Apache

by Tanya Landman

  At last, in a gully that ran into the heart of the mountains, we made camp. Here we could rest, and sleep. And here, at last, Golahka spoke.

  I saw him moving amongst the warriors, talking softly to those whose loved ones lay dead. He exchanged a word here, a muttered greeting there. Then he came to me, squatting on his haunches beside where I sat in the dust, clutching Tazhi’s spear. In a voice hoarse and cracked with lack of use, he spoke my name. “Siki.”

  He did not say more, for what more could be said? Our eyes met once. In his face was etched a loss that was past enduring. The sight of it blistered my eyes, and I lowered them to the ground. Golahka’s jaw was clenched tight. He ached for vengeance. I was certain that the Mexicans would rue the day they had made him their enemy. With each heartbeat his desire for blood grew stronger. My own heart thudded in response.

  After a long silence, Golahka spoke once more.

  “You saw them?”

  “I saw them.”

  “You would know them again?”

  “I would.”

  Golahka asked me further questions, seeking to learn the colour of their clothing, and all else I could recall. From this, he could discern from which town they had set forth so he would know where to direct his attack when the time came.

  “I will avenge them all,” Golahka promised, standing once more. “I will slay ten Mexicans for each of our tribe. For your brother, Siki, I will slay twenty.”

  I shook my head.

  Golahka frowned and his voice quivered with sudden rage. “Do you doubt it?”

  “No,” I answered, staring at the dust, wondering how I had the courage to address the mighty warrior so. “I do not doubt it. I know the rivers will run red before your thirst is satisfied. But you will not avenge my brother.” I stood, and lifted my eyes to his. “I will.”

  For a brief moment Golahka’s sorrow-dulled eyes blazed, then he gave the smallest of nods and was gone.

  For two days we rested. The tribe ate, but talked little. Many slept; but sleep would not come to me during the long, dark nights. Grief gnawed at my soul and gave me no respite. I curled around the cold, dark place where Tazhi had once lain. The aching wound of his absence could not be eased. Weary I was – desperately weary – and yet I could not be still either. I was glad when we moved once more.

  Some days later, we entered our own Black Mountains, and arrived back at our settlement.

  It was a bitter homecoming.

  It is the custom of our people to burn the possessions of the dead.

  And thus I burned our tepee, for I could scarce bear to look upon the dusty fingermarks that Tazhi had left on its sides. I placed his playthings in the flames – the small bow and arrows I had once fashioned for him – and watched as they crumbled into ashes. The tiny moccasins Tehineh had sewn and beaded – that had filled Tazhi with such delight that he had stared at his feet with fascination as he took his first tottering steps, and had thus fallen headlong into the dirt – these I threw into the heart of the flames.

  I did not burn his spear.

  I watched as the fire consumed all that remained of my brother. Fingering the sharp spearhead, I recalled how the stone had chipped and formed with such ease beneath my hands. I could not coil baskets as other girls did, yet I could fashion fine weapons. It seemed that my fingers already knew what my mind had only just begun to realize: my destiny was not amongst the women.

  I must follow the path of the warrior.

  It was in the moon of many berries that we returned to our Black Mountain home. In but two moons more, winter would be upon us. Our people were without provisions; and all, according to their age and gender, set about the task of gathering food for the lean days that stretched before us.

  Thus, at the sunrise that followed a night of many fires and many tears, Chodini prepared to lead his finest warriors, Golahka the first amongst them, into the land of the Mexican, where they might find horses and cattle. Others would stay behind to hunt the deer. The women and young children readied themselves to set forth and pick such nuts and berries as had ripened in our absence.

  Dahtet, a woman of some fifteen summers, in whose family’s tepee I had lain through the long night, held out a basket towards me and said with a gentle smile, “Come, Siki. We shall gather berries, side by side, as sisters.”

  I said nothing. I had told no one of my decision. But when the men assembled for the hunt, I silently took my place amongst them. I stood, chin high, challenging any to speak against me. The women cast furtive glances towards Chodini. Our chief saw where I stood, holding Tazhi’s spear stiffly by my side. He looked at me for a long time, before he turned back to his warriors, but he said not a word. He did not deny my choice.

