“Where are your moccasins?” I asked.
“I lost them in the mud around the new canal.” He snatched a pair from one of the prisoners. “That is how they fled in longboats out to a swamp by way of the channel they had recently dug.”
“What did Lord de Soto proclaim?” I asked.
He loosened the moccasins to fit. “What Lord de Soto always says when he conquers another nation.”
I waited for more.
“The Son of the Sun,” he looked at me, “as you call him, has proclaimed all the lands of Pa-caha now under the rule of the Spanish king, who appointed him governor over all of it.”
“That is his right. The Spanish will rule the Pa-caha lands wisely,” I said.
“The true quest of these conquistadors is not to rule over this nation or any other they have conquered. Each time they conquer, they make speeches of honor and promises of good but seek one thing above all.”
Cooquyi stood. He twisted and flexed one foot then the other, looking for comfort in the strange moccasins.
“What is it? What do they seek?”
He whispered, “Oro et plata ... gold and silver.”
My thought flashed to the brilliant sparkle of morning light reflecting off the king’s polished breastplate as he prayed from the top of the Temple Mound to the first sun of the summer.
I said, “Our king has a breastplate made of —”
Cooquyi pulled me down as he squatted. “Say no more,” he whispered. “Say nothing about the breastplate.”
“But I know King Issqui would gladly give it to the Son of the Sun.”
Cooquyi shook his head. “Taninto of Togo, you understand so little.”
I looked away at the prisoners.
“Listen to me,” he said. “Your king is a wise leader. He has not worn the breastplate in the presence of the Spanish, has he?”
“No.”
Cooquyi stood and looked down at me. “And you should not speak of it.”
“My uncle took out his silver ear-plugs,” I remembered aloud.
“Do not speak of it!” Cooquyi shouted.
The rest of the day, I said nothing. I listened to Cooquyi’s bidding, to the Spanish boasting and quarreling, and to the rumors. It was said Casqui scouts discovered a large island in the Mizzissibizzibbippi River where the people from the main town of Pa-caha had fled. I heard that King Issqui had promised Lord de Soto: more warriors, longboats and canoes with paddlers to ferry the Spanish to the island and help defeat our common enemy.
It would take at least two full days for boats to come from Casqui up the Tyronza River through the Wapanocca Swamp and out onto the Mizzissibizzibbippi River. Another day would be needed to travel upriver to Pa-caha. The Spanish settled into the town and moved all their slaves and animals inside the walls. The plaza filled with horses, tenders, servants, and new prisoners but no other Casquis.
In the hot summer night, victory fires burned outside the walls. Casqui warriors sang and danced. The master’s horses took little notice of it all. Cooquyi slept. I could do neither.
Early the next morning, soldiers took my charge of Pa-caha prisoners.
“To be shackled,” Cooquyi said as he saddled Shadow Wind. He led the prancing gray to Master Diego, who had gathered with a hundred or so horsemen and foot soldiers on the north side of the plaza.
Master mounted Shadow Wind without a word. Cooquyi trotted after him. I followed.
We marched until we reached a bank overlooking the Mizzissibizzibbippi River. The mighty river rushed by, ever worthy of its name: old, big, deep, strong, turbulent, muddy, winding grandfather of all rivers. Whole trees rushed by like sticks in a rain-swollen stream. I could not see the other bank, it was so wide.
We set up camp downriver from the island where the Pa-caha people had retreated. The following morning, Lord de Soto arrived with a hundred and fifty more foot soldiers. King Issqui followed with hundreds of warriors, all waiting for the boats to arrive from Casqui. Captain Antonio Osorio and four other Spaniards boarded the first canoe and headed upriver to scout the island.
Soon, more canoes rounded the bend, escorting twenty-two Casqui longboats, none of which had enough paddlers. They struggled against the swift current. King Issqui signaled them all to the shore.
The larger longboats were too heavy to reach the beach. The Spanish did not trust the river or the small canoes. After much complaining, ten or so Spaniards boarded each longboat with their weapons and twenty fresh paddlers. Master Diego left Shadow Wind with Cooquyi and boarded one of the boats.
