by Vella Munn
He nodded. “Kachinas live in the Hopi world; Navajo have Changing Woman, White Shell Woman, the Hero Twins. Those are separate, not right or wrong, simply part of one tribe or another.”
“That is what I tried to tell the padre, but he would not listen.”
Night was bringing the forest closer and closer. She could no longer distinguish between the different trees. Cougar was saying something, and she struggled to concentrate on his words, but with his body calling to hers it wasn’t easy.
“I do not want to talk about Fray Angelico or the others who do not belong here,” he said. “We have done that before and will do so again, but not now.”
He was right. Still . . .
“What is it?” he asked.
“I—I am afraid.”
“Of me?”
“No.” Giving weight to her words, she wrapped her arms around him and rested her head against his chest. “Of what I feel for you,” she whispered from the cocoon and challenge of his embrace. “Of the ways you have touched me.”
“You touch me too.”
“How?”
“In every way. I hear your words and although I make them Navajo in my mind, they remain Hopi. I take what it means to be Hopi into my heart and am made wiser because of that, but then I ask myself if I am becoming less Navajo.”
“Is that wrong?”
“I do not know. What it means to be Hopi is the ability to look at the world as it is and as it is becoming and walk in peace with those things.”
“Yes.”
“It is not the same for my people.”
“I know.”
“We are not afraid to go to war, to die.” He glanced at his surroundings. “But if we continue on this path, will the time come when the newcomers are so many that even if we prepare our hearts, minds, and bodies as the spirits guide us, will we all be killed?”
“Do not say that! The Navajo have always been. Surely—”
“I know,” he softly interrupted. “These are things I do not want to speak about, to think of. I am with you.” He’d bent his head toward her; his breath whispered over her forehead. “That is where I want my heart to be tonight, with you. For nothing else to exist. Can that be?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Chapter Twenty-four
The moon was a thin silvery arch that only occasionally peeked out around the canopy of trees. Although there were no clouds, the stars too seemed subdued. Maybe, Cougar told Morning Butterfly after they’d made love, summer’s heat had exhausted the stars along with everything else and they were resting until cooler temperatures coaxed them back to life.
That was possible, but she had little interest in stars tonight; nothing mattered except Cougar and the easy way her body had welcomed his into it. Yes, there’d been initial pain, but she’d known to expect that and had waited without breathing until it passed. Then she’d learned what it is to be a woman.
Snuggled against his side with her hand over his chest and her head resting on his arm, she asked what he and Sweet Water had talked about when they were together like this.
“My wife belongs in yesterday,” he whispered. “She will always live in a place in my heart, but she is not with us tonight.”
“I am glad, but . . .”
“But what?”
“My parents have slept together for many years and what they say to each other is familiar and easy . . . but I do not know what you want to hear from me.”
He chuckled, then admitted that words weren’t coming easily to him either. “Perhaps we should try to sleep,” he suggested. “In the morning—”
“I do not want to talk about tomorrow, to think about it even.”
“Neither do I. Morning Butterfly, this was your first time with a man, was it not?”
“Yes. I—I wish I was wiser in such things and knew what I was supposed to do.”
“Your body sang to mine. That is all that matters. Did I hurt you?”
“Only a little.”
“I tried to be gentle.” Then, although his body was beginning to respond to her again, he continued speaking. “This thing we have done may bring new life. If a child begins to grow inside you, I want to know as soon as you do.”
“A baby? I should have thought—” Morning Butterfly felt a flicker of fear—if Singer of Songs could become pregnant, did Morning Butterfly think she could not? Yet she had not thought of it at all.
“It is all right,” he reassured her. “Listen to me. The Hopi and Navajo are the same in that a child belongs to its mother’s clan, and if there is a baby, it will be raised Hopi—unless we are together.”
“Together? How can that be?” She started to sit up, then collapsed, trembling a little, against him. “Is it possible? Can a child be raised both Hopi and Navajo?”
His fingers were a current flowing over her shoulders and back. “I do not know. It has never happened before.”
“If the Spanish were not here, you and I could move freely among each other’s people, and Hopi and Navajo would soon think nothing of it, but that is not reality.”
“Maybe after what happened to the soldiers at the canyon, they will leave.”
“There is nothing I want more. It is not right for them to stand on Hopi land, to try to make Oraibi theirs!”
Cougar pulled her closer. What he was about to say might anger her, and he wanted her body to know the truth of what he felt about her. “If they insist on making Oraibi their home, the Hopi must leave.”
“Leave? Cougar, I will not speak about this with you again.”
“Morning Butterfly, for many generations the Navajo traveled from one place to another and called nothing home. Until they came to Dinehtah, it did not matter where they slept. Now our feet draw strength from Dinehtah, but we have not built immovable houses. Cannot it be like that for your people? If moving means freedom, then—”
“Oraibi is everything to us. Listen to me, listen so maybe you will understand. Like the Navajo, in ancient times the different Hopi clans migrated, but it was not because they did not care where they lived. The clans were guided by sacred tablets and sent on their journeys by the Creator. When our ancestors came to two sacred and mighty rivers and saw the three high mesas between them, they knew this was the place to build our fourth world, the one the Creator said we must call home for all time.”
