by Vella Munn
Contemplating the awesome power of witchcraft, Cougar fell silent. When Morning Butterfly had set him free and ordered him to leave, he’d wanted to do just that, running like a deer who has escaped a pack of wolves, but he hadn’t dared. If he broke a leg in the dark, he might die before any of his people found him. Instead, he’d traveled as fast as his searching feet and eyes could take him, not stopping until his body forced him to rest. Now it was morning, and he was on his way home again.
This land was mother and father. He’d never known anything except day after day after day of no rain, grasses clinging to life in the seemingly barren soil, birds and animals who needed little water and were oblivious to summer’s intense heat or winter’s cold. He loved hearing the wind’s song, being able to see distant horizons, rocks, the occasional canyon, and the equally rare hill. He couldn’t imagine the world being any different.
Witches and chindi shared this land with the Navajo, but as long as he walked the Way of Life, he had nothing to fear from them.
The Way of Life. Maybe his feet no longer walked that journey because he’d unwittingly endangered a life—a Hopi life.
His throat felt dry, but although he was thirsty, the lack of water was only partially responsible. In preparation for approaching the Spanish, he’d purified himself by focusing on how First Man came into being. He’d believed that recalling the story of how First Man’s sons had stopped living with their sister-wives and turned to Mirage People for partners would make him strong.
But something had gone wrong or he wouldn’t have been taken prisoner.
Now he was a prisoner no longer—thanks to the Hopi woman.
Moaning, he clamped his hands against the sides of his head. He had to go back over everything that had happened, had to determine when and how he’d strayed from the path he’d set for himself, but how could he with so much inner turmoil?
Desperate for something, anything to distract himself, he again concentrated on his surroundings. He’d seen fresh deer sign a little while ago, but didn’t care enough to determine in which direction the animals had gone. A small gray feather, dusty and bedraggled, held his attention for no more than a heartbeat. He scanned the sky, but if a bird was up there, it was too high overhead for him to see.
The Spanish had come from a place so far away he could barely comprehend its existence. Yes, his ancestors had roamed the earth, but his feet knew little beyond what he could now see in all directions: Dinehtah. As a youth, he’d wondered what it would be like to travel with the speed and endurance of an animal, not to care where he laid his head. He’d been restless then, hungry for something without a name, but the seasons had gentled that restlessness until now nothing meant more than living out his life on this land.
His land! No, not his, because the land had belonged to the ages, not those who lived and died on it. But the earth, rocks, and grass, the sky and wind were part of him and he part of them, and that was enough.
Had been enough until the strangers arrived.
Were their spirits more powerful than those of the Navajo or Hopi?
Unprepared for the question, he stumbled and nearly fell. Finally he understood what this morning of doubt and question had been about. He’d come to Oraibi and risked his life not just because he hungered for the strength and speed a horse represented, not just because his people needed horses if they were going to resist and escape the newcomers . . . His plan had been nurtured and nourished with songs and prayers and should have succeeded; it hadn’t, not because he hadn’t prepared himself spiritually but because . . .
Because, maybe, the Spanish gods were more powerful than those of his people.
Another question struck him. He didn’t know much about Hopi beliefs, only that they were ancient and grounded in their own legends. Was it possible that Morning Butterfly was filled with the same doubts and questions? Seeking answers and strength from Hopi spirits?
“Hear me, Morning Butterfly,” he said aloud. “Despite the words we spoke to each other, I am glad our paths crossed. It is right that Navajo and Hopi come together in some things. The time may come when we stand face-to-face and debate what our people must do to rid the land of those who do not belong and seek to change what we have always been.”
Movement to his left caught his attention, and for a moment he thought the Hopi maiden had followed him, but then disappointment and something that tasted too much like fear filled him. A wolf stood on a low ridge, its head lifted as if to catch the breeze, so close that he could make out the individual hairs on the dark nose. Wolves belonged here and lived in harmony with the Navajo—but what if this wasn’t a true wolf?
Perhaps a chindi.
“First Man . . .” After swallowing, he began again. It would do no good to pray for safety from a chindi; only walking the Way of the Rainbow could protect a man from that danger.
“The beliefs and ways of the Spanish are strange to me. The man who calls himself a padre is a keeper of their religion, just as our singers safeguard what is sacred to us. When I was their prisoner, he did something to me that Morning Butterfly called a baptism. What is that?”
The wolf was still there, not one with its surroundings but set apart, as if the land had rejected it. The creature flowed rather than walked as it faced first the direction of the rising sun and then where Sun went after it was done with its daily journey. Maybe its feet touched rocks and grass, maybe it had no need for them. It howled, long and low and deep.
Then, like the illusion of water on a hot day, it shimmered and was gone. Only the howl’s echo remained.
Cougar recoiled and his heart beat furiously. He gasped, then blurted his thoughts. “To be touched by a padre—to be baptized by him—what does that mean? Did it—did it weaken me and make me less Navajo? Open me to chindi attack?”
He had to stop these questions! Otherwise his heart and mind might explode.
