Storykeeper

by Daniel A Smith

  “Saswanna ...” I stammered and let her pull it free.

  Her face twisted. I stepped back, but she held onto my arm. She lifted my mutilated hand to her perfect face. Gently she pressed it to her cheek. Tears rolled down onto my stub, uniting our spirits. Death and sickness on all sides, we knew nothing but peace in that moment.

  Suddenly, Saswanna was ripped from my grasp. Azaha, her father, wrapped her in his arms.

  “You Spanish devil,” he shouted. “You dare to return after what your masters have done to Casqui?”

  “There is no greater friend of Casqui than Lord de Soto,” I said and waved the small cross. “The Son of the Sun sent this lowly servant with a gift and a message for King Issqui.”

  “King Issqui is dead!” Azaha yelled as others began to gather around me.

  A woman cried out, “Black Sleep took my sons.”

  Another screamed, “A Pa-caha war party killed all of my family.”

  “Look at his back!” someone shouted. “He carries the mark of the Spanish curse, the sickness!”

  “Taninto!” Saswanna screamed.

  Her father clamped his long, thin hand over her mouth and pulled her back. I lived with that last image of Saswanna for the rest of my life.

  Her call was a warning and a good-bye. Naffja grabbed me from behind. My arm without a hand slipped through both of his. I could feel and hear things being thrown at me.

  I ran toward the wall and away from the lodges of the Red Fox clan. Both of Saswanna’s brothers chased me to the old wart tree that she had shown me summers before. I climbed the tree faster with one hand than I ever had done with two.

  Across the limb and over the wall, I dropped to the small elm below. I had done it many times and did not hesitate. The brothers did, and that gave me time to get to the river before they reached the ground.

  I raced across the cracked riverbed and waded in. Without looking back, I swam for the other side where the river deepened and pushed up against a wall of crumbling, dried mud. I tried to crawl up the bank but slid down and back into the river.

  An arrow splashed into the water somewhere behind me. A growing crowd at the river’s edge cheered, but no one came in after me.

  “Death to the Spanish!” they shouted.

  Grabbing onto a root growing out of the bank, I pulled myself up. Another arrow splashed against the water. I wrapped my arm around the root and reached for the top of the bank.

  Almost without a sound, an arrow appeared next to me, sunk to its feathers in the dark brown mud. I lunged up. The necklace snagged on the root. The small wooden cross silently, slowly slid down into the river. I wiggled onto the bank and rolled out of sight.

  “Death to the Spanish! Death to the Spanish!” they shouted.

  Above all the shouting and whooping, I heard someone calling, “Hear me. Hear me.”

  I could see him backing up the embankment. The crowd turned to him. Even at that distance, I recognized Saswanna’s father and remember his words.

  “The Spanish took our gifts and left us with war and Black Sleep,” Azaha shouted at the crowd. “They took our pride, dignity, and honor, and in return, gave us a cross.”

  He pointed up at it. “It may be holy and honorable to the Spanish, but for the people of Casqui, it is the sign of sickness and deceit.”

  The crowd chanted, “Death to the Spanish. Death to the Spanish.”

  “Burn it before it destroys us all!” Azaha shouted back.

  With the Spanish Cross flaming like a giant torch behind me, I ran from my homeland, carrying nothing but a curse. My people, save Saswanna, hated me, and all feared my curse. I had nowhere to go but back to the Spanish. I swore then never to return to the land of my ancestors.

  Chapter 40: One Circle Ends

  Nanza’s Journey

  Forty-nine years after “their” arrival

  The teller became the story. The great chasm between past and present faded. What once was now is. Manaha is Nanza, and Nanza shouted, “Finish the story! I want to hear it all.”

  Taninto hung his head and said nothing. I glanced over the lowlands, trying to grasp all that I had heard in his many stories.

  “Nanza, the stories I told you were to help you understand Nine-Rivers Valley,” he said. “What happened to me between leaving Casqui and finding you as a child is of little importance where you are going.”

  “Then there is more,” I said as I glared across the boulder. “Tell me the rest.”

  “I returned to the Spanish,” he said, closing his lips and puffing his cheeks in and out. “I returned to the service of my master as I had promised.”

  I studied the gap between our boulders and waited.

  “I ... I followed Master Diego de Guzman through four seasons, traveling from Quiguate north to Coligua, back south through Calpista to Palisema and onto the province of Cayas.

  “We crossed Akamsa River into the land of Tulla. There the people tattooed their lips black and spoke a language unknown to any of the interpreters. Both men and women fought the conquistadors with a rage that seemed generations in the making. Using long poles, they stood against the Spanish horsemen, knocking many riders to the ground and killing some of the horses.

  “Friar Luis began to avoid me, and Master Diego grew more troubled every day. After the attack on the town of Anilco, where the Spanish massacred every male from young boys to old men, he lost his laugh.

  “Not long after, a scouting party captured the daughter of the King of the Chuguate Nation. Master Diego was taken by the beauty of the young woman. