So we pulled our blankets over our heads, in sign that we did not wish to be known; and when we were in the willows out of sight of even the persons standing on the rooftops (you know señor, that in the pueblos which look for Montezuma there always is somebody on the rooftops, morning and evening) I spoke.
“What is all this nonsense about the thunder-devil bird, that is making my wife cry, and makes the other women cry?”
“Hush!” he answered. “It is not for you to know.”
“I am a man,” said I. “My woman is unhappy, I want to know.”
“If you ask questions you will be in danger. You are not a member of any clan, yet. You meddle with sacred matters.”
“I am a man,” said I again. “I am not afraid of danger. But my woman cries about the thunder-devil bird, and I will know why.”
“No man may always know why a woman cries,” he said. “And it is forbidden us to talk of the thunder-devil bird.”
“You are my brother,” I replied. “If my brother will not tell me what I wish to know, then I will ask and listen until I do find things out. Maybe,” I said, “I can make her tell me. She is my wife.”
“No.” And he gazed all around, frightened. “That would ruin you both. The priests would know—she would have to die, you would be killed. It is better that I tell you a little, so you will understand. Now, if I tell you a little, do you swear by your Christian God, and by all Those Above, that you will never, never reveal one word?”
“I swear, by the Christian God and by Those Above,” I promised.
“Or betray me?”
“I swear it, my brother,” I promised.
“Let us sit down close together,” he bade. “You may ask me questions.”
We sat down, close together.
“What is this thunder-devil bird?” I asked,
“He is the thunder-devil bird. A very large bird, who makes the thunder.”
“How do you know?”
“We know because we have seen him.”
“Where have you seen him?”
“On the mountain.”
“The Sacred Mountain?”
“Yes.”
“What does he do there?”
“He lives there. He makes the thunder. In the winter he sleeps.”
“What kind of bird?”
“A great bird; a bad god bird—like a bird and snake both. There is no such other bird anywhere.”
“You have seen him, yourself, my brother?”
“Yes, many times.”
“By yourself?”
“With the others.”
“Is that where the people go, when they leave the pueblo and stay away two days?”
“That is where they go.”
“Why?”
“To feed him.”
“Do you feed him only twice a year?”
“No. Things are left for him. But twice a year we all must visit him, with sacred food, and the priests make medicine to him so he will be good to us and not send the thunder to burn us up.”
“Are the people getting ready to go again?”
“It is the time. We go tomorrow. Tonight we get ready.”
“Is that why my wife cries?”
“I cannot tell you. I suppose it is. At thunder-devil bird time women cry.”
“Why? Is the way dangerous? Is he such a bad bird?”
“He is a devil bird. He will be bad unless we keep him good toward us. When he is angry with any of us he kills us.”
“That sounds foolish to me, my brother,” I said.
“No. You do not understand. You have never seen him. But he is there. He has been there many, many years. He was there when my grandfather was a boy. He has always been there. He is stronger than the God of your Spanish priests. They have tried to stop our going, and the thunder came and killed us in our houses.”
“Still, you do not tell me why my woman cries now, and why other women cry.”
“I do not tell you.”
“I will go, and maybe I will find out.”
“Go where?”
“With the pueblo people tomorrow.”
My brother caught me by the arm.
“You cannot, They would not let you.”
“Why?”
“You are no Picuris.”
“I have married a Picuris, and I live here.”
“You are white, just the same.”
“I will follow. I will look like a Picuris. They would not know me until too late.”
“That is impossible. You do not understand. You would be found out, and the priests would have you killed. It is death for any stranger to be caught on the Sacred Mountain.”
“For all that,” I said, “I do not like to have my wife cry, and I shall learn what makes her cry now at thunder-devil bird time. Some evil threatens her.”
“Listen,” he said. “I love you, my brother; and I love my sister. Some evil does threaten you both. She will accept it, because she is of the Picuris, and it is for the good of the pueblo. But you are Spanish, and you do not believe as we do. Maybe the evil will not happen; I know nothing one way or the other. It all lies with the priests; but the priests are not friendly toward you, yet, and I fear for you. They may try you, to see whether you are going to be Picuris or Spanish. Listen, my brother. Will you swear again by your God and by Those Above, never to betray me if I show you what is in my secret heart?”
“I swear, by my God and by Those Above,” I answered.
“I have sometimes thought, to myself,” he said (he was a wise young man, that Antonio father to this Antonio), “that if we could only get rid of the thunder-devil bird we all would be much better off.”
“Yes,” I answered. “Women who cry and won’t tell are not pleasant things. There seems to be some evil hanging over this pueblo. Have you ever tried getting rid of the thunder-devil bird?”
