Soul of the Sacred Earth

by Vella Munn

  • • •

  “I cannot do everything at once, Padre,” Captain Lopez retorted. “I am sorry if you believe I am remiss in not anticipating that the Navajo would attack, but—”

  “Not attack,” Fray Angelico corrected. Obviously not caring that the three-sided brush structure Lopez had had his servants erect the day after their arrival constituted the captain’s private domicile, the padre had walked right in and now stood less than three feet away in the cramped space. “I do not believe their intention was to kill anyone. The heathen thieves were after horses—and they succeeded.”

  The padre had quickly become the bane of his existence, Lopez admitted. Didn’t the single-minded celibate realize he had more important things to do than carry on useless arguments? At least, he acknowledged as he reassured himself that the Hopi girl wasn’t trying to slip away, he’d managed to put off Angelico long enough to direct his men to stand guard around the remaining horses. As for his servants, they’d wisely faded into the night. Fear of the Navajo would keep them close enough.

  “They succeeded because you insisted I concern myself with your agenda. You cannot deny that I have attempted to accommodate you in every possible way, but tonight serves as an unfortunate reminder of what my priorities must be. My men’s safety must come first! That, and assuring that no more horses are lost.”

  “The Lord’s work precedes everything else,” Angelico said as Lopez contemplated having to tell both his father-in-law and the governor that the large herd he’d argued so strongly for had been decreased nearly by half. “That is why I came to you, even though I should at this moment be ministering to Pablo’s soul. I beseech you, do not abandon me while you search for the thieves.”

  “Damnation! The Lord’s work will never be done if you are not alive to do it.”

  “Whether I am the one to convert the savages or the task falls to another of my brothers does not matter,” Fray Angelico insisted. “If I give my life in service to God, my benefactors will lend their support to my successor. The Lord’s work will be done.”

  “I am busy, Father,” Lopez retorted, “with responsibilities far beyond your comprehension. Why do you think I acted swiftly and decisively tonight, putting fire to the Navajo carcass? So there will be no doubt of my determination to punish.”

  “The stench—”

  “Hopefully will carry for leagues. Father, you proclaimed where you want the church built and I agreed to force the Hopi’s cooperation.” He’d been standing with his arm draped over the young woman’s shoulder, now he pulled her hard against his side. “What I do with the rest of my time is not your concern.”

  Fray Angelico’s attention shifted to the Hopi, who’d been forced off balance and was trying to right herself while not touching Lopez.

  “You cannot—I protest!”

  “Protest all you want, Father. Convert the savages until there are none left, but do not attempt to control me.” He turned her so she now faced him, and pulled her forward until his pelvis ground into her belly. “I am a soldier, Padre. A man with needs and priorities.” She flung her head back, unwittingly exposing her throat. He nipped it, chuckling when she gasped.

  “You cannot—the Lord—”

  “Understands a soldier’s needs. Women, female savages, were placed here to accommodate us. Tonight I accept the gift.”

  “You are married.”

  Something cold circled Lopez’s throat, but he fought it off. “That is not your concern.”

  “Your father-in-law—”

  “Shut up! Get out!” The padre fled in the face of Lopez’s anger.

  • • •

  The man smelled of sweat, smoke and something her nostrils had never tasted. As he yanked her dress over her head, fear threatened to bury Singer of Songs, but she fought to take herself from what was being done to her. She’d begun her day by asking her father to tell her of his most successful deer hunt. She had heard the tale many times before, but talking about the days when he had joined the other men in providing food for his family helped him forget that now his legs supported him for only a few minutes at a time. Both she and Morning Butterfly took care to praise him for what he’d once accomplished and never mentioned that their mother’s youngest brother was the one who now filled the family’s cooking bowls with meat. What hurt almost as much as seeing her father hobble around was the look in her mother’s eyes, the sorrow and pain!