“First Man, I must know if the creature is a true wolf or maybe—maybe a Spanish chindi. It—it could be that.” The rest of his thoughts were too horrible for words. The chindi of his people was a fearsome force that sometimes took the shape of a wolf and caused disharmony and even death, and if the Spanish religion had the same evil force . . .
He wasn’t done with Morning Butterfly after all. She understood their language and lived in their shadow and might have the answer.
Without that answer, he might not survive.
• • •
Singer of Songs crouched over the small fire she was using to heat water. Once it began to simmer, she would drop the tiny yellow flowers she’d collected into it and from that make the yellow dye her father would dip wild cotton into.
Among the Hopi, it had always been a man’s job to supply his family’s clothing, weaving the various garments from the cotton he’d collected, carded, and spun into cloth. It had never occurred to her to wonder why women were responsible only for dyeing, all she cared was that she had something to do on this hot afternoon.
The padre’s bells rang at several points during the day, from dawn until after dark. Although it was possible to avoid responding to the insistent call to prayer, if too few Hopi attended a service, the soldiers would come looking for those who’d remained behind. The latest prayer had been only a short while ago, and if she concentrated on what she was doing, before the next she should be able to present her father with not just yellow dye but orange and green as well. But she did not know whether Deer Ears would be able to work at his loom.
Saddened by thoughts of her father’s diminished abilities, she stretched her spine and looked around. In winter, her people worked inside, but once summer afternoons brought shadows to Oraibi, it was more pleasant to do whatever needed doing outside. That had changed some with the coming of the Spanish, but although Singer of Songs feared she might attract the captain’s attention out here, no air moved inside the dark rooms where her father was napping.
A few feet away, her mother sat hunched over her half-finished woven wick
er basket. She’d formed its outline with sumac twigs and was adding more supple rabbit-brush branches, the large, intricately designed pot seemingly an extension of her skilled fingers. Through the use of red and yellow dyed fibers she was creating a network of spider-like threads that symbolized the sun’s journey.
“I will never have your skill in this,” Singer of Songs told Roadrunner. “No matter how many times I watch you, I do not understand how your fingers know when to weave certain colors and designs together.”
“My fingers do what my heart tells them to,” Roadrunner said without looking up.
Her mother had told her that before, and although Singer of Songs understood that Roadrunner carried the finished product inside her and thus worked instinctively, that knowledge didn’t pass the gift onto her.
“My fingers know how to stain themselves different colors, nothing more.” She laughed, then sobered. She hadn’t felt like laughing in the four days since the captain had raped her.
“Not everyone has the same skill,” Roadrunner said.
“I tell myself that, but I still long for your skill. I want to create beauty, not”—she held up her yellow stained fingertips—“not this.”
“Your voice is like a bird’s. Be thankful for your gift.”
“I am.”
Sighing, she searched for a way to change the conversation. Usually the village women worked close to one another so they could talk while they went about their tasks, but there wasn’t enough shade here to accommodate anyone else. Several children, apparently unaffected by the heat, played tag in one of the streets, their laughter much more familiar than the padre’s droning prayers would ever be. Not far away, one of her mother’s sisters patted raw piki flat before placing the corn-based staple food into her open-air oven.
“My mouth waters at the smell.” Singer of Songs indicated what her aunt was doing.
“Mine too. It is good that certain things have not changed. My prayer is that the Spanish will not care what we eat.”
“Perhaps all they care about is trying to change what we believe.”
“Perhaps.” Roadrunner briefly fell silent. “I fear what this is doing to your father. It should be enough that he worries about feeding his wife and children. He should not . . .”
Although she continued to hear her mother’s voice, Singer of Songs no longer concentrated on the words. It was a moment before she realized what had caught her attention. The children had stopped running and had fallen silent, as had several of the women.
Singer of Songs spoke through a mouth as dry as dust. “The soldiers are here.”
Barely aware of what she was doing, she scrambled to her knees and started to stand. She prayed the captain wouldn’t seek her out again, but the thought faltered as she recognized him.
“This should not be,” Roadrunner whispered. “The newcomers walk on land that is not theirs.”
“Mother, please.”
Whether the captain’s attention had been captured by her mother’s voice didn’t matter, because now Lopez’s eyes, alive and searching, registered her presence. He also took in the gray pueblo walls, the naked and unmoving children, the nearest kiva with a ladder extending from the small hole in the solid stone top. What he could see of the mostly underground kiva held his attention the longest. Then he stepped toward her and extended his hand. His eyes told her nothing of what he was thinking.
He wasn’t the only soldier to lay claim that day to a Hopi woman.
• • •
“Hano, Sichomovi, and Walpi are on the First Mesa and Mishongnovi, Shipaulovi, and Shongopovi on the Second. Hotevilla and Bakavi were also built on the Third Mesa, but Oraibi is the oldest.”
Eyes nearly closed, Morning Butterfly listened to the old man with his dark, wrinkled skin and gnarled hands. The kiva of the Bear Clan had been the first built in Oraibi and had four levels, which represented the four stages in man’s creation. The depression, or sipapu, on the floor represented the Hole of Emergence. As a child, witnessing her first Powamu festival, she’d been so frightened by the masked kachina dancers that she’d believed they’d come from the sipapu itself. Now she was older and wise in her people’s legends, and understood that Hopi power and strength came from the sipapu.
