Storykeeper

by Daniel A Smith

  “Grandfath ...” I started to yell but stopped myself. My own voice sounded strange in this world. I called out again but in a whisper, “Grandfather, are you hurt? Where are you?”

  “Nanza, speak softly in the underworld,” he said in a low, stern voice. “I am close. We will have a fire soon.”

  Leaning and straining, I began to see the outline of his movements. I was hopeful that my vision was returning but frightened by what I witnessed. Unnatural shapes and forms loomed all around. Some seemed to float and glow.

  “I have found my torch. It will not be long now,” Grandfather whispered.

  I hated the cave. At that moment, had the burden of destiny been within my power, I would have preferred to be captured or even killed by the intruders rather than be left alone in that darkness.

  Somewhere across the unnatural night, water trickled. Grandfather’s constant fumbling spoiled its comforting rhythm. Sparks of a fear I had never known lit up my mind. Why has he brought me into this horrible place?

  A loud crack shattered my thoughts. A flash of light froze an image of him hunched over his flint and a pile of kindling on the floor of a vast room.

  A second flash and then another, like a lightning storm on a dark night, the world appeared and disappeared. However, what appeared looked nothing like the world I knew. Burned into my memory are those flashes of the underworld. Moments before, I had struggled to see anything; now, I saw more than I ever wanted to. I closed my eyes and jerked with each new crack of the flint.

  When the last echo faded, darkness returned, except for the faint glow that Grandfather held in his hand. The small ball lit up his wrinkled face as he gently blew into it. He laid the burning kindling onto a bundle of pitch-soaked cane, then raised the torch high. Its light pulled me in and warmed my spirit.

  Dancing above Grandfather’s head, the flames chased darkness into hiding at the far edges of its reach. In the torchlight, what I had imagined as floating demons became glistening rocks, like giant icicles hanging from the ceiling and growing from the floor. Behind each one, the darkness peeked out at each flickering chance. I pressed close to Grandfather, and he put his arm around me, something he had not done for a long time. I felt content but not secure.

  “When can we leave this place?” I asked.

  “Not until the hunting party has gone. Come, I will take you to my secret cavern where we will be safe.”

  I stayed close to the light and Grandfather as he led me through the underworld. He picked his way with experience.

  “I will return later and get the rest of our belongings,” he reassured me.

  Losing our bundles did not worry me. I feared the darkness that could forever conceal the way back. It held a power so great in this cave so large that the torchlight could not reach any walls. The size of the cave could be judged only by the distance we walked.

  When the ceiling sloped down to a wall, I felt some sense of relief. It was not the endless dark world I had imagined. Grandfather climbed over a boulder and slid down its dusty slope. The dancing torchlight exposed a narrow opening between the boulder and the wall.

  “Come, Nanza. We are almost there.”

  I hoped to see sunlight, but beyond the short crawl, it opened to another dark cavern. On the other side, he stood proud, holding his torch high. The light reached every part of this cavern.

  “This is my hiding place,” Grandfather announced.

  I studied the cavern as he tried to reassure me.

  “You will be safe here. Only I know of this place.”

  He could see that I questioned his boast and led me to a huge, flat boulder lying in the center of the room. On top, an old buffalo hide lay draped over a pile of wood next to the burnt remains of previous fires. He had been there, many times.

  Grandfather handed me the torch while he cleared the pit. I could not resist the chance to chase dark demons from the cracks and crevices with the power of torchlight.

  “Nanza,” he grumbled, “hold the light over here.”

  I clenched my teeth and squeezed the torch, but I held it steady. He arranged the kindling and four logs, took the torch from me, and lit the pile. Flames shot up from the dry wood, crackling, then echoing back from every side. Only the bravest of the dark demons danced at the edge of its light.

  “Watch the fire while I go back to get our bundles and cover the opening to the cave.” He gave me a piece of jerky and walked away before pride would let me disagree. “I will return soon.”