“Even if staying means death?”
“Stop it!” She tried to free herself, but he refused to let go, and after a moment, she relaxed against him. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because I want you alive.”
“It is the same with me,” she whispered. “I would do anything to protect you.”
“You cannot walk my walk for me.”
A hot tear trickled off her cheek and ran over his arm. “Cougar,” she whispered, “you have changed me, showed me another way.”
“The Spanish have done the same.”
“They force their ways upon us. You let me see what it is to be Navajo. That is very different.” She took a deep breath. “I smell you,” she told him. “I think I will never forget what the Navajo called Cougar smells like. I also now know the scents of this forest. My nose is like a child exploring its world for the first time, and my head says it is good to smell something other than Oraibi, but Rock Place on High is my home.”
“Rock Place on High? Has it been called that from the beginning?”
Her words vibrated against his chest as she said yes and then explained that the Bear Clan was the first Hopi clan to complete its migration. Machito of that clan had been given the task of determining whether the other clans were worthy of settling at Oraibi as well. If they’d used their powers wrongly or for evil purposes, they were refused entrance, but if they’d come out of trouble the humble way, Machito then asked what special power their deity had given them and what ritual or ceremony they used to evoke it. Finally they were required to demonstrate how their power would benefit everyone. Only those whose ceremonies w
ere proven to bring rain or snow, control underground streams, prevent cutting wind, or help crops grow were given farming land.
In his mind, Cougar saw the various clans build permanent homes, prepare the ground, and, most important, establish the shrines and altars that marked Oraibi’s boundaries. The kachinas brought blessings from other stars and planets. Grass grew on the vast, dry plains and herds of antelope grazed within sight of the village. Bighorn sheep were nearby, as was other game of all kinds. The Hopi depended on their ceremonies, prayers, and the universal plan of life and lived a religious life, and in return, the land gave them what they needed to survive.
All that was as it should be, part of the spirits’ plan, a path to be walked forever.
• • •
Captain Lopez ran an appraising hand over his hair. He’d had Singer of Songs trim it after his return from the hellish canyon.
This day, the eighth since he’d seen Morning Butterfly leave, had started out well enough. His favorite horse had stopped limping and no longer picked at its food. He’d intended to let it rest a little longer, but now he was looking forward to a long ride, during which he would clear his mind and make plans for the future.
That pleasant thought, however, had been shoved aside when an Indian from New Spain had unexpectedly shown up a little after the midday meal. The Indian, a personal servant of his father-in-law, had been sent ahead of the wealthy landowner’s party. Gregorio de Barreto and the rest of his entourage expected to arrive at Oraibi before nightfall.
With as much detachment as he’d been able to summon, Lopez had passed that piece of unwanted information on to Fray Angelico, who’d looked as displeased as the captain felt. Following that, he’d conducted a hurried inspection of his troops, during which he’d berated them for inattention to their uniforms, weapons, horses, and personal belongings and insisted they send away any Hopi women they might have with them. As for him, he’d satisfied himself with Singer of Songs last night and would survive at least one night without her.
Now, as shadows lengthened, he sought to calm himself by reminding himself of how much he’d accomplished since coming here. Yes, there were problems with the Navajo, but the bulk of the compliant Hopi’s possessions and food supply would be making its way south within the week, satisfying the demands of both State and Church and improving his standing.
In addition, work on the church had stepped up even more now that he and his men were here to oversee its progress, facts his father-in-law would undoubtedly take note of. Still, the last thing he’d expected was to have Gregorio come here. Only one explanation made sense: The man was checking up on him.
Lopez hadn’t seen his own father since he’d left home and didn’t know whether his parents or siblings were still alive; he only rarely thought of them. If he’d known his father-in-law would have this much impact on his life, would he have jumped at this marriage for the chance of bettering himself that it presented? No matter; the deed had been done.
With deliberate slowness, Lopez drew back his shoulders, stepped forward, and waited for Gregorio, an imposing man with keen dark eyes and a gray-flecked mustache. Although Fray Angelico stood only a few feet away from his father-in-law, Lopez didn’t bother introducing him. Let the padre satisfy his own curiosity.
“Welcome,” he said as his father-in-law dismounted, looking a little heavier and older but no less authoritative than the last time he’d seen him. “Welcome indeed. I trust you had a safe journey?”
“Quite.”
Gregorio turned his horse over to one of his servants, then knelt before the padre, who blessed him but, uncharacteristically, didn’t ask any questions. After Gregorio had inquired about Angelico’s health, he clasped Lopez by the shoulder.
“I swear you have become as dark as the Indians themselves,” he said. “And you are leaner than when you left. You have been well?”
“Yes, yes,” Lopez answered. “Food is plain but serviceable, and fortunately we brought along adequate salt and other seasonings.”
He explained that living where there was precious little shelter exposed a man to the sun’s unrelenting rays. If he had lost weight, it was because his duties and responsibilities came before personal concerns. He pointed toward the partly completed church for emphasis.