“No. How can we get rid of him? We feed him and he lives forever. He is strong, and it will take stronger medicine than anything we have to overcome him. And the priests do not wish him out of the way. He is one of the gods; they learn things from him. But, my brother, you may know of a medicine so strong that it will shrivel him up. I have heard from the old men that your priests have worked wonders against devils. They speak names and touch with a cross, and the sick get well. That happened a long time ago, when they first came into our country. The last padre we had here did not do it. Do you know anything about that medicine?”
“The name of God, and the Virgin, and the sign of the cross will conquer any devil,” I said.
“Would they conquer the thunder-devil bird?”
“If he is a devil,” I said. “Yes, if he is a devil one of our good padres would shrivel him up in a moment.”
“But there is no one of the padres here; and besides, our priests would not let him see the thunder-devil bird. They do not wish to lose the thunder-devil bird. Now, my brother, if you know anything about that power, and are brave enough to try, I will help you.”
“How?” I asked.
“I will guide you on a trail to the thunder-devil bird place.’' “When?”
“Tomorrow early, so you will be there to see him. He comes out only at night, except twice a year when we call him. And if you wait longer you may be too late to save yourself from the evil that is making your wife cry.”
“That is good,” I said. “I will go and see the thunder-devil and shrivel him up.”
“You can work the magic of the Christian priests?” he asked.
“I can speak the words and make the sign. With the help of God and the Holy Mother Mary that will be enough, if he is a devil.”
“If it is not enough, then you will die by thunder or by the priests. But 1 think this, too: If you rid the pueblo of that thunder-devil bird, you will be a great man. I hate to have you go, though, my brother. When you are there, there will be no backing out.”
“I will go,” said I. “I will go, to stop the women’s crying. As for the evil that threatens m
e and my woman, I ought to know about it.”
My brother stood up.
“We must return to the pueblo,” he said. “You go by one way and I by another, so we will not be seen together. I will meet you in the morning when the morning star is brightest. You remember where we killed the deer day before yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“I will meet you there. And when I have shown you the way I shall leave you, for I have to travel to the thunder-devil bird place with the other people.”
“Wait,” I asked. “You have not told me what the evil is, or why my little Felicia cries.”
“When you have been to the thunder-devil bird place you will know,” he answered. Then he went in one direction and I went in another.
The sun had set, señor, and all the pueblo was getting ready for thunder-devil bird day. Men were singing the thunder-devil chant, and women were wailing, and a drum was beating the call for a meeting in the estufa. There was evil in the air—the evil that made my wife cry, and the other women cry. But most I cared about my wife. My brother would not tell me what that evil might be. So I did a reckless thing. I followed into the principal estufa, to hear and see what I could.
You know that these estufas are sacred chambers where the men gather for rest and to make ceremonies. They are hollowed under ground and surrounded by a wall, at the mouth; and to enter, you climb over by one ladder and down in by another. No outsider is permitted in an estufa; the penalty is death. Yes, those priests would have been very glad to catch me. But by help of the dusk and my blanket over my head, I went in with the others. God be thanked, a great crowd of all the men of the pueblo was here, sitting close together in the dark, which made it the safer for me. The only light was that of a fire. The priests were in front, at the fire, and there were singing and drum beating, belonging to the thunder-devil ceremony.
Well, the priests had things to do, connected with the thunder-devil business; and although I understand the Picuris language and I listened with both ears and at the same time I pretended to sing like the rest, what the priests were doing I could not find out, except that they were praying to their gods to show them the way.
After a long time the chief-priest stood up and said: “It is chosen.” That is all he said. Then the men began to leave as thick as they had come in, and I went, too. As for me, I had found out nothing, but I was very glad to get away and slip into my house before being caught.
“Where have you been?” my wife asked me.
“I have been walking, so as not to hear you cry,” I said.
“I do not mean to drive you out,” said she. “You are good to me, but I am afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“I cannot tell you. Perhaps I am foolish. After thunder-devil bird day I shall be all right.”
“You fear evil?”
“Yes, I fear evil, but it may not happen.”
“I feel an evil but 1 do not fear it,” I said. “I am your man and I will protect you. Do you go away from me tomorrow?”
“I go away. I have to. We all have to. But I shall be back.”
“Then I shall go with you. It is not right for a married woman to leave her husband and go off with the other men.”
“You cannot. They would not let you. You are not a Picuris.” So I thought best not to tell her that I would be there at the thunder-devil bird place; and I tried to sleep. Outside, all the pueblo was humming with the thunder-devil chant; people hurried about, to and from the kivas, which is another name for the estufas; and evil seemed to press close.
Pretty soon somebody scratched at the mat which shut the doorway of our room; so I arose and went and asked:
“What is wanted?”
It was one of the priests.
“I want to speak with your woman,” he said. “Send her out to me.”
My Felicia had heard; for she made a sound in her throat and went out past me. She was gone a little time; and when she came in, it was to crouch in a corner and moan under her shawl. I knew that the evil had fallen.
“What did that priest wish?” I asked.
