by Vella Munn
He gave her knee a brief squeeze, then said something to the others which she took to be an explanation of what they’d been talking about. Several responded, and she waited through the discussion, absorbing the night, her surroundings, and what Cougar had shared with her earlier—the gifts and cautions of his belief. Her people had no chindi, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist for the Navajo. She could only pray that he—they—would heed the warning she had brought before it was too late.
“When will you leave?” she asked when the conversation fell away.
“Nothing has been decided.”
“What? Cougar, my people want only peace and the Spanish know it. That is why they have no need to smash us, but the Navajo stole Spanish horses and sheep, angered them.”
“Morning Butterfly, do not make our burdens yours.”
She wouldn’t have risked coming here if she hadn’t already done that, didn’t he understand? Still, telling him that would make her even more vulnerable to him.
“Morning Butterfly, listen to me,” he went on. “What you brought to us must be discussed and prayed over. In the morning, after everyone has had time alone with their thoughts, the tribe will meet.”
“That is wise.” Morning Butterfly yawned, sagging in her place.
Cougar nodded, then said, “Tonight, after you have had something to eat, you will sleep in my hogan.”
Morning Butterfly was relieved to see that Cougar didn’t live alone, but with his parents, his grandfather Drums No More, two younger brothers, and a sister.
A small fire burned in the middle of the hogan, the coals supplying enough light that she could see the dirt floor, the short tunnel from the door to the main room, the beds radiating out from the fire, a large loom almost identical to her family’s, and several storage containers. The room smelled of dirt and wood, cooking meat and corn, those scents reminding her of home.
Without saying a word, Cougar’s mother spread a deerskin blanket on the ground next to her own bed and pointed to Morning Butterfly, indicating that this was where she should sleep. Then, still silent, the older woman handed her a bowl filled with venison stew. Morning Butterfly gave her what she hoped would be interpreted as a grateful smile, then quickly filled her belly. Cougar’s little sister returned her smile with a shy one before scurrying outside, followed by her brothers.
Cougar was outside, and Morning Butterfly’s inability to communicate with his family weighed on her. Once she’d finished eating, his parents left and only Drums No More remained, a silent, staring presence that in many respects reminded her of One Hand. He made no attempt to hide his disfigurement; in fact, he seemed to go to some length to make sure she saw it. She was fighting sleep and thinking about the similarities between Navajo and Hopi housekeeping when Cougar finally entered. His first words were to his grandfather, but before long, he squatted near her, and when he did, she thought of nothing or no one else.
“This is my mother’s home,” he told her, his deep voice like a low rumble of thunder.
He didn’t take his eyes off her, made her feel as if they were the only people on earth. “Once my grandfather decided that my father should marry my mother, her family built their first hogan for them. Although we have moved many times, each hogan is hers.” He drew in a long breath. “When I married, I entered my wife’s hogan, but then she died and I came back here because my parents and grandfather needed me. I tell you this so you will understand that everything here belongs to my mother; her words carry great weight.”
“You have been married?”
“Yes.”
“I—” Was she so tired she was in risk of saying too much? No matter, her need to learn more about him was too great to be swept aside by caution. “I did not realize I knew so little about you,” she admitted.
“It is the same for me,” he said after another of his silences, “except that when I saw how you wear your hair, I knew you did not have a husband.”
Flustered, she fingered the squash blossoms her mother had taken such pains to create. “I am sorry your wife died. Do you have children?”
“No.” He breathed the word. “I wanted them, we both did, but then Sweet Water sickened and I stopped living with her as a man does. Stopped dreaming . . . Morning Butterfly—” He reached out as if to touch her, then pulled back. “My grandfather wishes to speak with you, not now, but before you leave. He wants to learn what is in your heart and for you to know certain things about him.”
“Like what happened when he lost his hand?”
“Yes. His heart does not beat a single time without that being part of him.”
Nodding, she looked over at the old man, but he appeared to be ignoring her.
“Whatever he wishes to tell me, I want to hear it. Cougar, I am glad for tonight, to learn things about your people and hold those things to me so I can take the truth back to my people.”
Chapter Fifteen
Although sunlight had yet to touch the hogan’s entranceway when Cougar woke, he quickly turned his mind from thoughts of getting any more rest. Determined not to unleash bad luck on those he loved, he took care not to step over the sleeping bodies as he made his way outside. Once there, he picked up a handful of sacred corn pollen from a nearby bowl and sprinkled it on the hogan’s poles so the Holy People would know his first waking thoughts were of them.
That done, he prayed to Changing Woman, the Earth Mother, who was always benevolent, asking for her guidance in living in harmony with nature.
“My gratitude to you knows no bounds,” he whispered. “It is you who built the first hogan out of turquoise and shell, you who gave us the gift of corn. I have asked myself if you are responsible for allowing horses into our lives, but it is not for me to know those things.”
His mind still on his place in the universe, he sat on a rock and stared at the ground, the newborn sun warming his back. The sun, life itself. A gift which could be taken away if the Navajo strayed from the Beautiful Rainbow Way of Life.
