by Jim Fergus
And so we danced under the full moon, the flames of the fires blazing high. And now we knew the steps to each of the different dances, one in a line, one in a circle, one with partners dancing back and forth, another with changing partners … within this trance state we lost all track of time and all of life in that moment became simply the dance; all else was forgotten, past and future, nothing mattered but the immediacy of the dance, the dance absorbed us into its being … and within the sanctuary of the dance we were no longer afraid.
Hours passed; the moon rose high and white, moving across the sky in a splendid arc. Joseph had told us that sometimes these dances went on for three or four days, that some people danced the entire time. There was more cooking and feasting and the drinking of a mild homemade beerlike beverage called tiswin, made from fermented corn. One was able to drink a great deal of it before becoming drunk.
Earlier in the evening I had caught a brief glimpse of Jesus with his new “family.” He gave me a small, tentative wave and looked so sad, but also somehow resigned to his fate. I think that they were keeping him intentionally separated from us in order to hasten the process of assimilation and I was not allowed to go to him. A bit later I saw another Mexican boy, a slender, fair-skinned child, whom I knew must be little Geraldo Huerta. He played with some other boys, completely at ease, clearly fully assimilated into the tribe after three years of captivity.
Joseph was still seated in front of the fire with Charley and his wife, and the old blind woman Siki. We had barely been able to speak to the old man and had not yet learned what fate had been decided for him. I wondered how it was for him to come back to this world all these years later, wondered if he found everything altered from what it had once been in his long-ago days of freedom, or if he felt that he himself was altered by the time he had spent among the White Eyes and on the reservation. To look at him now, he seemed, as always, inscrutable, unflappable, fearless; he watched the dancers and spoke from time to time to the old woman.
At some point the girl claimed me as her dancing partner. She was taller than the other women and danced so lightly that her feet seemed barely to touch the ground. And then she began to dance a different step with me, one that was somehow more intimate than the others, a step that was specifically ours, and which clearly interested the people, as there was suddenly much attention paid to us by all who watched. Now the high clear tones of the flute rose above the other instruments and the other dancers began to drop out of the dance circle. As he went, Albert came past me and said: “Congratulations, White Eyes. You’ve been saved.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“The girl is doing the marriage dance,” he said. “They cannot kill you if she chooses you as her husband.”
The drums and other instruments fell silent one by one until only the flute still played, clear and haunting, its rich, vibrant tones rising on the flames into the cool mountain air. The girl did not look directly at me as she danced; in fact it struck me in that moment that she had never looked me directly in the eye but always seemed to be gazing at a point just beyond me. She danced as if floating off the ground, her thick dark hair glossy in the moonlight, the flames of the fire glittering in her dark eyes, her tawny skin glowing. She made a gesture with her hands as she danced, a kind of offering, her small slender fingers drawing to her hips and then opening out to me like a flower. And I was flooded in that moment with such a feeling of tenderness and gratitude … and something else … desire.
But the spell was broken in the next instant. Indio Juan staggered into the dance circle, clearly drunk. He spoke harshly to the girl, took hold of her wrist, and tried to lead her away. Sounds of disapproval rose from the spectators, a kind of half-hissing, half-hooting noise against this terrible breach of dance etiquette. The girl spoke angrily and shook loose from him, but he grabbed her again. Without even thinking about it, I stepped forward and jabbed him twice sharply in the temple. Indio Juan dropped to his knees and shook his head, dazed for a moment. Then he struggled back to his feet.
There is no boxing tradition among the Apaches. Indeed, Joseph told us that they do not use their fists in such a way, although they enjoy competitive wrestling. Stupidly, I was still in my boxing posture, turned slightly sideways, my hands raised to protect my face. But Indio Juan simply smiled and pulled his knife, and said: “Vas a morir ahora, ojos blancos. You will die now, White Eyes.”
I saw no point in matching my fists against a man armed with a knife, and I opened my hands in a supplicating gesture, as if to say that maybe we could discuss this like gentlemen. I have to admit, I was afraid of Indio Juan.
But from the sidelines, Albert called: “You must fight him, Ned. If you back down now, they will all turn on you. Better to die like a man than to be beaten to death like a dog.”
And so I assumed my boxing position again, hands held high, feeling both powerless as well as ridiculous, not to mentioned terrified.
“Protect your body, old sport,” Tolley called out. “Think of Tunney versus Dempsey in ’27. The thinking man over the brute. You can do it.”
If there was any equalizer at all, it was simply that Indio Juan was drunk and perhaps slightly dazed from my jabs. But he did not seem much intimidated by my boxing stance and he advanced upon me, if a bit unsteadily, his knife carving the air, glinting in the firelight. He was smiling on one side of his face, the other, disfigured side locked in its grotesque perpetual grimace of dead flesh, muscle, and nerve like a half-melted mask.
“Jab and move, Giles,” Tolley said. “Stay out of his way.”
“Tolley, please shut up,” I said.
“No, I will not,” Tolley said. “I can help you, Giles. Did I tell you that I was lightweight boxing champion at Princeton?”
