by Vella Munn
Deer Ears, supporting himself by gripping One Hand’s shoulder, stopped with a foot on the ladder’s bottom rung. His eyes swept over his wife and daughters, lingering on Singer of Songs, but when he spoke, it was to One Hand. “While in kiva, I will speak a father’s words and thoughts. I take pride in having fed and clothed all my children, and I love them.”
“I know you do,” One Hand said.
“Do you? You are not a father.” He ducked his head, signifying he hadn’t intended to speak harshly. “The way you have walked your life has been hard; I acknowledge that. I know you will speak of that life, but I do not want those to be the only words the men hear.”
“I know you, Deer Ears,” One Hand responded. “You are a man of action. A brave man. Not always a wise man.”
“A sick man,” Deer Ears reminded him. “One who can no longer draw a bow as he once did.”
“Yes, but what you cannot do for yourself you may convince others to do.”
One Hand was right, thought Morning Butterfly; her father spoke of the peaceful way as did everyone, and yet he’d never allowed his family to be wronged. Once, when a longer than usual drought had jeopardized the corn harvest, Deer Ears had refused to share the water from the underground spring on his land. Another time, he’d been so vocal in his objection to his oldest son’s romantic interest that the young man had changed his mind about participating in a dumaiya, which would have drawn the girl into his blanket with him for the night and maybe resulted in a pregnancy and thus a marriage. Now, Morning Butterfly guessed One Hand was afraid his nephew would speak of exacting revenge.
Her father shrugged at One Hand but said nothing, and the two left together, one old man assisting the other. Her mother continued to touch Singer of Songs’ head, but the younger woman gave no indication that she was aware of the contact. She seemed to be staring at nothing and yet her eyes were bright and focused.
“I hate them!” she blurted. “The soldiers and their leader, even the one who calls himself a man of God! I wish they were all dead!”
• • •
Only a few slats of daylight made their way into the kiva. As a result, One Hand couldn’t look into Deer Ears’ eyes and know what was in his nephew’s heart. As he’d expected, Deer Ears had wasted no time telling the assembled men about the attack on his youngest daughter; for once he seemed to have forgotten his unsteady legs. Although everyone had muttered disbelief and sympathy, they waited for Wanderer to speak.
Wanderer, who was so old no one alive remembered his parents, stood and stamped his feet.
“I do this to call upon Siliomomo,” he explained. “Siliomomo who was born of a Hopi girl near Singer of Songs’ age and Antelope-Spirit.”
“Siliomomo?” Deer Ears questioned. “But he was not a kachina?”
“No, he was not,” Wanderer agreed. “It has come to me that the Hopi are faced with something they never have experienced before. Our old ways may not help us.
“Kachinas have life-and-death influence over the Hopi and bring rain and other gifts to us. They stand at the center of our beliefs, yes, but they are good and gentle when there is nothing good or gentle about the Spanish.”
Wanderer closed his eyes and walked over to the shrine-shelf that held a large number of kachina dolls. After touching each in turn, he faced his audience.
“I feel their love and concern, their fear for us.”
“Fear? No!”
“If we do not speak of a thing, does that mean it does not exist? My thoughts are still like mist. For it to fully show itself to me—and to the rest of you whose wisdom I respect—I believe we must start with the legend.”
At Wanderer’s suggestion, One Hand nodded and began the tale.
“Before the Hopi settled here, one of the migrating clans lived near Canyon de Chelly. Famine visited them. One day when a girl like Singer of Songs was out gathering the wild grain noona, she was visited by a strange and powerful man who told her not to fear him. He fed her meat and she shared her bed of soft branches with him. They were not intimate, and yet she became pregnant. When the boy-child was born, they named him Siliomomo because they were of the Sawungwa Clan, but although sawungwa means yucca fruit plant, he was one with the animals.
