by Mike Blakely
38
Captain Lujan burned his fingertips on the pinched end of the cornhusk he had used to roll his cigarillo. He put the end of the smoke in his mouth and inhaled until he felt the heat of fire on his lips, then he spat the remaining bit of tobacco and corn husk on the ground. When he spoke, his words came out as smoke.
“Here comes the padre,” he said to the three soldiers lounging in the shade of a tall willow on the riverbank. “Look at him. I have led entradas into the interior with Padre Ugarte as chaplain. He can pace a man on a walking horse all day long and never fall a step behind. He is a tough bastard.”
The soldiers rose, dusted themselves off, straightened their leather jackets, picked up their lances and rawhide bucklers. They stood looking down the road to Santa Fe until the friar came close enough to speak.
“I was beginning to think I would have to handle this matter without you, Capitán.”
Lujan smiled. “I was simply waiting for the most advantageous opportunity, Padre.”
“If you had waited any longer, there would be no opportunity at all. The expedition leaves at dawn tomorrow.”
“The timing is lucky. I believe the Comanche will be easy to take.”
Ugarte shaded his eyes with his hand so he could judge the look on Lujan’s face. “Why do you think that?”
“I have employed two Apache scouts to watch him. The Apaches hate the Comanches. There was a fight between Acaballo’s Comanches and Battle Scar’s Apaches at Tachichichi, and now there is bad blood. The scouts tell me that they are ancient enemies with these Comanches, though they have lived far apart for generations.”
Father Ugarte mopped his wool sleeve across his brow. “Enough Indio nonsense. Tell me about the Comanche.”
“It is very strange, and for us, very lucky. Acaballo’s men are all away on a hunt. He is alone. More important, the scouts tell me he has been going through some kind of purification ritual. He hasn’t cooked anything in two days, so we may assume he is fasting. He has made a crude steam tent at the Comanche camp, and he has been sweating for two days. Now he is in his lodge. The scouts smelled cedar smoke and heard strange songs and chants.”
Fray Ugarte’s teeth gnashed with anger. “It is time to punish that heretical savage. The idea of such a heathen living among us—even entering my church. It makes me feel the anger of our Lord God in my very Christian heart.”
Lujan gestured toward the horses, and began walking that way. “Have the preparations been made?”
Ugarte swallowed his rage and nodded. “You will act as the agent. One of the trading expedition aviadores has agreed to purchase the genízaro contract once we have reduced the savage. The aviador has connections in the copper mines of Chihuahua. He will advance to you a commission on the Comanche’s earnings. Of course, the Mission San Miguel would appreciate any generous contribution the capitán would care to make.”
“Your mission will receive its rightful share, Padre. This little incident will benefit everyone involved.”
“Yes. Especially Juan Archebeque, and of course the Comanche himself. The seduction of barbaric sorcery is strong, Capitán. We must deal with it severely.”
“And so we will, Padre. I have chosen three good soldiers. Each is skilled with the reata.”
The soldiers mounted and proceeded up the road that flanked the river, the friar keeping pace with their fast walk. Soon, the Comanche camp was in sight around a gentle bend in the road. There, the two Apache spies met the party.
“Capitán,” one of them said, “the Snake man is back in the sweat lodge. No clothes. No weapons. His lance and shield stand outside his lodge. Bow and arrows and war club inside the lodge.”
Lujan smiled. “This is lucky.”
“It is not luck,” Ugarte argued. “The grace of God goes with us.”
“Of course,” Lujan answered. He turned to his men. “Prepare your nooses. Garcia, you get between the sweat lodge and the Comanche’s horses. The rest of us will cut him off from his weapons. If he wants to fight, make him do so with his bare hands. If we get two nooses on him, he is ours. But remember, he is worth no money dead.”
“Wait,” Father Ugarte said. “In case you have to kill him in order to protect yourselves.” He turned to the Comanche camp, murmured a prayer, and made the sign of the cross in the air.
* * *
Horseback felt weak and hungry, yet he knew he had not even begun to atone. He felt impure, unable to call on the spirit powers that had served him so well before his careless act of insolence. The fasting and sweating and purification of cedar smoke had only served to prove his sincerity. His punishment and, hopefully, his return to power were yet to come.
