by Vella Munn
She frowned. "I don't understand. I know I've heard flutes at night. Because the sound came from the neophytes' compound, I didn't do more than listen. Otherwise, my curiosity would have been satisfied by now."
"You have not seen what they use?"
When she shook her head, he explained that the Indians, even those who had been born and raised in the mission, insisted on making and using the crude instruments he was forced to call flutes for lack of a better term. A great many had been carved out of bone, with deer shinbones being particularly popular. Others were created from bird bones, often decorated with shell beads placed in precise patterns that, he had been told, represented the night sky in winter.
"I have tried and tried to explain that their so-called music is ungodly and that proof of their willingness to improve their spiritual state would become evident if they'd allow me to show them how to create wooden flutes, but they do not listen. Either that or they are outright defying me."
He sighed. "I daresay these children will test me for as long as the Church and Crown see fit to keep me here. The neophytes would like me to believe that the winter sky means nothing to them—so perverse is their deception—but I know better."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because I would be a fool to ignore the truth, Lucita. In their wild state, their most important celebration comes in the winter. No matter how hard I try or how heartfelt my sermons, they refuse to give up their heathen beliefs; instead, they practice them on the sly. That is why I refuse to allow their primitive instruments to be part of anything which praises the Lord."
Heathen beliefs? When explanations came from Black Wolf's lips, when she watched him purifying himself at Humqaq, not once had she thought that. Still, because what she knew about Kakunupmawa and Hutash had been part of what she and Black Wolf had shared, alone, she said nothing. Instead, she thanked Father Joseph for his offer to loan her the violin. She hoped he would take her to his quarters so she could begin reviving her skill with the instrument, but he only looked over at the building he shared with Father Patricio, a frown marring his usually serene features.
"Perhaps later," he said. Then, to her surprise, he placed his hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. "You do not belong here," he muttered.
"What?"
"I'm not sure any of us do."
"Father, what—"
"I should not have said that," he hurried, looking embarrassed. "He belonged here. It was ordained that he come to this heathen place, and I live my life in awe of what the sainted man accomplished, but the work left to be done after his death is so daunting."
"He?"
"Father Junlpero Serra."
She should have known he was talking about the saint who became superior and president of the missions in Baja California and been responsible for establishing the first of the Alta California missions.
"He was indeed a true man of God," she agreed.
"Yes. An inspiration for those of us who must follow in his footsteps."
"Must?"
"A poor choice of words, perhaps," Father Joseph said with the briefest of smiles. "But I must strive to be honest in all things. Lucita, I look at you and see a young woman with great promise ahead of her. You have a mind which constantly questions."
"That's true," she admitted.
"But you should not be here, my child. Mexico, despite its wild beginnings, will soon rival Mother Spain in culture and refinement. That is where you belong, safe from what takes place here."
"I'm not a child."
"No, you are not, although I daresay it would be easier for you if you were. I want to tell you this because I believe we both struggle with the same thing." He ran his hand over the back of his neck, making her wonder if he regretted starting the conversation. "I joined the order when I was ten. It is all I have ever known, all I ever wanted. When I learned I would be coming here, I dropped to my knees and sang praises to God. But..."
"But what?" she prompted.
"Many things." His whisper was so faint that she had to strain in order to hear. "Death here is as relentless as the sun. I have prayed over the bodies of so many and overseen their burial. Have their souls truly been saved? We baptize them, call them to prayer, teach them how to go about doing God's work, but..."
She'd never seen Father Joseph in such a mood. Always before he'd seemed so determined and content. "I don't know what to say," she admitted.
"There is nothing." This time his attempt at a smile fell short. "Lucita, please heed my warning. Leave La Purisima before it destroys you."
* * *
Talks with Frogs had painted his body black to symbolize the seriousness of what was about to transpire, and red slashes indicating pain ran down his cheeks. Seated at the east end of the ceremonial Siliyik, he held up a Po 'n kakunupmawa pole made from a debarked holy bush with feathers tied at the top and waited for the other tribe elders to gather.
Black Wolf had hacked a chunk out of his hair to let everyone know he had become a widower but said nothing in response to numerous sympathetic and curious glances. His wife, whom he would never again call by name, was dead, her death coming as he entered their quarters following the earlier meeting with his shaman and wot. As soon as this meeting was over, he would carry her into the Siliyik and begin the ceremony that would ensure her soul's journey to Humqaq, but for now, he had to put mourning aside.
He hadn't expected to see Much Rain here since there'd been no sign of his friend earlier and Black Wolf had assumed he'd gone off to pray and seek peace, but the warrior now sat down beside him.
"We are alike," Much Rain whispered. "Two men who have lost our women. I never dreamed we would come together like this, never wanted such a thing."
Accepting Much Rain's outstretched arm, he clasped it tightly. "Neither did I."
"But we cannot walk back in time."
"No," Black Wolf whispered. "We cannot."
Walks at Night began by telling the others that the corporal had left for the presidio and when he returned he might bring a great many armed and vengeful men with him.