Without giving Cooquyi a chance to stop me, I ran into the river. I took a paddler’s position on the next longboat. Once the Spaniards settled in the center, I and the other paddlers pushed the longboat out into the river and climbed aboard.
The loud, normally boastful Spaniards sat silent and rigid as we paddled away from the shore. Few even looked at the swirling brown water that raced by. I could see concern in the faces of the other paddlers as they watched the Spaniards.
King Issqui boarded his longboat while the fleet of canoes filled with eager Casqui warriors. The canoes held back as the slower Spanish-filled longboats led the strange fleet upriver. Lord de Soto, on his black stallion, marched the remaining foot soldiers along the rim above the riverbank.
The island came into view. Along the crest of its beach, driftwood piled up in a wall of tangled limbs surrounding the entire island. The size of the wall would have taken more driftwood than could be found on one island and much longer than two days to build.
Off the east side of the island, a hundred or more Pa-cahas scattered as we approached. Many of them waded into the river and swam for the distant shore or clung to rafts piled with belongings. Old women and mothers with their children scurried down the beach. Captain Osorio turned his canoe toward the Pa-cahas in the river. At the Spaniard’s urging, all the paddlers pulled harder, trying to catch Osorio.
Above the sound of paddles slicing the river, a swoosh of arrows passed overhead. Like water dropping on hot coals, they hit the river, then the boats behind us with a thud or a scream. The Spaniards shouted, “Shields up, shields up.”
A second flock of arrows flew up from behind the island’s driftwood wall. Every paddler thought or shouted, “Turn downriver, turn downriver!”
Arrows fell like hail. The Spaniards suffered no harm, huddled under their shields, shiny hats, and cloaks of metal. They pushed our dead into the river without a word. The Casqui warriors in the canoes behind us were never within range of the arrows and drifted even farther downriver.
Captain Osorio’s canoe, missing three paddlers, glided among the scattered longboats. The captain stood in his canoe and shouted brave, proud-sounding words. The Spaniards in the longboats listened as the paddlers mumbled among themselves. Then Captain Osorio grabbed a paddle and turned his canoe around toward the west side of the island.
With little hesitation or discussion, the Casqui paddlers pulled the longboats about. We paddled close to the shore out of the stronger current and well away from Pa-caha arrows. Issqui and the Casqui-filled canoes followed but still at a distance.
Upriver from an open stretch of beach on the west side of the island, Captain Osorio began shouting orders and arranging the boats by what weapons were onboard. The crossbowmen in the boats closest to the island readied and raised their weapons.
“¡Carga, carga hasta matar!” he shouted and turned his canoe toward the island.
The crossbowmen released their weapons. Paddlers pulled for the beach. Soldiers yelled. A second wave of Spanish arrows flew over our heads as Pa-caha arrows began to strike the longboats.
Two paddlers on my side dropped to the bottom of the boat. One had an arrow through his shoulder.
“Get up!” I yelled at the other. “Paddle or we will miss the beach.”
A Spaniard kicked him out of the way and took his place. He helped turn the boat back toward the island.
We ran aground downriver from most
of the boats. The river had the final say, pulling the back end around. The Spaniards leaped from the side of the boat into the oozing river sand. I slipped over the other side with the remaining paddlers. Using the boat as a shield, we pushed it onto the beach.
The Spanish quickly formed lines on the shore, shields and swords in front, bowmen and arcabuceros behind. Arrows flew in both directions. More Pa-caha than Spanish, still they advanced. As warriors, the conquistadors knew no fear. Blessed by the spirits, they marched ever closer to the driftwood wall that hid the enemy.
Their bravery became my people’s bravery. Waves of Casqui canoes skidded onto the island with a roar of war cries. Just the sight of a hundred conquistadors followed by hundreds of Casquis would defeat any number of Pa-cahas hiding on the island. I grabbed a paddle for a weapon and ran after the Spanish line.
Soldiers carrying arcabuceros moved to the front; behind shields, they formed a double row. The front row knelt. Then the unnatural thunder rumbled across the island over the river. Driftwood splintered; black smoke rose and drifted downriver, but the stench hung over the battle.
