Soul of the Sacred Earth

by Vella Munn

  None of the newcomers, however, knew about the integral role kachinas played in Hopi society. Instead, Lopez and then his men saw only grotesquely decorated doll-like objects—pagan idols.

  His eyes showing too much white, Angelico stretched his arms toward the heavens, nearly touching the low ceiling as he invoked a prayer in Latin. Then, holding his breath, he grabbed the nearest idol and hurled it against the stone wall; the sound of its breaking filled the air. Above and unseen, a Hopi woman screamed.

  “I destroy you in the name of the Lord!” Angelico shouted as the figure’s dislodged eyes and nose rolled around on the packed-earth floor. “In the name of God and the Crown!”

  Another scream, this one familiar, caught Lopez’s attention. Singer of Songs!

  Shaking at the impact of his concubine’s voice, Captain Lopez set himself to work, swinging his sword at a white, hairless thing with huge, shining, dark eyes, and decapitating it. Shouts and cries filled the air, but he ignored the unseen savages. His grandfather had chopped limbs off savages. He could do no less!

  Pointing first at his men and then the shelves the dolls rested on, he encouraged the soldiers to do as he and the trembling padre had done. To his consternation, they were slow to respond, gazing first at Angelico and then at Madariaga, the most vocal of the lot.

  “What is it?” Lopez demanded.

  “Father?” Madariaga slid close to the little brown man. “You are certain—”

  “The devil must be vanquished!” Spittle formed at the corners of Angelico’s mouth “God’s might—God will prevail!”

  Apparently that was what Madariaga needed to hear, because before Lopez could remind him of his loyalties, the soldier seized a small figure, held it a moment, then dropped it and smashed it under his boot.

  The destruction was ridiculously easy, proof that the savages were incapable of creating lasting workmanship. Lopez delighted in the sight of feathers littering the stone floor or fluttering about in the stale air, and in the sounds of cracking wood, high-pitched wails, sobs, even what he took to be curses. As long as the creatures remained where they were, they represented no threat.

  And if his men went about their work with grim faces and occasionally paused to study their surroundings, if they muttered prayers and frequently crossed themselves, that wasn’t his concern.

  Intent on what he was doing and aware of the strange sensation that he was being watched—but not by anything human—he paid no attention to his footing until his right boot stepped into nothing. He might have fallen if he hadn’t grabbed the padre for support.

  Looking down, he saw what appeared to be a small square cut into the floor. He thought it might be a fire pit, except there was no sign that anything had been burned there. He started to crouch down for a better look, but as he did, the strangest sensation—like cold fingers marching across his spine, heart, and lungs—stopped him. Straightening, he gripped his sword so tightly he might have snapped the hilt.

  “What is it, Captain?” Angelico asked above the muted chorus of Hopi voices. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “Of course not.” Lopez’s jaw threatened to lock, making speech impossible, and he no longer cared what anyone else said or did. A moment ago he’d dripped sweat, but now he felt frozen. Despite that, a plan—perhaps both desperate and irrational—took life inside him.

  “Look.” He indicated the depression that was barely wide enough to hold two boots. “What do you make of that?”

  The padre started to lean over, then froze. Lopez could see that the other man’s thin shoulders were now as taut as his own felt. The soldiers had stopped what they were doing and watched from a distance.

  “I . . . I do not know.” Angelico’s voice sounded strained. “Surely it is of little consequence.”

  “Surely,” Lopez echoed, although he didn’t agree.

  Angelico took a queer stutter-step which effectively, if not gracefully, took him some distance from the pit. “There is so much I do not know about these people’s beliefs,” he muttered. “Morning Butterfly—she would tell me.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Now that Angelico was no longer between Lopez and the hole, he had no doubt that the cold emanated from it, but how could that be? It wasn’t deep enough to have captured any of the earth’s chill. His men, he noticed, had fallen silent. So too had the Hopi above them.

  “You err in not having her see you as her master,” he continued. “Treating her as if anything she says or does is worthy of merit or concern—you must consider the consequences of such behavior. If I once showed weakness—”

  “Do not tell me how to conduct myself, Captain.” The padre kept staring at the hole, now rubbing his hands together as if trying to warm them. “There is a clear distinction between our responsibilities. I . . .”

  Lopez became aware of a sound he’d never heard before, like faint breathing. Thinking it came from his men, he studied them. They’d drawn close to one another, their eyes darting here and there, mouths agape, several crossing themselves over and over again.

  “What is this?” he demanded of them. “You are the Crown’s soldiers. Surely you have not become cowards.”

  “It is not right in here,” Madariaga replied. “This place—it does not feel like anything I have ever felt before.”

  “Have you so recently left your mother’s breast that the world frightens you?” Lopez’s voice banged against the thick walls, bounced back at him. “Perhaps you wish you had her skirts to hide behind?”

  The soldier’s cheeks flamed, but he was wise enough not to protest—either that, or he was unable to take his mind off his surroundings. Lopez would have given a great deal to say with confidence that he was immune to the misgivings that had overtaken his men, but he’d long prided himself on not lying, at least to himself. More than half of the bizarrely painted dolls remained untouched. He was determined to see them all destroyed, and yet . . .

