by Vella Munn
“Responsibility for meting out punishment has been granted me both by the Crown and by God. I could set you free, but if I did, you might rise up against us again, and I will not, cannot allow that to happen. After much deliberation, I have determined that nothing will be served by more deaths. Instead, the men among you will serve as an example of the Crown’s power. All males over the age of twenty-five years will give twenty years of personal servitude to the Crown. In addition, they each will have one foot cut off.” Vincente grunted almost soundlessly; crippled, the men would be harmless.
Groans and sobs followed the translation of Oñate’s announcement, and he waited out the irritating sound.
“Furthermore, all males between twelve and twenty-five are sentenced to twenty years of servitude, save for the two Hopi and one Navajo Indian who were among those apprehended. They will have their right hands cut off and be set free to convey news of this punishment to their people.”
A single sound, a curse perhaps, briefly stopped him.
“I am a just man and as such I declare that all children under twelve are free and innocent of the offenses their parents carry. I place the girls under the care and guidance of our father commissary, Fray Alonso Martinez, asking him to distribute them in this kingdom or elsewhere so they may attain the knowledge of God and salvation of their souls.
“Boys of tender age are entrusted to my nephew in order that they may attain the same goal.”
His still-young features impassive, Vincente nodded.
“Finally, the old men and women as well as those disabled in the war are to be entrusted to the Apaches of the province of Querechos to be utilized as it pleases the wild Indians.”
When he was done, Oñate nodded to his soldiers, who began grabbing adult male prisoners and hauling them toward the large stone he’d selected as the mutilation site. If only the rest of the kingdom’s heathens could see the stricken looks or hear the pitiful cries! If they heard, then no Spanish man, woman, or child need ever fear the kind of death Juan had suffered.
“Begin,” he ordered the massive man who waited, axe uplifted, beside the stone.
Chapter Two
Summer, 1628
Hopi Land, Black Mesa
According to Navajo legend, when the First People lived in the Fifth World, they made their homes near rivers and springs or the Place of Emergence because the only water was there; but after clouds were formed, rain fell on the mountain and in the valleys and people could travel wherever they wanted to gather the seeds, berries, and nuts they needed for life. The valleys and mesas turned green with grasses and bright with flowering shrubs.
As the Dineh began to divide into families and clans and made ready to move to different places, First Woman turned to the Bird People for wisdom on how to build houses. Eagle, who lived on the crest of Blue Mountain, showed them his nest made from sticks, poles, twigs, spruce trees, and feathers from his breast. Although Eagle’s nest wasn’t warm enough for the winter months, First Woman proclaimed that all should follow his plan, so the First People’s homes would be round like the sun.
After Eagle left, Mrs. Oriole showed First Woman her willow bark, marsh grass, and milkweed pod fuzz nest. Hosteen Woodpecker tried to convince First People to peck their homes into the side of a tree trunk, but although First Woman declared that the Dineh couldn’t live in hollow logs, she decided they would use the sound he made to call people to council meetings and summon help.
Cliff Swallow took the First People to his bluff-top home made from adobe mud and grass. Some said they couldn’t live so far from the ground but thanked Swallow for showing them how to make adobe plaster. Others, however, said they didn’t mind building ladders. They became the Cliff House People or Cliff Dwellers.
Those still looking for a home studied the work of the Water People, such as Hosteen Muskrat, Hosteen Mink, and Hosteen Otter, as well as the dwellings made by Beaver People, Mrs. Caterpillar, Spider Woman, and finally Ant People, whose homes were partly underground and partly on ground level, all covered with earth. When First People saw the roof opening with its hidden doorway facing the east to greet the morning sun, the circular floor in the shape of the sun and full moon, and the storage rooms, they knew they’d found a place that couldn’t blow away and that the rain couldn’t harm, one that would be cool in summer and warm in winter.
