Soul of the Sacred Earth

by Vella Munn

  “Why not?”

  Madariaga blushed. “I asked that we have prayers before going to bed the other night. I also questioned why no services had been held on the Sabbath. The others had the same concerns, but it fell to me to ask. My captain vented his displeasure at me and dismissed me. Padre, I do not know if I have met a less religious man than Captain Lopez. He is—was—my commander and I respect his military expertise, but not to put the Lord foremost in his life . . .” The young man looked about to cry. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways. The more I see of this world the more convinced I am of that, but the devil’s influence—Padre, is it possible that the devil’s hold on a human heart and soul can be greater than God’s power?”

  Angelico might have taken offense, since his ministrations to the soldiers always centered on God’s supreme force, but the young man was genuinely confused by his commander’s behavior and was only searching for an explanation.

  “The battle between our supreme savior and the powers of darkness has raged since Adam and Eve,” he said as he helped Madariaga to stand. “Those who truly seek salvation and guidance find the strength to cast off the devil, but not everyone is capable of hearing His word.”

  Madariaga frowned. “The captain is an intelligent man, educated far beyond what I will ever be. His collection of novels, such as Cervantes’s Don Quixote, fills me with envy, and yet I cannot help but wonder if an excess of secular reading might draw a man far from the Bible’s truth.”

  “I am certain such material has influenced his thinking, but I cannot pretend to fully understand why Captain Lopez has chosen the direction he has. My son, understanding of God’s great plan for us can only come about if we immerse ourselves in His truth and wisdom, which, I fear, the captain has not done. You say you wish you had access to his book collection.” He deliberately kept the conversation off what had happened between Madariaga and Lopez. “I must be wrong. I was under the impression you had not been afforded a formal education.”

  Madariaga had started to relax while they were talking, but now he became agitated again. “Padre, my blood is impure. I am—my mother is—Indian.”

  “And because of that, school was denied you,” Angelico finished for him.

  Madariaga nodded, then brightened slightly. “Unlike most of my kind, my father acknowledged me and taught me to read. I have read the entire Bible several times. Not only that, I put it upon myself to learn from my surroundings; there is an education there for anyone with a willingness to listen.”

  “I am certain there is.”

  “Not all of it is truthful. That is the thing, the hard part—separating falsehood from truth.” Sighing, he scratched under his chin. “Padre, if I may, a confession?”

  “Of course. Of course.”

  “I did not become a soldier simply because I wished to be free of the constraints placed upon me because of my heritage, but because I became convinced that this new land presented opportunities I would never have elsewhere.”

  “Opportunities? To help spread the word of the true and only faith?”

  Looking somewhat abashed, Madariaga shook his head. Then he glanced over at his horse, who’d wandered a few feet away in search of food. “Padre, so many spoke of this land’s mineral wealth, gold and silver. The explorers who first came here, like the great and courageous Estevanico, who led Fray Marcos de Niza up the Rio San Pedro, left such details that I am surprised so few have ventured here.”

  Estevanico the Black had been a slave, a Moor and not a Christian; he’d been killed and torn apart by Zuni savages. It had been Fray Marcos, not the slave, who had garnered support from Bishop Zumarraga of Mexico City because of his fine religious zeal and approved virtue. With an effort, Angelico restrained himself from pointing out the falsehoods in Madariaga’s story.

  “I have committed what they found to memory.” The youth closed his eyes and sighed. “How much I would sacrifice if only I could have been with them when they came across the great city of Cibola! Estevanico’s words stick to my mind like clay: ‘The houses are as they have been described to me by the Indians, all of stone, with terraces and flat roofs, fine in appearance, the best I have seen in these regions.’”

  That accounting had come from Fray Marcos, not Estevanico and, unfortunately, time had determined it to be the product of Fray Marcos’s overactive imagination and enthusiasm. Equally unfortunately, “news” of Cibola had spread and taken on a life of its own since that early expedition, giving rise to persistent stories about the Seven Cities of Cibola which many—perhaps Captain Lopez among them—persisted in believing were rich in gold and jewels, well stocked with rare foods and fine wines. The search for the—to Angelico’s mind—nonexistent cities had resulted in the death of many explorers.

  “I have studied maps,” Madariaga continued, no longer looking at all crestfallen. “Pored over all I could get my hands on until I became convinced that finding a heretofore undiscovered river would lead me to the riches.”

  A boy could hardly get his hands on what few maps of the territory existed. Beyond that, Madariaga’s blind belief in what educated men had determined to be a falsehood made Angelico want to weep. Not only had Madariaga staked his future and maybe his life on accomplishing what no one had done, but his obsession kept him from seeing what was truly important—devotion and sacrifice to the Lord. Only through those things could he hope to separate himself from the limitations wrought by his birth.

  “My child, while I applaud your courage and determination, in good conscience, I cannot encourage you to continue on this course.”

  Instead of arguing, Madariaga responded with a shuddering sigh. “My childhood, although simple, did not lack for physical comforts. It was only while making my way here that I learned the meaning of fear. Attempting to establish a military presence here has exacted its own toll, I must confess; it is so strange and different, dangerous. Ever since the Navajo killed Pablo, I have been unable to sleep.”