“You’re so full of shit, Tolley.” Flat-footed and terrified, I shuffled backward from Indio Juan’s approach. I noticed that, unlike the noisy hooting crowd at a white man’s fight, not a sound issued from the spectators, who seemed to watch impassively, as if they didn’t particularly care who prevailed.
“No, no, no, old sport,” Tolley said. “Get on your toes, don’t let him get you moving backward like that.”
“He has a knife, Tolley,” I pointed out.
“Which is going to be in your gut if you do not take the offensive,” Tolley said. “On your toes, old sport. Jab and move.”
And so I took Tolley’s advice and stepped forward, jabbing Indio Juan twice in the face. The move caught him off guard and the punches stunned him, but he still managed to cut my arm with his knife.
I dropped back again and circled him, blood running down my arm.
“Well done, Giles!” Tolley said. “Keep it up, man. But you’ve got to hurt him quickly now. Two lefts and a finishing right this time. Throw the money punch, old sport; you’ve got one shot and you must give it everything you’ve got.”
I moved in again, but this time Indio Juan was ready and he thrust at me, stabbing me in the side before I was even able to land a punch. But in the heat of the moment, though I knew I’d been cut, I barely felt the knife blade, and I jabbed him twice more, rocking him, and then I stepped in again and threw the right for all I was worth, putting my full weight behind the punch and connecting on the side of his head. Indio Juan went down. And this time he stayed down.
“Yes!” Tolley cried out. “KO!” He ran to me and raised my arm in the air, dancing around like a madman. “Well done, old sport! Of course, you couldn’t have done it without my expert coaching.” And for once I had to admit that Tolley was right.
Margaret and Albert had also come over to me. “You’re bleeding, Neddy,” Margaret said. “We need to have a look at that.”
“I’m all right.”
There was no cheering exactly from the spectators, but now there came a great deal of animated conversation among them. No one went over to see to Indio Juan.
“They want you to kill him now,” Albert said.
“What?”
; “You heard me.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s crazy, and he brings trouble down upon the People. You must kill him.”
“He’s unconscious, for Christ sake,” I said. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Go to him now,” Albert said. “Take his knife, and slit his throat with it.”
And so I approached Indio Juan where he lay, and I took the knife from his hand, and I placed the blade against his throat.
“Go on, Ned,” Albert said. “Do it. It will go better for all of us.”
I pressed the blade harder against his throat, but my hand had started to tremble, and finally I dropped the knife. “I’m sorry, Jesus Christ,” I said, “I’m sorry, I just can’t. Not like this.” Of course, I knew even then that I should kill Indio Juan while I had the chance. But I did not. I could not. It is not such an easy thing to kill a man in cold blood, even a bad man. “Why don’t you do it, Albert?” I asked.
“Because he is not mine to kill,” he answered, “and it will make you look even weaker if you ask another to do it for you.”
“I don’t think you could do it, either,” I said. “You want to be a wild Apache like these people, but you’re a civilized man just like me.”
When it was clear that I was not going to finish Indio Juan off, two of the Apaches took hold of his legs and dragged him out of the dance circle and left him on the edge of the ranchería to sleep it off. The music and dancing resumed as if nothing had happened.
Margaret led me back to the wickiup where she had been lodged. In addition to my camera bag, among the items she had managed to salvage from our plundered goods was the first-aid kit. The knife wound in my side was not deep and she cleaned and bandaged it, but the slash on my arm required stitches, and this Margaret did herself, neatly and professionally, though I admit I whimpered like a baby throughout the procedure.
“God, you men are such sissies,” she said.
“I’m sorry, Mag,” I said, “but that damn needle hurts worse than the knife wound.”
“You do understand, Neddy,” she said, “that in her dance the girl announced to all that she’s marrying you? That’s why Indio Juan went off like that; he wants her for himself.”
“Shouldn’t we date first?”
“Very funny, sweetheart.”
“When’s the marriage?” I asked.
“It’s more or less already been,” said Margaret. “The Apaches don’t really have a formal ceremony. You just move in and begin living together as man and wife.”
“I’m only seventeen years old, Mag,” I said. “And she’s even younger than I am. I hadn’t really planned on settling down just yet. And especially not here.”
“I wouldn’t complain too much if I were you, little brother,” Margaret said. “She saved your life.”
“And she almost got me killed,” I pointed out. “Either way, it doesn’t do Tolley and Albert much good, does it?” I said. “Or Mr. Browning. We have to get out of here before dawn, Mag.”
“Why don’t you sleep, Neddy?” Margaret said. “You can barely keep your eyes open. I’m going to check on Mr. Browning. Maybe I’ll sit with him for a while.”
