by Vella Munn
“When your grandfather told us of his dream, did you believe he brought a message from the gods or—or did part of you wonder if it was simply a dream, like countless others?”
“A man should want to be touched by Changing Woman,” he said. “What greater glory is there than to be told he is more than mortal?”
“None.”
“But I am a man. A man.”
Blue Swallow grunted but didn’t say anything.
“No,” Cougar admitted, “I did not want to hear my grandfather’s dream.”
“But you did not turn from it.”
“No.”
“I think . . . that is why I am with you, not because of a dream but because you accepted the weight of Drums No More’s words. Why did you?”
He was older than Blue Swallow, experienced in ways the other man wasn’t, and yet today he considered him his brother. “Because I looked at what the Spanish did to my grandfather; they turned him into an old man who cannot fight.” Who, maybe, was scarred in ways he has kept from everyone except Morning Butterfly. “Maybe the time for war with the Spanish is here. If so, I will fight for my grandfather.”
“And die for him?”
• • •
What Cougar had spotted turned out to be three Zuni hunters who’d been as leery of the Navajo as they’d been of them. Using trade language, the Zuni explained that they’d come to the canyon after deer, but although the signs had been plentiful, they hadn’t followed them because they wouldn’t risk exposing themselves to mounted Spanish soldiers. The Spanish had been here when the Zuni arrived, and the Zuni watched them entering and leaving the canyon over and over again the way ants wander in and out of their underground homes. Several times the soldiers had tried to ride their horses into the canyon, but after one animal broke its leg and another had to be abandoned, screaming in pain after it fell a great distance, they’d made their trips on foot.
The Zuni hadn’t been able to make sense of what the soldiers were doing. They’d speculated that the foolish newcomers were trying to get to the river, but surely any observant man would have used one of the several trails that showed the way down. Instead, the soldiers had taken a different route each morning and returned either late in the day or, occasionally, not until the next day, obviously having spent the night clinging to the steep sides. They were looking for something, the Zuni had concluded.
Cougar asked if the soldiers were still here. Yes, he was told, the crazy newcomers were a morning’s ride to the south.
“So we go there?” Blue Swallow asked.
Caught in the memory of the look in his grandfather’s eyes, Cougar nodded.
“And then we rid Dinehtah of those who do not belong?”
“Yes.” If Changing Woman so wills it.
• • •
Perhaps his heart wouldn’t beat like that of a captured bird, Cougar thought, if his companions had filled the air with boasting, but Blue Swallow and the others had been silent. They’d camped for the night so they could rest their horses and prepare themselves with stories of how the Navajo had come to Dinehtah.
To his surprise, he’d slept soundly and had no disturbing dreams, perhaps because he’d taken strength from the legend of how Changing Woman’s younger sister, White Shell Woman, had been visited by Hastseyalti, Talking God, and Hastsehogan, the House God, who’d created the people who became the House of Dark Cliffs Clan. That clan, along with others, had moved from where White Shell Woman had been living and traveled west until they finally reached the land the gods had given the Navajo.
Now, touched by the reality of daylight, he remembered the rest of the story—that the clans had left the East because they’d been few in number and their enemies many. If the past ever repeated itself, maybe there were as many Spanish as rocks littered the ground and his people would be forced to leave the land where their hearts belonged.
If that time came, would he be among those who gathered up their belongings to flee, or would his blood already have been shed?
He didn’t want these thoughts! Didn’t want to be doing what he was! If he could follow his heart’s desires today, he would be with Morning Butterfly while she told him of ways other than war.
The day was hot and without a breeze to keep a man from sweating. Their precious water supply was running low, and although there was a spring nearby, if they stopped there, it would be dark before they reached the soldiers. Cougar didn’t mind traveling at night, but forcing the horses across ground they couldn’t see would increase the risk of injury. Besides, the soldiers might hear them coming and hide in wait.
Again and again his gaze turned to the sky as he looked for clouds with messages in them, but nothing disturbed the endless blue. The clip-clip of the horses’ hooves calmed him a little, but he still wished he had something to think of other than what might happen once they overtook the Spanish.
Finally the sun had passed the midpoint in its daily journey and was on its way to where it spent its nights; it was time to send a brave out alone. Cougar studied his companions. Over half were married, and even those who hadn’t yet moved into a woman’s hogan and fathered children were responsible for their sisters’ children. They were warriors, yes, but they were also hunters, and if they died, their families would go hungry.
“Wait here,” he told them. “I will go on alone, on foot. When I have found our enemy, I will return and we will discuss what must be done.”
“Alone?” Blue Swallow questioned. “What if something happens to you?”
“Then you will know my grandfather was wrong to place his trust in me.”
• • •
Sweat and dirt clung to every inch of Captain Lopez’s body. The skin under his beard itched unrelentingly, and whenever he scratched, he dug into the scabs there and they started bleeding again. Under his arms and between his legs his flesh burned and throbbed, red and irritated. He’d been sunburned enough times that he knew new skin would eventually replace what he’d lost, but not until he got out of the sun for several days at least. Tired, hungry, thirsty, filthy, disappointed, and furious, he barely cared whether he lived or died.
He forced his eyes to focus and stared at his surroundings. He and the others, miserable excuses for men that they were, clung to the canyon’s wall. They were so deep into that gash in the ground that from where he was, he couldn’t see the sun. In and of itself, that was a relief, because at least he was spared its relentless rays.
For the life of him, he couldn’t remember how many times they’d ventured into this hellhole. In the beginning, each expedition had filled him with great enthusiasm. Surely this time the canyon would give up its secrets; surely this time what from a distance glittered like jewels would turn out to be emeralds—or gold.
But one failed attempt had turned into two and then three and then—then what?
Had the Navajo lied? Half sick and exhausted both in body and spirit, he still ordered his men to follow him into this godforsaken entrance into hell.
Because he’d never failed before.
“Failure.”
Shocked by the raspy sound of his voice, he forced himself to set down his pick and stare at the cuts he’d made in the stone, dully accepting that a half day’s effort hadn’t accomplished much. Due to the rough terrain, he and his men were all at considerable distance from each other, not that he had any desire for companionship. Still, being able to talk to someone—
There wasn’t a soul! Never had been and never would.
His wife wanted only one thing from him, a husband capable of satisfying her demanding father, though Lopez still wasn’t sure he ever would. What he did know was that he hadn’t been the first to bed Bonita Marie. He’d expected to find her an inexperienced virgin and had put his mind to what he should do to ease their wedding night for her. In a rare moment of fantasy, he’d seen himself guiding her from innocence and fear into womanhood. He’d never confess this to a living soul of course, because a military man wasn’t expect
ed to have tender thoughts. Compassion and kindness only weakened a soldier’s ability to do what he must on the battlefield. He never was certain who had deflowered Bonita Marie, though he suspected it had been her confessor, from the looks they exchanged. Yet another reason he did not trust religious men.
All his wife wanted from him was a home worthy of her station in life—and service in her bed. If he couldn’t do that, he knew, she would find another man, just as he replaced one horse with another when the first broke down.
Singer of Songs was a spring flower, simple and innocent, gentle. True, the language barrier made honest communication impossible, but perhaps that was better. This way he could imagine Singer of Songs was everything he needed in a woman.
Fighting what couldn’t possibly be tears, he suddenly knew with absolute certainty that his entire life to this point had been a failure. In a dim way he recognized that exhaustion was partly responsible for his dark mood, but there was only so much a man could endure, so much pain, so much disappointment . . .
Crying, he gripped his pick with both hands and swung it against the rock with every ounce of strength left in him. In his mind he saw not stone, but the face of the heathen known as Cougar.
• • •
With their front legs tethered, the soldiers’ horses couldn’t travel far; still, Cougar was surprised to find them unguarded. It was also unlike Captain Lopez to leave them in plain sight like this. After assuring himself that he was truly alone, Cougar studied the animals. They’d all lost weight and two were lame; none more than glanced at him before going back to the task of trying to find something to eat. He considered freeing and stampeding them so the soldiers would be reduced to walking, but with no way of finding water on their own, he’d be condemning the valuable animals to a miserable death. He could rope them together and lead them to his companions. And then—
Absently rubbing the chest of the nearest horse, he turned his plan around in his mind. He’d never heard it said that the soldiers were skilled trackers, but even they should be able to follow the missing horses’ tracks. They wouldn’t know a Navajo had taken them; maybe they’d believe the animals had managed to shake off their tethers on their own.
No, they wouldn’t, he admitted. One horse might pull free, but not all of them. Still, the soldiers would have no choice but to try to find their missing animals. No matter how tired they were, the men would head after them, even walking through the night.
Dying, lost, alone and on foot.
But Drums No More’s dream had been of a Hero grandson, not one who abandons his enemies to the elements.
“Is that what you want?” he asked, not sure whether he was speaking to his grandfather or Changing Woman—or himself. “For me to face the soldiers? To go to war with them? To die, maybe, at their hands?”
Chapter Twenty-two
Last harvest season, Morning Butterfly’s mother had been so proud of the piles of dried corn which took up one wall of the house that she’d daily pointed out the heaps of the brilliant white, red, yellow, and purple-black ears. Now much of that was gone—confiscated by the padre and added to the pile he intended to send far away.
This morning, although her mother had wanted, once again, to discuss her concerns about the dwindling supply, Morning Butterfly had left Oraibi and was busying her hands, if not her head and heart, by collecting rabbit brush. She intended to add it to the basket she’d been working on at night—the only time Fray Angelico didn’t need her. Wondering how long it would take him to find her today, she kept looking over her shoulder.
