then did she look at him.

  "Fight for your freedom, Black Wolf," she said in a voice that was both weak and strong. "Don't ever let anyone take it from you."

  * * *

  "She isn't here, Corporal. Perhaps your daughter overslept and that is why she isn't at mass."

  If Father Patricio had been a neophyte, Sebastian would have run his sword through him. As it was, the corporal saw no reason to feed his curiosity.

  "Don't concern yourself with her, Padre. She is my responsibility, not yours."

  "But—"

  "Mine," he insisted. Not caring who might see, he leaned down and put his face inches from the padre's. "If you had done the job you were sent here to accomplish, there would have been no need for me. If you say anything to anyone about what goes on within my family, that is what I will tell the viceroy."

  As Sebastian expected, Father Patricio blanched. Then he looked around, his eyes widening as he realized that what was intended to be a private conversation at the side of the church was far from that.

  "You wouldn't know who you are looking for if it hadn't been for me," the padre said after a long silence. "I have knowledge of Black Wolf, not you."

  "You think I wouldn't have gained that knowledge without you?" He snorted. "Look, it is not my intention to cause problems between us; that will serve neither of us. However, I do insist you keep your thoughts regarding my family to yourself. We will not have to have this discussion again, will we?"

  His head bobbing up and down on his thick neck, Father Patricio slid away. "I meant nothing of a negative nature," he said. "I care about all my lambs; Lucita is one of them."

  "Perhaps." Deciding to let it go at that, Sebastian spun on his heels and stalked toward where his men were waiting for breakfast to be served. In retrospect, he was glad he and the padre had this conversation since it had solidified their relationship and taught the potbellied man who was in charge.

  What had he told Lucita the other day? That they would have had a great deal in common if she'd been a son? What that would be like was beyond his comprehension, just as he would never understand why she'd run away. It didn't matter; she'd be back soon if the savages didn't get her. And if they did—

  Irritated with himself, he shook off the thought. The time he'd spent at the presidio had given him the opportunity to talk to other members of the military about the Chumash. He'd learned that although they were a lazy lot with no resistance to disease and very rarely given to an uprising, they weren't stupid. And, he now believed, Black Wolf was the least stupid of them all. Black Wolf knew the folly, the insanity, of harming a Spanish woman, especially the daughter of a military man. If the warrior happened to come across her, he would slip away unnoticed.

  Maybe not, Sebastian amended. Maybe he'd insist she return to the mission so soldiers wouldn't come looking for her, even bring her back himself.

  The corporal's men looked up as he approached, but nothing about their demeanor gave him any indication of whether they knew about his altercation with the padre.

  "These are your orders," he said. "I want two of you"—he pointed—"to head south in search of the merchant. He is due, and I want to be assured that he does not meet with any problems. The rest are to remain here and outside. I do not want the neophytes to forget for a moment our presence."

  * * *

  Long minutes passed before Black Wolf started toward the great sea that had always provided for his people but might one day be taken from them. Because answers from the spirits came only to those who had opened their minds and let them become like morning mist, he fought to keep from thinking about the girl/woman who'd ridden away from him.

  The climb to the cliffs overlooking the sea called for strength and balance, and he took pleasure in what his legs were capable of. It felt good to scramble over boulders, balance himself on narrow ledges, work his way around the brush that clung to the thin earth here. Sweat ran down his back and his chest stung from scratches caused by the brush, but those things, like the act of climbing itself, kept his mind too full for thoughts of anything beyond himself, at least for a while.

  The hawk he and Lucita had spotted earlier seemed to be studying him, circling and diving and climbing and then doing it all over again, never leaving. When he could, he stared back and challenged the creature to do the same. The hawk continued its travels through the sky, showing its superiority, and he prayed his son would one day see himself in the winged creature.

  Finally, when his muscles burned and he had to fight to take enough air into his lungs, he reached the top of the cliff. Far below, waves pounded against the shore, roaring in both determination and pleasure.

  It was right. He understood determination and felt pleasure at having reached the sacred place his grandfather had brought him to the fall he became a man. Only his grandfather's and father's spirits could join him these days, but he sensed he wasn't alone and was happy.

  At least as happy as a man who carried the burden of his people and the awful consequences of his rash act could be.

  After resting a few moments, he slowly made his way to the sacred opening and stretched out on his belly, peering down. The Miswaskin River became one with the sea here, but although it boiled with life, his people never fished at this spot because to do so would anger the spirits.

  The Miswaskin, instead of drawing together for the final rush to the great water, had split itself in two. Much of the river spilled joyously into the sea, but some of it had found this other route.

  As awed now as he'd been the first time he saw it, he marveled at the way the water threw itself out into space at the top of the cliff and then plunged to a deep a
nd quiet pool sheltered by the rocks he'd just climbed. The only way to reach the shadowed pool was by climbing down a rope placed there by long-dead Chumash and often repaired and strengthened.

  He took hold of the rope, his fingers digging into the knots that slowed and guided his descent. As he worked his way downward, he thought of the rope Lucita's father had used on the captive, but what he touched today brought, not death, but access to sacred water and, he hoped, peace for his heart and mind.

  Despite the strain to his shoulders, he didn't try to hurry, because Humqaq was a place for thought and contemplation, for questions asked and answered by one's spirits and ancestors, but only for those who showed proper respect, who understood.

  Feel my presence, sacred one. Touch my heart and listen to what is in my head. I seek peace and have come here because this is what Humqaq promises. My flesh is not soiled; it holds no remnants of the enemy. I am clean. My thoughts are clean. I seek only...

  * * *

  Margarita, driven to distraction by worry for her daughter, had been on her way to the infirmary with the faint hope that she'd find her there when the door swung open and Lucita stepped out.

  "Praise the Lord," Margarita gasped. "It is you, really you."

  "Yes, Mother," Lucita said, her tone distant.

  For a moment they stood looking at each other, and then Margarita held out her arms and Lucita hurried to her and finished the embrace. Telling herself she wasn't going to cry, she wasn't, Margarita held onto the healthy and alive young body until she trusted herself to speak.

  "Where... where have you been? You were gone all night. All night and he refused to look for you."

  "Did he? Where is he?"

  How distant she sounded. "With Father Patricio. I don't know what they have to say to each other, but..."

  "I'm sorry, Mother," Lucita whispered. "Please believe me, I would have given anything not to worry you, but I couldn't help... And then when I got back, I wanted to see how my patients—Midnight is better. I was so afraid my being gone had harmed him, but... he's going to live. Thank God, he's going to live."