• • •
The Navajo warrior named Cougar, whose mother and thus he were members of the White Shell clan, had repeated the familiar legend to himself as he made his way to the low windswept bluff that provided a view of the Hopi pueblo Oraibi. The legend, he had hoped, would keep his mind clean and pure, but now he cleared his thoughts of everything except why he’d come here. Even the chants and songs a tribal singer had given him for strength and courage would have to wait. Otherwise, he might die.
Naked except for a doeskin over his privates and moccasins, Cougar clutched his stone knife in his powerful right hand, alert for a glimpse of those who’d recently come here, those he already hated. Around his shoulder he’d wound the rope he hoped to use to lead away one of their horses.
A horse!
For a moment, the dream of sitting astride one of the powerful animals pushed aside caution. As a boy, he’d occasionally seen them from a distance, the sight filling him with awe and envy and even disbelief, but a horse wasn’t for an untried youth, and even the bravest warrior seldom risked getting close enough to the animals’ masters—men who called themselves Spanish soldiers—to touch, let alone steal, one.
His grandfather had warned that the soldiers would kill to protect their prized possessions, and Cougar believed Drums No More. However, he was a man now and, along with many other braves, believed that if his people were to survive the impact of the newcomers, they must fight with the weapons of these new enemies. Besides, horses made the Dineh swift. Strong.
A slow, deep breath to calm his heart’s pounding, a testing of his long, firm legs, a quick hand over his broad, dark chest, and he was on the move again, bent low. His hair was caught against his skull with a length of hide, but he still felt its movement along the sides of his neck. This morning he’d drunk as much as his belly could hold, and if he had to wait until tomorrow or even beyond that to drink again, so be it. Neither would he heed the need for sleep or food.
It was summer, the land dry and hard. He felt heat through his moccasins and sweat ran from him, but he’d lived through enough seasons that he trusted the Holy People to again bless the land with precious rain.
His legs propelled him effortlessly past endless nothing, around the countless rocks that grew from the earth, into a dry wash and back up again. A prairie dog poked its head out of its underground home and regarded him with childlike curiosity. Lifting his hand, he acknowledged the small creature. Further on he spotted a crow and honored its existence as well. What he’d thought was a small root poking up from the earth revealed itself as a lizard, but it scrambled away on a blur of tiny legs before he could greet it.
New sounds came to him now that he was close to Oraibi, not the dangerous clank and clatter of armor and fire-spewing weapons, but the soft chewing of many horses. Stopping, he dropped to his knees behind a piñon bush and peered through its branches.
The wind shifted and he caught the horses’ scent, which was rich and alive like the smell of buffalo, deer, or antelope. Horses had more meat over their bones than even a healthy, spring-fed doe, and from many days of watching as they and their owners made their way to the sacred Hopi village, he knew how strong they were, and how swift.
He would ride one of them! Claim it as his own! The soldiers would try to kill him, but to be Navajo meant to take what one needed. If he died today, he would begin his journey to the underworld where those who’d died before him, including his wife, waited. It was good.
Oraibi had been built atop a broad, high mesa, and as always, the sight of the great rock city snagged his breath. He would never understand why the Hopi chose to live their l
ives in one place and so close to each other, robbed of the ability to move where and when the gods told them to, but he could admire what they’d created. It was said that Oraibi had been here forever. It belonged to the land, stone set in stone, gray like summer-dead grasses.
In order to reach the farming and hunting lands that lay below the many-roomed structure, the Hopi climbed down several hundred feet of steep cliff, aided for part of the journey by ladders. Tending the sparse corn and other crops, which somehow found life in the thin earth and deeply buried, precious moisture, meant traveling long distances and exposing themselves to attack, but it wasn’t for a Navajo to question the way of those who called themselves People of Peace.
Closer, closer he moved, his body nearly one with the earth. The Hopi, many wearing cotton shirts and leggings, trudged from the valley floor up to Oraibi and back down again. He kept his distance from them.
Cougar searched the land. A warrior who’d recently come here to trade had told him of the Spanish. The soldiers had set up camp in the open. One, perhaps their leader, slept nearby and yet separate, along with two slaves. There was another, a brown-clothed man called a padre, who had erected a small shelter made of blankets and sticks at the base of the mesa, mere feet from a well-trod path. At least one soldier was always near him, making Cougar wonder whether the man was afraid of being alone or if he had something the soldiers wanted.