  “There is limited impact in what we are doing down here,” he announced, startled because above the sound of his voice, he could still hear the breathing. “The savages must see the results of our work.”

  “Indeed they must,” Angelico agreed, his words running together. Stumbling a bit, he hurried over to the ladder, obviously intending to reach the surface as quickly as possible. “Soldiers, gather up the devil’s handiwork and bring everything out with you.”

  Angelico would have to be reminded of who was in charge, but not now and not with the men listening. Leaving the padre to the task of finding his footing, Lopez directed his troops to gather up the dolls. To his consternation, they were slow to obey, obviously hesitant to touch the crude objects they’d been so quick to destroy a few minutes ago; but they knew enough not to test his patience. Of course, it helped that he settled the largest figure on his own shoulder. The grotesque thing was every bit as heavy as he’d expected and then some, but he lost no time in climbing out of the kiva.

  The moment he reached the surface, the day’s heat attacked with such strength that surely he’d been mistaken about his earlier chill. Still, he saw no reason to look back into that gloomy place. Instead, he concentrated on his surroundings and was both surprised and discomfited to see that the number of Hopi had nearly doubled, some standing only a few feet away but most gazing down from the nearby rooftops. Disbelief and hatred had transformed their usually placid features.

  “Morning Butterfly!” he yelled, looking around for her.

  “I am here, Captain,” she said from behind him.

  “So you are,” he retorted. “I trust I do not have to explain what I am up to, do I?”

  Her gaze slid from his face to his burden; her flesh had been bleached of all color. “No. You do not.”

  “And you will make them understand?” He indicated the still tightly bunched, still silent Hopi. There, flanked by an older couple, the man looking on the verge of collapse, stood Singer of Songs. She had hold of their hands; the love that existed among them struck Lopez like a blow. Had
he ever touched his parents like that? Felt their love?

  “Make them understand!” he demanded of Morning Butterfly.

  Chest rising and falling, eyes heavy with hatred, she glared at him. “They already do,” she said.

  “Let me be the judge of that,” he retorted, once again a soldier. “I could have set fire to that place the way my grandfather set fire to the Keres pueblo, but I am a benevolent man. Make them understand that.”

  She covered her throat with her hand, pressed hard enough to turn the flesh under her fingers white. “Your—your grandfather was the man called Oñate?”

  He answered her question with no more than a brief nod. Then, taking advantage of her agitation, he described what had taken place in the kiva—not that the sounds could have left any doubt. Her features hardened, as did, he noted out of the corner of his eye, Singer of Songs’.

  I did what I had to, he silently told Singer of Songs. Then, with an effort, he dismissed her.

  “The death of the old comes before birth of the new,” he said, pleased with his phraseology. “I do what I do today not because I am a cruel man, but because your people must be brought into the light. Their salvation is assured once they have rejected their barbaric ways and embraced the Christian God. Only then.”

  For the second time, he hoisted the wooden statue to his shoulder, and if there was a moment, a second, when it felt like something alive, that was his secret.

  Then, eager to have the task over with, he carried the statue to the edge of the mesa and, screaming with the effort, heaved it into space. It tumbled down, hitting the mesa wall over and over again. Chunk after chunk broke off, the smaller pieces flying off in all directions, some of the larger ones finding perches. The hollow thud of shattering wood would stay with him for a long time.

  Clouds—certainly left over from yesterday’s storm—darkened and sagged toward him, weighed him down, threatened to surround him.

  “Destroy everything!” he ordered his men.

  He’d barely finished speaking when they hurried to obey, each holding their burdens as far from themselves as possible. Like him, they stopped so close to the edge that they were in danger of falling and, as one, threw.

  Behind him, the Hopi began to wail.

  Twisted together with the sobs and screams was another sound. Hollow. Deep. Dark. Not a cry of fear but a rage-filled bellow. There was nothing human about it. Rather, it seemed part of the earth itself.

  • • •

  Angelico had slept on the ground most of his adult life and had all but forgotten that his body had once known a less punishing rest. He’d spent so much time out of doors that he should have no qualms about falling asleep with the silent and uncaring stars looking down on him. Just the same, tonight he was acutely aware of his surroundings. In fact, he’d chosen to sleep out here because his tent’s interior reminded him too much of the kiva. It wasn’t that he wished the soldiers were closer, since he gained no sense of companionship from their presence, and yet . . .

  Fingering the cross around his neck, he began praying to give his mind something to focus on, but his concentration wasn’t what it should be. Destroying the devil’s handiwork should have brought him pleasure, and when he set about writing down his observations, he’d project confidence and thankfulness, but in the darkness, he had to be honest.

  Certainly there’d been nothing sacred or holy about what the soldiers had destroyed. The kachinas—that’s what Morning Butterfly had called them, wasn’t it?—were pagan idols and an abomination in the Lord’s eyes. Why then was he haunted by the feeling, the conviction, that he’d done something wrong?

