The harvest of green corn had its traditional ritual but only a halfhearted celebration. The smallest harvest that anyone could remember offered no reason for joy. Prayers for the summer crop had accomplished little. It was already the month of the Sun, and the cornstalks, which should have been taller than Manaha, stood no higher than her shoulder. Almost no rain had fallen, and the men who should have been carrying water to the fields left with the hunting party.
“Sad for so much hope to be placed on a hunt before the harvest,” Manaha said quietly as she tilled around another stalk, seemingly unaffected by the burning heat and the still, heavy air.
Even if the corn withered, the stalks had to remain stout enough to hold up the twisting vines of the beans and the squash until they ripened. The dirt she piled onto the shallow roots gave the stalk extra support against the thunder-winds that came when the nights were hot and dry. She packed down the center of the hill of dirt, creating a bowl shape around the stalk to hold the little rain that might fall or a splash of water that one of the boys might carry from the creek.
“This land is old and tired,” Manaha grumbled. All around, the signs spoke of unknown people who had abandoned this place long before her tribe arrived. The island where she had her story-fire was their island. Manaha knew that, but no one else cared.
Who were they? Where had they gone? Had they left their home because this land would no longer grow corn and beans? Had they been chased away by enemies or the sickness?
Even the oldest of the children around Manaha’s first story-fire had little memory of their villages before this one. They could not understand the grief of people forced to leave their homes. More than possessions were lost with each move. Yet, in this land, Manaha found something of great value—her true path.
Over the next three days, she worked in the fields with fewer and fewer women. Each night grew warmer than the one before, her story-fire smaller, and the listeners in the shadows quieter. She retold the ancient legends as she heard them from her grandfather in the dark depths of the Hiding Cave.
On the third evening, she sat at her place west of the fire pit, carving thin strips from her staff of lightning wood. She took the cuttings from around her feet and placed them in a basket. The last three she held up to the sun as it sank behind a wall of threatening clouds.
“Oh, Father Sun, symbol of all that is great and wise, bless this fire and the words spoken around it that they may be pure and true.”
Lightning flashed off to the south as Manaha waited for her listeners. When she heard the first footstep, she put a flame to the pile of sticks and small logs. In a ritual becoming more natural and complete, Manaha placed her three offerings on the story-fire, chanting each time, “I hear listeners round about.”
Chapter 10: Looking Down on the Sun
Nanza’s Journey
Forty-nine years after “their” arrival
As a young girl, I hid from a party of Nadako hunters in a cave with my grandfather. I slept most of the time, but when I could not, Grandfather’s stories kept my thoughts off the darkness. He had never told stories before that night on Narras Mountain. Now ancient legends flowed out with hardly a breath between the last and the next.
He spoke with such conviction, I believed him when he said he could feel Father Sun even underground and knew the time of his coming and going. Before each new foreseen sunrise, Grandfather would say, “I need to gather more wood if you want to keep a fire burning.”
I followed as he climbed out of his secret cavern and crossed the rocky, uneven cave floor, hoping that I would not have to come back. He walked straight to the cave opening every time, but I never saw its warm glow until we were upon it.
I would rush toward it, but Grandfather would force his way past me, blocking out the light. “Nanza, stay here,” he said like he had each day before. When the light returned, I knew he had reached the outside.
“Do not come out unless I call for you,” his distant voice commanded. “I will be back soon.”
It mattered little when he would return, only that he had left me alone, once again. I marked the passing of the morning by the light’s slow march across the rocks at the other end of the opening. When the light vanished, time stopped. I held my breath and waited. Grandfather should have called out “Nanza” as he had done each day before, but the shadow remained, silent.
“Nanza, you can come out,” a voice roared through the opening.
I jumped into the tight passage, fearing nothing on the outside as much as I feared the dark demons behind me. Grandfather reached in. I dodged his grip and clawed my way up his arm and out.
My eyes would not stay open, but my legs were running before I could stand. I knocked him aside, stumbled over a small tree, and fell. Instead of pain, I felt alive, my senses overwhelmed by a bright world filled with sweet sounds and wonderful smells. I strained to keep my eyes open as I scrambled to the top of the cliff above the mouth of the cave.
He watched my flight, his arms still bent at his side in a broken embrace. I shouted down at him, “I will never go back inside that or any other cave.”
He pulled a blackened chunk of flint from his pouch and bounced it in his hand as he looked up. “I am going back in for our bundles and supplies.” Sadness filled his eyes. He started to say something, but turned and slipped into the cave, leaving the black stone behind.
It seemed longer than three days since I had crawled into that cave. The ground felt soft and moist. Rain had fallen on the mountainside. Tender green leaves glistened as their curled brown ancestors rustled in a warm breeze, smelling of spring. A sky of pure blue was marred only by a thin wisp of smoke rising from Taninto’s valley.
I watched the smoke for a moment before I realized. “Grandfather is wrong. The hunting party is still there.” I backed up the mountain, trying to find an opening in the branches. Side to side, up and down, I moved until I spotted a patch of black.