  Keste, an impatient youth of some seventeen summers, not yet a warrior but who burned with the desperate desire to be so, crossed hastily to Chodini. I did not hear his muttered words, but saw him gesture angrily in my direction. Keste was known to be a fine hunter; many would heed his judgement. Yet Chodini shook his head, and when Keste persisted in his protest, our chief laid a hand upon his shoulder to silence him.

  “Siki will join the hunt,” he said in a calm, low voice that carried clearly to all in the camp, and admitted no further argument.

  And so, that day, I took my first step on the path of the warrior.

  When Ussen created each tribe, he also made their homeland, putting upon the earth all that was needed for their well-being. He set forth creatures to run upon the plains, and made such plants to grow as would provide grain and nuts and fruit. There were herbs too, and he showed the Apache how to use them to heal the sick. All that was needed for food and shelter and clothing he placed in their land.

  As I walked upon the earth that morning, I felt a rising joy in my heart. I suffered still, and yet it was a soothing balm to return to my homeland. My soul, which had withered into a small, shrunken thing on the long walk from Koskineh, now expanded within me as I drew in the sweet, familiar air; for this land fed my spirit as surely as it would feed my body. The earth, my mother, seemed to set the grass singing beneath my feet as she welcomed back her people.

  Softly, silently, we tracked the movement of the deer across the broad plain until at last we had sight of them in the far distance. We edged towards the herd with the wind in our faces, crawling upon our bellies, advancing one thumb’s breadth at a time, carrying brushwood before us so the animals would not see our approach. I had not hunted deer before, but in truth the skills I used that day were ones I had known and practised for many summers. While my parents lived I had, in jest, spent much time creeping upon my belly that I might approach my playmates unseen, and startle them into shrieking with fear. As we came nearer to the herd I thrilled with the thought that I could make a fine hunter.

  But I had not yet tried my aim. I had with me Tazhi’s spear and my knife. I knew the spear to be well crafted; the head was sharp, and would penetrate the flesh of a deer easily if it were used well. But had I the skill? I did not know.

  My heart began to pound as I crept towards a small doe. I sensed the excitement of the hunters either side of me as they poised to attack. Suddenly there was the soft hiss of a bowstring and an arrow flew forth, striking into the heart of the first deer with barely a sound. It was so stealthily done by Keste that the rest of the herd did not even raise their heads but continued to graze, not seeing that one of their number lay slain.

  And then I cursed my stupidity. I carried naught but a spear. A spear! I could not use it from where I lay. I was not close enough. And if I were I would need to be upright, so I could draw back my arm and thrust the weapon; yet if I stood, the herd would scatter and be lost to us.

  In my eagerness to join the hunters I had not seen that they carried bows – yet this was something I had known since I was an infant! My determination to become a warrior had blotted all sense – all wisdom – from my mind. I lay motionless in the grass and my cheeks flushed hot with anger and shame. How all would laugh at my sim
plicity! Chodini had seen how I had armed myself – did he intend I should be the cause of my own humiliation? Had he said thus to Keste? As I cursed myself, I heard the soft swish of more bowstrings and two more beasts fell to the earth.

  But now the herd sensed danger. The doe close to me lifted her head and, scenting the air, gathered herself for flight. If she ran, the rest of the herd would follow; in an instant they would be gone.

  And so I acted.

  A spear is for thrusting, not throwing. But in one quick movement I drew myself back on my haunches and hurled Tazhi’s weapon. It pierced the doe’s shoulder, sinking deep into her flesh. She was badly wounded, but she was not slain. She ran.

  I do not know what I was thinking. In truth, it was surely of nothing but the spear. The doe ran with my spear. Tazhi’s spear. I could not break my vow; I could not lose it.

  And so I ran too.

  I had always been fleet of foot – in the many races of my childhood I bested my playmates often – but a deer will always be swifter than the swiftest Apache. Yet this deer was injured; blood flowed freely from her shoulder. She dodged from side to side, and I dodged with her.

