by Vella Munn
Maybe because she'd heard it so much of her life, she was able to isolate the sounds of horses and men from the constant din. This morning on the way to chapel, her husband had told her that his first priority was to make sure the men newly under him were proficient in fighting techniques. Plans for punishment and revenge would begin as soon as possible. She'd made the mistake of asking him if he thought that was necessary, and he'd retorted that only a fool couldn't understand that the only way to make sure the king's troops and religious institutions were safe from attack was by remaining ever at the ready and destroying any and all rebels.
Hand clamped over her mouth, Margarita reached deep inside her for a calming prayer, but it was slow to come. Instead, her mind insisted on going back to that long ago day when her father had refused to hear her desperate plea that she be allowed to become a nun.
She was his property, he'd insisted, and thus he was within his rights to plan her future in a way that was most advantageous to him. Six months later she'd found herself married to Sebastian, a man she would never understand and had nothing in common with. A man who, although she struggled to hide her reaction, sometimes frightened her.
* * *
Black Wolf stood in the middle of more sun-faded wooden crosses than there were numbers in his head. On this warm summer night three days after he'd confronted the corporal's daughter, it seemed as if the stakes marking where his people had been buried rivaled the stars in the sky.
Making a fist, he slammed it against the nearest stake, shattering the wood. Although sharp pain warned him not to repeat the impulsive gesture, he didn't regret what he'd done. This place called a cemetery wasn't the way of his ancestors. He ached to dig up the bones of those who no longer walked on this earth and carry them to Siliyik, the sacred enclosure in the hills where they would be honored with singing, dancing, and a large nighttime fire. After the mourning ceremony, the graves would be marked by the rib bones of whales and red, black, and white planks that reached for the sky, as it had been done since the beginning of time, and maybe the souls of the dead ones would find their way to the land of Similaqsa.
A barely perceptible whisper of movement pulled him out of himself. Alert and cautious, he waited. The young woman had run from him, and yet he didn't believe she'd told anyone about him, because if she had, they would have looked for him. Instead, the leatherjackets had marched and patrolled the open spaces beyond the mission and then marched again, always, it seemed, under the corporal's eye. Whoever came his way tonight walked in ignorance of his presence.
The sound repeated itself, telling him that a lone person was responsible. The imprisoned Chumash avoided this place as much as possible, and if Wolf didn't walk beside him he would be elsewhere himself. The newcomer might be a leatherjacket, but Black Wolf didn't think so because their swords and muskets made their own hated racket.
Confusion furrowed his brow when light from the stars told him it was the young Spanish woman. Her steps slow as if her mind was somewhere other than on her feet, she entered the cemetery. Then she stopped and, like him, touched one of the crosses. Unlike him, her contact was made with fingers and not fist. He'd seen glimpses of her since their meeting, but she'd always been too close to the buildings for him to risk approaching her. He should be glad to see her so he could demand she tell him more than the little she had the other night, but this place was for his people, not the newcomers.
"Go back where you belong," he hissed. "Do not disturb the bones of my people."
She started and gave a little cry but didn't run. Instead, to his surprise, she came toward him, trying not to step on the ground directly below the crosses, an impossible task.
"I'm alone," she whispered.
"I know."
"Yes, you must. I had no idea..." Her whisper trailed off. "I still can't believe there are so many graves."
"My people are dying." The words ground up from deep inside him, and he couldn't begin to think how to stop them.
"Yes," she whispered. "They are."
He'd expected—wanted—her to tell him he was wrong, that this too-quiet place couldn't possibly mean his people were leaving the land of their ancestors, but she didn't.
"It is night," he said instead of reminding her of his earlier warning. "Why are you here?"
"Why?" She breathed the word, allowed it to flow into the night. "Because... it has been such a disturbing day. So many things... I have so much to think about." She raked her hand through her hair. "A neophyte died a little while ago while I held his hand. I knew he was going to; I prayed for his soul, but... Are—if you try to touch me, I'll scream."
"If you do, perhaps your father's men will kill me. Is that what you want?"
She stood far enough away that he couldn't touch her, and yet he didn't sense she feared contact from him. Her reaction, along with unanswerable and fascinating questions about what was going on inside her, made him want to demand she keep nothing from him.
"Who was he?" he asked.
"He?"
"The man who died?"
"I don't know. I never learned his name, and the others in the infirmary—I can't talk to them, so I don't know anything."
"He will be buried here, but maybe that spot will not be marked with a cross."
"I won't let that happen."
"It matters to you?"
"Yes, it does! I watched him die because I couldn't help him; he matters to me."
"You knew I was waiting for you," Black Wolf said because he didn't want to deal with what she'd just told him. Her only value, he reminded himself, lay in what he might be able to force out of her. "You should have remained by your father's side."
"Maybe I should have, but... You wanted answers from me." Her whisper seemed as light as a bird's wing, comforting almost. "Answers about what his plans are."
"You know that thing?"
"No. Yes. I—what is your name?"
The padres had called him James, but he'd left that behind when he fled. "Black Wolf. What do they call you?" he asked.
"Lucita Concha Arguello Rodriguez."
