by Vella Munn
With God’s direction, he would succeed!
• • •
The padre was a fool. Worse than that, he was so deeply buried in religious fanaticism that he couldn’t see the truth.
Teeth clenched against the chafing caused by his uniform, Lopez left Fray Angelico standing alone. His only thought was to put an end to the useless argument, thus giving himself time to marshal the facts needed to change the padre’s mind. When he’d first seen the church wagon laden with paintings of saints, silver and gold ornaments, a life-size statue of Christ, heavy bronze church bells, altar supplies, wall hangings depicting religious events, and the fifteen-foot-high ornately carved wooden cross that Fray Angelico intended to take with him into Hopi land, he’d resigned himself to assuming responsibility for these, in his mind, unnecessary religious trappings. However, for the padre to be so misguided as to believe that logs for the proposed church could be hauled here from Kisiwu or the even more distant San Francisco mountains and then wrestled up the mesa . . .
Thinking to ask the padre how he intended to convince the savages they should build something to worship a Christian god when they already had what they needed for their pagan ceremonies, he whirled back around, but although his armor clanked and clattered, Fray Angelico paid him no attention. Instead, the padre stared up at Oraibi. Because his back was to him, Lopez couldn’t see his expression, but the little man held his body so stiffly that it looked in danger of snapping.
He hates it up there.
Smiling to himself, he continued his appraisal of Fray Angelico. There were times when the padre’s features were so serene, so at peace that Lopez actually envied him and wondered if blind service to the Lord could indeed make one oblivious of the body’s needs and discomforts; could blind one to danger. The padre had walked the entire way from Santa Fe, and although his feet were in pitiful condition, he barely limped. He ate sparingly and cared little how food was prepared; if his groin stirred at the sight of so many females after weeks of being surrounded by ill-smelling men, he gave no sign.
Still, some unsettling wind had blown through the padre’s world. Lopez reluctantly admitted to himself that he had felt the same wind.
Fray Angelico had stopped his gawking and was heading toward a group of children who’d been studying the horses, as they and the adult Hopi so often did. As he drew closer to the children, the padre said something to them, but Lopez couldn’t hear the words and didn’t care. What interested him was how the children reacted.
Fray Angelico was shuffling and speaking, looking like a small, gray mouse. Although this wasn’t the first time the padre had approached a group of Hopi, they gawked openmouthed at him—no wonder, since none of the savages could possibly understand a word of Spanish. The largest, a boy who would soon be old enough to be pressed into worthwhile service, stood sentry-like at the front. From a few steps away, the padre reached out as if to touch the boy’s head, but the boy jerked back. After a moment’s hesitation, the padre turned his attention to a much smaller girl, naked as the day she’d been born. Like the boy, she too tried to shy away, but other children were so close around that she couldn’t.
When Fray Angelico rested his hand on her head, she dug her toes into the ground and gnawed on her lower lip. Instead of coming to her defense, the largest boy scurried away. He was immediately followed by the others, leaving the little girl alone with the padre.
“Be not afraid, my child, my lamb,” Fray Angelico said, his voice carrying. “Feel. Feel. The Lord our God moves within my hands. I offer His blessing to you, welcome you into the light and entreat you to spread word of this wondrous moment to the others.”
Still biting her lip, the girl whimpered.
“You will soon know the joy of service to the Lord. All of you will,” the padre continued. “To give your lives in service—ah, child, how can I make you understand how rich your souls will become?”
The only way the padre could hope to make the Hopi understand was to learn enough of their language to allow him to communicate with them, something that was of little concern to Lopez.
“You will be baptized. Brought into the light of the Lord. Learn God’s commandments. Turn from your heathen ways and be free of the devil’s clutches.”
They don’t know who the devil is, Father. How are you going to tell them about that?
“Heaven waits for you and all of your people. I am the instrument for that journey. How willingly I accept that task. How joyously!”
Weary of the padre’s ranting, Lopez turned away. As he did, his gaze caught on one of his soldiers, a man who’d had the audacity to call himself Madariaga de Oñate. From what he’d been able to gather, Madariaga had somehow convinced Governor Felipe de Zotylo that he was more than what he obviously was—a mestizo, a bastard born of a Spanish father and Indian mother. His lies about his parentage had ended when Lopez informed him that as Captain General Don Juan de Oñate’s grandson, he, Lopez, spoke with authority about the great man’s family.
No one named Madariaga, particularly not a mestizo, could have Oñate blood flowing in his veins. Madariaga had briefly questioned Lopez’s parentage but he’d calmly, sharply pointed out that his mother was Don Juan de Oñate’s daughter.
It was indeed fitting that he, Lopez, should be engaged in the same task his grandfather had given himself in 1598 when he’d taken possession of all the kingdoms and provinces of this new land in the name of King Philip. His grandfather had subdued the Keres and taught hordes of Indians the meaning of fear. He, Lopez, would subdue the Hopi and Navajo—and then devote himself to finding the mineral wealth that had eluded his ancestor and every other explorer to come here.
Nothing would stand in his way! Nothing!