“Spider Man,” he called out, “you are he who warns of coming danger. I come to you today in my mind, asking you to show me what the future brings. If we have done wrong, if we have incurred the wrath of Corn Beetle, Gila Monster, Big Snake Man, Big Fly, or Crooked Snake People, and they have decided to punish us, so be it. I bow before the power and anger of Wind People, Cloud People, Thunder People, and Coyote the trickster. If they wish me dead, I will not fight. I took horses because I believed my people would be made rich and powerful and could better withstand the newcomers. If that is wrong—”
“Cougar?”
When Morning Butterfly spoke his name, her tongue took it in a slightly different direction from what he was accustomed to. He would have laughed if he hadn’t been concerned she would think he was making fun of her. After a short, silent prayer to Spider Man, he turned and acknowledged the young Hopi woman. Her hair had come undone in the night and flowed around her face, protecting and defining it. She was rubbing her arms—at night warmth left the land and even in the heavy months of summer, dawn brought a chill—yet she seemed unaware of any physical discomfort. He was struck once again by her graceful walk, her lively eyes, her gentle features.
“I am sorry,” she said, her soft tone one he’d never forget. “I did not mean to interrupt your prayers, but I wanted to talk to you before the others woke.”
“What we said to each other last night was not enough?”
“Perhaps it should have been,” she told him as she found a nearby rock to settle herself on, “but it is not.”
“Do not tell me that the Navajo must flee. You have spoken your mind on that, and the decision is not yours.”
“I know.” She sighed and briefly studied her surroundings. He hoped the sight pleased her. “This morning I speak of another thing. Sleep was a long time coming to me. I heard someone cry out.”
Tensing, he looked around. “A chindi?”
“I think, if a chindi is about, that a Hopi would not know; but no,
this sound was made by a human. By your grandfather.”
“Sometimes his night thoughts are too much for him to keep to himself.”
“That is so for all of us, but Cougar, his cries were the same as One Hand’s.”
“What are you saying?”
“Not what you want to hear.” She briefly studied her hands, then lifted her head to meet his eyes. “You told me that Drums No More had not been made fearful by what happened to him, and if that is what he wishes everyone to believe, so be it. But I think, deep inside, he relives that horrible day. That it is a burning, bleeding knot in his heart.”
She was Hopi, an outsider. How dare she think she understood his grandfather better than he did.
“I do not want to take his secrets and hold them up to the light,” she continued. “That is not my intention.”
“Then what is?”
A horse squealed, momentarily distracting her. “Simply to say that what happened to two men at Acoma touched them in the same way.”
“That is for Drums No More and One Hand to decide.”
“Perhaps the time will come when they can do that, together.”
“I would like that,” he admitted, surprising himself.
Cougar and Morning Butterfly were still sitting together when one by one, and then in groups, the other Navajo emerged from their hogans. Little was said as they ate breakfasts of fry bread, squash, and corn. Then Drums No More stepped to the middle of the village and began to chant. The men settled themselves on one side of him, the women and children on the other. Under Cougar’s guidance, Morning Butterfly took her place near his mother. He would not be able to sit beside her and tell her what was being said. He would try to whisper to her from his place, but it would not be easy.
“The First World was an island,” Drums No More said, “surrounded by oceans. There lived the first beings, the Insect People. They were twelve in number and lived on the borders of three streams in the middle of the First World, all of which emerged from a central place. Two streams flowed to the south and one to the north.
“I say this because before anything is discussed, I want us to think of our beginning and how the Insect People had to leave their home when the wall of white that was water arrived. The Insect People flew high and looked down to see that water covered the First World. I am only a man without the wisdom of the Holy People, but it has come to me that the strangers’ arrival may be like when the ancient water came.”
“That cannot be!” Blue Swallow exclaimed. As the murdered Blue Corn Eater’s older brother, he had every right to speak, and for his words to be taken to heart. “The newcomers are also known as Mexicans, and Mexicans came to be when Klehanoai, the god who carries the Moon, created them, as well as sheep, asses, horses, swine, goats, and birds for Nohoilpi after the gambler lost everything to the Navajo. Mexicans are nothing but servants.”
“Perhaps they were when they were first created,” Cougar pointed out, “but legend says they left Mexico and moved north where they built towns along the Rio Grande and in time enslaved the Pueblos who lived there. From servant to servant owner is the lesson we must heed.”
“What are you saying?” Blue Swallow challenged. “That we should run from them?”
“No,” he said somberly. Morning Butterfly was giving him a puzzled look, but he didn’t dare take the time to translate for her. “What I say is that we must weigh everything before deciding what direction to walk.”
“There is no time!” Blue Swallow insisted. “Listen to me! Last night I met with the others who went from boys to manhood in the same season I did, and we spoke at length about what the Spanish did to my brother. We are young, yes, but we are the future of the Navajo. Our bodies are strong. We may not have the wisdom of our elders, but our courage is great.”
What a brave needed was wisdom as well as courage, Cougar believed, but his grandfather, not he, had called this meeting and it was for him to speak.
“So you and others talked last night, did you?” Drums No More said. “Did your words go in a straight line or were they like wind-circles?”