“No, no!”
“But I ask you.”
“No, no!”
“What is the matter, then?”
“No, no!”
“Has the evil fallen?”
“Oh, yes.”
“As you feared?”
“Yes.”
“Has it something to do with the thunder-devil bird?”
“Yes, yes!”
That was very irritating: a woman who wept and said only, “No, no,” and “Yes, yes.”
“I am your husband. I say that you shall tell me.”
“I cannot. Do not ask.”
“Shall I ever know?”
“Yes, you shall know. When it is over with, you shall know.”
“Why cannot I know now, to help you?”
“You would not understand. You would ruin us. I must do as the priest says. You cannot help.”
And all the night she moaned under her shawl in the corner, and all the night the thunder-devil chant sounded; and though I was a Christian I now feared the evil thing that had fallen upon us.
Well, early in the morning she was quiet, and breathing as if asleep, with our niho in her arms. Then I arose, and took my gun, and slipped away; and if anyone spoke to me I would say that I was going hunting. But the town was tired, at this hour; not yet was there any watcher on the rooftops, and nobody saw me, for the dawn was scarcely breaking and the morning star was at its brightest.
At the place up the river, where we had killed the deer, I found my brother waiting. It seemed to me that he might have been here many hours, he looked so fierce and heavy-eyed.
“Am I on time?” I asked.
“You are on time, brother. Come; we must travel fast.”
We set out. He, too, had arms, of bow and quiver, as if he were going hunting. Travel fast we did, without speaking, to save our breath until we were clear of the town. Then he said, at last: “What do you know now of the evil that threatened, brother?”
“It has fallen,” I replied. “A priest brought it. My wife cried all night, but she would not tell me. I ask you again, what is it?”
“You shall know.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“At the thunder-devil bird place, where we are going.”
“On the Sacred Mountain?”
“On the Sacred Mountain.”
“You will surely show me, before you leave me?”
“I shall go to the place with you.”
“That is good,” I said. “I thank you, my brother. We will hasten, so you will not be missed.”
“I do not care if I am missed,” he said. “I will stay with you and we will conquer the thunder-devil bird or we will die; for the evil has fallen upon me also.”
“The evil? The same evil?”
“The same evil. The priests brought it to you because you are a foreigner and a Christian. They brought it to me because I am your brother and they know I love you. Now my woman, and my sister who is your woman, both are crying; and you and I go together to face the thunder-devil bird and undo this evil if we may.”
“Then tell me what this evil is that we share,” I begged again.
“No. Your medicine must be strong and your heart newly hot. If I tell you now you will throw your strength away. You will be weak and scattered. It is better that you wait for the great moment.”
As you know, señor, the Sacred Mountain of the Pueblos lies beyond the pueblo of Taos which is eighteen miles from the pueblo of Picuris; therefore we had more than thirty miles to travel afoot before we reached it by the trail we took. It is a mountain very large and very beautiful, señor; and for many years, back farther than the memory of the oldest Indian, the Pueblos of the country have gone up into the mountain to worship. I think that even yet no white man has visited all of the mountain; there are places kept secret by the Pueblos.
Well, we traveled fast, so as to keep ahead out of sight: across the mesas and the arroyos and through among the little hills, with the sun growing hotter and the pinones and the cedars warm and sweet. My brother led far around the great pueblo of Taos, and the Sacred Mountain now stood high and beautiful, wooded clear to the top, you know, señor, and covered all with the blue haze which is the sign of the spirits. It was more distant than it seemed to be, too, so that when at last we reached its base beyond the smaller hills, the sun was nearing noon.
“We will camp at the thunder-devil bird place tonight,” my brother said. “And wait. Are you strong?”
“I am strong,” said I.
Then we commenced to climb indeed; up, and up, and up, in trees and bushes very thick, and around cliffs and rocks, and across fine parks where there were deer and turkeys. But we did not pause for deer and turkeys. Strange things I saw, señor, as we got higher: rocks painted with sacred signs, and prayer altars, and other medicine tokens left by the Pueblos to win the favor of Those Above. Some were very old. But we did not pause for these, either. After a time we arrived at a bench of rocks, far up on this Sacred Mountain. The bench faced to the south. Grass grew among the rocks, the sun made comfort, and there was a cold spring blessing the spot.
“We have done well,” spoke my brother. “Now we can rest, so as to be strong when we reach the thunder-devil bird place.”
We drank, and lay down.
“It is far, yet, my brother?” I asked.
“It is far, by the way we go; but not so far as we have come. Look,” and he pointed.
My eyes were good, in those days, señor. Now below us we could see all the country flattened out; there was nothing between us and Picuris. The pueblo of Taos sat small, although its casas grandes are five and seven stories high. Picuris we could not see, because its houses mingled with the earth; but what I did see, when he pointed, was the Picuris people coming, like ants at our feet, to the mountain.
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