  The man had forced her legs apart and was on top of her, forcing his penis into her. The women had told her that her first time might hurt, but that it would be all right because pleasure—

  No pleasure! Only revulsion and searing pain and cries held back by clenched teeth and her fingers digging into the earth and silent sobs.

  She paid no attention to his muttered words of surprise.

  Chapter Six

  Fray Angelico’s burning branch illuminated enough of his surroundings that he easily made his way back to where he’d left Pablo. A merciful God might allow the young man to live, but because God’s ways were mysterious, even to him, he made no attempt to bargain for Pablo’s life. Instead, he turned that decision—like everything else—over to his maker.

  Angelico had been barely nine when his parents took him to a Franciscan monastery and charged the monks with responsibility for his religious education; if he’d been consulted in the matter, he didn’t remember. Less than a year later, along with others of the order, he’d boarded a ship bound for New Spain. The knowledge that he might never see his family or homeland again cast him into a depression that hadn’t lifted until the journey was over and, like the others, he began the barefoot walk from Veracruz to Mexico City. Being on shipboard hadn’t lifted the cloak of melancholy and fear, but the sights, sounds, and smells of an untamed and heathen world had, and despite his tender age, he’d known he was playing his own small part in history.

  As the years passed, he forgot the sound of his mother’s voice and embraced, wholly, the evangelical crusade set forth by the Twelve Apostles. A true believer with every breath he took, he’d accepted a life of poverty and committed himself to the salvation of the “baby birds,” or Indians, living in the new land. These children, under his care and love, learned to fear and praise God, and although their souls were so primitive they must be denied the sacraments of Communion and Extreme Unction, he never doubted they could be molded to fit into the Christian community.

  God in his mysterious wisdom had sent him to work first among the Tarascans of Patzcuaro, then the Aztecs living at Tepeyae, and finally to Santa Fe, where a great Franciscan mission was being built. He had been spreading the Word there when, to his great joy, he was selected to help the conversion of the Hopi savages to the north.

  If he had any doubts—not fears, surely—it was because this would be his first true involvement with the military, and from the moment he’d met Captain Lopez, Angelico had known that the man’s strong personality would test his own. They were nothing alike, not with Lopez’s challenging nature when it came to religious matters, and yet . . .

  “Pablo,” he called out when he reached the unfortunate. “God walks among us tonight. Feel His glory and take your strength from Him.”

  “Father?”

  The soldier was weak—there was no doubt of that—but Angelico had witnessed many deaths during his years of ministering to Indians, and Pablo’s voice gave no indication of impending death. When he stepped close, flames illuminated both the prone figure and the Hopi woman charged with caring for him. If his gaze remained overlong on her, it was, Angelico told himself, because he wanted to assure himself that she was worthy of the task. As he dropped to his knees beside Pablo, she backed away, nearly disappearing into the night.

  “Pray with me, my child,” he told Pablo. “The Lord is our God, the Lord alone. For us there is one God, the Father, from whom are all things and for whom we exist, and one Lord, Jesus Christ, through whom are all things and through whom we exist.”

  In a halting voice, P
ablo repeated the prayer. Then: “Padre, are you ever afraid here?”

  “Afraid?”

  “I—this is my first post. My dream had been to become like you, dedicated to a lifetime of service to God, but . . .”

  “But what, my son?”

  Pablo took a long time answering. “If I tell you, you will hate me.”

  “I hate no one.”

  The young man briefly gripped his hand, then released it as if ashamed of the contact. “I am incapable of purity of faith because I am not pure of blood.”

  For a moment Angelico thought Pablo was trying to tell him he was Negro or a mestizo, but he wasn’t dark enough to be a Negro and a bastard mestizo couldn’t possibly aspire to a religious life.

  “Jewish,” he guessed. “You are Jewish?”

  “Not me!” Pablo sounded both angry and defensive. “But my grandfather was, and no matter how devoutly I embrace the true faith, I will never be accepted.”