He threw another dipper of water upon the rocks he had heated in his lodge while praying and patting himself with cedar smoke. The fire spirits and water spirits made a battle cloud of steam rise in the tiny makeshift sweat lodge constructed of buffalo robes draped over bent willow boughs whose ends had been stuck into the ground. He put the gourd dipper aside and clutched the sacred medicine bundle he usually wore inside his loin skins. Now he was naked, as he had come into the world. The medicine bundle was the only vestige of spirit power left to him.
Outside, he heard his horses nickering, and wondered if his father and his friends were returning. It shamed him to think of them finding him in such a weakened state, all his puha drained from him by the vengeful spirits.
Something dropped on the ground outside. A whirring sound, the drumming of hooves. Sunlight burst down on him as the sweat lodge fell apart all around him. Cool air braced him. As he rose in alarm, he could see horsemen between him and his weapons. A noose hit him, tightened before he could lift it over his shoulders. He got one arm out above the noose, but the tightening loop cinched his other arm against his left side. He saw the Black Robe coming down the road as the rope pulled him over the hot rocks of his sweat lodge, scorching his bare feet.
Fear grew like a cold chunk of ice in his stomach, and though he knew his spirit powers and his body were both weak, he found himself hurtling toward the soldier who had thrown the rope on him. He felt like a snared animal whose fear made him fight with ferocity. He ran at the soldier, heard himself snarling, felt his right hand gripping the sacred medicine bundle. The soldier lowered his lance tip to ward off the attack, at the same time moving his pony farther away to keep the loop tight. Horseback reached for the enemy lance and summoned the antelope spirits to make him run faster, but the spirits did not hear. He was reaching for the weapon when the second noose fell around his shoulders.
He almost flung the noose away, but it tightened around his neck and began to choke him. Now his fear burst from his heart like a swarm of bees. They were going to strangle him! The soul could not escape from a True Human killed by strangulation. He would drift nowhere, as nothing, for eternity!
The Black Robe was near now, and Horseback could feel the evil darkness of his shadow. The pain of the tightening nooses shot through him and he realized how hopeless his plight had become. If he did not fight to the death, he would be tortured, for that was the way with captives. If he did fight, he would be strangled, and his soul would never know the Shadow Land.
“Fool!” he croaked, chiding himself. You should have seen the sacred deer antler. Now you will know the wrath of many gods.
The Black Robe was in front of him, speaking to him, pointing to the ground at Horseback’s feet. He understood that the Black Robe wanted him to kneel, but he would not Again and again the Black Robe ordered him to kneel, growing angrier each time.
Finally the Black Robe stalked around him and ducked the tight rope that ran from Horseback’s neck to the soldier’s saddle. He saw the evil holy man wield his staff, heard the air sing, felt the stinging blow on the back of his knees. He kicked ineffectually at the Black Robe and heard the laughter of the soldier who had roped his neck. He swiveled his eyes far enough to recognize this soldier—the warrior leader who gave orders to the others. Even under all his f
ear, an anger smouldered.
The Black Robe’s staff struck him again behind the knees. Then again, and again. Then the ropes began to tighten, and Horseback knew his soul was being buried deep inside his body, never to escape. His powers of vision failed. All he saw was darkness. All he heard was the angry rumble of Sound-the-Sun-Makes. He knew his punishment had just begun.
Cool air tore into his chest, and light flooded him. He felt the pain on the back of his legs where the Black Robe had beaten him, more pain where his knees had hit the rocky ground. Vaguely, he remembered the sensation of his medicine bundle slipping from his hand, and now he knew he was completely powerless.
He heard the Black Robe murmur something. The noose around his neck loosened enough to let a breath of air slip into his lungs. Looking up, Horseback saw the evil holy man making the sign of the cross—the thing that had killed the son of God who walked on earth. He tried to get up, but the Black Robe struck him hard over the head with his staff. Blood ran into one of His eyes. He heard laughter and watched the Black Robe go to the place where the sweat lodge had been. The sacred-evil one picked up the gourd dipper. He filled the dipper at the edge of the river and came back to stand over Horseback.
