Storykeeper

by Daniel A Smith

  “Move slow,” he said as I rushed up. I knelt close to him. All the puppies fought over the pelt that he held over their heads. The old man smiled. “Meet your new friend.”

  “Friend?” I asked. “One of these puppies?”

  “That is for you to decide,” he said.

  I reached for one of them.

  He grabbed my arm. “Touch only the one you choose.”

  I leaned back and watched them and the old man play. They all looked strong and healthy. I scooted in closer, and they scampered away, all but the smallest. With a coat of brown and patches of black or the other way around, it bounced toward me and fell headfirst at my knees. I did not have to make a decision; it was made for me. I took my first friend, yelping and squirming into my arms.

  Two of the puppies disappeared into the den. Taninto herded the last two into the hole with a stick. He reached over and lifted my puppy’s tail.

  “You carry her,” he said. “Follow me.”

  The puppy wiggled, but I held her tightly and tried not to fall as I followed Taninto down the snow-covered ravine. Out of sight of the burrow, Taninto took out the sling he had fashioned.

  “Lay the pup in here,” he said, “on its belly.”

  I placed the puppy facing him with legs straddling the small piece of deerskin he held in his hand. He stroked and whispered to the puppy until its head rested on his forearm.

  “Hold her, like this,” he demanded as I eased my hand under her belly and the sling. He took the twine attached at each corner and tied them together in one knot above the puppy’s head. Holding the knot, he lifted the sling and puppy out of my hands.

  Her feet dangled, and her head drooped as he raised her up to his face. Eye to eye, they stared until she yelped.

  “Take her,” he said and handed me the sling.

  Holding her up to my face, I said, “Do not worry. I am not going to hurt you.”

  Taninto jumped as high as he could and grabbed an overhead branch. He used that to pull down a larger limb.

  “Bring the pup,” he said as he broke off one of its branches.

  He hung the sling on the broken limb and slowly eased it up, carrying the puppy out of my reach. She began to yelp and struggle.

  “You are hurting her!” I shouted at him.

  “She is not hurting ... but she might be thirsty,” he said and pulled the limb back down.

  “Get a bit of snow and let it melt between your palms.”

  He lowered the puppy to my cupped hands. She licked the melted snow and my wet fingers. I giggled for the first time since I had left Taninto’s valley.

  He eased the limb back up out of my reach. “Come on, before Mother Dog returns.”

  “Are you leaving her like this?” I asked.

  He motioned me up the hillside. I did not understand, but I followed him back to the buffalo cloak.

  “The mother will return soon,” he said.

  “How do you know?” I snapped.

  “I surprised her this morning with a rabbit she had just caught. She dropped it when she ran off. I followed her tracks to the burrow. When I saw that she had pups, I knew she would have to go back for her kill.”

  My new friend soon tired of her struggle. Her head dropped. She whimpered softly. Then that stopped. Taninto raised his hand before I could stand.

  “Do not worry,” he whispered. “Young pups can sleep anywhere.”

  As the sun climbed, snow fell in clumps from trees, and water trickled down the hillside. The puppy woke.

  “She senses something,” he whispered.

  Mother Dog had returned. The puppy let out a weak howl. The mother looked up for a moment, and vanished into her burrow. The puppy barked and barked until its mother came out followed by two pups. The mother tilted her head, sniffed the air and pushed the two curious young ones back into the burrow. Our smell around the burrow troubled her. She knew to be cautious as she followed our trail down into the ravine.

  She found her helpless pup, whimpering and squirming above her. Mother Dog circled the tree with her nose in the air. Suddenly she ran and jumped for her pup. She missed her mark, backed up, and tried again. From the other side, from underneath, from all sides, she jumped and jumped.

  Her last jump, she fell to the ground hard and did not get up for a long time. When she did, she began to howl. The young puppy joined in. Together, they sang a song of sorrow. After that, Mother Dog did not look back nor waver. She left the puppy in a run and disappeared into her burrow.

  “Now, we may go get your friend,” Taninto said, “but be quiet.”