  “It is a loneliness of the spirit, my son, one which can only be banished with the grace of God. It was He who led you back here, He who placed you in my care.”

  Madariaga didn’t respond, only continued to survey his surroundings. His stomach rumbled and he pressed his hand against it.

  “You and I will pray together and through prayer, you will find salvation and peace,” Angelico protested.

  “The nights are the worst,” Madariaga said, seemingly unaware that he’d interrupted. “By day the land seems so vast and unpopulated by anything except vile creatures, snakes and lizards, birds that feed off rotting flesh. There is so little sign of moisture, and I cannot see how even the most desperate savages would make this godforsaken place their home. At night . . .”

  “What about the nights?”

  “The darkness is so complete. It—it is as if I have fallen into a cave and a demon, maybe the devil himself, has placed a stone over the opening.” He wrapped his hands around his stomach. “I hold my hand up to my face but cannot see it. My fellow soldiers and I—sometimes we talk through the night because we hate the silence so—we hear each other but we are voices without bodies. Padre, Father, does it ever feel the same to you?”

  “Does what?”

  “As if you will never be free of the nothingness? This desert—it seems to go on forever, to be everything. To be waiting for me to die so it can pick over my bones.”

  “I have seen the vultures,” Angelico said, his heart suddenly cold. “They are indeed vile creatures, but they perform a necessary task and are not something to fear.”

  “I know. Father, there is something I think about a lot.” Madariaga swallowed. “Something that allows me no peace.”

  Madariaga was a lost soul, lost but not beyond the Lord’s reach. Thinking to comfort him, Angelico reached out to touch him, but the youth jerked away and let out a frightened squeak.

  “I—I am sorry,” he muttered. “It is just that I have spent so much time looking over my shoulder.”

 
“That is all right. Please, my son, unburden your heart,” he said.

  Except for the ever-present wind and Madariaga’s ragged breathing, for a long time nothing broke the silence. Then: “The Indians are savages. That is why you came here, to make them stop their evil ways—”

  “My mission is to guide the Indians into the light.”

  “I know. But they were not without beliefs before we arrived. I did as you and the captain commanded, destroyed their false idols, but before that, when we were new to Oraibi and just exploring their village, I walked near the underground rooms where their men go.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “The sounds that emanated from those places—they were like prayers.”

  Angelico’s throat constricted and he swallowed loudly. “I have heard the same thing,” he admitted.

  “You have?” Madariaga visibly set aside his surprise. “That is what I keep thinking about—if they are praying, who do they pray to? Do they worship the devil? Maybe—maybe they have made gods of vultures and snakes, lizards.”

  The mind of a simple people was beyond Angelico’s comprehension, and yet he half believed Madariaga was right.

  “They knew nothing of the Lord Jesus Christ, did they?”

  “I have made great strides in leading them to God’s grace.” Angelico prayed that was true.

  Madariaga breathed in and out. “If I had known nothing except this barren place, if that was all my ancestors had known, maybe I would worship snakes.”

  The devil had this man in his clutches! There could be no other explanation for what he was saying. But even as Angelico wrapped his belief around him, he remembered the hellish sound he’d heard after the kachinas had been destroyed.

  • • •

  Although she didn’t want to, as soon as she’d heard that one of the soldiers had returned, Morning Butterfly forced herself to seek out Fray Angelico. She found him standing with his hands behind his back while he stared at what existed of his church. Thinking he was engaged in prayer, she waited.

  On the day the first stone had been set in place, he’d gathered around him as many children as the soldiers could find and baptized them. The next day he’d done the same with an almost equal number of women. Perhaps half of the Hopi men had been compelled to kneel before him while he muttered words they didn’t understand. Even as he welcomed them into what he called the light and protection of his lord, she’d filled her mind with her people’s Song of Creation. Today, as she waited to speak to the padre, she again took comfort in those words.

  “The perfect one laid out the perfect plan and gave us a long span of life, creating song to implant joy in life. On his path of happiness, we the Butterfly Maidens carry out his wishes by greeting our Father Sun.”

  She and other Hopi had listened to the padre’s sermons. Would the time ever come when he would do the same? “Morning Butterfly, I did not see you coming.”

  She indicated the sleeping soldier. “He returned alone. Why?”

  Angelico blinked several times before speaking. “Because Captain Lopez wants to provide me with protection. If my prayers are answered, he will shortly be joined by others sent here by the governor.”

  Her stomach clenched, and she struggled to keep her reaction to herself. “But Captain Lopez and his men took much food with them and we have little left. If more soldiers come—”

  “The Lord provides, my child. The Lord provides.”

  Did this lord of his help harvest crops? Knowing the folly of asking him that, she turned her attention to the church, posing to him the question of whether he intended to use the services of the anticipated newcomers in continuing work on it.

  “Undoubtedly. My first concern will be, of course, with the state of their souls.” He glanced upward. “God will show me the way to minister to my entire flock, but I already feel the weight of those added responsibilities. What sustains me is the prospect of having the church completed by fall.”

