by Vella Munn
Her eyes damp with fresh tears, Singer of Songs embraced her father. “Do not speak of your death,” she begged. “I want to wrap my child in a blanket you have created just for him or her.” She nodded at the small, now seldom-used loom set up in a corner of the room. “Your skill with cotton . . .”
Deer Ears swallowed. “I could make one from wool, warm and soft.”
“No. I want nothing from the newcomers covering my child.”
Finally, her head pounding from exhaustion and the breath-stealing fears she hadn’t been able to share with anyone, Morning Butterfly excused herself. Singer of Songs asked where she was going, but all she said was that the captain or padre might have need of her and she didn’t want to run the risk of a soldier being sent up here.
The day had the calm, dead feeling of late summer. It was as if the land had spent itself weathering endless heat and barely lived while it waited for the relief of winter. She sensed promise in the wonderful scent of ripening corn and the fact that the days weren’t quite as long as they’d been before Niman. Yet the time of resting and cold was still a long way off.
Morning Butterfly turned slowly and saw the newborn church. Now that he’d received the signs he’d been waiting for, Fray Angelico hadn’t wasted any time starting work. Already a large, square rock wall nearly hip high existed where days before there’d been nothing. The necessary flat rocks hadn’t been that hard to gather from the surrounding desert, but before long the Hopi would be forced to travel long distances in order to continue the work.
The newcomers had brought wagons with them, but one was in need of repair and the other was not sturdy enough to bear the weight of more than a single layer of rocks. As a result, the Hopi men were forced to hand-carry many of the stones. In the meantime, their crops were being neglected.
Seeing the emerging church filled Morning Butterfly with the anger Cougar had forced her to acknowledge, and for some time she couldn’t make herself look to where Captain Lopez had interrogated her and the two Navajo last night.
The stake Cougar had been tied to was still there—but unused. Her heart thudding, she stumbled closer, then stopped. Strands of rope hung from the stake, the ends ragged, as if they’d been cut. Had Cougar’s life ended here? Had the soldiers dragged his body away where wolves and buzzards would find it?
Sick, Morning Butterfly stared at the ground, but she couldn’t see any drag marks. Perhaps the earth was too hard to give away its secrets. If there was blood . . .
Something had stained the ground nearby, something that had given up its moisture to the sun but left behind shadows of what it had once been.
“Cougar,” she moaned. “I grieve for you. A Navajo’s body may mean nothing to those of his people who continue to live; but—but I cry for you with a Hopi heart.”
Shocked at the sound of her voice, she quickly studied her surroundings, but she had the area to herself. As she continued to stare at the dried bloodstain, she felt her heart, her soul close in around itself. Cougar’s death was more than she could bear. Still, she vowed to try to find Cougar’s body, and his grandfather’s, and wrap them in deerskin so the kachinas might understand that these Navajo, who’d died on Hopi land, weren’t their enemy.
Her vision blurred and a wave of nausea nearly bent her double.
• • •
Captain Lopez’s favorite horse stood outside his tent. Saddled and bridled, the gelding had fallen asleep and didn’t stir as Morning Butterfly walked toward it. Her fingers clenched and unclenched; if she’d had a knife, she would have ended the captain’s life today—or died in the effort. Then, despite her resolve, strength flowed from her legs and left her incapable of movement. How could she possibly look into the eyes of a man capable of murdering a helpless prisoner?
She was still praying for guidance when the tent flap lifted and Captain Lopez and Fray Angelico stepped outside. They were arguing, their hostility so intense that they didn’t notice her, and she quickly moved so the horse was between her and them.
“I will not be silent!” Fray Angelico was saying. “By all that is holy, what you are doing is the devil’s work. If you believe you can get me to bless—”
“That is the problem, Padre,” the captain retorted. “You believe having taken vows puts you above the Crown’s influence, but you are wrong. I am the emissary of the State here, not you.”
“The king would never condone what—”
“You have sat at a dinner table with the viceroy who is, after all, the king’s emissary? Shared wine with him and discussed whether the Crown’s current policy regarding the conquered Indians of New Spain is prudent? Until you have, do not pretend you know what is important to His Majesty.”
“We—you and I—were sent here to bring God’s word to the savages. That and nothing else.”
“How wrong you are. Just because that is all you care to concern yourself with . . .”
The thud-thud of approaching horses caused Morning Butterfly to whirl in that direction. Captain Lopez’s mount, awake now, walked toward the other animals, revealing her to the captain. She didn’t know which she feared more, being seen by Lopez or the sight of six mounted soldiers in full uniform, each leading another animal weighed down with provisions.
“Morning Butterfly, what are you doing here?” the captain demanded.
“How quickly word travels,” he continued, his long, heavily muscled legs erasing the distance between them. “I would be well advised to never forget that. What do you think? Are my men well equipped for a lengthy journey?”
“You . . .” She swallowed and tried again. “You are leaving? All of you?”
His laugh sent shards of pain through her. “Excellent deduction, excellent. And I dare say you and the rest of your people will greet my decision much more positively than the padre does.”
Fray Angelico hurried over to the soldiers, but when he tried to take hold of the nearest horse’s reins, the animal reared and he scrambled back.