“The time came when Siliomomo went in search of his father. His father came to him and took him to a kiva, where he stamped his foot. Inside the kiva, he met people who turned into the animals of the earth. His father was Antelope. Antelope taught him about his magic power so he could always feed his people, and after he had done that, Siliomomo took his prayer sticks to the kiva to honor the gift he had been given.
“The spirit people came to Siliomomo’s clan village and shared their spirit powers with the people, but although the spirit people live in kivas, they are not kachinas. There is more,” he said with a glance at Wanderer. “Do you wish me to continue?”
“Later. First, I turn to everyone and ask if my thoughts carry weight and if we should begin ceremonies so the truth of my thoughts might be borne out.”
“What is that?” One Hand asked.
“The Hopi walk the Road of Peace and our kachinas do no harm, but is it possible that I think of Siliomomo and the spirit people because death and bad things have come to Oraibi and the spirit people taught Siliomomo how to kill?”
“But only animals, so his people would not starve!” One Hand exclaimed.
“Yes,” Wanderer agreed. “And yet is it possible that killing animals was only part of the spirit people’s wisdom?”
• • •
“Blue Corn Eater did not keep his mind pure and that is why he was killed.”
“He is dead—if he is—because a soldier’s ball pierced him.”
“But it would not have if he had been walking the way of a Navajo.”
Cougar didn’t agree with his grandfather, but he didn’t want to waste his energy or cause disharmony by arguing. The trip back to the Navajo village had taken nearly as long as if they’d been on foot, because none of the men knew how to lead horses, and learning how to ride had taken its own time. Besides, they’d been slowed by grief and shock.
Cougar had managed to grab the horse Blue Corn Eater had been riding and had turned it over to Blue Corn Eater’s family—the only thing he could do for these people he loved. Because they didn’t have the young man’s body, they’d killed the horse, which might have been the last living thing the young warrior touched. They were digging a large grave and hoped to have the body in the ground before dark.
Blue Corn Eater’s spirit, if he indeed had died, might be angry at not being properly disposed of, and instead of traveling along a mountain trail as it should, might remain as an angry ghost—a chindi. That was what he and his grandfather should be talking about, not what Blue Corn Eater might have done to bring about his death.
“I agree with Drums No More,” the elderly singer Wolf Stalker said. He left his study of the newly acquired horses and joined the knot of men gathered around Cougar and his grandfather. “Ritual has been broken and we are at risk. A sing must be performed to bring us back in harmony with the earth. Besides, we must do certain things to insure our safety.”
Cougar nodded because he felt like a leaf tossed about by an angry wind, a man who has lost his way and needs to find it again. If Sweet Water were still alive, he could have expelled his energy inside his wife and fallen asleep with his head on her breast; but he couldn’t.
As a respected singer, Wolf Stalker could announce a sing whenever he wanted. He climbed onto a rock and called to Estanatlehi, Changing Woman, who created human beings and was one with the Earth, Sun, First Man, First Woman, and the Hero Twins.
“The Universe is orderly,” Wolf Stalker said as Cougar sat near him, determined to give himself up to the truth, to still his fear of reprisal. “It is both good and evil. So are the Holy People, and we stand in respect of them. Today we call on Yeis, the force of nature, and the Helpers who show the Holy People and us the way to each other. The He
lpers have come to me with their wisdom and tell me to conduct a hatal.”
A hatal or holy chant could take the rest of the day and into the night, but if that was what it took for Wolf Stalker and Drums No More—and himself—to feel at peace again, so be it.
“The First World was an island,” Wolf Stalker continued, “surrounded by oceans, and there lived the first beings. Although they are called people, they were not people as we now know them, but insects. They were twelve in number: Dragon Flies, Black Ants, Red Ants, Black Beetles, Red Beetles, Yellow Beetles, White-Faced Beetles, Dung Beetles, Hard Beetles, Locusts, Bats, and White Locusts.”