"Lu-cita?"
"It means 'bringer of light.' My mother wanted me to become a nun and spread the Lord's word."
"Is that what you are, a nun?"
Her sharp laugh put him in mind of a knife slicing through hide. "No. No."
"You do not want that?"
"Want?" There wasn't enough light; he couldn't look into her eyes and draw out her thoughts. "There's no higher calling. My mother, it's what she wanted for herself, but-—why am I telling you this?" She sounded angry, but whether at him or herself he couldn't tell. "You can't possibly understand. You've never..."
"What have I never?"
She took a loud and ragged breath. "I... I was going to say you have never been forced to do something that wasn't right for you, but I don't know you."
He wanted to agree with her, because they came from different worlds and no bridge would ever be built between those worlds, but they were both standing here, talking instead of attacking or retreating, sharing the truth of what the soil beneath their feet contained. Soon he would ask himself why that was, ask why he didn't hate her and why, he believed, she felt the same way toward him.
"Black Wolf," she said. "Why are you called that?"
"Wolf is my 'atisbwin. When I sought a spirit helper, Wolf came to me in my dreams."
"'Atis-bwin? What is that?"
"It does not matter. You will never understand!"
Her body tensed and he readied himself to spring at her in case she tried to flee. "What do you mean, a wolf came to you in your dreams?"
"If I say the words, you will call me a heathen."
"No, I won't!"
"The padres do."
Rocking back as if he'd struck her, she said, "I'm not a man of God. I'm not a nun. I'm a woman trying to understand what it is to be a Chumash."
"You do not order me to renounce my pagan gods?" he challenged.
Arms wrappe
d around her middle, she spoke through clenched teeth. "I have never known anyone who wasn't a Catholic, never known there was any other way to be, until now. Black Wolf. Your name says so much about what you are, while mine is a constant reminder of what another person wanted me to be. Please, tell me about your spirit helper, your dreams."
"No. They are mine; not yours. Lucita, you left your people tonight not just because you needed to think. I believe you were wondering if I would find you again. What is the truth you carry within you?"
She sucked in a noisy breath. "I... I want to tell you to be careful."
"I am in danger?"
"Yes. He—my father—he wants to make an example of whoever wounded that soldier."
"An example?"
"He... Black Wolf, if he captures you, he'll kill you."
"He does not know who I am, where to look for me."
"But he's determined. He won't rest until... I know him."
He'd opened his mouth to ask her to tell him more when the sound of approaching footsteps captured his attention. Launching himself at her, he grabbed her and pulled her tight against him, his free hand clamped over her mouth. Every line of her body tensed, but she didn't try to fight him, and after a moment he slackened his grip.
The footsteps came closer, slow and steady. Because his knife hung at his hip, he would have to shove Lucita aside in order to attack, but the stranger didn't know he was here, which gave him the advantage. And he would kill if that's what it took to assure he would go on living.
"Lucita!" a woman cried out. "Lucita, where are you?"
"My mother," Lucita whispered against his hand. "Don't—please don't."
"Lucita?" Margarita repeated. "Is that you?"
Before Lucita could decide whether Black Wolf would allow her to speak or slit her throat to ensure her silence, the warrior pushed her away from him, and she knew he'd left because her nerve endings told her.
"I'm here, Mother," she managed.
Because she was cloaked in her everlasting black, Margarita was in the middle of the cemetery before Lucita could fully separate her from the night.
"Thank the Lord!" Margarita clutched her against her soft, ample bosom. "When I realized you weren't in our quarters, I became frantic. Lucita, if your father knew you were out here—"
"Mother, look around you. Do you know what this is?"
Still holding onto her, Margarita took in her surroundings. "The cemetery," she said in a small voice.
"There are so many... So many graves."
"This land is harsh. The wild animals—"
"Wild animals aren't responsible."
Black Wolf had stood in the middle of this evidence of death, his tone and the way he held himself telling her how deeply it affected him. Was it possible that he'd said what he had because he sensed she had the same reaction?
"Then what?" Margarita pressed.
"I don't want to think about it, but after working in the infirmary I don't have any choice. Mother, La Purisima hasn't been here that many years. There shouldn't have been this many deaths."
Margarita released her and pulled her mantilla close around her throat. "I pray their souls had been saved before they met their maker."
Saved by her God? What about the Chumash god?
Three small crosses had been placed close to a larger one, but none were marked, and Lucita had no way of knowing whether they were related. She hoped not, because if they were, perhaps a mother or father and three children had all died at the same time.
Maybe Black Wolf knew.
"Lucita, we have to go inside, now!"
Eyes misting, Lucita caressed the closest of the small crosses. The finish was rough and a sliver poked into her fingertip. She pulled it out with her teeth, then again placed her hand on the simple marking.
Had this forgotten child ever known the freedom Black Wolf fought for so fiercely?
Chapter 7
The mission far behind him, Black Wolf lifted his eyes to the sky and gave thanks to Moon for protecting him tonight. The girl hadn't told him anything he didn't already know. The leatherjackets wanted him dead; if they managed to find his village, they would attack it, either killing or capturing any who stood in their way. His task was clear: he must keep the enemy from his people by giving them tracks leading elsewhere to follow.
