Storykeeper

by Daniel A Smith

  On the plaza the noblest of Casqui’s leaders formed pairs behind the last Spaniards. Thousands of voices rose and fell but never faded throughout the long ceremony. I stayed beside Uncle Tecco until we reached the top of the mound. People covered the far bank, spread up and down the River of Casqui, and out into the growing fields.

  Uncle Tecco grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the Cross. Father Sun slipped in and out of the clouds, casting a shadow down the purified path. My uncle did not say anything, but I could feel him watching me. I knelt as he did; as I saw the Spanish do. I repeated their motions. I put my hands together. I bowed my head, but I did not pray.

  What could I say? What should a boy just turned a man say before the Cross of Casqui? The high priest had shown the Casqui people what to do, but no one had taught us what to say. I stared up at the great cypress that seemed to reach the racing clouds.

  Uncle Tecco leaned forward and kissed the cross. I did the same and jumped to my feet before he had a chance to pull me up. I do not remember crossing the mound or going down the stairs. I found myself wandering about the plaza dizzy and dazed, having seen, felt and heard more than I could grasp.

  Lord de Soto, Son of the Sun, stood at the top of the Temple Mound. The edge of the clouds hiding the sun began to glow as the interpreter shouted, “I have been most humbled by the manner in which you have received the Cross of Jesus Christ. People of Casqui cherish and honor that which I have given you. Worship as you were shown and receive the blessing of the one true Father.”

  As two slaves led his horse down the side of the mound, Lord de Soto descended the stairs without further regard. The priests walked behind, chanting. The remaining Spaniards followed in no particular order or rank. Soon, only Casquis remained on the plaza.

  All eyes turned from the departing Spaniards to King Issqui, the lone figure atop the mound with the cross over his right shoulder and the Temple of Ancients off to his left. Issqui slowly gazed over the people of his nation. They looked back for words of meaning, a speech worthy of such a moment.

  The King of Casqui lowered his eyes and simply said, “Amen.”

  The people responded, “Amen.”

  He bowed to the cross and walked to his lodge. The emotions of the day were like a fleeting dream that I desperately wanted to hold onto. I had felt a closeness to the Creator and my people that I did not want to lose.

  I remained on the plaza with others, clinging to the fading bliss. Wise-ones and elders climbed the mound and disappeared into the Council House. Messengers were called. Runners dispatched while fresh-cut cane was brought to the mound.

  On that wondrous day, the sun slipped below the clouds just behind the consecrated sign while a cane-fence was hastily built around it. Too late, for the long shadow created by Father Sun and the Cross of Casqui had escaped. Its spirit had flown down the mound steps, across the plaza, over the walls, and out across the land. Nine-Rivers Valley could never be the same.

  Chapter 24

  Manaha’s Journey

  Ninety-four years after “their” arrival

  The storyteller was once again alone with the night. Her fire burned low, flickering in and around the images of her small tribe and the throngs of hopeful people gathered around a sacred cross. Her head nodded, sleep rousted burdens for a moment. Clinging to the victory, Manaha rolled onto her bedding and slept.

  She woke early, rested and lighthearted. Trouble stirred moments later—their trouble, her trouble, troubles from the past, of the future. She did not feel like eating or bathing. With her lightning-stick for support, Manaha crossed the creek and wandered off to the south.

  Land around the village lay mostly flat but here and there, hills rose up steep and round, nothing like the mountains where Manaha grew up. Across the creek from the village, a rocky bluff stretched far above the trees. She had often wanted to climb those bluffs. It seemed a good day to turn her thoughts and steps toward that quest.

  Morning mist lay heavy on the thick undergrowth below the bluff. Manaha pushed through, parting spider webs, and knocking off the dew with her walking stick. She did not stop until she reached the first overhang, a shelter that had been used many times before. Not the top of the bluff, but it would do as well, Manaha told herself as she sat down. The height, with its view of mountain peaks to the north, stirred longings for her grandfather and his lost valley.