  She wiggled and licked my face as I lifted her out of the sling. “I will take care of you from now on,” I said.

  “Let her chew on this,” he said, cutting-off a strip of the deer hide and tying it in several knots. The puppy chewed it and licked my fingers all the way back to camp.

  “What will you name her?” he asked.

  “We could call her ‘Chachiz’,” I blurted out. “He was your friend.”

  The old man stopped packing his back-bundle and glanced back over his shoulder. For a long silent moment, he stared, seeing things I could not. A deep breath overtook him and he mumbled, “No.”

  I studied the puppy in my arms. “I will call you ... Little Pup, my friend.”

  “Gather your things,” he ordered. “We have a long day ahead.”

  I had to contend with a squirming puppy in my arms, but the old man, without his walking stick, seemed to have the most trouble climbing out of the valley. He led us east, up through a steep, dark forest as bright sunlight slid down the western mountainside. Its cliff of black rock gleamed against the surrounding snow. Before we could reach the top or greet Father Sun face to face, clouds rolled in between.

  “There goes our sunny day,” I told Little Pup. “Can you see that eagle, Little Pup?” I asked. “When we are out of the snow, I will let you walk.” I said. I talked. I asked. I said more that morning than I had since the journey began. And I did not speak a word of it to Taninto.

  When we reached the mountaintop, it seemed as if we stood on the top of the world; the plateau rolled off to blue horizons and snow-covered mountains on every side. Small flakes still fell from time to time. The clouds parted but never long enough for the sun to melt much of the snow.

  I put Little Pup down. She could not have been happier. She scampered back and forth between me and our guide, barking if I fell too far behind.

  “What are you saying, Little Pup?” I asked. “Oh, do not worry about me,” I said as she jumped around my heels. “Just because I am so far behind,” I shouted, “is no reason to slow down.”

  Taninto stopped at a large flat rock, an island of brown surrounded by white. He took off his back-bundle and sat down, face to the sun. I sat with my back to him.

  “Are you hungry, Little Pup?” I asked. “I might have some jerky for you.”

  Over his shoulder, Taninto said, “Puppies are always hungry. Give her small bites and use each piece to remind her that you are her friend.”

  Late in the day, we crossed a mountain meadow where the melting snow had left behind rows of furrows like ripples across still water. Instead of forming circles, they twisted side by side down the hillside like so many snakes.

  “What do you think those lines in the snow are?” I asked my friend.

  She said nothing. Taninto said nothing.

  He said nothing until he had a campfire burning on a dry eastern slope. “In honor of our new listener,” he said as he watched Little Pup search my lap for a place to settle.

  “I shall tell a story.”

  Chapter 23: A Sign

  Taninto’s Journey

  Three days after “their” arrival - June 25, 1541

  On the third day of the Son of the Sun’s presence in the land of Casqui, I found myself inside the Spanish camp. This was a world far from what I knew with different smells, unusual sounds. As a boy, I longed to be part of something as great as the stories told
about the ancestors. The Spanish mystique held that promise.

  I found Cooquyi and Wasse around the fire, dreaming but awake. For a time, we shared nothing but the flames. Cooquyi pulled something from his bedroll. He tore off a piece and handed it to Wasse. He saw me eyeing the strip of pale meat glistening in his hand.

  “The Spanish call it cerdo salado,” he said and broke off a tiny piece.

  As I took it, he repeated, “Cerdo salado ... salt pork.”

  I nibbled the strange, salty meat.

  “The Spanish make it from the ugly, fat beast they call puercos.” Hogs

  I had seen them at a distance and heard their squeals. “Hogs?” I asked.

  Something behind me caught Cooquyi’s attention. The horse, Old Brown, and its tender approached. The small boy, frailest of Master Diego’s three tenders, struggled to tie up the weary and disagreeable beast. Wasse jumped up to help. They hugged and laughed like lost brothers found.

  Cooquyi called the boy to the fire and gave him a much larger piece of salt pork. “Tell us, what did you see today?”

