Storykeeper

by Daniel A Smith

  “I do not doubt your ability, my friend, but you may not know how crowded the roads and the banks of the Little Muddy River are with so many coming to see the sign that the Son of the Sun has promised.”

  “You have served the Spanish. Take that and be proud.”

  “Then I wish to serve the horses,” I said.

  Cooquyi started to speak, stopped and just shook his head.

  “Casqui is a nation of two rivers,” I said. “The other is the Tyronza. From here, it is a longer walk, but it is away from town and the crowds.”

  Cooquyi called to Wasse. “Come on, my friend says he will take us to a better river.”

  I looked about for the third horse.

  “Master is riding the old brown,” Cooquyi said.

  So it was Master Diego I had seen that morning. I did not let on and waited for Cooquyi to tell me more.

  “Master left with a second party taking supplies and more slaves,” he said. “They are commanded to help bring back the largest tree they can find.”

  “The tallest are the bald cypress in the swamps farther up the Tyronza River.”

  Cooquyi tilted his head and shrugged his shoulder. He did not care. I wondered if he already knew what the promised sign would be.

  I tried to imagine the tallest cypress and the ability of the Spanish to cut it down and move it to Casqui. What could be created from a cypress that would be a symbol of the Spanish god to which my people could pray for rain in times of drought and for peace in times of war?

  “The Tyronza River is not as big as the Little Muddy, but it is clearer,” I said as I led them alongside a small stream to a sandy beach where it empties into the Tyronza.

  The two horses and their tenders quickly waded into the river. I watched from the shore, turning over the problem of which question to ask next.

  They called for me to join them, and soon we were splashing and laughing like three friends. The horses took little notice of our boyhood games. Later, I watched Cooquyi wipe-down Shadow Wind, amazed at the taut strength beneath the smooth gray skin. Wasse and Cooquyi took the horses above the bank and tied them up where they could graze.

  I started to join the two tenders deep under the shade of an old elm tree. Cooquyi looked up. I hesitated and straightened my back.

  “Cooquyi, traveler of many lands, keeper of Shadow Wind,” I said, “I have one question.”

  Wasse looked away. Cooquyi nodded.

  “What will you tell me about the Spaniards?” I asked as I sat.

  Wasse stood and walked toward the river.

  A smile spread across Cooquyi’s face. “You have asked wisely, once again,” he said. “I will answer your question.”

  “I am told that two summers ago the Spaniards came from across the ocean in great boats carrying six hundred conquistadors, twelve holy men, and more than two hundred horses. The one your people call the Son of the Sun is known to his men as governor because the King of Spain granted him the power to govern all the lands and nations that he could conquer and settle.”

  Cooquyi paused to glance up and down the river. “They came to your land as they did mine, by the greatness of their god with speeches of friendship and peace.” He turned to me. “But deceit is their way.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Among the Spanish, rank and order are determined by possessions rather than wisdom or bravery. Conquistadors are trained to kill and do so without hesitation, ceremony, or cause.” Cooquyi pushed the sandy soil around with his feet. “Some, like Master Diego, are men of honor, but many will say or do anything to possess the one thing they truly seek.”

  “What do they desire—”

  He cut me off with a wave of his hand.

  “It is not safe to even speak of it.” Cooquyi stood. “I will say no more about your Son of the Sun,” he said then whispered. “I know the torture of his punishment.”

  He paced away and back. “Let me tell you instead,” he said, his eyes sparkling, “about the first time I saw the Lady of Cofitachequi, Grand Queen of Talomico, on her purple throne.”

  Cooquyi could have talked the morning away about the people and lands he had seen if not for Shadow Wind. The horse raised his head, pointed his ears toward the road, and snorted. The other horse looked up. Both began to prance.

  “Someone is coming.” Cooquyi jumped up and grabbed Shadow Wind’s harness. He pulled the horse’s head down and stroked it as he listened.