The Insect People had lived near the borders of three streams in the middle of the First World. The First World’s surface was red; white arose in the east and was considered day, while the yellow of the west was evening. The four chiefs, or gods, lived in surrounding oceans and became angry with the Insect People because they’d committed adultery. Cougar couldn’t remember when he hadn’t known that, but he held on to every word as if it was the first time he’d heard them. He couldn’t imagine wanting to share another brave’s woman, or that a woman would leave her husband for him. He’d had a wife and he’d loved her. Giving himself to another . . .
Although his eyes were open, he didn’t try to focus on his surroundings. Instead, he felt himself traveling back to Oraibi. He and his fellow braves were gone from Oraibi, except for Blue Corn Eater, who’d been left at the mercy of the Spanish. The others were safe and had succeeded at what they’d set out to accomplish. That should be the end of it, and yet the Spanish might be filled with the need for revenge and try to find the Navajo.
The Hopi. He couldn’t understand why they allowed themselves to be treated like sheep. Surely the soldiers were angry. They might take out their frustration on a Hopi.
More than frustration, Cougar acknowledged as Wolf Stalker droned on. The Spanish hadn’t brought any women with them, but even if they had, would that stop them from raping the Peaceful Ones?
I am sorry. If what my people did brought shame and pain to a Hopi woman, I wish you to know I did not want that.
• • •
Singer of Songs had finally fallen asleep, and from the sound of her parents’ breathing, Morning Butterfly knew they had, too. It had taken One Hand longer to surrender to the night, but that was usual. A man who fears his sleeping thoughts fights them.
Morning Butterfly sat in the darkened pueblo and tried not to think about what had happened to the way of life she’d always known. The seasons of her people’s lives had taken her from spring to summer to fall and into winter and she’d entered wholeheartedly into the rhythm. Now that rhythm was gone.
Tomorrow she’d insist that Singer of Songs go with her while she looked at the corn in her family’s garden. They would walk far from wherever the soldiers were and run from them if necessary. They would look for butterflies and other winged creatures, maybe teasing each other about who could find the most, and Singer of Songs would smile again.
When Morning Butterfly least expected it, when she was certain she had her emotions under control, the anger she’d felt—not just at the soldiers but at the Navajo as well—returned. She didn’t question her feelings toward the Spanish, but why had her heart hardened against the Navajo? It couldn’t be that she envied their boldness, their freedom.
Although she doubted she could fall asleep, she’d started to stretch out on the ground when One Hand moaned. Practiced in the ways of dealing with his nightmares, she hurried to his side, knelt, and whispered into his ear.
“You are not alone, old man. Walk in today with me and leave the past behind. Think not of what happened when you were a youth. Instead, put your thoughts on preparations for Niman. The time for the kachinas’ return to the World Below approaches and you and the other men will spend your nights in the kivas, smoking, praying, making prayer sticks, decorating your kachina masks, and practicing your songs.”
“No no no.”
“Hush. Hush. Spit on the past. Embrace the future. Think with me. Which kachina will be chosen for Niman? It can be any but I say it will be Hemis, the Far Away Kachina. What better one than that which carries the symbols of rain and a bountiful harvest?”
“Go . . . no. No.”
“Hush. Hush and be at peace. Think of Hemis with its white dots signifying rain, the blues and yellows for the sun and clouds.”
“H-mm.”
“Yes, yes, you see it, do you not?”
One Hand’s legs spasmed.
“Do you wish to dance? Maybe you want to be one of the men chosen to gather the sacred spruce Hemis requires? Your legs are strong enough for the long journey. Remember that, your legs are healthy.”
Once again the old man’s body twitched. She started to press closer to him, then stopped as his breathing settled. His nightmares never lasted long, and most times she was able to dismiss them and fall asleep herself, but not tonight. Instead, she sat beside him, thinking of the horror and pain he’d experienced. No wonder he’d hidden from the soldiers and padre ever since they arrived. No wonder he begged his people to do nothing to incur their wrath.