  Cooquyi and Wasse listened closely while he told his story, but I only understood a few of the words.

  “What did he say?” I asked when he finished.

  Cooquyi stared into the fire—long enough for me to wonder if he would answer. Finally, he looked up. “He has just come from inside the walls of Casqui, where you should be.”

  I moved in closer. He waited until I settled.

  “He said your people worked through the night alongside the Spanish slaves to move the cypress timbers you saw in the river to the top of the Temple Mound.”

  “It is the sign,” I said and tugged at his arm. “Let us go see.”

  Cooquyi jerked back. “I am not going in there.”

  “Why?” I asked. “My people would be honored to have you in the temple town of Casqui.”

  He looked straight at me for the first time that day and said, “I do not embrace your people or anything about them save our friendship. I honor only the people of Ocute.”

  I shifted to the side of his glare. He turned back to the fire.

  “I still dream of my people, from whom the Spanish took much and, in return, gave only death and sickness. I find no joy watching your people receive the blessing of Governor de Soto and a gift of the sacred sign.”

  He pushed me away with a wave of his hand. “I must stay here. I am a slave.” His words hissed with contempt. I turned slowly, leaving him time to mend them.

  I ran, not to Casqui, not to see the great sign. I just ran. I ran until I heard the distant vibrations of the ceremonial flute.

  King Issqui, in the cloak of a white buffalo, led the flute player and a large procession. Four and five abreast, the line of chiefs, wise-ones, warriors, and elders wrapped its way back to the canal. All wore something white, and no one carried a weapon.

  Lord de Soto stood in front of his tent with five Spanish priests. As Issqui approached, de Soto spoke through his interpreters. “Together, let us walk in humility and prayer to the mound where you and your people will receive the sign of our Heavenly Father’s sacrifice and great love.”

  The priests stepped out in front of the Son of the Sun. Unlike the spiritual men of Casqui, who dressed in bright colors, the Spanish holy men wore tattered brown robes. The two called clerics walked in front, swinging small copper pots. The smoke and fumes of an unfamiliar burning sage filled the path before Lord de Soto. The three other Spanish priests prayed softly as they followed. Prayer and cleansing smoke is our ancient way of purification. The Spanish and Casquis were so different, and yet we shared sacred rituals.

  The flute player joined in behind the priest until a horseman galloped up and pushed him to the side. De Soto’s guards and their proud horses took his place. Sunlight sparkled off their hats and cloaks of woven metal and gleamed from their long swords drawn but laid across their laps.

  The governor’s black stallion strutted with the guards, outshining them all. Together the great beast without a rider and the Son of the Sun walking behind cast an image of power and yet trust.

  Lord de Soto motioned Issqui to his right side. More guards took their position around them. Conquistadors followed their leader according to rank and distinction. Shadow Wind and Master Diego led the horsemen who flanked the march, keeping the Casquis to the outside.

  When all the horses and noble conquistadors had passed, the Casquis were allowed to walk with the common foot soldiers. Without proper order, village elders and warriors hurried to find their places in the swelling procession. Spanish soldiers and important Casquis walked side-by-side and one behind the other. Feather headdresses fluttered between dull and dented helmets. Moccasins embraced Mother Earth as heavy boots and hooves pounded her.

  From the front, a single lofty voice rose above the procession. The eldest priest was singing. The words were not Spanish but hauntingly distant and ancient. The sound spread awe through the crowds of onlookers, casting a spell on all who listened.

  I ran to Uncle Tecco when I saw him join the march.

  “Now, you return to walk with me,” he said, pressing down on my shoulder.

  As suddenly as he had begun, the high priest stopped chanting. Then in one great deep voice, every Spaniard responded. I slowed as did many. Uncle pushed me on. The Spaniards never faltered.

  The high priest sang out again. Up and down the line, on horses and those walking, every Spaniard answered, all chanting the same song. For me, the strange words held no meaning, but I took them in like a deep breath.