  It was the setting. The tomb-like excavation he’d climbed into. The way the women, children, and old men had stared at him and the soldiers. The somber demeanor of the able-bodied Hopi men when they realized what was happening. Even the unseen wolves who’d set to howling at the end of the day were responsible for the way he felt.

  All those things, but most of all . . .

  No.

  His thoughts had skittered away from what had no explanation, but, despite his efforts, returned to it when he heard approaching footsteps. Startled, he sat up, then relaxed when light from a burning branch illuminated Madariaga’s features.

  “Come here, my son, come here,” Angelico said in greeting.

  “I am not disturbing—”

  “No, never. You have been sent to look after my welfare?”

  Madariaga shook his head. “I have not spoken to the captain, nor him to me. Given the mood he is in tonight, I have no wish to.”

  “Perhaps, if he has a woman with him, his mood will improve.”

  If Madariaga was surprised by Angelico’s understanding of men’s needs, he gave no indication.

  “I—” Madariaga started. “I—today has unsettled me. I know that what we did was right and we were following God’s dictates, and yet . . .

  “Go on.”

  Grunting, Madariaga knelt. “Father, I believe in the Lord God. My faith is complete and if it had been possible, I would have embraced a religious life such as you have. If I had had any other option, I would not have become a soldier, but . . .”

  “I understand. A man does what he must in order to feed himself.”

  “Yes, he does. When I heard that a mission was to be built in Hopi land and Christianity brought to the savages, I saw that as a sign that I could both fulfill my duties as a soldier and bring God to the godless.”

  “Have you told Captain Lopez that?”

  “The captain has little use for me. I—in an effort to disguise the truth of my parentage, my . . . illegitimacy . . . I presented myself as someone other than who I am. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of choosing the name that belonged to his grandfather.”

  “This is a confession?” Angelico asked around a yawn.

  “Not now, no.” Madariaga sounded distracted. “I simply—Father, today tested my faith. I come to you asking for help in strengthening it. Some of the things that happened—what is God’s explanation?”

  Angelico didn’t have an answer.

  • • •

  Captain Lopez had stuffed himself with mutton and drank more wine than usual. Following that, he’d sent his remaining servant for Singer of Songs, and when she arrived, he’d buried himself in her. The last time he’d made use of her, he’d tried to teach her a few Spanish words. Tonight, however, he wanted only release—and to feel a woman’s warm body against him. She’d remained with him until he fell asleep and then had crawled away, leaving him alone.

  The dream was upon him before he’d a chance to ready himself. He saw the great, dark cape first, spreading over him like a massive rain cloud, but there was no welcome wetness in its depths, only cold.

  Then the sound—like the distant screams of dying souls—began. Shuddering, he tried to recoil, no longer a seasoned soldier but a frightened child. Unmindful of what anyone might think, he struck out, his own scream much higher but no less sharp or penetrating than that which stalked him.

  He was vaguely aware of trying to slither away, but even if he’d been capable of movement, he couldn’t have escaped because the dying souls were everywhere.

  Only, were they dying and defeated? Ruined enemies of the Crown, of his?

  No, honesty said.

  No, this was anger and warning.

  • • •

  Morning Butterfly had known she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Praying, she’d waited for Singer of Songs to come home. Even then, she’d remained awake, curled on her side, until she heard her sister’s breathing lengthen out and finally, thankfully, become peaceful.

  She was pleased her sister could rest and prayed she wouldn’t be stalked by the nightmares that had begun after the first time Captain Lopez took her, but although she’d vowed always to be there for Singer of Songs just as she had been for One Hand over the years, she needed activity.

  After slipping out of bed, she went outside, hoping to find a measure of peace in
the village’s familiar shapes and shadows, but the mesa was too small to contain her tonight. Despite the soldiers below, Morning Butterfly climbed down to the desert floor, guided by memory and starlight. Although she felt capable of killing one of the Spanish after what they’d done, she had no intention of getting close enough to test her self-control.

  Instead, drawn by forces she didn’t understand or fight, she walked. The land’s familiar sway helped calm her, and at length she was able to block out the horrible memories of destruction and focus on what else had happened while what was sacred to the Snake Clan was being turned into nothing.

  Taiowa, Sotuknang, Kokyangwuti, and Paoqanghoya had cried along with the Hopi.

  “Thank you, Taiowa,” she said aloud in case the Creator couldn’t hear around His grief unless she spoke. “Thank you for being there when we needed you. You and the others who were already here when the Hopi began. We sing the Song of Creation because it tells us of Taiowa’s plans for life and makes us whole. Today we felt ourselves shattering and being torn apart, but the newcomers will not destroy us. Will not! As long as the earth remains, so will the Hopi. That cannot be taken from us.”

  Her prayer strengthened her, and when a distant wolf called, she nodded. The moon was newborn these nights, but from the beginning of time it had been growing strong and then fading before growing again, and she knew to be patient. If only she understood the ways of the newcomers as well as she did her people’s past . . .

  “Taiowa, I come to you tonight with my heart filled with questions. I do not want it that way. I want to bathe myself in the tears you shed today and let you carry my pain, my people’s pain, but I do not know how. I need—please—I ask you to show my feet the way to walk.”