Is that the cornfield? I wondered as I eased to the right. I gazed at the knoll I knew so well. “They burned our lodge!” I screamed. “They burned it!” All that remained, the faint trails of smoke, would soon be lost in the blue sky.
“Grandfather!” I shouted as he crawled out of the cave. I pointed to the valley and the smoke.
“I know.” His face showed more torment than surprise.
Pain stabbed my heart. “Our lodge?” I asked.
He again said, “I know.”
Did he understand what I asked? Sliding most of the way, I ran down to where he stood. He reached out to me. I resisted for a moment. Then without a word, we held each other and wept the same tears.
“Child, we are safe,” Grandfather said, “but our home and our fields are gone.”
I pulled away.
“The hunting party has taken all that they found of value and burned the rest.”
I turned and started down the mountainside.
“No, you will find nothing there but bad memories. I know of what I speak.”
“But why ... why did they burn our home?”
“Nanza, my child—”
“I am not your child!” I stiffened and demanded, “Why did they burn my home? You said you would answer all my questions.”
“I cannot answer that which I do not know.” He knelt with his back to me and spread out the bed-skin, so hastily packed three days ago.
The head-pot of the young woman rolled to the center. He gently stroked her face and said, “Lay to one side the things that we will need for the journey.”
I did nothing.
“I will get the rest of our supplies,” he said and took the head-pot with him into the cave.
I sat, staring at the wisps of smoke rising from my past life and the odd collection in front of me. I could not find order for one thing over another. Each piece now held a special place. I handled every treasure with honor as the last tokens from Grandfather’s life of wandering and my childhood of wondering.
I retrieved the stone Gra
ndfather left near the opening, the flint blade he used on his hoe. The handle and the binding had been burned away, and the alabaster flint blackened. I added the blade to the collection as Grandfather pulled himself out of the cave.
In anger I had called him an old man. My words of rage had become words of truth. He said nothing as he laid down my back-bundle and shawl, the buffalo cloak, and the other provisions from the cave.
He loaded the back-bundles with all they would hold: rope, twine, leather, tool pouch, axe, blackened hoe blade, and all the jerky and hard-bread we had. There was little room left for his treasures. He selected a few pieces and placed the rest just inside the cave, then covered its opening with branches.
He handed the shawl to me and put on the buffalo cloak. “Turn your face and thoughts toward Palisema,” he said. “Remember our home and valley as it was.”
We started up the mountain in a wide zigzagging path. Grandfather climbed slower than he had three days before. I had no trouble keeping up with him, and we rested at his bidding.
Near the end of the day, high bluffs spread across our path. The tops the bluff boulders were smooth and flat, like giant river rocks. From there, I could see over the trees that had stood tall and proud at the bottom of the ledge. Beyond lay more trees than one could imagine: a tangled web of bare limbs covering the mountains in an endless gray haze without any fields or lodges in sight.
“Where is our valley?” I asked.
Grandfather walked to the edge and pointed off to his left. “See that glistening, there, through the trees? That is the little creek that flows through our valley.”
Following a line in the trees with his hand, he said, “It flows around this mountain, past our fields, and into the Buffalo River.” His last words were lost in winds gusting up from the valley. He sat down on the boulder, faced the setting sun, and took on a quiet reverence.
For as long as I could remember, I had lived in the valley and always had to raise my eyes to look at the sun. Now I saw something I never expected. I looked down on Father Sun. I could not help but feel pride in my lofty position.
I tried to grasp all that surrounded me. I saw farther than I could imagine, mountains beyond mountains beyond mountains. Those to my right still glowed red with the setting sun. Behind me, night settled over rolling black peaks and, to the south, more mountain tops created a thin purple line. I had never seen so much or so far in my life.
“How will we ever find our way across these mountains?” I asked.
Grandfather sat unmoving.
Throughout my whole life, I had been able to see the boundaries of my world. Now before me spread a world with no limits. Every direction seemed hopeless. In all that vastness, the world of my youth was lost.
“The moon will give us little light,” Grandfather said without notice for my despair. “We need to find a place to camp.”
“You never answer my questions.” I raised both hands and tried to push it all away: him, the mountains, his stories, my family, all of it.
“Why is everything so different?” I wanted to know.
“Change is upon both of us,” he said. “I walk in my last season.” His face softened, and his eyes turned down. “You are young and beginning a wondrous time when you need to be among the women of your people.”
“But how will we find my people?”
“I can find Palisema. Of that, there is no doubt,” he said and walked over the ridge down to a large pine tree.
I was not satisfied. I had my doubts, but I was glad to be out of the wind, and started gathering firewood. When I dropped the wood near the pit he was clearing, he looked up. “Bring me several of those pine cones for kindling.”
Soon he had a bright fire burning. Grandfather placed his hand on my shoulder. “Tonight, Nanza, you will tell the story.”
I pulled away.
“Listeners can never truly understand the power of telling a story until they become the teller,” he said.
I wanted to ask questions, not tell a story. I wanted to know more about my people, and how we would find them.