  He left me alone with nothing but a fire. It warmed my exhausted body as I fought the urge to sleep in the strange place. That struggle and the task of tending the fire occupied me until he returned.

  “You need to rest. I will watch the fire,” he said as he handed me my blanket.

  I wrapped it around me, longing for the escape of simple sleep. My mind stirred with questions. “Do you come here often?” I asked.

  “No, I have not been here ... in a long time.”

  “Why did you come here at all?”

  “The spirits of the forest showed me this cave when I needed a place to hide. This is the Hiding Cave.”

  I sat up. “Hiding from what?”

  “My child, I know you have many questions, and in the past, I have always avoided them. Things have changed now, and so must it be with your questions. But be warned that answers found in the past are often filled with sorrow.”

  He paused, and together we watched the flames prance their ancient dance.

  “Nanza, I tried to give you a good childhood,” he said, “but I raised you without stories. Now, I see it differently. I have come to understand that stories must be passed down or those who follow will lose their place in the world and the guidance of knowledge gathered through many lifetimes.”

  He stood and spread his arms wide. “The mountains above and around us are ancient and weathered. Their valleys are but deep wrinkles. Their once lofty peaks are worn down like stooped old men to rounded hills and mountaintop meadows. But these mountains possess ancient wisdom. They offer tranquility and healing, a gentle peace that slips away so slowly when you leave, you will not know that it is gone until you return.”

  He looked up as if he could see the sky, pointed and said, “Several days to the east across the Mountains of the Ozarks, the Little Red River flows out of its foothills onto the fertile land of Nine-Rivers Valley. Along its banks, just above where it joins with the White River, your people, the people of Palisema, built their villages. They are a peaceful nation, generous with their abundance. Known as great hunters, they cover the floors of their homes and adorn their bodies with many colored skins.”

  His next words came slowly as if each one hurt. “I first traveled to Palisema as a young man—the willing servant of a band of strangers from Spain, a land beyond the great waters. Their warriors called themselves conquistadors. Many stories could be told about those evil times. I know the truth of but one, my story. I pledge to tell all, but from the beginning, for that is what I know.”

  Grandfather circled the fire three times, chanting in a low, sad moan. He stopped across from me and spoke out as if youth had returned to him.

  “I shall tell my story from the time of prophecy and triumphs, a time before the Great Dying.”

  Chapter 8: The Son of the Sun

  Taninto’s Journey

  Two days before “their” arrival - June 20, 1541

  On the third day of my fifteenth summer, I started down the twisted path that ended in the dark depths of this Hiding Cave. That day, as with most, my friends and I roamed the river’s edge, swimming and hunting. Then we heard, “Taninto, Taninto!”

  Two younger boys ran from the village, calling my name. A royal messenger was close behind them. The boys reached me at the same time, each talking louder than the other. My friends gathered around. Curiosity and confusion swelled until the messenger spoke.

  “Taninto of Togo.” His words rang out over all others.

  Two of my friends la
ughed, but quickly fell silent.

  “Heed these words. Tecco Tassetti, Wise-One of the High Council, charged this humble servant with the duty of escorting you back to the main town of Casqui.”

  Throughout the nation of Casqui, people respected and recognized Uncle Tecco as a man of honor.

  “Why has he sent for me?” It was his responsibility as my mother’s oldest brother to guide me to the path of manhood, but he had never sent a messenger before. And it had been only three days since I stood with him on the Temple Mound for the Raising of the First Summer Sun.

  “Is he ill?” I asked.

  “He gave me orders, not answers,” the messenger said. “Come.”

  “Are we leaving now?” I asked as I ran after him. “Can I tell my family where I am going?”

  True to his word, he said nothing. I could only assume the worst about my uncle.

  “Tell my father where I have gone,” I shouted over my shoulder to the friends and the boyhood I was leaving behind.

  It is less than a half day’s run from Togo to Casqui. On the road, we met people who seemed to be fleeing, struggling with their belongings. We ran past other travelers loaded with baskets of gifts as if on their way to Casqui for a festival.