  “Spanish coming from the east,” he said. “Taninto, go up to the road. See if our master is returning. He would be angry to see Shadow Wind and the young brown so far from the camp.”

  The screeching of metal and the pounding of hooves grew closer.

  “The Spanish will think nothing of you being there,” he said. “Hurry.”

  What someone might think was not in my thoughts as I ran to the road. I heard Spanish voices and stepped behind a bush just as the first riders approached. Master Diego rode in front of two other horsemen. I waited until he passed before I stepped to the edge of the road. The conquistadors who followed gave me little notice.

  Behind the horses, soldiers leaned on their lances as they walked. In between them, chained slaves struggled to carry Spanish tools and goods. I turned and ran back toward the river. Cooquyi met me, leading both horses.

  “Where is Wasse?” I asked.

  “What did you see on the road?”

  “Master Diego. He led other Spaniards and a party of slaves toward camp.”

  “He will report to Governor de Soto first,” Cooquyi mumbled.

  “Where is Wasse?” I asked again.

  “He is still at the river.”

  “What will happen if he does not go back?”

  “They will find him. They always find the ones who run away. Those they do not kill, they feed to the governor’s dogs for pleasure.”

  “I will find him.”

  Cooquyi studied me. “I have to get the horses back to camp,” he said and ran off with a rein in each hand.

  I did not have to go far. Wasse lay on his stomach at the edge of a steep bank, surveying the river. I crawled up next to him. Men from Casqui waded in the shallows on either side of the river. They pushed and pulled on the trunk of a large cypress tree. Evenly rounded with all the bark and limbs removed, it stretched more than the reach of six men.

  I poked Wasse and motioned him to follow me. He shook his head and pointed back at the bank. A horse and rider trotted up to the spot where we had dried off in the sun. The rider studied the hoof prints in the sandy soil. He turned his horse toward us and followed Shadow Wind’s tracks up the shore to the trees.

  Two more horsemen came down the river. They yelled at the Casqui workers, then at the rider closing in on our hiding place. He turned and galloped toward them.

  Face to face, they argued while workers guided another cypress around the bend. Much larger than the first it moved with the river, fighting the effort of the slaves in the water and the Casquis pulling from the banks. It drifted by for so long, it was impossible to guess how tall it once stood.

  When the tallest cypress had passed with all the riders and workers, I poked Wasse again. “I can get you back to camp,” I said.

  He ran with me as I led him away from the river on a short-cut around the road. We caught up with Cooquyi and the two horses just before he reached the camp.

  I strutted past the guards with a horse and tender on each side. I held my head high while Cooquyi and Wasse stared at the ground. Their pace slowed and shoulders slumped. Gone were any sign of the two boys I had played with at the river.

  Neither said a word as we walked to their campsite. Wasse rekindled the fire. Cooquyi tied Shadow Wind to one tree and the young brown to the other. I stood between the two, awkward and unnoticed. Later around the fire, they began to tell stories. A few stories made them laugh, but all made me wonder how I knew so little. I spent my first night inside the camp of strangers, but among friends.

  Chap
ter 21

  Manaha’s Journey

  Ninety-four years after “their” arrival

  Story ended, the teller faded. The island and the trouble around it became Manaha’s world once again. She drew a deep breath and tried to imagine Taninto, the old man she knew, living those adventures, seeing horses and conquistadors. Why had he kept those stories from her for so long? She did not completely understand, but she knew what he meant when he said, “The story you hide can become a weight you will bear every day until it is told.”

  Behind Manaha, a bush rustled once then again. A departing listener’s way of saying, I was here. Above her, the reality of the vast night sky spread beyond her ability to see or grasp. A tiny speck in it all, Manaha thought, but important to someone.

  Between the surrounding darkness and the sky, light from the plaza fire danced about the treetops. A slow drumbeat carried the sad chanting of the Hachia people. Even though they had rejected her, she would always be in their circle. Manaha and her people, young Taninto and the lost nations of Nine-Rivers Valley were all part of the same great circle.