But she wasn’t One Hand. Kachinas, spirit people, hear the thunder of my anger. Let me know that your thunder is the same. Show the Hopi how to make their own thunder.
• • •
The Navajo sing didn’t end until near dawn, but although his body ached with fatigue, Cougar knew he couldn’t sleep. Instead, as Wolf Stalker indicated he wanted something to eat, Cougar got to his feet and faced the assembled warriors. They looked up at him through red-rimmed eyes.
“Wolf Stalker, thank you. I have been embraced by the Way of the Rainbow, which guides us in everything. I will always mourn the loss of Blue Com Eater and will ask what I might have done to prevent this thing from happening, but that is not all. The thought that now consumes me is whether the taking of horses has placed our people in danger.”
His statement was met with nods of agreement.
“Would you rather we had not raided?” Wolf Stalker asked.
“No! Horses will change a great deal about the Navajo and those changes will be good. But the only way we will feel safe from revenge is if the soldiers are gone.”
“Gone? You speak nonsense.”
“No, I do not.” Then, although his head ached with weariness and his belly rumbled, he laid out his plan. According to the stories Drums No More told of when the first Spanish came to Dinehtah, the conquistadors had been searching for something that the tribes knew did not exist in something called the Seven Cities of Gold.
“Has this foolish dream died? I say no, because otherwise, why would the soldiers be here? What is at Oraibi for them? Nothing. I believe they brought so many horses because they plan to travel great distances, because they believe they will need the animals to carry the treasures they hope to find.”
He paused, struggling to comprehend what possible use the Spanish could have for the rocks they called gold and emeralds. “It is not for us to understand their thoughts or what is important to them. What matters is that we make use of their greed.”
“How?”
“We must fill their thoughts with dreams of becoming rich so they will go to where they believe that richness lies.”
Several of the older warriors gave him a skeptical look, but no one called him foolish. Instead, they listened respectfully while he laid out the details of his plan. Finally, only one aspect of the plan remained to be decided—who would carry the lie of a vast, hidden treasure to the Spanish.
“You,” Wolf Stalker said decisively. “Because you have twice been among them without being killed or hurt.”
“I do not know their language,” Cougar pointed out as a knot he refused to call fear tightened in his chest.
“But some of the Hopi do. You must get one to translate for you.”
Chapter Seven
The Hopi’s elaborate masks and kachinas were the work of the devil, of that Fray Ang
elico had no doubt. The question was how to free the ignorant savages from the devil’s control, witnessed by such abominations as piles of buzzard feathers, gourd rattles and vessels, pipes and tobacco pouches, carved and painted sticks, even cornmeal—which wasn’t eaten but presented with great ceremony to some unseen deity.
The day would come—soon, if he was diligent in going about the Lord’s work—when he could command the savages to destroy these pagan representations and follow him into the light of true belief, but until he’d baptized the entire Hopi population and thus begun the salvation of their souls, he knew better than to risk alienating them.
That was why he’d chosen this spot at Oraibi, near their “religious” center, for his first pueblo-wide sermon; nothing else he could do would make more of an impact on the poor, ignorant creatures. Still, although he’d spent the night praying for courage and direction, he was careful to keep his back to the kiva and say nothing about the ten or more Hopi men who’d come to mass wearing fearsome-looking masks and carrying feathers, pipes, or staffs decorated to look like lightning bolts.
Captain Lopez was here along with his soldiers; even Pablo had managed to drag himself up here for the blessing. Another young soldier, Madariaga de Oñate, stood beside Pablo, and the two occasionally whispered to each other in the easy way of friends. Angelico knew them to be equally devout, but it wasn’t their eagerness to devote themselves to God’s service that had briefly snagged his attention. It was the thought that, in his entire life, he’d never had a true friend. A man who lives for and through his maker shouldn’t concern himself with anything else, and yet he couldn’t deny the small stab of envy.