“Oraibi is our people’s soul,” Sun in the Sky continued while other clan members nodded somber agreement. “The Hopi may live far from each other because the land so dictates, but there is not one who has not given his heart to Oraibi. I was born here and will die here, and I want the same for my children and grandchildren.”
“Yes, yes,” those gathered around Sun in the Sky echoed.
Morning Butterfly wanted to do the same but was afraid to add her female voice to the deep male tones. Although the invitation to join the members of the Bear Clan had come this morning from Sun in the Sky himself, she still felt like an outsider. They wanted her to tell them everything she’d learned from listening to the Spanish, but would it be enough?
“Think today of Tuwaqachi, of the Fourth World which is World Complete,” Sun in the Sky droned as if speaking to himself. “When the First People reached Tuwaqachi, they were told their emergence was complete, but it was not, because the people still had a great deal to learn. The ancient ones directed them to migrate to the ends of the earth and then return. We have done this. The four migrations are complete and we celebrate the nine yearly ceremonies that insure the Hopi Road of Life. They are held, as they should be, in the kiva, but now . . .”
Barely breathing, Morning Butterfly waited for Sun in the Sky to continue.
“I will speak of that soon,” he whispered, “but first I speak of what the kiva represents and why it must remain as it has forever.”
Despite herself, her thoughts strayed to Fray Angelico and his insistence on conducting his ceremonies so close to what was sacred to her people. She’d been raised to be gentle and keep only good thoughts, but what he’d done was wrong—wrong!
Equally wrong was the way the soldiers had come up here yesterday, Captain Lopez leaving with Singer of Songs as if she was a sheep or horse he’d laid claim to, the others leading other women away from their homes.
“Our kivas, which means World Below, are sunk deep into Mother Earth like a womb. The Hopi are born from that womb, surrounded by all that nourishes him. A kiva both touches that which we came from and reaches toward what we are now. It is everything to us. During Wuwuchim, the New Fire ceremony, a fire is lit in each kiva’s sunken fire pit because life began with fire. The newcomers do not understand that. Instead, they used fire to rid themselves of a Navajo’s body. If they saw us during our ceremonies, they would make fun of us.”
Either that or order us to stop.
“According to our legends, when Pahana, the Hopi’s lost white brother, came, we would welcome his return. Our fathers and grandfathers planned for that time each year on the last day of Soyal by marking a line in the sacred stick kept by the Bear Clan. It mattered not to our ancestors when Pahana arrived because they would either meet him at the bottom of Third Mesa if he came when the legends said he would, or at Yellow Rock, Pointed Rock, Cross Fields, or Tawtoma if he was late.
“The newcomer our ancestors thought was Pahana arrived, saying his name was Coronado. Our ancestors greeted him with a line of sacred cornmeal, but their welcome was met with lance and sword and charging horses.”
Although Morning Butterfly had heard this story innumerable times, Sun in the Sky’s telling chilled her. Coronado couldn’t have been Pahana because he and his followers had forced the Hopi to surrender to him. Despite that, the Bear Clan leader had taken Coronado’s men to Oraibi and held out his hand, palm up in nakwach, the symbol of brotherhood, but the strangers hadn’t understood.
At least those early Spaniards hadn’t stayed long, leaving to search for gold.
It was different now.
“Morning Butterfly,” Sun in the Sky said, distracting her, “I have thought on this for a long time and discussed it with el
ders of the other clans, and we have come to the same conclusion.”
Dismissing the feeling that she didn’t belong in this male place, she concentrated on the elder’s every word.
“Captain Lopez and Fray Angelico do not speak the same words. Nor are their hearts the same.”
“No, they are not,” she agreed.
“The soldier is like Coronado, who attacked and murdered many Tiwa at Arenal, and like Captain Oñate, who did the same to the Keres at Acoma.” His eyes narrowed. “Your father’s uncle was one of those who felt his wrath.”
Half sick, she nodded.
“But the men who dress in brown robes and call themselves padres do not kill or mutilate.”
Not sure where this was going, she nevertheless nodded again.
“They speak of god—not the gods of the Hopi, but perhaps that does not matter.”
Wishing he was talking to anyone except her and that the male members of the Bear Clan weren’t all staring at her, she waited him out.
“The padre and soldier do not see with the same eye, do they?”
“No.”
“Sometimes they argue.”
“Yes.”
“What do they disagree about?”
“I do not know everything, but the padre wants the soldiers to stay here with him while the captain speaks of going to the great canyon and trying to find the stones the Navajo called Cougar brought to them.”
“What else?”
Shaking herself free of the memory of those moments when it felt as if she and Cougar were the only people in the world, she concentrated on giving the elder as complete an answer as possible.
“The padre wants to baptize all Hopi. To build his church at Oraibi.”
Sun in the Sky’s weathered features became even more ancient, and tears formed in his eyes. “I pray I will not live to see such a thing.”
If you were Navajo, perhaps you would fight.