  “What are the baskets for?” I asked one group as we ran by.

  They gave no more answers than my escort.

  The days of Green Corn had passed. Tribute from that early harvest already filled the storehouses of Casqui. Who were these tributes for? My uncle? If so, he was dead. Why were some people fleeing? My questions only grew in number as we approached the south gate.

  Baskets of beans, bread, corn, and skins dotted the strip of land between the canal and the walls of Casqui.

  “This is all for someone of great importance ... outside of Casqui,” I muttered to myself.

  “Boy, what have you to say?” shouted one of the two warriors guarding the entrance. War axe at the ready, he waited for an answer.

  “Just a ... a thought,” I stammered.

  The messenger stepped between us. “I am Watubi, noble messenger returning as charged by Tecco Tassetti, to bring this boy before his uncle.” He stood as proud as the two warriors in their ceremonial headdresses—a brimless cap of bear hide with the fur pulled up to a point and tied with a knot.

  All three remained rigid in a test of will. Finally, the warrior who had questioned me waved us through without a word of explanation. I stepped into the gate first. Watubi followed. The mud plaster walls around Casqui overlapped to form a gate in the north and south sides. Guarded at both ends, the long narrow passages were only wide enough for a single man to walk through.

  I had never before seen a guard dressed for ceremony but painted red for war. Of all the nations in Nine-Rivers Valley, only the Pa-caha would wage war against our most sacred site. For generations, their war parties had crossed the Chewauhla Swamp to raid our small villages and carry away people and crops. The Pa-caha might well attack, but no Casquis would ever offer them a gift.

  Even before I reached the end of the gateway, I could hear the excitement inside. The town hummed with anticipation and uncertainty. The center plaza, where I had seen so many games played, swarmed with warriors from up and down the Little Muddy River. Some wore ceremonial dress, others war-paint. Most seemed as uncertain about their summons as I felt about mine. I slowed to watch the dance of confusion.

  “Come on, nosy one.” The messenger jerked at my arm. “I have a duty to complete.”

  “I know the way to the lodge of Tecco,” I said.

  He released my arm but continued to lead me around the plaza to the north side.

  “Watubi,” I said, hoping he might answer if I used his name, “why are so many people in Casqui?”

  No answer; we ran on in silence past lodges all built alike, square with steep thatched roofs and plastered walls of upright posts, mud, and grass.

  “Uncle Tecco,” I called out before Watubi had a chance.

  “Taninto, we are out here,” Aunt Miluka said from the summer patio. I knew that “we” meant her and her friend for many seasons.

  “Where is Uncle Tecco? Why did he send for me?” My aunt looked up, but before she could answer those questions, I asked more. “Why are warriors gathering on the plaza? And why are gifts being brought to Casqui?”

  She hesitated, then turned to the messenger and said, “You may go.”

  I nodded to Watubi as he backed out of the patio.

  “I am happy to see you, Taninto,” she said once he had left. “As for your uncle, he is well. He climbed the temple steps late yesterday and has not returned.”

  My aunt’s visitor could not wait a moment longer to repeat what she always said to me. “I believe you have grown since I saw you last.”

  I looked down at my feet. What could I say?

  “I know nothing about your summons,” my aunt said, “or a reason for the gathering of warriors, but I am glad that you are here.” She paused and asked, “How is your family?”

  I knew she would say nothing more about the strange events unfolding around us. I wanted to run back to the plaza. Instead, I passed the time with the two women and waited for my uncle. I had little news to share, but my aunt’s stories about her two daughters, both older than I, had no end.

  Against the sounds of the plaza, the often-repeated stories faded to a drone. From my place on the summer patio, I could see the top of the Temple Mound steps and the warriors that hurried up and down them.

  The sun set without the return of my uncle. The daughters prepared an evening meal, which I ate more quickly than I should have. I paced about until my aunt said, “Taninto, maybe you should go down to the plaza.”