The power of Sound-the-Sun-Makes was behind the Black Robe, and Horseback felt the chill of the evil shadow. Water poured over his head, thinning the blood that had blinded one eye. In a burst of escaping fury, Horseback sprang, reached with his free hand, and seized the Black Robe by the throat. Instantly, the ropes tightened, but his hand was like an eagle talon. He would fight to the death! He pulled the evil holy man toward him and wrapped both legs around his black garment, feeling his fingers gouge deep into the flesh of the puhakut of the Metal Men.
The Black Robe was a big man, and strong, but Horseback held on. The ropes tightened, cutting off his air, making his bones stretch and pop. Still, he tore at the throat of the white man. His chest began to burn as his soul sought escape. The sky darkened, his grip weakened. He felt the big white man slip away. Soon, pain slammed into his head like a huge bee sting. Again and again.
Air came back into his lungs, but Horseback was unable to move. He felt the soldiers taking the ropes from him, fixing them now to his hands and feet. He rested, tried to feel something beyond the horrible pain that swarmed about him. He felt his hands stretched two ways, as his feet pulled another. His mouth was full of dirt. He heard the angry voice of the Black Robe.
Twisting his neck, Horseback saw the big puhakut standing over him. He heard the rope song, felt the blistering sear of pain on his back. He heard the song again, and again, until the sound of his own screams joined it. The only thing he could see in the blur of pain and blood and sweat was his medicine bundle lying dusty on the ground in front of him. He could not reach it.
The pain was more horrible than anything he could have imagined. The gods were indeed angry with him. He could not have foreseen such punishment, such torture. He was coming apart, like a rabbit skin pulled too quickly from the rabbit. All the world was pain. Pain. Darkness.
Dragging across the ground. Cold river water. Searing pain. Angry, angry spirits. Torture. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness.
39
In seasons to come, children and grandchildren and even grandchildren’s children would hear the story of the Great Vision. And so it was told by the elders:
In his sleep, Horseback felt a great heat bearing down upon his back. The rays of Sound-the-Sun-Makes pierced his flesh like porcupine quills and lifted him. Higher, higher. He opened his eyes and saw Santa Fe, the city of the Metal Men, falling farther below him. Icy winds whistled around his naked body like blasts from the wings of the Thunderbird. His own hair, in which he took such pride for its length and sheen, whipped him like a quirt would whip a pony.
He rose as high as the mountain peaks to the east of the city, yet he was not afraid. It felt good to fly. He was like a hawk, tracing sacred circles in the sky. He shivered with chills and groaned with waves of pain, but the flying was good. He was safe here, away from Metal Men, and Na-vohnuh, and deer antlers lying hidden in the grass.
Now he circled and saw his own camp beside the river. He swooped low to look closer. His father and his warrior friends had returned. There were many horses in camp. They were calling for him, looking at his blood on the ground near the ruined sweat lodge. His father was worried. Turning on a blast of wind, Horseback saw Paniagua coming from the lodge of Raccoon-Eyes, and knew Paniagua would tell the others what the Black Robe and the soldiers had done.
A strong southern breeze lifted him away before he could call to his father. He was carried higher than the clouds, and the scorching rays of Sound-the-Sun-Makes fell unshadowed on his back. He flew northward like a spirit-eagle, and mountain peaks that stuck up above the clouds moved by as quickly as stones passed at a gallop on a fleet young pony.
The clouds cleared away below him, and there in a valley of brown grass, beside a stream of rushing water, Horseback saw a camp. Diving like a falcon, he came low enough to recognize horses he had seen Bad Camper ride. Songs came from the camp. Warriors danced, surrounded by women and children. He saw Bad Camper dancing and he smiled, remembering that Bad Camper was the brother of his father’s second wife, Looks Away. He felt no hatred of these dancing Yutas and wondered why he should fight them.
The rays of Father Sun pulled up at the flesh of his back again, and Horseback rose, pushed northward by the southerly breeze. He sped on like a shooting star. The country changed below him, the trees and grass of the mountains giving way to rocks and sage of the bad lands. These were the hunting grounds of the Noomah, the harsh lands that had made him strong, and tough, and hungry. He angled to the east and saw a camp in the distance, near the stream called Sometimes Water. From far away he recognized the lodges of the Burnt Meat People, and his heart rushed to think of his family and friends.