But first...
Watching Lucita and her mother together had done things to him he hadn't wanted and yet had no desire to fight. Instead of melting into the night the way caution dictated, he'd remained just out of sight while the two women embraced, their indistinct words carrying only emotion. And in the silence that enveloped him after they left he remembered how his son felt in his arms, the sound of the child's laughter. Need as powerful as a wildfire flowed through him.
Choosing his footing carefully, he trotted toward the foothills, legs and lungs and heart as strong as his spirit, his recently injured ribs unimportant. It would take him most of the night to reach the shelter he'd built for Fox Running and the boy's mother.
By then, even Black Wolf's body would cry out for rest, but that was all right because, tired, he might forget that Lucita hadn't run from him, had sought him out.
* * *
The last of the stars had disappeared when Black Wolf stepped into the trees that sheltered his people's low mountain village. As he did, he caught the aroma of cooking meat and his belly loudly reminded him of how long he'd gone without food. Over one shoulder he carried the carcass of the doe his sinew-backed bow had brought down during the night. He would partake of someone else's food this morning, but soon his people would eat what he had provided.
There were only two tule-and-willow-thatched huts in this new place they called home, unlike years past, when as many as thirty families had lived in separate but closely placed homes. At least, the two structures were large enough that everyone had adequate sleeping room, but it never ceased to bother him that they were forced to live as fugitives.
Cooking fires were going in both huts, as witnessed by the twin trails of smoke coming out of the roof holes. Walks at Night, the village wot, or chief, lived in the larger of the two, but sharing what he knew with the man he would one day replace would have to wait. Both excited and strangely nervous, Black Wolf pushed aside the tule mat that served as the smaller hut's door and entered. The moment he did, the mutter of early-morning voices faded and he felt all attention fix on him. Standing motionless, he gave everyone time to recognize him.
"He returns!" an elderly man called out.
"Black Wolf? You were gone so long, we thought—"
"What did you see? My sister—is she well?"
"Are there more cattle? Is it safe to go after them?"
Unable to sort out the various questions, he lowered the deer carcass to the ground and held up his hand indicating he would answer everyone in time. But for now—"Fox Running? Where is he?"
A shy giggle came from the direction of his family's sleeping quarters. He turned toward the sound, his mouth spreading into an unrestrained grin as a naked long-legged boy pushed himself to his feet. The child took a few steps, then stopped, staring.
"There you are, little hunter," Black Wolf said. "What have you been doing? Do you still have the gift I left with you? Surely you have not grown so old in less than a moon that you no longer play with Seal?"
At the name of the steatite effigy he'd given Fox Running in the spring, the boy cried out, "Father!"
"My son."
Dropping to his knees, Black Wolf held out his arms. As the warm and wiggling body launched itself at him, his throat closed and his head filled with a prayer of thankfulness.
His son was life and energy, high-pitched laughter and surprisingly strong arms now wrapped so tight around his throat that he had to struggle to breathe.
"Is that you?" He ached to grip his son with all the strength in him but didn't dare. Instead he listened to the pounding of the smaller heart pressed against his chest. "You are so big. How many f
ish have you eaten? How many acorns?"
Pulling back slightly, Fox Running held up both hands, his fingers widespread. "Bunches and bunches."
"You eat more than I do. Maybe you will grow up to be a giant."
Obviously delighted with that possibility, Fox Running punched his father's chest. Pretending to be overwhelmed, Black Wolf rocked back and then sprawled onto the ground. His son landed on top of him, pinning him to the ground. Fox Running's squeal echoed throughout the hut.
"I surrender! You are no longer a baby; soon you will be a man."
"I am so big. Big like a bear."
"Yes, yes, you are," Black Wolf laughed and clutched the boy to him. Fox Running smelled of the straw and reeds used to make his bed. A hint of wood smoke clung to his tangled hair. What set his heart to hammering went beyond the joy of being with the person who meant the most in life to him. The boy was healthy.
Black Wolf would thank his wife for that.
Still holding Fox Running, Black Wolf looked around but couldn't see Rabbit Dancing. The thought that something might have happened to her chilled him, but before he could ask, the others crowded in with insistent questions about what he'd seen and heard at the mission. He answered as best he could but kept his explanations short. Soon enough they would know about the new leatherjackets, but not until he'd discussed that with his wot and the shaman.
Finally someone thrust a coiled reed basket filled with roasted fish at him. He ate quickly and steadily, amused because his son was making a game out of snatching tidbits out from under his nose.
"You have not eaten for a long time," the woman who'd fed him observed.
"There was much to do, and I did not often think about my belly. I wish I had brought back more." He indicated the deer carcass.
"There is still a mountain of food at the mission?"
"Much is grown and the herds continue to increase, but a great deal is sent elsewhere while the captive ones go hungry."
"It is not right!"
"No, it is not." Fox Running was now making a pile out of the tiny fish bones, intent on his task. "Where is his mother?" Black Wolf asked. "She is well?"