“A straight line.” Blue Swallow glanced at the knot of young men around him. “My brother’s death was a warning so we would know what the Spanish are capable of. I hate what was done to him, but that does not make me afraid.” Again he looked at his companions. “We say it is a good thing that the soldiers have found us. They will come, and when they do, we will kill them.”
“No!” Drums No More gasped.
“Yes!” Blue Swallow insisted. “In your youth-time, when the newcomers first reached Acoma, they were met by Keres armed with stones, arrows, and clubs. A large number of the Spanish were killed. That was the Keres’s victory, one never to be forgotten.”
“One which angered the remaining Spanish and caused this to be done to me.” Drums No More held up his stump. “Do not forget that.”
Blue Swallow met the old man’s eyes. “Your sacrifice was great and the lesson will live with us always, but we will not make the same mistake the Keres did. We say we must destroy the Spanish at Oraibi and then hide, taking the horses with us. By the time more soldiers come, we will have found a new home far from here.”
The braves near Blue Swallow nodded agreement, and even Drums No More pursed his lips in concentration. For a moment no one spoke. Then an elderly woman pushed herself to her feet.
“This is Dinehtah, home of the Navajo!” she fairly shouted. “Does that mean nothing to you?”
Looking offended, Blue Swallow placed his hand over his heart. “Of course it does. Leaving here would cause me great pain, but perhaps we must if our children are to be safe.”
“Cougar, what are they saying?” Morning Butterfly demanded. “Please, tell me.”
Several Navajo glanced at her but most kept their attention fixed on Blue Swallow and Drums No More. She’d risked a great deal by coming here and deserved to know what was being discussed. Although tradition said she should remain with the women, Cougar signaled for her to join him. Once she’d sat beside him, he outlined Blue Swallow’s plan.
“You cannot think such a thing!” she gasped. “To murder—to cause Spanish blood to flow—No!”
“You love them so much you wish no harm to come to them?”
“I wish I could die without having seen one of them,” she said through clenched teeth, “but it is too late for that.”
“Yes, it is. And you are one of the Peaceful Ones who would give up her own life before taking another.”
“Do not throw those words at me! You and I have been down this path before and know each will continue on our way.
“I am glad to hear you say that. Do not forget, this is Dinehtah and a Navajo decision, not Hopi.”
“You are wrong. Wrong!” Her eyes blazed. “When you cause the soldiers’ hearts to stop beating, you think you have won, but you have not. This is what the Keres believed and their village was nearly destroyed.”
“Blue Swallow spoke of that, which is why we will be gone by the time more soldiers arrive.”
Leaning closer, she glared at him, her eyes hot with emotion. “The Navajo, yes, but what about the Hopi? What about us, Cougar?”
“The Hopi are not at war with the Spanish.”
“Do you think that matters to them?” she demanded. “They call us all Indians. If the Navajo kill, the Spanish will insist on revenge, and my people—mine, not yours—will feel the burden of that revenge. Tell your people that, Cougar. Tell them!”
“Morning Butterfly—”
“Do my people mean so little to you?”
“No, I care, but my family comes first in my heart.”
She sagged, but not before he had glimpsed her tears. Neither he nor any other Navajo would willingly hurt another person’s feelings, but he meant what he’d told her about his family with every fiber in his being, and prayed she understood.
“If the Navajo are willing to leave this village,” she whispered, “why do they not do so today?
Not to bring harm to the soldiers but to flee, now.”
“Leaving them free to make slaves of your people? Forcing the Hopi to turn their backs on everything they have ever been and embrace a Christian god? Is that what you want?”
She didn’t answer, but pulled her knees tight against her belly, rocking slightly. He needed to concentrate on what his people were saying, to weigh those words and add his own to them, but unable to walk away from the pain, he tried to put his arm around her. For a moment he thought she’d allow him to comfort her, but then she jerked away.
“Be Navajo,” she hissed. “Just as I am Hopi.”
• • •
The pros and cons of embracing the plan Blue Swallow and his companions wanted to follow was debated until the children grew restless and wandered away. Cougar asked several boys to tend to the horses so he could remain where he was. Morning Butterfly stayed at his side, even though she didn’t understand what was being said.
At length, Drums No More announced that nothing new was left to be said. It was time to take guidance from the Beautiful Rainbow of Life. In ageless lessons, he explained, answers would come.
“I wish there was time for the Blessing Way Ceremony,” he said, “because the story of our Emergence, told in its entirety over nine days, is at the heart of what we are. There is much wisdom in the story of Changing Woman and her sister White Shell Woman, who created the first Navajo and started them on their journey to Dinehtah. For it to be right, for our children to attain the wisdom of the old people, each word should be right.”
“Grandfather, we hear your wisdom,” Cougar deliberately softened his voice so the love he felt for the old man came through, “but I say there is not even time to discuss this. I ask you, will we not find peace in a Rainbow song?”
Drums No More called several of the elders to him, and they spoke quietly among themselves. Cougar stretched his legs and back and tried not to think about the thirst he felt.
“What did you say to them?” Morning Butterfly asked.
