Storykeeper

by Daniel A Smith

  “Rest, my son. Diego de Guzman will not be pleased with me if you are not better tomorrow.”

  “Master Diego?” I pushed up. “Where is Cooquyi?”

  Cleric Francisco bowed his head and began to mumble a strange chant.

  “Where is he?” I demanded, “I must see him.”

  “Your friend is dead,” Friar de Soto said.

  “He is not dead,” I told them. “He is not dead!”

  “Yes, my son, he has passed. Cleric Francisco and I bandaged Cooquyi’s arms and cared for him. But the next day when you were so ill, he walked out into the swamp.” The friar placed his hands on my shoulders. “With no will to live or hands for fighting, Cooquyi perished in the murky swamp.”

  I rolled over and covered my head with my only hand.

  Morning light spread across the camp when Friar Luis woke me. “I think it is time that you tried to walk,” he said and helped me to my feet.

  I felt unsteady, off balance.

  Around us, slaves packed away the camp while the Spanish assumed their marching positions. I followed the six priests with my arm flopping, uncertain without a hand to guide its purpose.

  Late in the day, I heard Master Diego’s laugh. “Ardilla,” he called out as he rode up on Shadow Wind. He laughed again.

  I bowed my head and smiled.

  “Why does he call you ‘chipmunk’?” Friar Luis asked.

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Bless you, my son.” The friar greeted my master as an old friend.

  While they talked, he studied me. I stood straight, both arms behind my back. Master Diego galloped off.

  The friar turned to me, “Your master says you are to return to your duties tending Shadow Wind as soon as you are stronger.”

  “Friar Luis, how would the Spanish say, I am ready?”

  He frowned at me.

  “I am ready?” I asked again.

  “Yo estoy listo ... Yo ... estoy ... listo,” he said.

  I mimicked him as best as I could. He listened, repeated and nodded on my third attempt. Without another word for the friar or the other priests who had cared for me, I tucked my bandaged hand under my right arm and ran after the dark-gray horse.

  “Yo estoy listo, Master Diego,” I called until I caught up with him. He waved me to Shadow Wind’s side as he took his place at the front of the expedition. The main town of Quiguate lay in the distance. It had no walls or canal around it, yet appeared much larger than Casqui or even Pa-caha.

  The first day the expedition entered his territory, the King of Quiguate sent gifts of smoked meat. Today, no one came out to greet Lord de Soto. He called a halt to the march. We waited while horses danced, riders studied the town, and foot soldiers readied their weapons.

  The Spanish priests moved to the front of the army. Most passed by me by with little more than a nod. Friar de Soto stopped.

  “Bless you, my son,” he said while the other priests arranged themselves behind Lord de Soto’s black stallion. “It is important to my brothers that men of God are present at these events of first encounter.”

  The friar paused to watch a band of horsemen charge toward the town with swords drawn. Then he whispered, “But the governor has yet to ask for counsel.”

  The disciplined stampede of horses and men disappeared into the thick cluster of lodges and sheds.

  “How can a main town not have walls around it?” I wondered.

  “This may be the largest town we have seen in our two years of travel,” the friar said.

  A horseman galloped back from Quiguate, shouting as he approached.

  Friar Luis translated for me, “It is empty. The people are gone. The Temple Mound, the plaza, all the lodges are empty.”

  The friar listened as the report continued then said, “The town is divided by a small river. The horsemen spotted women and children on the other side, but they could find no means to cross over.”

  Lord de Soto dismissed the scout and motioned the expedition forward.

  “Why would they run away?” I asked.

  “Some nations run from Spanish conquistadors. Some fight to the death, but none have welcomed us like the people of Casqui.” Friar Luis de Soto patted my proud shoulders before hurrying off to march with the other priests.

  The path into Quiguate was wide and without gates. Large, round lodges spread out on both sides. Standing poles with carved faces lined the road through the town to the largest plaza I had ever seen. At the far edge, a Temple Mound stretched almost as wide and stood higher than the tallest tree around.