Someone coughed, the sound close. Motionless and ready to fight, he glanced to his right, but it was only an old woman, her face like cracked clay. If she’d spotted him, she might have cried out, but perhaps her eyes were failing her, for she trudged past. Cougar started forward again.
The newcomers’ many sheep, although loose, grazed under the watchful eye of a mounted soldier. The horses, more than he could count, were contained within a large stick-and-rope barrier. Deer grew fat because they were free to roam endlessly for food; shouldn’t the Spanish have learned from the wisdom of deer and allowed the horses the same freedom? Perhaps, he pondered as he waited for his ears and eyes and nose to bring him wisdom, the Spanish knew of no other way than to make prisoners of everything that came within their grasp.
And perhaps—this thought brought a brief smile to his lips—the Spanish feared as well as hated his people, who had once wandered the earth but had long ago found peace in Dinehtah, the Land. If they did, then they were not as stupid as they appeared.
No, not stupid. A man who hacks the hand off a helpless and unarmed man is dangerous. Grizzly dangerous. Cougar’s mouth went dry at the memory of what his grandfather had endured years ago at the Sky City and would continue to endure as long as Drums No More drew breath.
Although Cougar hated crawling on his belly like a snake, only someone who keeps his head lower than the surrounding growth can hope to move unseen toward his enemy. Despite his efforts, the dry grass protested as he wriggled past. He prayed to First Man that the sounds of the wind and of the grazing, sometimes whinnying horses would hide the soft rustle, but if it didn’t, he still had his knife, now gripped between his teeth. The hot midday sun beat down on his exposed back and insects crawled onto and over him, causing his flesh to twitch. He blinked only rarely, his gaze fixed on the solitary soldier sitting near the horse corral.
Last night he’d imagined his knife cutting through the leather gate fastening, so that not only the horse he chose could escape, but also many others. It was too bad more of his people weren’t here to help, but his namesake was a solitary hunter and, today, so was he, because that had been the shaman Storm Wind’s wisdom.
Closer, closer, his progress was measured in one muscle pull at a time. His elbows were being rubbed raw by the ground and his knees burned.
Drums No More would be proud.
Voices flowed over him. He was no stranger to the language of the Hopi, having learned it when his parents had given shelter to a Hopi youth through a long, cold winter and he and the boy had become friends. Today, though, the words tangled like spiderwebs in his mind and he felt no need to separate them. The conversations, like the sound of horses, made what he was doing easier.
He was watching several children at play when he spotted another soldier, this one’s body held prisoner within a hard, shining suit. This tall man was the one who slept separate from the others. He walked with long, sweeping steps, a bull elk striding unafraid. He appeared several years older than the rest and his mouth was set in a strong, unsmiling line. His eyes moved constantly, first taking in the path leading up to Oraibi, then looking into the distance where several Hopi men were using sticks to loosen the ground around their corn, then at the horses. When the soldier’s eyes settled on the shelter where the padre was staying, his spine straightened, and he clenched his fingers.
The other soldiers had removed their heavy metal head coverings, but this one still wore his. Sweat streamed out from under it. Perhaps the Spanish adorned themselves in elaborate costumes, as Apaches did during their rituals, to ward off illness or evil powers. If that was so, then a Spanish ritual must last many moons. There was another possibility. The metal the soldiers covered themselves with was too thick and hard for an arrow to pierce, and those who feared attack lived in a state of constant readiness.
Looking around, Cougar saw that two young Hopi women were climbing down the ladder, one just now reaching the ground. Straightening, the maiden tugged on her dress so the hem covered her knees. Her eyes fell on the helmeted soldier, and she pulled her arms close to her body as if trying to make less of herself. The soldier’s back was to her; it would be an easy matter for her to rush at him and bury a knife in him.