  Manaha began to talk to her grandfather like she had never done when he was alive. To someone who did not know, she explained late into the night the suffering of the last Hachia village. From someone who could not be seen, she hoped for but found no answers.

  “I must also learn to choose my questions,” she said and turned to her bed.

  Manaha woke uneasy. Today they would hear the reason for the visit of the two outsiders and learn about the hunting party. She bathed and hurried off to the village without taking time to eat.

  The fire in the center of the plaza burned low as three young boys beat the drum without dancers or chants. A few women moved about while children played like any day before. Everything known of the guests had been told and retold. Nothing could be done but wait for word from the village-lodge.

  The sun had passed well into the western sky before Casinca appeared in the doorway. The drum fell silent. Whispers spread as he crossed the plaza and onto square-ground where he stopped in the center.

  Women rushed in behind, filling the benches. Manaha stood between the Blue and White sheds, neither in the south nor the west. Boys and the few old men remaining in the village came from the lodges and children from their play. When everyone had settled, Casinca spoke.

  “The men of the hunting party are safe,” he said. “All ... all but four.”

  Some gasped, but no one breathed.

  “I will not speak of those four until I have visited their lodges.”

  Casinca turned a complete circle as if looking for direction. He raised his voice. “The hunting party is safe,” he said and smiled with effort.

  No one moved or smiled back. His words “all but four” still echoed in their thoughts. Would he visit their lodge?

  Casinca spread his arms, “The rest are unharmed. Our men are unharmed, but ... they have all been taken prisoners by the Tulla Nation.”

  Muted cries came from all sides. Manaha steadied herself against a shed post.

  “The men are unharmed,” he repeated louder.

  “All but four,” someone shouted.

  Casinca turned in their direction. “Listen,” he said. “In good faith, Ta-kawa has been returned to us with two honored Tulla warriors.”

  Cries could no longer be muffled.

  Casinca shouted over them, “Ta-kawa reports that the Tulla people have treated our men with great respect.”

  “All but four,” they shouted again.

  “What four?” another asked.

  “Hear me out,” he yelled. “Honorable men of Tulla have brought with them offerings of peace and the talk of barter.”

  “What barter?” some asked.

  “Tomorrow ... ” Casinca raised his arms and waited. “Tomorrow at the midday’s sun, the tribe will gather in the village-lodge to hear from the men of Tulla.” He turned to his clan under the White shed. “Preparations must be made. Our guests will feast in my lodge tonight.”

  “Tell us!” the angry shouted. “What barter?”

  “Not now,” Casinca shouted back. “Now is the time for mourning our dead.” He stepped back and turned toward the plaza.

  No one moved as he walked away. No one hurried off to begin the preparations. No one knew who or what to mourn.

  Casinca disappeared into the village-lodge and reemerged leading the two Tulla guests. The younger strutted as he crossed the plaza, teeth clenched behind black tattooed lips. A single tattooed line swirled around his chest and wrapped down one leg.

  The thin older outsider had no tattoos but garnered more regard and amazement, for his head was not round but long. From the brow ridge, his forehead swelled up and back to the size of two heads. Some in the village had heard of a race of longheads, but no one had ever seen one.

  A crowd quickly gathered along the short walk to Casinca’s lodge. His wife and daughters scurried in behind the guests and closed the opening. More people gathered, waiting for Casinca to come out with one question on all of their minds. Whose lodge would he visit?

  Mumbled prayers and grumbled outrage rolled around his lodge like distant thunder. Casinca stepped out. It all stopped. He turned in the silence toward the lodges of the Beaver clan.

  “Stay away,” one woman pleaded.

  “Casinca, wise Casinca visit us another day,” cried a second.

  He did not falter but went straight to the home of Kiatio. He and two of his sons were with the hunting party. Kiatio’s daughter tried to push Casinca from the path and hung on until he stepped through the door. The lodge quickly filled with the Beaver clan. Outsiders surrounded it. Manaha stood back as they leaned in.