Gregorio was a large man with arms and legs like tree trunks and a voice that had always reminded Lopez of thunder. He was every bit as hard and durable as his many leagues of land and mines. Unless some accident befell him, he would probably live to see the century mark.
“So,” Lopez said, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your presence? I would think your responsibilities would have kept you in New Spain.”
That made Gregorio chuckle, the sound more growl than laugh. “A piece of advice. As you go about making your mark in this world, spend as much time in pursuit of tomorrow as you do attending to today.”
“That is why I am here,” he reminded Gregorio unnecessarily. Then, assuming the role of host, he asked Gregorio if he wanted an immediate tour of Oraibi or was in need of rest first. As he expected, Gregorio shrugged off the suggestion that the journey might have tired him. However, he wasn’t at all opposed to something stout to drink.
“Do not worry,” Gregorio boomed. “I do not expect you to provide either wine or whiskey, since I dare say whatever supply you brought with you no longer exists.”
“A little remains, but you are correct, I was unable to bring an amount adequate for a lengthy post.”
Gregorio chuckled again, then looked around. “This place is even more desolate than I expected. Does it ever rain?”
“Once since I arrived. It still amazes me that the natives are able to grow crops. Their farming methods are quite ingenious and will, I am certain, fascinate you.” No way was he going to tell Gregorio that the rain had come on the heels of a Hopi ceremony designed to accomplish precisely that. “If you have wondered whether my letter to you adequately described its worthlessness, I trust you now have your answer.”
“I do indeed. Even if there were no savages to contend with, I cannot see how I could possibly make this place profitable.”
“It is profitable,” Angelico cut in, “in the souls that have been saved.”
“Indeed. Indeed. And I wish to hear about that, but first, it would greatly please me if you would join us in a little taking of spirits.”
To Lopez’s consternation, but not surprise, Angelico agreed, and for the next hour the padre sipped blood-red wine and answered Gregorio’s questions about his progress in the saving of souls.
Lopez was more than a little relieved to hear Angelico praise him for providing the necessary military presence and then sat back and listened as Angelico gushed that there would be no missions in this colony if it were not for the generosity of God-fearing men like Gregorio de Barreto. Nodding to himself, Lopez came to the not-too-complex conclusion that Fray Angelico would do whatever he felt was necessary in order to court favor with Gregorio. No matter what Angelico privately thought of Lopez, he wouldn’t say anything negative around the soldier’s wealthy and influential father-in-law. When Lopez had noticed that his former servants were gone, he’d concluded that Angelico had sent them to Santa Fe with another letter of complaint, but he’d concern himself with that when the time came.
As the sun was setting, Angelico asked if Gregorio wanted to tour the church, but Gregorio said that could wait until morning. In the meantime, if the padre didn’t mind, he had need of a private conversation with his son-in-law.
“Fray Angelico is a most devout man,” Gregorio observed once he and Lopez were alone. “I have occasionally wondered if I might be more successful if I could summon a Franciscan’s zeal.”
“I cannot see you taking a vow of poverty,” Lopez pointed out. Night, as it always did here, was rushing in to take over everything. He took a moment to light a couple of candles and place them on the small table holding their drinks, then settled back in one of the chairs the Hopi had built. Oran
ge and red lights flickered over Gregorio’s features, making him look suddenly old.
“Why are you here?” Lopez asked bluntly.
Gregorio let loose with a booming chuckle. “That is one of the things I admire about you. Your directness. Why am I here? To offer you two things. First, congratulations, and then a business proposition. Maybe.”
“Congratulations?”
“My daughter, your wife, has given birth. You have a son.”
Bonita Marie, despite her church-sponsored and -dictated education, barely knew how to write, and communication from New Spain was all but nonexistent, which meant Lopez had had to content himself with speculation in that regard. In his mind, he now saw his wife with a baby clutched to her breast, a gentle smile replacing her usually somber expression. The infant’s tiny fingers would open and close, its bright eyes fixing on whatever came close. It would laugh and cry, see the world as something wondrous, and one day the word Daddy would flow from his lips.
“I have an heir. The baby and my wife are healthy?”
“Quite. He is robust, with a set of lungs that do his grandfather proud.” Gregorio, to his everlasting chagrin, had fathered four daughters—and until now, his only grandchildren had been girls.
Gregorio cleared his throat. “Lopez, there is nothing I want more than to have my estate settled within the next few years, but it is much too soon to decide how much of it will go to Salvador.”
Salvador? Was that what his son had been named? Feeling oddly bereaved because he hadn’t been part of that decision, Lopez waited.
“Before I can come to any conclusions about what kind of man my first grandson will turn out to be,” Gregorio continued, “I must see what kind of man his father is.”
I am a captain in His Majesty’s service. Grandson of a great explorer. “I see.”
“No, I do not believe you do.”
Lopez leaned forward. He hadn’t had enough to drink that his reasoning power was impaired, just enough that any false modesty had been put to rest. He was ready to point out his accomplishments at Oraibi, the hardships he’d endured, even his determination to find the precious stones that so far had eluded him, but before he could open his mouth to begin, he was struck with the knowledge that whatever he said would be a mix of truth, lies, evasions, and pontification.