Chapter Four
The hogan where Cougar lived with his parents, two younger brothers, sister, and grandfather had been built on a rise overlooking a dry gully. Cougar’s grandfather had advocated erecting the conical-shaped structure in a nearby valley closer to the other hogans which made up the small Navajo village, but Cougar’s father had had a spirit-dream directing him to the safest place for his family.
Cougar, who’d done much of the work of covering timbers and poles with bark and dirt, had grown up with Drums No More’s cautions and had given them due weight, but he also believed in the wisdom of his father’s spirits.
Although light remained in the sky when he reached the hogan, the sun had set and a blessed coolness had begun to touch the land. On any other day he would have given thanks to the sun for a few hours of rest from the heat, but he was unable to think of anything except how quickly a horse—his horse—could travel. A journey that had always taken two days and nights had been completed in less than half that time.
“I return,” he cried. “My family, come see what I brought with me.”
The words sounded boastful, and he quickly gave thanks to the Holy People who’d made his accomplishment possible.
His sister, the youngest in the family with a mere eight winters behind her, was the first to emerge. Gray Eyes crowed with delight, but although Cougar encouraged her to touch the horse, she shook her head. His brothers, however, began running their hands up and down the animal’s legs while arguing who would mount her first. Cougar’s mother shook her head in disbelief while his father, Walks Swiftly, gawked and then ordered his middle son to hurry to the nearby hogans to spread the news.
Drums No More had been slow to join the others. Although his eyes remained fixed on Cougar, he said nothing until Cougar dismounted and walked over to him.
“Have you no words for me, Grandfather?” Cougar asked. “You knew what I hoped to do today and said you would offer a prayer for me. Be happy; your prayer for my safety was answered.”
“My prayer or your determination.”
“You think I was wrong to do this?”
Instead of answering, Drums No More stepped toward the horse much as a wary antelope approaches water. His dark eyes, so often somber, glistened with in
terest and excitement. Still, Cougar waited for the full weight of the older man’s reaction. By now, Gray Eyes had gotten over her initial fear and was running her fingers through the horse’s tail.
“Be careful,” Drums No More warned. “If she kicks you—”
“She will not,” Cougar interrupted, and then lowered his gaze because he would never intentionally contradict anything his elders said. “If one is careful and speaks gently, a horse is as safe to be around as a small bird.”
“You know this? What is it, Cougar? You have suddenly been blessed with knowledge about horses?”
“No. I did not mean . . .” His family was watching, listening. “Grandfather, I did this thing today because of you. For you.” And for all our people, because I believe horses will change everything for the Navajo. He pointed at the animal, who looked about to fall asleep. “It came to me that her name should be Four Legs, but if you wish to give her another, that is your right.”
He started to reach for his grandfather, then stopped himself because the arm without a hand at the end of it was closest to him and Drums No More never wanted to be touched there.
“This is my gift to you. The newcomers took from you; it is only right that, finally, you have something from them.”
• • •
“He put it down. He put it down. First Man put down the sweat house. On the edge of the hole where they came up, He put down the Son of the She Dark. He built it of valuable soft materials. Everlasting and peaceful, he put it there. He put it there.”
As the oldest Navajo inside the sweat lodge, it was Drums No More’s right to sing the Sweat Bath Song. Cougar tried to lose himself in the familiar words, to absorb the rhythm of his grandfather’s voice and become one with the other men who shared the tripod-shaped structure with him, but the combination of his long, stressful day and heat from the hot rocks was stealing his strength.
His grandfather had said nothing when he told him that Four Legs was his, but Drums No More had always been slow to reveal his thoughts.
“We are here because much has happened today which must be discussed,” Cougar’s father said once the beginning ritual was over. “Everyone knows what my son has done. It has always been said that horses are a gift from the spirits. At first I questioned that because the Spanish brought them to Dinehtah and the Spanish do not give homage to the Holy People; but life is a journey, and the way one walks is never clear before each step is taken. No matter how many prayers and rituals a man performs, he can never be sure he has done them as First Man ordered. I now say horses were sent by First Man as a test. If a warrior is brave and his heart pure, First Man will know and reward him. My firstborn son is such a man.”
Rising, Cougar stepped to the middle of the dark room and acknowledged his elders by inclining his head toward them. Surrounded by his people, deeply aware of how much a part of him they were, he began his story by detailing how he’d prepared himself with prayers, songs, and a sand painting. Then he said:
“There are seven soldiers and their leader and one brown-caped man. Two Indians sleep near the leader, but I did not try to speak to them. I think they may be Aztec slaves from the way they dress and act. The soldiers brought with them a great many sheep, weapons, food, blankets, tools, and other things I do not recognize. The horses . . .” Closing his eyes, he envisioned the crowded corral. “Their numbers are beyond my counting. They are healthy, strong. And wondrous to ride.”
As he expected, that drew excited responses. “You were not afraid?” someone asked.
“At first, yes,” he admitted. “Then my thoughts were on how I could escape without being shot.”
“Tell us,” a brave near his age asked, “would you go back again?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I walk with the Holy Ones in my heart and even if something about my preparation is incomplete, the reward is worth the risk.”