  Too many faces crammed both sides of the procession to see just one. They spilled over the land, pushing for a better view, and crashing against each other like waves of a spring flood. Above that, more people filled the raised land between the wall and the canal. Higher still, boys scurried up the surrounding trees and perched on their limbs. In all, I saw a common expression of wonder and fear.

  The procession continued unbroken from the grove, across the canal and through the north gate under a sky of gray clouds that hid Father Sun. The Spanish priests were already climbing the Temple Mound steps when I came through the gate next to Uncle Tecco.

  Lord de Soto led his black horse up the side of the sacred mound. On top he remounted the powerful beast and slowly circled the rim, surveying the masses that filled the town, surrounded it and spread across the river.

  The high priest stepped to the edge of the mound above the crowded plaza. He raised his arms and silence followed. He spoke in a solemn, yet powerful voice. The Casqui people could not understand the words, but most knew it was a prayer. We turned our faces up to the sky. The Spanish turned down to the earth.

  The prayer ended with one word that every Spaniard repeated, “Amen.”

  Lord de Soto stood in his saddle and pointed his sword to the sky. It shone like a staff of light against the clouds. He shouted a similar prayer, which ended with the same word. All the Spanish and some Casquis said, “Amen.”

  He waved the sword as his interpreter shouted, “Behold, people of Casqui. I, Hernando de Soto, give to you the sacred symbol of our Heavenly Father’s love for all mankind.”

  From the far side of the mound, other Spaniards shouted commands. Above all those on the mound, the great cypress rose, pushed up by many hands and poles until it could be pulled by ropes. The promised sign from the Son of the Sun, the hope of my people, slid to the bottom of a newly dug hole with a thud that stabbed at the center, the very heart of our nation, the Temple Mound of Casqui.

  Maestro Francisco, a Spanish boat builder, directed the slaves as they twisted and straightened the cypress. The second smaller log was notched and strapped across it near the top. The slaves turned it until the crossing piece pointed north and south then filled in the hole.

  The Spanish had cut down the tallest tree in all Casqui and raised it again on the sacred Temple Mound. A union of the ancient ways and new beliefs joined in that moment. For in a fashion, the sign stood as a cross, known
among our people as the symbol of the Four Sacred Directions.

  Though unbalanced, the bottom being longer than the other three directions, its unevenness gave the Spanish Cross a sense of balance that seemed right. The height and breadth of this new form of the old symbol commanded a reverence for the power of the Spanish and their god. Up and down the River of Casqui and across its flat lands, no one could look upon the wondrous sight and not be in awe.

  The hush following that first sight swelled to a murmur, ever growing, spreading and mingling. An unimagined sound flowing from so many: singing, praying and wailing. The Son of the Sun raised his sword once again to our Father Sun. The clamor faded before his voice. The interpreter proclaimed his words.

  “I, Hernando de Soto, governor of these lands as decreed by the Emperor and King of Spain, hereby command the people of the Casqui Nation to honor the Cross of our Savior, Jesus Christ, and in my absence pray before it.”

  He returned the sword to his side, stepped down from the black horse and knelt next to the high priest. The priest sang out a third prayer. All the Spaniards and all the Casquis said in one great, united voice, “Amen!”

  One word roared as never before. It soared with hope and vibrated every heart. One word joined two grand circles with one center—the Cross of Casqui. Silently, the great gathering watched the Spanish clerics purify a path from the east side of the mound to the foot of the Cross.

  Alone, the high priest walked the path and knelt at the cross with his back to the plaza. I could see his right arm move up and down and across his shoulders. He placed his palms together, hands in front of his face, and bowed his head. The faint mumbles of a prayer spoken only for the sacred sign floated above the stillness. The high priest leaned forward and kissed the thick cypress trunk.

  Next, Lord de Soto walked the path with Issqui at his side. Together, they knelt. Together, they mimicked the priest’s ritual. No one could hear either prayer, but all saw the King of Casqui kiss the Spanish cross. The Spanish captains followed. Two at a time they knelt and prayed.