  That was true. Nevertheless, the right or wrongness of the situation was of little concern to Angelico, the son of Catholics who saw placing the boy in the priesthood as the ultimate proof of their faith.

  “We are all God’s children here,” he told Pablo. After all, the man was wounded and still might die.

  “I want to believe that.” Pablo whimpered, then began again. “But we are so far from any church, so—”

  “I will build one, soon.”

  “I know.” His voice trailed off. “But even then, will I truly feel God’s embrace or . . . or will the devil’s hold on the savages remain as strong as it is now? Will . . . will we be safe?”

  • • •

  The land was Morning Butterfly’s mother, her father, her ancestors. She’d grown up believing that simple truth, and as night gripped her, she took comfort from the rocks and dirt beneath her feet. Her thoughts whirled in one direction and then the other like a winter-driven wind, and when fear for her sister threatened to drive her mad, she focused on the earth. She prayed her sister could do the same.

  The First World was Tokpela, endless space. Even before that was Taiowa the Creator. There was no beginning, no end, no shape, simply the great void where Taiowa dwelled.

  Taiowa’s first creation was Sotuknang, and Taiowa said to him, “I have created you, the first power and instrument, as a person, to carry out my plan for life in endless space. I am your Uncle. You are my Nephew. Go now and lay out those universes in proper order so they may work harmoniously with one another according to my plan.”

  Lost in the Creation Story, Morning Butterfly was slow to make sense of what she heard. Her eyes took in the first message as Singer of Songs emerged from the shadows, then she heard her sister’s cry and ran to her.

  “What is it?” she gasped as she enveloped Singer of Songs.

  The injured soldier snored nearby; except for him, they had this space to themselves. Instead of answering, Singer of Songs sagged.

  “He hurt you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Took you?”

  “Yes.”

  The awful truth of how her sister had lost her innocence felt like a knife to her heart. Crying, she stroked Singer of Songs’ thick hair.

  “And then he let you go?” she asked. “He had no more use for you?”

  “I—I did not want to, but I cried out when he entered me, and I think he knew I had never been with a man. After that—after that he became almost gentle, and when he was done, he told me to leave.”

  “Why would he care that you are—were a virgin?”

  “I do not know. I wish—I wish today had not happened.”

  “We are People of Peace,” Morning Butterfly whispered around the knot in her throat. “Peace will sustain you. You and I belong to the Sun Clan, which takes its name from that which feeds this land. Sotuknang, nephew of the Creator, brought the sun into being even before the living things; that truth makes Sun Clan members endless.”

  “Morning Butterfly, I want to go home.”

  Of course she did. Shielding Singer of Songs from Pablo, she glanced down at him and then dismissed the young man from her thoughts. If the captain punished her for deserting her patient, so be it.

  Singer of Songs needed help making her way up to Oraibi, and even when she finally was standing on the ground their ancestors had claimed for the Hopi, she didn’t seem to know where she was. Gently, Morning Butterfly reminded her.

  “Look around you,” she encouraged. “Here the Hopi are as one, each with their own task and responsibility, all important.”

  Morning Butterfly reminded her sister of the countless, intricate baskets the women made, sitting on rooftops so they could watch and visit as they worked.

  “I hear your words, my sister,” Singer of Songs whispered as dawn combed her hair with golden highlights. “But I cannot take them into my heart today.”

  “Why?”

  “I am ashamed. I do not want our parents . . .”

  “They will understand. No one will say this was your fault.”

  “You do not?”

  “You are a young woman, not a warrior.”

  “I wish I was!”

  Encouraged by her sister’s show of spirit, she said, “Maybe you wish you were one of the Navajo who caused the soldier to be injured.”

  “If that were so, I would be far away now. On horseback. You will stay with me?”

  “I will never leave you,” Morning Butterfly promised.