“God will punish you for this!” he bellowed. “Cast off your allegiance to Captain Lopez and surrender yourselves to your Lord. That is the only way you can avoid hell.”
“Padre,” one of the men said, “we have to obey him. He will see us dead if we do not.” Eyes wide as if just realizing what he’d said, he now addressed his superior officer. “I meant no disrespect, Captain. We would never—”
“I know, I know,” Captain Lopez interrupted. “You are loyal to me, all of you.” Sarcasm tinged every word. “Besides, after last night’s events, I trust there is nothing any of you want more than to put Oraibi behind you.”
He turned from the soldiers. “I am sorry things came to this end, Padre. Truly I am. When I accepted this assignment, I did so believing I would be overseeing the establishment of a mission, but I have no intention of letting the opportunity of a lifetime slip through my fingers. I would think you would understand. My servants are yours to do with as you wish.”
With that, he grabbed his horse’s reins, pulled the animal around, and mounted. On horseback now, he stared first at Fray Angelico and then at Morning Butterfly.
“For your sake, I hope you told me the truth last night,” he practically spat the words at her. “Because if you did not, it will be the end of you. And if you did—” He yanked on the reins, causing the horse to rear.
“And if you did, my men and I are all going to be wealthy!”
• • •
For as long as it took for the hoofbeats to fade into nothing, Morning Butterfly stood motionless. Only when she again heard the wind’s whisper did she think to look at Fray Angelico. To her surprise, he didn’t appear devastated.
“Where . . .” she began, then faltered.
“To the great canyon to search for emeralds, of course. He insisted he would take you with him, but I reminded him, in his men’s presence, that you serve the Lord, that taking you from your duties would earn him God’s everlasting wrath, and that only the cruelest of men would leave me withou
t the means to communicate with the neophytes. He is not a particularly religious man, but his men are, and he will only test their loyalty so far.”
“Then—then he believed . . .”
“Did he believe the Navajo? It appears he did, although I will go to my death proclaiming him a fool. Wealth or the possibility of wealth does strange things to men, Morning Butterfly. Makes them take leave of their senses. You would have thought he had learned from his grandfather’s experiences. However . . .”
A gust of wind sent the tent walls to flapping, the sound both hollow and lonely. “Will he return?” she asked.
“He does not know. I swear, there is nothing he knows anymore.”
“He believed Cougar—before he killed him.”
“Killed—no.”
Afraid she hadn’t heard right, she begged the padre to explain.
“The savage means that much to you?”
Silent, she returned his gaze.
“My God, the devil is everywhere! His terrible influence—”
“Is Cougar alive?”
“My child, what does it—all right, all right,” he said when she lifted her hand as if to silence him. “From what I understand, the Navajo somehow overpowered Pablo and killed him. Although the unfortunate young man was beyond help, I administered last rites, thus assuring his entrance into the kingdom of God and giving peace to those he served with. The soldiers spent most of the night digging a grave.” The padre sighed.
“Where are Cougar and—”
“What do you care? Pablo’s head was caved in; he had been beaten to death. The Navajo are gone.”
Gone. Alive.
“The way he ranted, I initially believed the captain would head for the Navajo village and burn it to the ground, not that I would have stood in his way. The killing of a soldier of the Crown is an act of war, and war against God and State cannot be tolerated, but—”
She didn’t care about that. Nothing mattered except that Cougar was alive.
Chapter Eighteen
“It was indeed my intention to make the most of the situation which has presented itself,” Fray Angelico wrote. “Following your communiqué, I redoubled my vow to devote myself fully to the natives’ spiritual needs and bring them into the Lord’s graces. My heart filled with joy at the prospect of being able to save so many souls, and after much thought, I made the decision to build my—” He stopped. He’d had no intention of claiming ownership of the church. After marking out the final word, he continued his letter to the governor.
“. . . build the church on virgin land so the savages will understand that their pagan ways must be put behind them. Impressive progress has been made on the structure, in large part because the Hopi, like the children they are, are most eager to begin worshiping the Lord in His house.”
It was once again night, the darkness barely kept at bay by the precious candle. Although he was grateful for the illumination, the tallow stench had prompted him to sit outside, and shadows caused by the flickering candle made him wonder what existed beyond the light. All he heard were the ever-present wolves, but did their howls have to echo endlessly? Did he have to feel so alone?
“However,” he continued, “I fear work will not be completed because Captain Lopez has deserted his post, taking with him those under his command and one of the wagons. His leaving was so sudden and unexpected—prompted, I hesitate to say, by greed.”
He spent close to a page detailing the latest confrontation with the Navajo, the murder of a soldier by the Navajo prisoners before they fled, and Captain Lopez’s subsequent determination to ascertain the truthfulness of what he’d been told about emeralds at the great canyon.
“I do not fully lay blame at the captain’s feet,” he continued—he wasn’t foolish enough to alienate any military men who might read his letter. “It is my unpleasant but holy responsibility to report that this area is rife with the devil’s might. Satan is indeed most powerful here, no doubt strengthened and encouraged by the ignorant natives in his grip. There is not space within this letter to detail all proof of the devil’s presence, but I trust you are aware of how committed I am to eradicating the dark forces.”