As she wandered here and there, she tried not to think about the march of time, but this year’s corn stalks had already bent low under the weight of ripe ears. From the beginning, corn had sustained her people and been part of their religion, but if what Fray Angelico had told her came true, that would end. He called the taking of Hopi crops and other belongings and sending them far away “contributions to God.” When she’d questioned why her people should contribute to a deity unknown to them before the coming of the first Spanish, he’d launched into an explanation that had made no more sense. The Spanish leaders, governors, and viceroys, even the king, had proclaimed that not only the Church but the State as well should profit from what was in the land discovered by Spanish explorers. The Crown had proclaimed that all land north of New Spain belonged to Spain, not to the Hopi, Zuni, or Navajo.
Shifting her small load from her right arm to her left, she shaded her eyes and stared at the horizon. Sound carried great distances on the wind, and she could hear a stone-laden wagon approaching. Unwilling to acknowledge the seemingly endless parade of building materials, she turned her back on it. As she did, her attention was drawn to movement in the direction of the setting sun—the way the soldiers had gone. If they were returning . . .
Teeth clenched, she set down her bundle and half walked, half ran to a rise. At the top, she again shielded her eyes. To her relief, the approaching figures were on foot, which meant they were probably traveling Indians. Still, if they’d been near the great canyon, they might have news.
Not wanting to appear overanxious, she waited for the travelers to approach. She wasn’t the only one eager for news, and by the time the few Zuni were close enough to yell out a greeting, she was surrounded by other Hopi. Because Broken Toe Mends often traded with the Zuni, he easily communicated with them. After a long conversation, Broken Toe Mends passed on what he’d learned. And with each word, her despair grew.
The Zuni had camped near the soldiers for several days, hoping the newcomers would grow careless so they could steal some horses. Unfortunately, the soldiers had remained vigilant even as they drove themselves to the brink of exhaustion while exploring the great canyon. The Zuni had been about to leave when a number of Navajo braves appeared.
“The Navajo were looking for the soldiers,” Broken Toe Mends explained. “They were all on horseback, well-armed, with enough food and water for a long journey. Their leader told the Zuni they had come to kill the soldiers because Changing Woman had ordered it.”
“What was their leader’s name?” Morning Butterfly forced herself to ask.
“They do not know. What he did say was that his grandfather, a man who was mutilated at Acoma, had dreamed what he must do.
Cougar!
She was still trying to absorb this when Broken Toe Mends continued. One Navajo had gone alone to study the soldiers. After his return, there’d been much discussion about what to do, but in the end they’d declared they would continue on the path laid out by the dream’s prophecy. The Zuni, who wanted to see what would happen, followed them.
“The Navajo waited for the soldiers to come out of the canyon,” Broken Toe Mends explained. “Then, although they could have lain in wait and attacked the soldiers while they were unaware, the Navajo showed themselves. There was much yelling on both sides, and when the soldiers began firing their weapons, the Zuni fled.”
“They do not know if any Navajo were killed?”
“No. The Zuni say the soldiers’ weapons surely pierced flesh because the fire sticks screamed so many times.”
Someone asked if the Zuni knew whether any soldiers had died, but Morning Butterfly didn’t care. In her mind she all too clearly saw the uneven battle—simple bows and arrows against powerful, far-reaching powder and balls.
“Did the Zuni go back after the battle was over?” she asked. “Perhaps then they counted the dead?”
“No.”
• • •
“You cannot breathe life back into him if he is no more,” Singer of Songs said.
“I know.”
“Then do not think of him. What happens to a Navajo is not the concern of a Hopi, is it?
“No.”
“Then—”
“I cannot stop what I feel inside!” Morning Butterfly blurted. Before she could stop herself, she’d jumped to her feet and stalked from one end of her family’s pueblo to the other in a futile attempt to escape her sister
’s words.
“The last time I saw him, blood flowed from a wound in his side, and although he seemed strong, I feared he’d died,” she said. “To learn he survived that injury but may have been killed at the canyon—I do not know if I can bear it.”
“This is not right,” Singer of Songs said, her tone a mix of concern and irritation. “Sister, you must put your thoughts on what it is to be a Hopi woman. I see the way the unmarried men look at you. They want you to choose one of them.”
It didn’t matter. Ever since yesterday, when she’d learned of the battle between Navajo and soldiers, nothing else had mattered. She hadn’t slept at all last night, couldn’t remember where she’d set down her rabbit brush, and had deliberately avoided Fray Angelico, even though he’d sent a messenger after her.
“How can I think of marriage when so much has changed for our people?” she asked distractedly.
Singer of Songs got to her feet. Although her body hadn’t yet been changed by her pregnancy, her movements were slow. “Sister, listen to me. When I knew what the captain had done to me, that I was carrying his child, I was in despair. It was you who reminded me that I was Hopi and the baby would be as well. I smile again because my heart is Hopi. That is what you are.”
“I know.”
Singer of Songs looked at her closely, then said, “You love him, do you not?”
On the tail of a sigh, Morning Butterfly turned back around and faced her sister. At the moment, they were alone in the pueblo and whatever she said in confidence to Singer of Songs would remain that way.
“I feel different when I think about him,” she admitted. “I remember what his voice sounds like. When I close my eyes, I can see him looking at me. The things we said to each other remain inside me and . . .”