"Black Wolf killed one of them," Walks at Night said. "We all know why." He looked over at Much Rain and Black Wolf. "A warrior cannot call himself a man if he does not cleanse an evil deed; none among us would say he did wrong. But our beliefs do not matter to the leatherjackets. The death of one of us is of no more consequence to them than that of a deer."
"Not a deer," Bear Killer, so named because he had brought down a black bear, said. "If a deer sheds the blood of a hunter, do other hunters then vow to rid a forest of its deer?"
"No," Walks at Night conceded. "They do not, but that is because animals, even cougars and bears, do not know of vengeance, the leatherjackets should understand that and see that we are like them, but they do not."
"Because the Chumash have always run instead of defending what is ours."
Black Wolf had known Bear Killer would say that. The young brave and a number of others like him maintained that the Chumash should have gone to war long before this. However, just as many believed peace would be met with peace because that was how it had always been for the tribe.
Today, wondering how he would tell his son that he no longer had a mother, Black Wolf couldn't put his mind to the direction his people should take.
The argument between those advocating for attack and those who insisted the Chumash would live only if they remained hidden continued. His wot wanted him to speak, and in truth Black Wolf wanted to, but the right words remained beyond his reach while he drew strength from Much Rain's presence.
"Wait!" Talks with Frogs' cry cut into Qlack Wolf's thoughts. "Enough! We are like children fitting among ourselves, blind children who forget that the spirits guide us in all things if we know how to ask."
"What would you have us do?" Bear Killer retorted. "Sit while you make endless magic?"
Silence louder than any shout fell over the assembled men. Even Black Wolf felt himself being brought ful
ly into the present and watched intently as the shaman expanded his chest and lifted his Po 'n kakunupmawa high above him.
"Listen to me." Talks with Frogs ordered. "Listen and believe. The arms of the padres and leatherjackets do not reach beyond the valleys, which is why we sought to live here. Now we find that this place, too, may be unsafe. Our women beg us to go where they can raise their children in peace."
The shaman settled his gaze on Black Wolf. "Where children will not grow up without their mothers because those mothers have been taken by the enemy's sickness."
Nodding heads told Black Wolf there wasn't a man among them who didn't want that for the tribe's children. Only it was too late for him and Fox Running.
"What say you, Black Wolf?" Talks with Frogs demanded. "I feel your grief. It surrounds you, eats away at you and makes you weak, but that must not be."
He didn't feel weak, but maybe he didn't know anything about himself today.
"Black Wolf, I say you must cast off your grief, we need you."
"I am but one," he said with the weight-of the assembled men's eyes boring into him and Much Rain's hand on his forearm. "Just because I caused the death of one leatherjacket—"
"I am not asking you to do battle for all of us," Talks with Frogs interrupted. "And none would say you should have kept your knife at your side. My wisdom comes from the sun and stars, from the earth and Bear whose eyes see all things, but our spirits cannot reach into the hearts of the enemies because they are without souls. Your eyes, mortal eyes, carry the truth about them."
Maybe the shaman was right. Although he'd said it many times before, Black Wolf once again described what the mission was like, the complex relationship between padres and leatherjackets, the constant pressure on the neophytes to produce the goods the padres were expected to turn over to merchants in the name of the Crown, the relentless eating away at the neophytes' will to live.
"They are no longer us." Despite the importance of what he was saying, he didn't try to lift his voice above a whisper. "They are like cattle and horses who want nothing more than to be allowed to eat and rest. If we are to live and walk our children into tomorrow, we must think only of us."
"By leaving the land of our ancestors?"
How many times had he struggled with that question? His mind began to form the words he needed to respond, words that had everything to do with safeguarding his son's future, but that wasn't enough.
Looking at each of the village's, leaders in turn, he told them about the overpowering need that had sent him to Humqaq. "My soul bursts to life and sings there," he admitted. "And I want my son's soul to sing as well. Each of you, do what you must, but I would rather Fox Running and I die before another sun sets than never again cleanse ourselves there. My wife's spirit waits to make its journey to the place of our ancestors. She vowed to be there for me and our son."
"My wife's and my child's spirits have already gone there," Much Rain said, speaking for the first time. "I will not be whole until I stand at Humqaq and their presence touches me."
All eyes remained on Black Wolf and Much Rain; not a single voice was raised to say they were wrong.
"I hear our warriors' words," Talks with Frogs said at last. "The same words are inside me."
"Then we will fight!" Bear Killer exclaimed. "Fight for the land the gods gave to our ancestors."
Emotionally exhausted, Black Wolf simply listened to the others as one at a time they argued for leaving or staying. When they had all finished, he rose and faced his wot. Much Rain, part and parcel of him today, did the same.
"I go now to prepare my son's mother for burial," he said. "But there is one last thing I must say."
It would be dark before much longer. Surrounded by the peace and silence of night, he would be forced to face his wife's death. But first—
"My spirit is strong there," he whispered. "Wolf lives at Humqaq and revealed himself to me there. He waits for my return. I walked to where he waited, touched him, heard his heart beating, and the sound became mine. To never experience that again would be the same as death. I need that and so does my brother." He indicated Much Rain.