  Manaha slid to the right. She could see most of the village and part of the plaza. It seemed more distant than just across the creek, but she could still hear their cries and feel their despair. Her stories did not bring the sickness Ta-kawa had predicted, but neither had they helped the tribe through these sad days.

  Squinting at the morning sun rising toward the treetops, Manaha knew that it would soon be time to enter the village-lodge and hear the words of the Tulla warriors. She started down the hillside at the bottom she turned back to the bluff. “I will climb to the top another day,” she said. As she made her way through the brush, she began to wonder, would they let her inside the lodge? Should I speak?

  A storyteller must speak, she thought.

  By the time she reached the plaza, most everyone had already gathered around the village-lodge. Manaha watched the anxious struggle for their proper place. Puffed up with his new respect, Gasapa stood grim-faced at the front, facing the crowd. At midday, he pulled back the elk skin that had covered the opening ever since the outsiders had arrived. He motioned Ta-kawa’s clan in first. A rush followed. Who should enter, and when, overwhelmed Gasapa. He soon left his post to the bickering.

  Manaha kept her distance until the last person entered. She slipped in and stood next to the opening. It looked nothing like the place where she had spent so many lonely nights. The air smelled of fresh paint, sweet grass—and fear.

  She knew everyone, but not the faces they wore. Dread and grief forced the difference. Some, casting respect aside, climbed onto the benches along the walls to see over those who refused to sit. Squeezed side-by-side, old men, women, and the children waited in silence.

  On a platform opposite the door where Manaha stood, Casinca sat alone on the council bench of the elders. The Tulla warriors sat either side on newly made benches. The few remaining men of importance in the village stood behind them. Ta-kawa, larger and nobler than all in his long mantle of eagle feathers, stood between Casinca and the young Tulla warrior.

  In front of the platform, fire danced about the cypress logs laid out in the four sacred directions. Only a thin haze of smoke swirled up toward the hole in the center of the thatched dome roof.

  “It is a bad sign,” Manaha mumbled, remembering the lazy wisp rise from her burnt home in Taninto’s valley. She started to leave.

  “Proud people of Hachia,” Casinca called out as he stood.

  Manaha turned back.

  “I am here because I am too old to hunt,” Casinca said. “I’m an elder by misfortune with few other merits, but that I have always accepted my duty.”

  He stepped to the side. “The council bench is empty. I stand alone with the charge of speaking to you and for you.” He glanced around the lodge. “The spirits have not been good to our village. Our children are few, the growing fields have withered. The hunting grounds are empty and our men taken hostage.”

  Casinca turned to the older Tulla. “As a tribe, we came to this place,” he spread his arms, palms down, “to find peace and build a new village.” With palms up, he turned to the younger Tulla warrior. “As a man of honor, I know you understand that our hunting party did not intend to take from your people.”

  Ta-kawa stepped between Casinca and the Tulla. “I speak for the hunting party,” he shouted. “Hazaar is dead. I alone know of its intent and its misfortunes.”

  The people shifted. Manaha straightened. Casinca sat down.

  “It was Hazaar,” Ta-kawa continued, “who led our hunting party. He alone chose to cross the river.”

  Ta-kawa walked to the edge of the platform. “We did kill a few deer and fo
und fresh signs of buffalo.” He hung his head. “We were led to camp in a narrow valley on Tulla land.” Ta-kawa swelled up and said, “Now men are dead, even Casinca’s own son.”

  He let the murmurs grow and spread. “By the actions,” he shouted, “and words of the one you see standing before you, the rest of the hunting party is alive. Your husbands and your sons were saved.” Ta-kawa raised a clenched fist as people shouted and called his name.

  “A fearless band of Tulla warriors surprised our guards and overwhelmed the hunting party. Every enemy of the Tulla nation knows and respects them as fierce fighters.” Ta-kawa turned and bowed slightly to the two guests. “I have come to know them as giving friends.”

  The younger Tulla stood. He returned every glare with a sneer. “I am Hais,” he said through their interpreter-slave. “I am a warrior, great among a nation of warriors. I fear no man nor have I any concern for a village of farmers. Your men were captured with so little effort. It should bring shame to all gathered here.”

  He let his words hang unchallenged. “I did not come to give you praise or hope. I am here to speak for the warriors of Tulla. Our way is to hunt upon our land and war against any who would come to take it. Our grandfathers fought the Spanish as did their grandfathers long before in our ancient homeland.”

  “The way of the Tulla warrior is not to offer peace to those who trod upon our land, but our leaders believe that for the good of the tribe, we must forgive your invasion. Should you prove the sacrifice misplaced, our revenge will be completed. I, Hais, speak the truth.” He sat down.

  The older emissary from Tulla rose. He stepped off the platform and walked around the sacred fire for all to see. Those who would allow, he looked them straight in the eyes. Manaha gazed past the shape and size of his head and saw his compassion.

  “I, Xitude, offer my gratitude for the hospitality and gifts we have received from the good people of Hachia.” He bowed. “I am not young like my Tulla brother, full of anger. I am old like your fallen Hazaar, full of regrets.”

  He circled the fire again. “I come to speak for the Tulla High Order. Long ago, the Spanish drove our ancestors out of our ancient homeland far to the south. The ancestors settled into the valleys and plains on the other side of the Akamsa River. The land nurtured and healed our people. The streams flowed fast and clear, fruit and nut trees grew plentiful, and game roamed without concern.

  ”The people of Tulla grew to revere the land and swore to never again be chased out. To this day, our warriors take an oath to fight till death anyone who trespasses upon our land.”

  Xitude looked at Ta-kawa. “No man may enter the hunting grounds of Tulla without giving honor to the ancient ones and seeking their permission. The men of Hachia have broken this hallowed law.”

  His face hardened. “Many of my tribe wishes death upon them!” he shouted.

  If horror had a form, had a hand, it touched all in the village-lodge at that moment.

  “People of Hachia know this Tulla is a proud nation, proud to have survived wars and famines. We have fought, learned from and defeated our enemies. Two winters past, the coughing sickness took many of our bravest and wisest. Our young warriors are strong, but there are fewer than needed to hunt buffalo.”

  He stepped back upon the platform, nodded to Casinca, glared at Ta-kawa then looked into the faces of the Hachia. “I know that you had a small early crop and that winds ruined your summer corn. We all know that to survive the coming winter, the Hachia people need meat.”

  Xitude opened his arms. “Let us come together in peace; two nations with one will to survive. Cross the river, join the Tulla tribe, and all will be forgiven. Save your men. Save your children.”

  The young Tulla stood and handed Xitude a bundle. Xitude carefully unwrapped the skin of an animal as black as night and exposed a long pipe. He held it high for all to see. A thin stem, as long as a forearm painted with stripes of red and yellow, pierced the back of a man down on one knee, and shouldering a large bowl of green jade.

  “I hold the ancient Pipe of Tulla, which my people offer in peace,” Xitude shouted. “Together we can grow stronger.”

  After a moment, he lowered the pipe. “Should you decide not to join our nation, the men of your hunting party will be killed or hobbled for use as slaves.” He pointed to their interpreter who could hardly walk because the tendons on the back of his heels had been cut. “This is not good for either nation.”

  He handed the pipe to Hais, who returned it to the black pelt. “We are but guests in this House of Council. The discussion and the decision are not ours.” Hais stepped off the platform as Xitude continued. “We will return tomorrow at midday to extend, one time only, the Pipe of Tulla.”

  The old man bowed and walked to the door. The younger warrior followed with less dignity and far more vanity. A breathless hush lingered until they had left the lodge.

  Talk began and grew louder.

  “Silence!” Ta-kawa shouted.

  Casinca stood up behind him. “Everyone who wishes to speak must step before the council fire. All others hold your tongue and listen to your kinsmen.”

  Many came forward. Every word was heard. After all the talk, the crying and pleading, there could only be one answer.

  “The people of Hachia must make peace with the Tulla Nation,” Casinca declared. “We must leave our village and become people of the buffalo.”