Grandfather gripped my arm and urged me to stand. “Nanza, amuse us with a grand tale.”
I resisted his push for a moment, but I did as he said. I stood and told one of the stories I had heard in the Hiding Cave, “The Great Turtle and the White Bird.” Grandfather listened closely, encouraging and helping me when I lost my way. When I finished the story, I was smiling.
“Good, good.”
His praise turned my smile to a giggle. I forgot all about my anger and doubts.
“Very good,” he sounded as proud as I felt. “Now,” he said, “I shall tell the legend ‘Cula and Mother Wolf.’”
“No!” I yelled, surprising both of us.
“You promised to tell me the truth, not another legend. Tell me about the land of my people. Tell me about Nine-Rivers Valley,” I demanded.
He stared long into the fire. I begin to wonder. Did he really know anything about my ancestors or Palisema—if such a place ever existed?
“Nanza, you are right.” He stood and circled the flames. “I am an old man as you said and weary of the long struggle to forget.”
He stretched his arms wide, looked to the sky and said, “As promised I shall tell my story of Nine-Rivers Valley.”
Chapter 11: Uncle’s Hat
Taninto’s Journey
One day before “their” arrival - June 21, 1541
I awoke my first day after Saswanna’s embrace to the thundering voice of my uncle, “Taninto, lazy boy ... get up.”
“I am here,” I said as I struggled to stand.
He grabbed me, a hand on each shoulder. “A large band of strange warriors has crossed into Nine-Rivers Valley,” he said, “and they march toward Casqui.”
“What are we going to do?”
“When change comes, the wise are prepared,” he said.
“Who ...”
“Listen, Taninto. Pass this day as you will, but at sunset, be in front of my lodge.” He pushed down on my shoulders.
“Uncle Tecco, your command is my will,” I said.
He released me and marched off toward the Temple Mound. The demand and his manner only added to my puzzlement as I ran toward the plaza. It did not take long to find Saswanna.
“A son ... of ... the ... sun,” she shouted. “Taninto, he is coming.” Waving her long arms, she jumped up and down. “Taninto, can you believe that he is coming to Casqui?”
I smiled.
She continued without an answer. “They do not look like us.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “What do they look like?”
“I do not know, but that is what I have heard.” She must have seen the doubt on my face, but did not hesitate. “They have traveled from nation to nation conquering all who met them with war.”
Several of the king’s servants trotted by carrying two litters of gifts: one of fine shawls, the other of tanned, dressed skins.
“The king is sending a party to greet the Son of the Sun and present gifts on behalf of all the people of Casqui,” Saswanna announced and turned to follow the gift bearers.
They continued through the south gate and placed their gifts with all those sent from the different villages of the Casqui Nation. We joined the growing number of people mingling among and examining the variety and craftsmanship of the offerings. A hush spread over the crowd when Akahahi passed through the gate.
“He is the best speaker in all of Casqui,” Saswanna said.
She talked as if I knew nothing. I knew Akahahi. I had heard him many times. He would speak for the people of Casqui with dignity and truth no matter who stood before him.
While the bearers gathered up all of the displayed offerings, Akahahi assembled his party in proper rank and position. He led with three nobles trailing off each side like a flight of geese. One warrior ran ahead. Three marched on each side of the bearers and their burdens of gifts. The last two warriors guarded the rear.
&
nbsp; Women in the crowd began to sing the song of “Good Journey.” Saswanna joined in. I turned away, uncertain about what I had seen or what I felt.
“A smaller party of gift-bearers left two days ago,” she said over the singing. “But none have returned.”
Did she know everything?
“Traders from the east say that the strangers command savage dogs and other great beasts on which men of metal ride faster than a frightened doe.”
I shook my head.
“And my brother told me that when the strangers reached the Mizzissibizzibbippi River, the king of Pa-caha sent two hundred longboats to prevent their crossing.”
“Saswanna,” I interrupted, “do you know how many men that would be with twenty paddlers and twenty warriors in each of those boats?”
“Yes.” She stomped her foot.
I watched the dust puff up around her ankle.
“The Pa-cahas,” she resumed undaunted, “descended the river every day for seven days hurling arrows and curses at the strangers, but they never stopped building their barges. The strangers, their beasts, and the slaves from many conquered nations crossed the mighty river in one morning. All the boats and warriors of Pa-caha could not stop them.”
“I do not think—”
Saswanna threw her hand up in my face.
“And my brother said that if a Pa-caha boat drifted too close, the strangers could kill with a weapon that smoked like burning leaves and roared like thunder.”
“A son of the sun and men from beyond the great waters that can kill with thunder?” I laughed out loud.
“You are just a boy from down the Little Muddy. What do you know?” she shouted, spun around, and stomped away.
“Saswanna, I did not mean to make you angry,” I called after her. “I ... I believe you.”
She stopped.
I measured my words. “I believe you, Saswanna. I know a band of strangers approaches our land, and they must be powerful to have crossed the Mizzissibizzibbippi River against the will of the Pa-cahas, but I just cannot believe that their leader is the Son of the Sun.”
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