The pulsing music still played, seemed to vibrate through the ground beneath me like the heartbeat of the earth itself. I must have dozed off while Margaret was still bandaging my arm. I began a dream that I was making love to the girl, that she had come to me in my sleep, and opened my pants, and pulled me out and mounted me. I remember the wet warmth and snugness of her, a reality so unlike any dream I had ever had, so much more real, and I remember thinking in my dream that this was not at all the way I had imagined losing my virginity, I wanted to be awake, I wanted to participate. I woke up then to find her straddling me like a small, fierce animal, her thick coarse hair spilled across my face and chest as she raised and lowered herself upon me to the cadence of the drums. This coupling seemed far less an act of love or even passion, as it did one of elemental mating. I had the sense that in this way the girl was protecting her sacred womb, a kind of preemptive breeding which would ensure that no matter what happened to me, she would not have to carry Indio Juan’s child. I put my arms around her and held her and whispered, “Está bien.” I felt her relax against me, felt the hard urgency leave her body as she settled into a slower, softer rhythm, something that felt a bit more like lovemaking. “There,” I said, “there.”
I took her by the shoulders and lifted her from my chest, pushed the hair from her face and looked in her eyes, which still would not meet mine. I took her face in my hands and turned it toward me until she was forced to look at me, her dark bottomless eyes impenetrable. “I don’t even know you,” I whispered. “Yo no sé nada acerca de ti. I don’t even know your name.”
“Chideh,” the girl said, and she lay back down on my chest and began to move upon me again. “Chideh.”
I must have fallen asleep afterward, because I was suddenly awakened by a terrible, high-pitched scream. The girl was gone. I pushed aside the blanket over the opening of the wickiup and looked outside; the moon had moved all the way across the sky but it was still night. The musicians still played but the music had taken on a new raw edge, even more disjointed, and the sounds that came from the dance were no longer of celebration, but of anger and contention. The scream came again, and I knew whose it was. I ran toward the sound.
The Apaches had discovered Tolley’s stash of wine, seven or eight bottles’ worth, and three bottles of mescal, which he had cushioned in two of the packs that had been filled with grain for the stock in case grass became scarce on our journey. Because the bottles had been concealed in this way, they must have escaped initial detection by our captors, but now someone had uncovered them and brought them to the dance. The Apaches had pried the corks out with their knives and swilled the wine down as fast as they could. They drank the mescal in somewhat more modest gulps, passing the bottle among themselves. A number of them were already very drunk. Some people still danced, but they stumbled and bumped into one another and fell to the ground, laughing or quarreling, wrestling one another drunkenly, so that you could hardly tell if they were making love or fighting. The music itself had degenerated into a mad, rhythmless cacophony, the music that one might expect to hear from an orchestra of madmen. Or in hell.
As I came into the light of the fire, I heard Tolley’s terrified scream again and I saw the silhouettes of two bodies hanging by their feet from the crossbar where the deer carcasses upon which we had feasted earlier had hung. I pushed through the small drunken crowd that had gathered to watch. Tolley and Albert were suspended from the crossbeam, their hands tied behind their backs, their heads suspended a couple of feet off the ground. A boy was raking hot coals from the fire into small piles under each of their heads. Joseph had told us of this torture, in which the Apaches slow-cook a captive’s head until his brain explodes. Albert remained stoically silent, but Tolley screamed and blubbered pitifully.
“Oh, please, God no, please don’t do this, I beg you, oh God, please, I’ll do anything, please no … oh God, it’s so hot, please let me down.”
Those who were watching passed a mescal bottle around, laughing and mimicking Tolley’s terrified cries. I stepped forward and slapped the boy across the back of his head, sending him sprawling into the ashes, and kicked the piles of coals out from under Tolley and Albert’s heads.
“Oh God, Giles, is it you, thank God, cut me down, please, get me down from here, please. It’s so hot.”
Three of the Apache men who had been watching approached threateningly. But by now they were already so drunk that they could barely walk, let alone fight, and I easily knocked them down. The others watching seemed to find this inordinately amusing and they laughed at their friends until they were rolling around on the ground in drunken hilarity. They seemed to have lost all focus and paid no more attention to me.
I untied Albert’s hands first. The ropes by which they had been hoisted up the crossbar were secured to the poles on
either side of it and I lowered him to the ground. “What the hell’s taking you so long?” Tolley said, “Good God, get me down, Giles, please.”
We untied Tolley’s rope and lowered him. “It’s all right, Tolley,” Albert said. “You’re all right, you’re okay. It’s over.”
But Tolley was weeping now, in great heaving sobs. “Oh God … please, get me out of this nightmare … please, I want to go home now … oh God … they’re savages, they’re insane.”
“Where are Joseph and Margaret?” I asked Albert.
“Margaret went to check on Mr. Browning some time ago,” he answered, “before the drinking began. My grandfather got drunk with Charley and passed out. He has not had a drink of alcohol in ten years.”
“And Jesus?”
“I haven’t seen the boy.”
We moved farther away from the fires, fading into the shadows beyond the dance circle. Most of the Apaches were by now completely incapacitated by the alcohol, the music and dancing had come to an abrupt halt, and many had passed out where they stood, in a twisted jumble of bodies, like some strange scene of war carnage. Others sat on the ground staring vacantly in drunken stupors. We knew that this was our chance to escape. Encouraged by that possibility, Tolley managed to pull himself together, and we all hurried back up to the cave.