  Just the same, as they made their way up the short ladder leading to their pueblo’s roof entry, her thoughts went to the Navajo. Her sister would still be a virgin if the raiders hadn’t come. The Navajo were free to roam as far as their newly captured horses could carry them, while she couldn’t go any farther than her legs took her.

  She might hate and fear the Navajo, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t envy them.

  • • •

  Morning Butterfly and Singer of Songs’ older brothers lived in their wives’ homes at the other side of Oraibi. Although they would have to be told about what had been done to their sister, Morning Butterfly was glad her mother hadn’t insisted on doing so this morning. It was enough that her parents and her father’s uncle, who lived with them, were staring at Singer of Songs.

  Their mother, as befitted her status as owner of the house, was the first to speak. “When my daughters did not come home last night, I could not sleep for my fear,” Roadrunner said. “I told myself they might have gone to another house to talk about the raid and fallen asleep there, but my mother’s heart found no peace in that, not after I heard what had been done to the dead Navajo.” She shuddered.

  As briefly as possible, Morning Butterfly told them how she’d spent the night. No one asked about the soldier’s condition. Neither, thankfully, did they press Singer of Songs for details of her rape. Morning Butterfly prayed that being in the single room with its clay floor, adobe walls, and brush, grass, and mud ceiling would bring her sister comfort.

  “Does this captain know who you are?” Roadrunner asked Singer of Songs.

  “I pray not. It was dark and I left when he fell asleep.”

  “Praise Sotuknang that you were able to. Perhaps he will not know where to look for you.”

  “Perhaps.” Singer of Songs, who’d slumped to her knees, stared at the ground.

  Roadrunner bent and kissed the top of her youngest child’s head. “That is what I pray. If you remain here, you will be safe and your voice in song will gladden my heart as it always has.”

  “But I cannot. You need me to gather more rabbit brush and sumac twigs so we can make new baskets.”

  “That can wait.”

  But not for long, Morning Butterfly admitted to herself. Roadrunner had once been skilled at basket making, but age had slowed and twisted her fingers. Recently, probably because her mind had been on her husband’s poor health, she’d dropped two large clay bowls painted red, brown, and black, shattering them.

  Their father cleared his throat. Deer Ears had li
ttle in the way of wisdom to pass on to his daughters but he was deeply troubled by what had happened. He would soon retire to his clan’s kiva, where he intended to pray. Morning Butterfly wondered if Roadrunner or Singer of Songs would ask him to say nothing to the other men he was bound to meet there, but they didn’t.

  She’d been in the kiva of course, once to help repair the roof and for a number of ceremonies, but the underground council, workshop, and ceremonial structure was for men; what they said and did there remained mostly mystery, steeped in tradition and belief.

  “Will you ask for a Council of Chiefs?” her father’s uncle asked, speaking for the first time.

  “I do not know. I must speak to Wanderer before I do anything else.”

  Wanderer was a member of the Bear Clan, the first Hopi clan to reach the Third Mesa. Wanderer’s age and position within the clan made him the village’s senior chief and as such he would preside over a Council of Chiefs. Morning Butterfly wished she knew more about the chief’s thoughts and beliefs, but a man entrusted with the tribe’s sacred objects doesn’t share of himself with a young woman.

  “I will go with you,” One Hand said. He was a quiet man who moved so slowly that sometimes Morning Butterfly wondered if he’d fallen asleep while on his feet. As a young child, she’d often stared at the scarred stump where a hand should be but had been afraid to ask about it. She’d learned of what he’d endured at Acoma from the Aztec Tomas—and from One Hand’s nightmares. Awake, her father’s uncle never spoke of those days.

  One Hand had been married when the invaders chopped off his hand. His young wife, terrified by his dreams, had tearfully asked him to leave. Weak and silent, he’d returned to the pueblo of his birth, taking Tomas with him. One Hand couldn’t join the other men when they hunted, and although he maintained a small garden, he needed Tomas’s help to tend it. After the Aztec’s death, he had come to live with Morning Butterfly’s parents.