  And then I drew level. To mount a running horse, I would have first grasped its mane. The doe had no mane to cling to, and so I grasped the shaft of Tazhi’s spear and vaulted onto her back. My weight brought her down. Yet even now she struggled and kicked for life.

  I drew my knife and thrust it into her throat, severing her vessels with my blade. She lay still. As I watched, her eyes emptied of life. She had fled into the world of the spirits. Silently giving thanks, I stood.

  I had run some way with the doe. In the distance stood the men and boys of the hunt; they were looking upon me with amazement.

  And so Tazhi’s spear had its first taste of blood. As I pulled it from the warm shoulder of the doe and wiped it upon the prairie grass, I knew it would not be the last.

  When I reached the hunters, no one spoke. At last Jotah, father of Huten, a boy who had once been playmate to me, said, “Four deer. It is a good number for one hunt.”

  Many nodded, for the number four is sacred to the Apache.

  Then his face creased into a broad smile. “I have never seen a deer hunt that ended thus.” His laughter broke the taut hush that had fallen on the hunters.

  Keste alone did not laugh. Before I turned away, I saw him mouth words to Punte, his father, and shake his head in disgust.

  We had no horses to carry our kill, and so we flayed and butchered the deer where they had fallen, wrapping the meat in their skins to form tight bundles. Chee worked with me, and our heads were close when he murmured, “It was well done, Siki. You will make a fine hunter.”

  Chee had been my friend in childhood. We had played together when we were small, until we were five or six summers old and boys and girls had to separate, as is our custom, and follow their own paths. But now we were together once more.

  “Be careful,” he said. “It was indeed an astonishing feat. But I do not think you have pleased Keste.”

  When I looked at Keste, slicing through flesh and bone with his knife, his mouth was a thin, tight line of fury.

  As we returned, many came to greet us.

  “A good hunt?” Keste’s mother had a note of question to her voice when she saw her son’s furrowed brow.

  I heard him answer quietly, “She scattered the herd before we had done. We could have made a bigger kill, but for her. And look at the mess she has made of that one’s hide. It can be used for nothing.”

  His remark stung me, but I held my tongue. I knew I had seen the deer startle, and that Keste – who had hunted closest to me – had seen it too. He was galled, I thought, by my success. I did not wish to sour him further with argument. Whining and complaint do not become a warrior; I would not indulge in a childish squabble.

  Keste’s next words were so soft that I barely caught them. Indeed, were it not for his mother’s reaction, I would have thought I had misheard him.

  “Chodini should not have let her go. How can we trust the child of such a father?”

  I froze, and saw a troubled expression pass across the face of Keste’s mother. She grasped him firmly by the arm. “Do not question the judgement of your chief,” she urged. “To do so is unwise.”

  I heard no more. The women came to divide and prepare the meat. All the tribe would share in the kill, for all were hungry. Amongst the noisy chatter Keste turned on his heel and left. For some time I stood, frowning, and watched as deft fingers took my doe and began to cut her flesh into strips. Then I walked alone to the river, to wash the blood from my body.

  Dahtet had returned from her berry picking and was at the river before me, about to fill her jug with cool, fresh water. She started, drawing in a sharp breath when she saw my bloody, begrimed state, and seemed uncertain how to speak to me. I smiled at her and said, “I am Siki, still.”

  She returned my smile, but then sighed. “For now you are Siki. But you will become a warrior. Shall you be like Golahka?”

  “I would be proud to walk in his shadow.”

  Dahtet’s voice saddened. “You choose a lonely path, Siki. A man may be a warrior and still be the father of children…”

  She said no more, but I followed her thought and nodded. I would hold no babe in my arms. I would never walk with a child slung in a cradleboard upon my back. I would not feel the fierce joy of motherhood. But I knew in my heart that I could watch no child of mine slaughtered as Tazhi had been. Better they were not born than risk such a fate.