  I started off before she had finished speaking.

  “Hurry back if you hear that the High Council has broken the circle,” she called after me.

  Outside, I breathed in the night air and ran to the plaza. Once there I walked around the edge, watching and absorbing all the grandeur of the mighty warriors of Casqui. For each of the six traditional weapons, a band of warriors shared not only the skill and training in that weapon but a code and a color. Six colors circling six fires surrounded one great fire. Pride swelled my chest.

  In the midst of all who had gathered, I saw Saswanna. She and I had become friends during the first summer I visited my uncle. Since that summer, Saswanna and I were often together on days of celebration.

  She put her arms around me. We embraced.

  I felt awkward and uncomfortable. I felt wonderful.

  She pulled away but held onto my hand. “Taninto, have you heard?” Her voice sang with excitement, and her smile shone like a new sun.

  I shook my head.

  “He is coming from the East, from across the Great Waters as the legends said. The healer, the unconquered warrior of our grandfathers’ stories, is coming.”

  I had never noticed her smile. I had not noticed how perfect her hand felt in mine.

  She squeezed it hard. “Have you heard anything?”

  I studied—admired—her face.

  “They say that he is the Son of the Sun,” she said.

  “Saswanna,” someone behind me shouted.

  She dropped my hand but not her smile. The youngest of Saswanna’s two older brothers and three of his friends surrounded me. The bad feeling between her clan and my family was most evident in Saswanna’s brothers. Their presence accomplished its intent. I turned to leave.

  “My ... my aunt, I ... promised to ... I must go before my uncle returns before I can.” My words twisted on themselves, making a fool of me.

  The older boys laughed, and Saswanna’s beautiful smile slipped away.

  Drumming drew their attention from me to the plaza. The boys rushed toward the sound, Saswanna with them. I stood like a rock in a stream of people flowing by. When all had passed, I took my first step slowly, the second running. I thought of nothing but the embrace and its mystery.

  I ran hard, passing my uncle’s lodge o
nto the palisade and around. Between the wall and garden plots, I scrambled, dodging winter lodges and corn cribs. Passing the guards at the south gate, I followed the wall to the old wart tree, north of the Temple Mound. That is what Saswanna called it because of the knotty bulges on its trunk. We used to sneak out of Casqui at night by climbing up its warts to a huge branch that stretched out over the wall. I stopped underneath, caught my breath, and trotted back toward the lodge.

  My aunt stepped out. “Your uncle returned while you were gone.” Her head tilted one way and her smile the other. “He will talk to you in the morning.”

  I nodded, and she disappeared back into the lodge.

  It was too hot for me to sleep inside. I laid down on a bench on the summer patio. Stars sparkled in spaces between the saplings laid across its roof. Longing and confusion smothered me like a heavy blanket. I tossed between the sounds of the plaza and images of Saswanna, unable to sleep. Reliving the embrace, I imagined clever words I could have said, hating all over again what I had said.

  I would feel different with Saswanna from that point on. And I sensed that, with what I had seen and heard that day, all of Casqui would soon be different.

  Chapter 9

  Manaha’s Journey

  Ninety-four years after “their” arrival

  Manaha stretched her back as she stood. The storyteller needed nothing, but the old woman needed to walk. She circled the story-fire, rallying the flames with her lightning stick. Her stirring and the fire’s crackling did not mask the sounds of retreating footsteps. I still have listeners. Sleep came easily after a story well told.

  The next day began bright and warm. For the first time, Manaha slept as well on the ground as she had on her bench in the lodge. On her morning walk, she met several women also on their way to bathe. Their conversations ended in a common gasp—few had ever seen Manaha without her scarf. She did not slow but walked among them. When they reached the creek, she continued downstream and bathed alone.

  Only five women worked in the fields that day. The others either wanted to avoid Manaha or had given up on the summer crop. Almost everyone had turned their thoughts and efforts toward the joining ceremony and the abundance of meat and skins the hunting party would surely bring back.