  “Fall?”

  “Before winter. You know what that is, do you not?”

  Although the Spanish looked at the seasons in ways different from the Hopi, she nodded. “And then?” she asked. “Once there is a church at Oraibi, will you go elsewhere?”

  The question seemed to surprise him. “Oh, no. At least I do not anticipate being given another post in the foreseeable future. A religious structure is simply my first responsibility. After that, I plan on making a true contribution to God.”

  “A true contribution?”

  “Yes.” He smiled, obviously warming to the conversation. At the same time, she noticed that he kept his distance from her. She was careful to do the same.

  “I wish you could see what has been accomplished in Santa Fe,” he said. “There is a plaza and the Palace of the Governors which is both a chapel and, of necessity, a prison. Within its walls is a garden and beyond that stables and quarters for the guard. East of the plaza is a fine church, and south of that, the chapel of Saint Michael. An acequia madre has been constructed to carry water from the river throughout the settlement, and the resultant pastures and cultivated land are most extraordinary. The days of Captain General Oñate are no more. Great strides have been made in bringing civilization to the wilderness. The same will happen here, my child. Much of it within your lifetime.”

  • • •

  In the days that followed, it seemed as if Fray Angelico’s promise would become reality, not as she walked toward old age, but even before Singer of Songs’ child was born. The lone soldier remained by the padre’s side at all times and they appeared to take pleasure from each other’s company, although the younger man obviously saw Angelico as his superior. He was always armed. Fray Angelico continually exhorted the natives to follow his directives. If they did not, he said, commanding Morning Butterfly to translate, God’s wrath would fall upon them. She did as he ordered because she feared that either Captain Lopez and his men or others from Santa Fe would soon arrive and punish any disobedience.

  He had, Angelico told Morning Butterfly, devised a plan by which church construction could continue while the Hopi tended to their farms. He’d noted a glaring lack of efficiency in the way a single man took responsibility for a plot of land, working it by day and returning to Oraibi at night. Instead, he instructed—commanded—able-bodied Hopi of both sexes to remain near the crops at all times, a necessity with the sheep running loose. The majority, however, worked on the church.

  Nights had always been for meetings in the various kivas, for prayer and ceremony, but that was no longer possible. Instead of the various clan members gathering strength from their brothers, a Snake Clan member might find himself working alongside a Badger, two Eagles, and three Hawks. Yes, they were all Hopi, but they hadn’t grown into manhood knowing each other’s hearts. There was a desperate need for a Council of Chiefs, but how could the heads of the various clans gather when they were kept separated for days at a time?

  What distressed her the most was what might happen to her sister and the other women once soldiers were once again in their midst. As it was, Madariaga had already had his way with one woman when she’d tried to hand him a bowl of water. Afterward, he’d prostrated himself before the padre, but she had no doubt that he would “sin” again.

  “The newcomers are deer in rut,” her mother insisted one afternoon as she and Morning Butterfly ground corn on their metates. “They were like that at Acoma and nothing has changed. At least the captain was gentle with Singer of Songs and he was the only one to touch her. I fear what will happen if many newcomers are here. Atch, I do not have the words for it.”

  Neither did Morning Butterfly. She’d grown up knowing it was right for young Hopi to have dumaiyas with a number of partners, because how else could they decide who they wanted to spend the rest of their lives with? Once a marriage partner had been selected, however, neither boy nor girl looked at anyone else. Intercourse was for the purpose of creating children, and because it was enjoyable, because people cared for each o
ther.

  Among the Hopi, a man never forced himself upon a woman.

  It wasn’t the same for the Spanish.

  • • •

  “It is not right,” Morning Butterfly finally told Fray Angelico. As usual, their meeting took place in the middle of the day, near the church. “When the soldiers left, my people were happy because they believed there would be no more rape, but now everyone fears what the future will bring.”

  The padre, his wind-torn hair reminding her of a discarded mouse nest, blinked rapidly. “Madariaga confessed his sin and was forgiven.”

  “Can you tell me he will not sin again?” she demanded.

  “He is a mortal man,” he said.

  “Does that excuse him? Padre, the night before the captain and his troops left, a woman I call my sister because she is of my clan was forced to submit to three men. It is not right!”

  His mouth sagged open, then closed. “No,” he muttered, “it is not. However . . .”

  “When they come, cannot you talk to them? Tell them we hate them for what they are doing.”

  “It does not matter to them.” He sounded both frustrated and angry. His fists clenched at his side; he looked around at the church, which was now higher than a tall man’s chest, but seemed to take no pleasure from it. “You have no comprehension—your world is so small, so isolated. The world beyond your vision means nothing to you. It is easier that way, but it is not the way I have to live.”

  He looked small with the newly built rock walls behind him, and there was a desperate note to his voice. Those things made her feel almost sorry for him, might have made more of an impact if she wasn’t still filled with the sound of Little Bird’s sobs.

  “It was you who came to our world.” Morning Butterfly turned her attention to the horizon where, maybe, Cougar and other Navajo rode free. “We did not ask you here.”

  “Without me, your souls will never be saved.”