  There was a short silence. From the camp, I heard the laugh of Keste. I flushed hot with anger. He was telling someone of the hunt. I had no doubt that he was spreading the story of my supposed lack of prowess.

  Dahtet too heard his laugh. Quietly she said, “Keste told me you scattered the herd.”

  And with Dahtet I could no longer hold my tongue. “He lies,” I snapped. “They were poised to flee. I saw the doe raise her head. Her quarters stiffened. I moved only then.”

  Dahtet said nothing. A liar is a contemptible creature, despised amongst the Apache; I did not lightly call Keste so. Yet I felt Dahtet did not believe me. She fingered the rim of her jug, and through the haze of my wrath I suddenly wondered why she had been talking to Keste at all; why she studied her jug so hard and would not meet my eyes. Unmarried men do not speak to the young women of the tribe. It is not permitted. Unless there is a promise … an understanding.

  Suddenly I was as certain of it as if Ussen himself had spoken the words in my ear: Dahtet wished to marry Keste.

  A cool chill crept down my spine. I knew not why the thought put such dread into my heart. As I stood beside the river, watching her fill her water jug, I knew my unease was not for myself. I feared for Dahtet.

  While Chodini was absent with his warriors in Mexico, the women worked hard. Many set forth day after day to gather food; others undertook the long task of tanning hides. Some cut deer meat into thin strips, and dried it in the sun’s fading heat before pounding it and placing it in baskets or hide vessels. All these supplies were then carefully stored in cool mountain caves for the winter.

  While the women worked, the older men of the tribe were content to sit and smoke and tell stories of battle feats and acts of bravery. The younger men listened, burning for the chance to be the heroes of their own tales. Wrestling matches and trials of strength were what occupied the boys. They played mock battles with each other, hurling stones with their slingshots.

  And on those days I belonged with no one. The women looked sideways at me when I went to join them, as indeed they always had – at first for my ineptitude, but now for the path I followed. My love of solitude had long been curious to them, and though Nahasgah had looked tenderly upon me, and Tehineh had often called me little sister, they were gone now, and many women shrank from my strangeness. I was to be a warrior; seemingly I had exiled myself from the company of women. Yet neither did I wish to be amongst the youths of the tribe when our c
hief was absent, for such behaviour might be spoken of as immodest, and I did not wish to call down censure on my head.

  Thus I was content to remain alone, keeping my hands and mind occupied in fashioning a bow, arrows and wrist guard that I might carry when next we hunted deer. With these, I practised my aim on frogs and fishes and creatures that crawl upon the earth, as any small boy would. As Tazhi had once done.

  In those solitary days, I thought of Keste’s muttered words.

  My father had gone from us before my mother’s belly was seen to swell with the child that was Tazhi. He left the living earth eight moons before Tazhi kicked his way into the sunlight. At his birth, my mother had wept hard, agonized sobs because my father was not there to look upon the face of his son. And yet my father had died a warrior’s death. My mother had clung with pride to that. No blemish stained his reputation.

  Why then had Keste spoken as if he was one disgraced?

  It was near five winters since I had watched my father ride away. His beloved face had become blurred and indistinct in my memory. And yet at Koskineh, in the darkness behind my closed eyelids I had beheld every line, every curve, of his features. Strange that now – when I had seen him so clearly – Keste should speak of him.

  I would have dismissed Keste’s gibe as meaningless. Easy, it would have been, to have shrugged away his overheard words as mere spite, but his mother’s troubled confusion gave weight to them. There was something here that I could not comprehend. Had Nahasgah or Tehineh lived I could, perhaps, have taken my questions to them. Alone, I could come no closer to understanding what he meant.

  Some days later, Chodini and his warriors returned. He brought many horses and cattle to supply the needs of his tribe; a good chief will serve as well as lead his people, and it was for this reason that Chodini was so beloved. We could face the coming winter without fear of hunger.

  And now Chodini called a council of the warriors.

  They gathered in the grey light of dawn, each according to his rank. Ozheh, son of Chodini, sat at his father’s right hand; Golahka sat at Chodini’s left – the finest of his men.