Arrows ceased to fly for a moment. The second line of arcabuceros fired. Thunder rolled anew. A row of soldiers rushed the splintered barricade carrying halberdiers: long poles with a metal point at the end, an axe on one side and hooked blade on the other. They hacked and pulled the barrier apart with their weapons.
Shielded swordsmen pushed through the break. The conquistadors spread out and advanced, slashing and jabbing. Pa-cahas fell. Their shorter weapons could inflict no harm against the Spanish halberdier and sword. The Spanish killed with skill, without hesitation. They forced the Pa-cahas back to a second driftwood barrier built inside the outer wall. Blood and bodies covered the brown sand.
Pa-caha arrows flew again, this time from behind the inner wall. Few were wasted on the Spanish; most found their mark among the Casquis. Yet my people charged on across the beach toward the opening, following the courage of the Spanish.
The broken Pa-caha ranks split, fleeing in opposite directions between the outer and inner walls. Hundreds of Casquis flooded through the opening, chasing after them.
“Revenge!” they shouted.
With my paddle raised, I joined the assault, racing past the Spanish as they pulled back to the opening. I shouted as loud as anyone but ran a little slower.
Whoops, war cries, and the pounding of feet and bodies swirled with an ever-growing nameless sound, a great union from unseen voices. The shouts for “revenge” fell away. Courage faltered. Those in front slowed. I stopped. A growl of thousands filled the narrow land between the two walls.
The trap had fallen. The enemy rose up from their hiding places inside the second barrier, ten men for every one Casqui. Those we had been chasing turned back on us. The air filled with panic and arrows.
We ran in every direction, most back to the Spanish, and I the hardest. A boy stumbled in front of me. His head slammed into my right shin. We both fell. I dropped my paddle.
My leg throbbed as I tried to stand. An arrow through his heart, the boy would never stand again. I hobbled and rolled tightly against a log at the bottom of the inner wall.
Out of sight of the Pa-caha bowmen, I watched as they brought down my people one arrow at a time. Some tried to climb the outer barrier, but its limbs had been sharpened. Bodies hung in the tangle like frozen dancers.
I edged back toward the Spanish. Beyond the opening in the driftwood, I saw my people scurrying back to the river, taking any boat they could. Fallen Pa-cahas and Casquis lay side-by-side between me and the conquistadors holding the opening. They could not force another advance with the Casquis in retreat.
Soldiers with arcabuceros formed a line across the opening. Thunder rumbled on command. The Pa-cahas retreated behind their inner wall. As crossbowmen waited for them to rise up, I ran for the other side, trying not to step on the dead.
The arcabuceros flashed again. The crack rang in my ears. Smoke stung my eyes. I jumped over a body, stumbled on the next.
“Venir, niño,” a Spanish voice boomed. The large hand of Master Diego pulled me around behind the barricade. He stood me up. “¡Correr! Run, run! ” he shouted and pushed me toward the beach, straight into another battle.
All the canoes had been taken, most only half-filled with panicked Casquis. Spanish guards fought to keep them from taking the remaining longboats. I turned back to Master Diego, but he and the other conquistadors were backing toward me.
Hundreds of Pa-caha warriors rushed through the gap in the driftwood, taunting and advancing on every step the Spanish took in retreat. With the river at our backs, more Pa-cahas came from around the ends of the island. Soon, thousands of the enemy filled the beach surrounding the small band of Spaniards and a few remaining Casquis.
The conquistadors formed lines at the water’s edge and prepared to fight to the death. They began to shout and taunt back at the Pa-cahas. Then from atop the inner wall, a young man wearing a long red robe and a headdress of black crow feathers raised his arms and shouted.
The Pa-caha lowered their weapons. The Spanish taunts fell silent. No one moved. The river gently lapped against the longboats. One at a time, conquistadors began boarding their boats as the Pa-cahas stood back.
I saw Master Diego. He waved me past the guards to his boat. I helped push it off the beach. He pulled me in. The boat rocked. Everyone shouted and refused to let any more Casquis aboard. Grandfather River carried us peacefully away from the island.