The earth has been laid down, the earth has been laid down. The earth has been laid down, it has been made. The earth spirit has been laid down. It is covered over with the growing things, it has been laid down. The earth has been laid down, it has been made.
The sweat lodge song flowed through Cougar, strengthening and centering him, leaving him empty of everything except what it was to be one of the Earth People. After another look at the helmeted soldier’s back, he rose. He would have preferred to remain close to the ground, but countless feet had trampled what little grass grew here, and there was nothing for him to hide behind.
He was far enough away from the soldiers that any sound he might make wouldn’t carry. True, he might be spotted because he wore less clothing than most Hopi men, but, he told himself, the Spanish didn’t have eagles’ eyes. As long as he walked slowly, his head down, and as long as the dry painting’s magic remained with him, he would be safe.
A rangy dog woke from its nap and ambled toward the horse corral. For a long time, the soldier sitting near the gate paid the dog no mind, but finally the animal slunk close enough that it could have stretched out its muzzle and touched the man. The man turned first his head and then his upper body toward the dog. Whatever he said caused the dog’s ears to swing forward.
Whether the man offered the dog something to eat or chased it away was of no concern to Cougar, who stood on the opposite side of the corral, but it occurred to him that perhaps the creature was a diversion sent by First Man. He took advantage of the distraction by dropping to his knees and rolling under the lowest stretch of rope, then quickly stood and, with his back to the horses, assessed his world. Soldier and dog were nearly one now, the man’s hand extended toward the animal, the panting dog’s eyes locked on those fingers.
Slowly, like a snake uncoiling, Cougar faced the horses. Barely aware of what he was doing, he took the rope off his shoulder and tried to remember what he’d been told and observed about the creatures. They placidly submitted to a man’s weight on their back, but the slightest thing, like a windborne feather, could startle them. They were curious and shy, but sometimes bold. Lacking the wisdom of deer and antelope, they would probably starve or die of thirst if left alone on the plains. Most of all they were strength and speed.
He’d never been this close to one before, hadn’t realized they were this tall or that their feet were
solid like rocks, or that they could sleep standing up, which many appeared to be doing on this long, hot day. The soldiers put strange contraptions on their backs and used loops that hung down the animals’ sides to assist them in mounting, but none of these horses were so encumbered.
Movement to his right snagged his breath and made him tighten his muscles the way his namesake did just before charging its prey. What had caught his attention wasn’t a rabbit or fawn but an approaching red-brown horse with long, pale hair on the back of its neck. Glancing under its belly, he determined that it was female. It moved like a dancer ruled by rapid drumbeats, the prancing letting him know it was young. He wasn’t sure what a female horse should be called, so he thought of it as a doe.
“Thank you, Nandza’ gai,” he whispered, and touched the leather bag around his neck.
It still seemed wondrous that the horse doe hadn’t run away, still more magical that it actually extended its head toward him. Driven by curiosity, he reached out and touched the black nose. He was surprised to find it soft, the creature’s damp breath warm and gentle on his flesh. The horse took yet another step closer, and he fought not to draw away. Now its head was so close and low that he could look deep into large eyes like a night-darkened lake.
“Do you not fear me?” he asked. “I am called Cougar, a warrior, a hunter. A doe should fear a cougar.”
By way of answer, the horse pressed her head against his chest and pushed, nearly knocking him off balance. He was glad no one could hear his quick intake of breath or know his heart no longer beat in rhythm.
“No,” he laughed. “You do not fear me.”
There were questions he wanted to ask the horse and messages he needed to give it. Most of all, he wished he knew how he was going to get onto the high, broad back, but before he could fully turn his mind to that, he heard a low growl. Alarmed, he pressed the palm of his hand along the underside of the horse’s neck where a vein pulsed, and listened. The growl wasn’t repeated, but he still felt its echo inside him. There were so many horses between him and the soldier that he could no longer see the man or the dog. Although he told himself that no one had spoken of the Spanish being able to change form or fly, he couldn’t be sure. Nandza’ gai might have sent the dog to the soldier as a distraction, but that didn’t mean he dared cease being cautious.