  The Little Muddy, the river of my homeland, flowed behind the mound, a little wider but no less muddy. Across the river, smaller lodges in the other half of the town spread up and down the far bank. A bridge over the river had recently been torn down. Two support timbers were all that remained standing on our side.

  Lord de Soto charged up the Temple Mound on his black stallion. From the top he could see all of Quiguate both sides of the river and beyond. He raised his sword and stood in his saddle.

  Hernando de Soto proclaimed himself Governor of Quiguate and all its territories, using the same words he had shouted from the Temple Mound of Pa-caha. As if they had never heard the speech before, the Spaniards shouted and clanged their weapons.

  Master Diego turned Shadow Wind away from the plaza, toward the river, and I followed. His two new horse tenders which he won in a game of chance had already set up camp. Both the new tenders spoke Spanish, but neither understood me nor I them. They knew how to care for Shadow Wind as well as Cooquyi and left little for a one-handed horse tender to do.

  The next day, I explored the town. I found Friar Luis and the other friars north of the plaza on a low mound. They worked to rebuild a large clan lodge. A portion of its walls were knocked down by soldiers the day before.

  After greetings, Friar Luis asked, “Would you like to help?”

  I held out my arm and pointed where my hand had once been.

  “We are going to be in Quiguate for a while,” he said.

  I had heard the same rumors and nodded.

  “Could you teach me more of your language?” the friar asked.

  I nodded again. The rest of that day and several to follow, we traded work and words: Casqui for Spanish and Spanish for Casqui. Working with the gentle priests gave me the time to learn new and different ways to survive with only one hand.

  When they finished work on the lodge, the holy men painted a white cross next to the door. They cleansed the old clan lodge with sacred smoke, blessed it with prayers, and named it, Iglesia de Santo Francis, Church of St Francis.

  After the ceremony, Friar Rodrigo remarked, “We should have done this for the people of Casqui.”

  They all agreed.

  “A proper church,” he said, “should stand where we raised the Cross of Our Lord and Savior.”

  “True,” Friar Luis said. “Of all the people we have encountered, we have found no greater friends or more passionate believers than in the nation of Casqui.”

  A young solider raced up from the river. “Friar Luis,” he shouted, “they are burning the town!” Behind him, a spread of dark smoke rose above the trees. The soldier gasped for breath and said, “The governor gave orders to burn the town across the river.”

  “Why?” Several of the priests asked at once.

  “Last night, Governor de Soto spotted a large party of Indians moving in among the lodges on the other side.”

  Luis looked away. “There were women and children in some of those lodges,” he mumbled. “What have they done? What are we to do? ”

  “We will do as the Scripture teaches.” Friar Juan Gallegos raised both hands to the sky. “We will pray to our Heavenly Father for his blessings of mercy on those lost heathens.”

  “We should do more,” Luis grumbled.

  Friar Gallegos placed a hand on his shoulder. “Kneel, Friar Luis de Soto. You cannot control the actions of the governor, even though he is your kin, but yo
u can pray for the strength to understand and to obey.”

  The lodges burned all night. The next day, a party of warriors in bright headdresses and elders in cloaks of fine-colored cloth appeared at the edge of the forest. Governor de Soto ordered their safe passage to the Temple Mound.

  When the King of Quiguate arrived, Lord de Soto accepted his gifts then took him prisoner. De Soto’s guards quickly surrounded the rest of the party and escorted them away.

  The king was kept confined to the top of the Temple Mound while Lord de Soto questioned him about the surrounding territories. The Quiguate people had no gold. To satisfy the ransom payments demanded by the governor, they brought copper plates, vessels, and jewelry along with food and treated skins. The king appeared reverent and obedient, arranging for new and larger offerings every day. Even so, Lord de Soto grew distrustful.

  One morning while he walked with Lord de Soto toward the Council House, the king of Quiguate suddenly turned and ran. He out-paced the guards, jumped into the river, and swam to the other side. The far bank filled with warriors shouting and sending arrows after any Spaniard in range.