That, obviously, was what the assembled men wanted to hear. Although there’d been a great deal of talk about wanting to see everything the newcomers had brought with them, Cougar had been the first to travel to Oraibi. It wasn’t that the others were afraid, but a man who practices caution in the face of danger lives to see another morning.
The Navajo were raiders; it had always been their way to take from other tribes. But the Spanish fought with strange, deadly weapons, covered themselves in armor, and their horses allowed them to travel faster than the swiftest man could run. The wisdom of the past hadn’t told the Navajo how to deal with this new and dangerous force.
“It is our way to discuss something at length before a decision is made,” Walks Swiftly said. “Unlike the Apache, we are not ruled by chiefs, which is the way it should be. How can one man have the wisdom to say what is right for everyone? My son has proven that it is possible for a Navajo to take ownership of a horse, but one is not enough.”
No one disagreed, and as the evening wore on, it became clear that each man had pondered how much his life would change if he had a horse. However, there was danger in taking what the Spanish claimed as their own.
“This is what I say we must decide tonight,” Walks Swiftly said when it was once again his turn to speak. “It is the way of the Navajo to make use of Dinehtah’s gifts, to not stay long in any place, because if we did, Dinehtah would be stripped bare. If the Spanish had not come, I would be for moving elsewhere before winter, but my thoughts have changed. We would be foolish not to take the soldiers’ possessions for ourselves.”
Cougar agreed, but he was content to let the others talk. He wasn’t surprised when no one objected to remaining near Oraibi. In truth, he wanted nothing more than to take possession of another horse. Gradually, however, he became aware that his grandfather, whom he was sitting next to, was shaking his head.
“What is it?” he asked. “You think we are wrong?”
Drums No More wiped sweat off his forehead with his left hand and then, groaning a little with the effort, stood. When he held up his mutilated arm, all eyes were on him.
“Look at this,” he began. “Look and remember the lesson it represents. I hear the excitement as each man speaks of taking horses, and yes, ownership of them will make us powerful. But a warrior does not try to take a kill from a cougar. I say the Spanish are cougars. They will not easily give up what is theirs. There will be fighting. War.”
“We fear no one.”
Once again Drums No More thrust out his stump, silencing the young brave who’d spoken. “Would a Hopi do this? No! Would even an Apache? No! The Spanish are different from our old enemies. If we anger the Spanish, their need for revenge will know no end. Even our children will feel their wrath.”
“My father,” Walks Swiftly said, “I do not put words in your mouth; I would never do such a thing, but what I hear—do you say we should slink off like wounded animals?”
“Do not speak to me of wounds! I am Navajo, and my heart beats strong and brave. But . . .” he briefly stared at the ground, “I speak for caution.”
• • •
By the time Cougar entered his hogan, his mind ached with the weight of everything he’d said and heard, particularly his grandfather’s contribution. He was too tired to think anymore. However, as he’d expected, his mother wanted to know what had been discussed, and because his father and grandfather hadn’t yet returned, the task fell to him.
“There will be more sweat-talks,” he said. “No decision has been made.”
“Hm. Tell me, should I begin to make ready to move to a winter place?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Ha! That is what I thought.” She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “I am of two minds about this. The thought of having a horse to carry my burdens—ah, that would be wonderful. However, Spanish weapons can kill from a great distance.”
“The men will be careful.”
“Men.” She snorted. “They will think with their fists and muscle. With their penises.”
“If they did n
ot, the Navajo would have nothing; they would not even be.”
“If it was not for women, Navajo men would starve.” They’d had this conversation before, the same one she had with her husband. If he hadn’t been so weary, he would have enjoyed the good-natured bantering.
“As long as you are alive, Mother, I will not starve,” he pointed out.
“It should be your wife preparing food for you, not me.”
“I will find another.”
“I know you will.” Leaning forward, she took his hand and pressed it to her breast. “I do not wish to open your heart-wound, my son, but it is natural for me to want to see you with a wife, to watch her belly swell with my grandchildren. To hear you laugh with a woman.”
“I will. Someday.”
“But not if your days are filled with horse taking. Ah, Cougar, if only we knew what tomorrows will bring.”
He wasn’t sure he wanted that. When he’d left his mother’s hogan and gone to live with his wife, he’d thought he would spend the rest of his life sleeping with Sweet Water, but they’d only been married two moons when she began having headaches. Shortly after, her sight had started to fail. Although the shaman had created several dry paintings and the entire family had prayed, Sweet Water hadn’t recovered. Instead, she’d grown weak, her body often convulsed, and finally she no longer recognized him.
Wondering if he’d done something to offend a ghost or chindi, he’d been torn between his desire to remain with Sweet Water and the fear that his presence would threaten her health even more. When she died in her mother’s arms, he’d been elsewhere; he would have broken taboo by being near his mother-in-law.
Sweet Water’s parents had quickly prepared her body and buried her lest the ghost of an Earth Surface Person who had died should return and seek revenge. Sweet Water now lived below the earth’s surface, in the afterworld to the north—the direction of evil. He was glad her ancestors had been there to ease her four-day journey to the afterworld, but whenever he thought about where she’d gone and what her life without him was like, he couldn’t sleep.