The low murmur of voices washed around him and reminded him of how the sacred water felt on his body. As his memory of his union with Wolf grew, a sense of peace filled him, lessening his fear of the coming night's loneliness.
And he allowed himself to face the fact that he hadn't been alone at Humqaq.
* * *
Lucita had spent most of the day in the infirmary thinking about what Father Joseph had said earlier. However, she'd managed to strip her mind of everything except offering herself up to her God during evening prayers, and for several minutes she'd actually succeeded in attaining a state of humble acceptance. In her mind, a soft light had played over a green meadow filled with animals. The lion had lain down with the lamb, and she had walked among them, at peace. But then, somehow, she'd lost her grip on the dream.
Now, violin and bow in hand, she stepped outside and sat on a tree trunk not far from the cemetery. The stars were a white-gold tonight, and the moon, although on the wane, cast its own clean and gentle light. She didn't want to think about what would happen when her father returned, what Black Wolf was doing or whether she'd ever see him again, why she couldn't hold onto the state of grace that sustained and enriched her mother's life, whether warfare and death lay ahead.
Pablo Portola could take her away from all this.
Placing the violin under her chin, she began sliding the bow over the strings and drew a mental image of the pleasure Pablo must have felt when he located it. He was a good and decent man, caring, and she already half-believed she could be content with him.
Shaking herself free, she started a chant, but it seemed so dark in tone when she needed to feel light.
Her mother had once sung lullabies to her and encouraged her to memorize the simple words, and when she'd become old enough to sit quietly in mass, she'd learned hymn after hymn. She'd heard secular songs during her infrequent forays into the city, but she couldn't remember enough about them, or maybe the truth was she couldn't hold onto anything from the past.
When she realized she'd continued to work the instrument while trying to decide what to play, she gave herself up to simply listening to sound, creating, experiencing. True, the instrument had been passed from hand to hand and then left to hang untouched for who knew how long and didn't have the quality of the violins she'd used before, but her thoughts—what there were of them—wrapped themselves around the notes and accompanying mood, and she felt at peace.
She couldn't say how long she'd been playing when she realized she was no longer alone. Children tiptoed toward her but stopped before they'd got close enough that she could make out their features. Just the same, she felt their excitement and wondered how long it had been since they'd truly enjoyed themselves. Black Wolf had told her a little about the games the Chumash children played, but if those diversions continued at the mission, it was while they were in their own quarters and not in the church's shadow.
Switching to a hymn of celebration because of its lively rhythm, she threw herself into the role of entertainer. Some of the children remained standing, but an even larger number sat down just out of reach. A few began clapping lightly in time with the music, and she encouraged them with smiles and nods. She finished the hymn but immediately switched to another, this one slower, simple in words and notes. Her mother had been so proud when she'd learned to play well enough to be chosen for a solo presentation at mass. Remembering Margarita's beaming face, Lucita tried to draw that world from the past around her, but it refused to take form. Maybe it didn't matter, she told herself. Maybe what was important was coming to grips with what her life was now.
Her rebellious mind had just demanded to know what that life would become when her father returned when she realized she now had an accompaniment. Cocking her head to one side, she concentrated. It was a flute, the notes soft and haunting and weightless. Maybe her moo
d was responsible, but the so-called primitive instrument felt utterly right for the night, for where they were, while hers now sounded just a little out of place.
Still, she couldn't make herself stop playing, and before long another flute joined the first. If she and the Indian musicians came together like this every night, maybe after a while they would teach her the music of their religion.
If she remained here.
* * *
Fox Running snuggled against Black Wolf.
"Where is Mama?" the boy asked for at least the fourth time tonight.
"She has gone to be with our ancestors," Black Wolf told his son once again. Then, although he doubted Fox Running could understand everything he was saying, he went on. "She got sick. She tried hard to get well so she could take care of you, but even her knowledge of medicine wasn't enough."
Fox Running yawned, the sound ending in a squeak that made Black Wolf chuckle.
"You have had a full day, little man. Chasing after rabbits is not an easy thing to do."
"Why?"
Despite the heaviness in his heart, Black Wolf again chuckled and gave his son a quick squeeze. "Why? Is that what you say to everything? Your mother said that the time would come when you knew the answers and the questions would cease, but she did not tell me how long that would take."
"Why?"
Wolf, thank you for this child. He is tomorrow, a reason for me to live.
"Do you understand—" he began but then stopped himself. He'd been about to ask Fox Running if he understood that Rabbit Dancing would never return to them, but if he did, the boy might cry himself to sleep, and Black Wolf wanted their time together to be filled with peace.
Their time together. That was what had eluded him while he and the others debated running versus staying and facing the possibility of war. He wasn't afraid of battle and the thought of death would never fill him with fear, but he wasn't just a man, a warrior. He was also a father, and his son no longer had a mother. Nothing mattered more than making sure his son didn't have to turn to others for the answer to why he was facing the future without either parent.