  “Kiatio and his oldest son are dead,” they began to whisper.

  After a time, Casinca stepped out and turned toward the village-lodge. As he walked, he chanted softly.

  “Where is he going?” the crowd asked. “Who else?”

  When he passed the village-lodge, everyone knew. Only one lodge stood to the east on the bank above the creek—the home of Hazaar, beloved elder of the tribe.

  No one followed. They turned around and into each other. Their question and the answer were the same, “Hazaar is dead? Hazaar is dead!”

  No longer just sorrow, their grief erupted. Anguish breeds despair and still there was another. From Hazaar’s lodge, Casinca pushed through a crowd of unbroken silence. Swaying as he approached the plaza, he stopped. His stature, his strength, fell away in slumps. He turned toward his own home.

  “Not my son, it was his first hunting party!” Casinca’s wife screamed.

  The village splintered. Their bonds unraveled. Families and hopes scattered in all directions.

  Manaha drifted back to her island but could not stay. When she returned to the village, there was no one on the plaza or in the square-ground, no one chanting, no one beating the drum.

  The purifying smell of sweet grass floated from the door of the village-lodge where she left another gift of lightning wood shavings.

  “In times of grief, few gifts or words have merit, but stories told will comfort, even heal,” she could hear her grandfather say.

  Manaha walked to the center of the plaza and shouted for all to hear, “Tonight, my fire will burn bright and long for all who wish to share the stories of those we have lost.”

  Hoping for the best, she built a large fire and lit it just before sunset. The day’s light slipped away until the fire was all she saw, its crackle all she heard. Manaha bowed her head, closed her eyes, and waited for the one sound she had come to depend on, cautious footsteps behind her.

  They came and when they settled, she began to chant. Three times around and she said, “We will share a story.”

  Chapter 22: First Friend

  Nanza’s Journey

  Forty-nine years after “their” arrival

  I found myself alone on a snow-covered spring morning deep in the Ozark Mountains. The campfire had burned out. White, sil
ent hills surrounded the cold lean-to. I pulled my shawl tight and climbed out. Taninto appeared from behind.

  “I have some dry grass for your moccasins,” he said with a rare smile.

  I shook my head.

  “It is a wet snow,” he said, still smiling.

  I took the grass and sat down on one of the rock slabs. He untied the buffalo hide and shook it without a notice of my glare or the snow landing on me. While I lined my moccasins, he searched through his back-bundle. I tried not to watch as he pulled out a piece of deerskin not much larger than his hand and tied a length of twine to each corner.

  He held his work up like a sling and grinned. “Come along, Nanza, I know where we might find a friend.”

  “A friend?” I could not stop myself. “What friend?”

  “Come along.” He grabbed the buffalo hide and bounded off like a young boy. I followed like a little sister. He slowed down just below a ridge overlooking the creek. We crept along the hillside above a small ravine. Upwind of a fallen tree, he laid the buffalo hide on the snow. He crouched and pointed at a cluster of three trees on the far side, growing from one trunk.

  I watched the hillside as I puzzled over the old man’s manner. He grinned and pointed. Something moved, black against snow. In the rocks, just below the three trees, a long snout cautiously sniffed a cool breeze blowing up from the creek.

  “A wild dog,” Taninto whispered and pulled me down.

  Through a space between the snowdrift and the underside of the fallen tree, I could see the dog slink out of its burrow. Starting at the head, it shook its thin body out to the tail. Its coat rippled with a shaggy mix of red, black, and brown. The dog sniffed the air then with a quickness of purpose, ran toward the creek.

  When it was out of sight, Taninto stood. “Stay here until I call for you.” He slipped twice in the snow and wet leaves as he hurried down the valley and up the other side.

  At the burrow, he took a fresh rabbit pelt from his pouch and pushed it into the hole. When he pulled it out, three puppies tugged on the other end. A fourth and a fifth pup stumbled out behind the others. I had already started down the hill when Taninto signaled.