He was in danger of allowing the letter to veer off in the direction that caused him untold sleepless nights but was beyond the governor’s sphere of influence. He had to control himself.
“Your Excellency, I am forced to repeat my insistence that another post be found for Captain Lopez.” Yes, that was good; he wasn’t suggesting Lopez be stripped of his rank. “Although a man of proven military intelligence, I believe he is, nevertheless, not suited for this particular enterprise. I most humbly request that a replacement be sent posthaste.”
His fingers cramped, he set down the pen and shook his hand until circulation was restored. Holding the paper up to the yellow light, he reread what he’d written. He wasn’t particularly satisfied with it and wished he could modestly remind the governor of his own commitment and sacrifices. He also worried that Captain Lopez’s influence might be far ranging and thus that by writing, Angelico had alienated powerful men, but the fact remained that he had been deserted.
After going back over a number of the words to make them easier to read, he carefully folded the paper and got to his feet. Despite his resolve not to, he acknowledged his surroundings. Didn’t the wolves ever stop howling? From dusk to dawn, it seemed, they cried. No other sound could rival it. No wonder he had had trouble failing asleep ever since coming here and had such unsettling dreams. It would be even worse tonight in the face of the soldier’s desertion—and the reality of the pile of rocks that marked where Pablo had been buried.
A chill ran from the back of his head down his spine, weakening his legs and causing him to stumble. Righting himself, he grabbed the candle and held it out in a less than successful attempt to illuminate his surroundings. A man whose heart is at peace with the Lord has nothing to fear; he knew that, believed that with everything in him, and yet . . .
Just last year, three of his fellow Franciscans, Fray Francisco de Porras among them, had set out to minister to far-flung Hopi villages, accompanied by eighteen soldiers who had subsequently returned to Santa Fe. At Awatobi, the Hopi medicine men had called Fray Francisco a liar and ordered the tribe not to attend his sermons. Francisco had fallen to his knees in the pueblo plaza, crossed himself, and begun praying. Then he’d spat on his hands and made a mud ball, which he’d placed on the eyes of a blind Hopi boy, immediately restoring his sight. Although the padre had written humbly of the miracle, he’d incurred the wrath of the medicine man, who’d soon after fed him poisoned food. He’d died as another Franciscan was administering last rites.
Appalled at the memory of the worst the savages were capable of, Angelico dropped to his knees and prayed, loud and long, for protection and guidance, for unwavering faith and the courage to face Satan in all his guises.
When there was nothing left to say, he forced his weary legs to once again accept his weight, but before he could pull back his tent flap, a whisper of sound reached him, this one different from what the wolves were capable of, hollow and deep at the same time, haunting and haunted.
Had it come from Oraibi itself?
• • •
Old Willow, a member of the Water Clan, was telling the story of how Palatkwapi, the ancient Red City of the South, had become a great village that had subsequently been destroyed when the Hopi living there ignored the warnings of the kachinas Eototo and Aholi to continue their migrations.
Because she’d heard the legend more times than she could count, Morning Butterfly paid little attention to Old Willow’s words but lost herself in the sounds his fellow clan members made with their soft drumming. As a young girl, she’d been frightened by the details of how Palatkwapi had been destroyed by a serpent that rose from a new grave and shook his coils, thus shaking the earth and toppling buildings. By noon, the great city had fallen and hundreds had been killed, the survivors fleeing the smoking ruins.
One house had remained untouched. In it lived a couple with twins, a boy and a girl. As all twins did, these two had special powers and were called choviohoya, or young deer. Deserted by their parents, who’d believed them dead, the twins had followed the survivors’ tracks. When their food ran out, the boy had shot a magical deer who instructed them how to use its body so they would have new clothes to keep them warm. Eventually the twins reached another village and shared what they’d learned about utilizing all of a deer’s gifts.
Cougar had told Morning Butterfly about Navajo twins. They were different from those of the Hopi, and yet she couldn’t dismiss the similarities: Each pair, in their own way, had improved the lives of their people. If she ever saw Cougar again, she would tell him that.
• • •
During their desperate run for freedom, Cougar had given no thought to reclaiming the horses they’d ridden to Oraibi, and although he didn’t doubt his ability to return to his village, he’d been concerned about his grandfather. From the moment the old man had sawed through Cougar’s bonds, Drums No More had been a man possessed, excited because he’d saved his grandson’s life and determined to avoid recapture. Still, the long hours had exacted their toll on him and he’d started to stumble.
Pretending a weariness he didn’t feel, Cougar had convinced his grandfather that it was wise—and safe—to spend the day resting.
“We each have our own mission, Grandfather,” he’d told Drums No More when night arrived. “Our people must be warned. We could do this together, but my thoughts are not yet ready to leave Oraibi.”
“Oraibi, or Morning Butterfly?”
He’d ignored his grandfather’s question, instead pointing out that they needed to know what the soldiers were doing—why one had tried to kill him, whether they were getting ready to attack the Navajo, or, as he’d hoped, were riding toward the great canyon.