  By the time the conquistadors crossed the river, the Quiguate warriors had fled. Horsemen and foot soldiers chased them through the forest to the edge of a swamp. The warriors waded in and escaped. None of the horses or any of the soldiers would enter the mucky black water.

  That night, Governor de Soto learned that a captain who had once talked of mutiny refused to stand his watch. The whole town heard the governor’s call.

  “Soldiers and captains! Soldiers and captains!” He shouted until every Spaniard not on duty had gathered in the plaza and looked to him. In the moonless night, de Soto stood on the balcony of the king’s lodge with a torch in one hand and his sword in the other.

  “What is this that I hear?” he asked. “Do those conspiracies of returning to Spain or proceeding to Mexico still prevail? So that now, on the pretext of being an officer of the Royal Guard, you refuse to take the watch which has fallen to your lot.”

  He pointed his sword at the crowd below and shouted louder, “What honor do you think they will pay to you when they have learned as much? Be ashamed of yourselves. We all must serve his majesty.”

  Lord de Soto raised his sword to the sky, “None shall presume to absent himself.” He slashed the air and yelled, “I will strike off his head!”

  Thrusting the sword forward as if poking someone in the chest, he proclaimed, “All under my command be not deceived, for as long as I live, no one is to leave this land before we have conquered and settled it or all have died in the attempt.”

  The next morning, I heard Friar Luis talking to Master Diego. I had learned enough Spanish from the priests to understand most of the words.

  “What are you saying?” Master Diego asked. “Is it the soul of a man such as me that causes you such concern?”

  I moved in closer.

  “No, my friend,” the friar said, “your reasons are confused, but your intent is good.” He lowered his voice. “It is for the soul and mind of my cousin, our Governor Hernando de Soto that I worry.”

  Master Diego stepped back and shook his head.

  “You know,” Luis continued, “that Hernando left behind our greatest friend and ally since we landed in Florida. The gentle people of Casqui welcomed us into their land, freely fed and clothed our battered bodies. They gathered in the thousands to witness the raising of the Cross of Our Lord and Savior. The governor abandoned them without a church to grow their faith or a force to withstand the revenge of Pa-caha.”

  The holy man leaned in closer. “The governor is battling the devil and losing. The conversion and commitment of the Casqui people are the only acts Hernando and even the rest of us can hold up as Christian. There is no gold, no silver, or riches. There is nothing else which we can carry back to Spain for our own glory and the glorification of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Diego took another step back. “Too many good men have died for our mission to fail.”

  “And there have been too many acts committed for which both of us are ashamed. I see it in your eyes. You know, if Hernando loses the battle for his soul and his mind, we will all be damned.”

  “What has this to do with me, Father?” Diego asked.

  “You have in your service one who is loyal to you, yet is a son of Casqui and can carry a message to them of Christian faith.”

  “I will obtain permission from the governor,” he said. “By this act, Hernando de Soto can begin the redemption of his wayward soul.”

  Later that day, Friar Luis sent for me. He removed a small wooden cross that hung around his neck. “Take this crucifix to your King Issqui,” he said, “with a message from Lord de Soto.”

  He spoke slowly and waited for me to repeat each phase. “Our sincerest prayers and thoughts are with the Nation of Casqui. It is my hope that this message finds you and your people in good and bountiful times. Be diligent in your faith. Pray each day to the cross for guidance and for your needs. Believe and know that the men of Spain are your friends and will return in time.”

  “Can you remember all of that?” Friar Luis asked.

  “It will be as though you spoke it.”

  “Good, my son,” he said. “But know that Governor de Soto is determined to march northwest for the mountains in hopes of finding gold or silver. Tomorrow, preparations will begin. It will be a day or so before we leave Quiguate. You have at most three days to reach Casqui and return. After that, you will have to find us on the trail to Coligua.”

  With the message in my head and a cross on my chest, I ran. I ran for Casqui. I ran for Saswanna. I ran until balance found my stride. Hand, no hand, my arms swung once again in rhythm.