The Casquis who had taken the canoes and abandoned the battle now found the courage to fight over a bounty of Pa-caha rafts floating away from the island.
“Cobardes,” the Spaniards shouted. “Cowards ... cowards.” They stood around me and shouted at my people.
Lord de Soto watched from the riverbank and Issqui from his longboat. When all the longboats filled with Spaniards reached the shore, the king of the Casqui Nation merely drifted out of sight.
Master Diego pulled me aside as Cooquyi brought Shadow Wind to him. I leaned on my injured leg like it was my favorite while he looked me over. He shook his head, mounted his horse, and spoke to Cooquyi.
“Master told me to keep you close,” Cooquyi said before I had a chance to ask. “Your people are now the enemy of Governor de Soto and his conquistadors.”
“Where are we going?”
“Pa-caha.”
Chapter 33
Manaha’s Journey
Ninety-four years after “their” arrival
The last flame flickered and vanished, but the story lingered. Its words and images blurred the world around, holding teller and listener between the night and days past. An ember popped. Ichisi bounced to his feet.
“You must come with the tribe,” he said.
“I am not wanted.” Manaha circled the scar on her cheek. “The tribe does not need the burden of another old woman.”
“You are not old. You harvested the corn when all the others had given up.”
“No one needs me ... or my stories.”
“I do.” Ichisi sat down next to her. “I want to hear them all.”
“Now you speak,” she said. “Before tonight, I told my stories to the shadows and stars. And when the tribe is gone, it will be no different but for one less shadow.”
Ichisi tossed a twig onto the glowing embers. A flame sprouted and danced. Suddenly, he did the same. “I will stay with you,” he said with a skip. “I will stay here until I have heard all of your stories.”
“I have no time for childishness.”
His face hardened. “I am not a child.”
Manaha pointed her finger at him. “You must go with the tribe. I will not let you lose your family.”
“I will not lose them.” He sat down across the fire pit from her. “I am young. I can follow the tribe later.”
“No.” Manaha shook her head. “I will not be a part of it—not your family.”
“I am staying or ... you must come with the tribe.
”
“I am not prepared to leave.” Manaha paced off into the shadows. Over her shoulder, she shouted, “I will not be a burden.”
“You can pack your belongings in the morning,” Ichisi called to her.
Manaha stepped back into the firelight. “I cannot walk with the tribe after what was said in the village-lodge.”
“Then follow along out of sight.” Ichisi smiled. “Our trail will be easy to find.”
Manaha shook her head.
“Walk as far as you can,” he said, “and I will come back to you every night.”
She sat down and studied the scrawny, suddenly brash boy as he shifted from one foot to the other. “You have grown in the days since you first carried wood for me.”
“I will gather wood, bring food, and water, whatever you need. Will you come?” Ichisi’s smile grew as he waited.
“Return in the morning, you will have my answer.”
~~~
The next morning, when the tribe was ready to leave, Ichisi ran to the island. Manaha stood on the far bank with her bedding and bundles over her shoulder. She raised her walking stick and waved it. Ichisi jumped and waved then leaped his way back to the tribe.
Manaha lingered, gazing over the island, another home she would never see again. She reached far into her pouch and rubbed the small, white arrowhead as she purposely avoided the burned village. Her grandfather taught her long ago that painful sights tarnish cherished memories.
Smoke from the smoldering fires hung over the creek, smelling of burned earth. The morning was strangely quiet with no one around but her. All of the Hachia canoes had left before the tribe in a race to meet them on the bank of the Akamsa River in three days.
Manaha gripped her walking stick and waded into the shallows of Long Creek for the last time. Ichisi was right. The tribe would be easy to follow. On the other side of the creek, a wide trail rolled through the thick undergrowth. The brush thinned, hillsides rose above the trees on both sides. The valley narrowed to a stream and its meadows, most of which would be wet but for the lack of rain. As the hills fell away and the forest opened, the meadows spread out. Manaha caught a glimpse of the tribe in the distance.
Storykeeper Page 20