He shot forward with the speed of an arrow and heard a terrible sound that turned his heart to ice. All the women in the camp were wailing. He flew low, and found his sister, Mouse, kneeling, crying, cutting off all her hair. He circled the camp, and found Looks Away, crouching beyond the limits of the camp, apart from the others. She was weeping. Facing the wind now, he hovered, like a red-tailed hawk watching a rat below, and he found his mother, River Woman. She screamed as she slashed her arms and breasts with a jagged flint knife. Blood poured from the wounds in sheets, and her horrible screams turned to a pitiable wail.
Glancing aside, Horseback saw two bodies lying upon burial robes. Quickly, he flew that way, and saw the lifeless face of Red Pipe, two winters younger than himself. Red Pipe had been afraid to ride horses, but was a good young foot-warrior. There were many wounds on his chest and stomach. His scalp was gone. The women covered him with the burial robe.
Lying next to the body of Red Pipe, was that of old Spirit Talker, scalped, his throat cut, one wound to his rib cage. The women paid little attention to this corpse, for though Spirit Talker was wise and powerful, he was old and weak and not missed as much as a rising warrior who might have fed and protected the people for many winters to come. The old man was left uncovered by the wailing women for a long time, as Horseback looked down on him and felt very sad.
He thought a tear would fall from his eye and land upon the body of Spirit Talker, but just then a powerful blast of wind lifted him violently in the air, twisting his whole body and making his joints hurt all over. He found himself hurtling northward on a crazy wind, into the good mountain country of the Northern Raiders. The wind took him to a camp in the foothills, with many lodges, and more ponies than Horseback ever thought the Northern Raiders would possess.
He cringed with hatred when he realized that his enemies were holding a scalp dance, their women trilling with joy even as the women of the Burnt Meat People were wailing with sorrow. He saw two scalps on poles, and knew they were the scalps of Spirit Talker and Red Pipe. They were feasting and singing and dancing, and Horseback hated them.
He heard a battl
e cry, and flew through the darkening sky to hover over the warrior who had made it. There were other warriors here, laughing and smoking. Then he saw the backside of a naked warrior, and realized there was a woman under the warrior. Horseback’s breath seemed to still in his chest, and he did not want to look closer, but the winds forced him lower, and he saw the eyes of Whip’s sister, White Bird, staring up him, looking right through him as he floated above her. She was bloody and bruised, and the warriors were waiting to defile her, one at a time.
His rage grew within him, but he was weak, and could only float, like a leaf on the wind. He tried to cry out in anger, but his breath was stuck inside, and his whole chest hurt. The sun’s rays scorched his back again and pulled him away … away to the south and east … back into the Noomah country …
Not very far from the camp of the Northern Raiders—maybe three sleeps for a war party—Horseback spied the camp of the Corn People on a stream called Lightning River, far out in the open sage and grass plains. His heart began to pound, for he knew he would see Teal in the camp. He passed over warriors hunting buffalo, hiding under wolf skins to sneak within arrow range of the herd. The Corn People still hunted in this old way, for they possessed few horses and did not care much about riding.
It was good to see the Corn People warriors hunting, and now, closer to the camp, he saw women digging up yampa roots with their sticks, and this, too, made him feel good. Yet, Horseback knew they were in danger, for the war party of the Northern Raiders was only three sleeps away in the foothills. The breeze was gentle here, and Horseback floated lazily as he searched for Teal.
Now he heard a sweet song drifting upward and passed over a swale to find Teal alone, singing, digging up roots. Her slender arms writhed with muscles and made Horseback want to hold her. He saw his birdlike shadow fall on her, and called out, but his voice came out like the cry of a hawk. She looked up, but the sun blinded her, and she could not see that it was Horseback. Horseback tried to pull in his wings and dive down to her, but the talons of Sound-the-Sun-Makes pulled viciously at his back and Horseback knew he should not have called out to her, for he did not yet deserve to hold her and know the pleasures of her flesh. He had much to do. He was yet weak. His power was just now coming back to him. He rose in the air, and Teal became a tiny speck down in the grassy swale.