  After sunset, I came upon a burned village at the edge of Quiguate territory. My strength had long ago given way. Determination alone carried me through the darkness to the base of a great hickory tree where I spent the night.

  Well after the cool of the morning, I passed the first and second villages in Casqui territory. No one was working in the growing fields. I saw no movement and no reason to stop until I reached my village of Togo.

  Its fields were empty too. As I trotted into the stillness, an uneasiness grew. My pace slowed. In the distance, I heard drumming and raced into the village past bare lodges and cold fire pits.

  The home of my mother’s family for three generations stood lifeless, beckoning to no one. Its door seemed so small and my fears so large. I backed away, then I saw the burial mounds, two of them next to the lodge.

  I stumbled over another as I turned toward the slow drumbeat. Quohaka, a village elder—too elder some said—sat at the edge of the plaza, beating the weeping drum.

  “Quohaka,” I asked, “where are my mother and father?”

  Without ever looking up, he struck the drum again.

  “Where is my family? Where is everyone?”

  He swung, and I grabbed the beater.

  “What happened?” I shouted at the madness in his eyes.

  “Gone ... most have gone,” he said. “All are gone, except for the sick. It is for them that I beat the drum.” He pulled loose and struck it hard.

  “Where did they go?” I grabbed his arm. “Answer me, now.”

  “Those that could,” he said, “left for Casqui.”

  I released him.

  He struck the drum again and began to chant, “Take away the curse, all who are mighty. Take away the curse.”

  He would probably die where he sat. I turned my back to him and my face toward Casqui, with hope for my family and a painful longing for Saswanna. I ran hard past the next village and down onto the dried shoreline of the Little Muddy River just below Casqui. The river had narrowed since I had walked along its bank with Saswanna.

  My heart ached, and questions whirled like the brown muddy water. Where is my family? Is Saswanna well? What about my brothers? Who is buried next to our lodge?

  Rays of golden light streaked through the tops of
the trees on the far bank. I rounded a bend of the barren riverbank. There stood the answer, the hope, rising above all—the Cross of Casqui. I knelt. I had learned the motions. I could even recite the Spanish words.

  I prayed as they would and believed all would be well inside the walls of Casqui. The power of the cross would make it so. But I could not remember a time when there were no boats or canoes pulled onto the riverbank below the south gate. When I approached the gate, a guard stepped into the opening and pulled his bowstring taut.

  “It is Taninto of Togo, nephew of Tecco Tassetti, Wise-One of Casqui,” I called out.

  “In honor of your uncle,” he said, “you may enter, but you will not find him here.”

  I stopped. He looked away. I waited.

  “Your uncle is dead,” he said.

  “Uncle Tecco? He is dead?” I stumbled.

  The guard grabbed me.

  “Do you know my mother and father?” I asked.

  He shrugged. I pushed past and ran for my uncle’s lodge. I kept hearing myself ask, Uncle Tecco? He is dead? I slowed to a walk then stopped all together. “He is dead.”

  “Saswanna!” I shouted, turned around and ran.

  She was working in the garden next to her lodge and looked up as if she sensed my approach. She ran toward me, calling my name, “Taninto, Taninto.”

  We embraced. I held my left arm behind my back. She hugged me with both of hers and squeezed ever harder. With her face pressed against my chest, she cried. I smiled.

  She noticed the gift the friar had placed around my neck. We both turned toward the cross, standing so exalted atop the Temple Mound. For a moment, I experienced the same warmth I had felt the first time Father Sun set behind the Cross of Casqui.

  “So much has happened since you left,” Saswanna said softly.

  “Do you know anything about my family—my mother, father, and my two brothers?”

  “No, I know nothing. So many people have died from the Black Sleep. It is terrible. I prayed for your safe return every morning in the manner that the Spaniards taught us, no matter what my father said.” She held my one hand in both of hers.

  “And here you are,” she said and tugged at my left arm. “What do you have behind your back?”