  Manaha stepped in front of the opening before anyone could leave.

  “I speak for the last time before the tribe of Hachia.” Manaha’s voice rang with such authority, many did not recognize her. “I cannot disagree with the decision, though for myself, I will remain behind. I do not want for support, argument or companionship. I wish only to have my words heard.”

  A few grumbled, but she could not be denied.

  “The Tulla path is different from that of our own,” she said. “You will have to learn their ways to survive. But no one should forget what it means to be Hachia. Keep within your heart the old ways and when time will allow, tell the ancient stories to your children.”

  Manaha looked at those around her. She felt good about her decision to stay. “Children of Nine-Rivers,” she said, “May good fortune guide your path.” She stepped aside and studied the faces that passed, wanting to keep as many in her memory as she could.

  That night, alone, with only a small story-fire, Manaha hoped for any listeners. It was well after dark before footsteps moved in behind her. She said nothing, stood, and circled the fire without a chant. When the three shavings of lightning wood had turned to black embers, she spoke. “For the only listener in all of Hachia, I will tell a story.”

  Chapter 25: Woman of the Falls

  Nanza’s Journey

  Forty-nine years after “their” arrival

  When I was young and called Nanza, I knew no companion other than the old man. Now he said the wild puppy sleeping next to me was my friend. I was not certain what “my friend” meant. I knew what I wanted it to mean, someone I could talk to. Someone I could trust. Taninto coughed as he rolled up his bedding. I knew, he was not that friend.

  “Come on, Little Pup,” I said. “You have wiggled and whimpered all night.” I untied the rope Taninto had put on her the night before. “It is time to get up and run with the sun.”

  Patches of brown dotted the blanket of snow. The newly green forest now glistened white. The air smelled fresh and cold. Taninto hunched close to the fire. Little Pup bounded toward him, but he pushed her away and coughed again, deeper this time.

  Little Pup raced across the field of snow as quickly as her long wobbly legs would allow. She stopped and waited for me. I chased after her. She chased me. We ran until I could run no more. I scooped her up and sat down on a rock jutting out of the snow. Little Pup found a comfortable spot on my lap and closed her eyes. I found an unexpected comfort, cradling a young life.

  When we returned to the campsite, Taninto was leaning over the fire, wrapped in his cloak. I said not
hing as I took a bowl of the cold-meal porridge he had prepared. Little Pup and I shared.

  “Wash the bowls,” he said in a weak, raspy voice.

  I tugged on the puppy’s ear. “Do you know where we are going?” I asked.

  “Use clean snow,” he grumbled as he kicked some over the fire.

  “We are going home ... Going to my home,” I sang while Little Pup jumped and bounced around me.

  “It is time,” Taninto said and walked away. I put the clean bowls in my back-bundle and followed, carrying my friend. The snow melted as the day wore on, except on the western slopes and in the hollow of the furrows that twisted and snaked down many of the hillsides.

  “Who do you think cut those ridges?” I turned to ask Little Pup, who had stopped three or four paces behind to lick the snow. A trail ran from her to me—spots across the white snow. Red spots. Blood.

  “Grandfather!” I screamed.

  He ran toward me but stopped. “Raise your skirt,” he said.

  Blood ran down the inside of both my legs. “What is it? What is wrong?” I reached out.

  He backed away.

  “Nanza, do not worry,” he said. “As you have wished, you are now a woman.”

  “No! Grandfather, help me.”

  He shook his head. “The bleeding is a most natural event for all women. When your time came, I had hoped you would be among the women of Palisema.” He took another step back. “A man must not be close to a woman during this time. It is our way. It has always been our way”

  “What do I do?” Little Pup sniffed around my legs. I swatted at her. “Go away, dog. Leave me alone.”

  “Tell me what to do.” I stared down at the bloodstained snow. “Help me, Grandfather.”

  Taninto turned away then back. “There is a place close by where you can rest.” He spun around again. “Follow me,” he said over his shoulder.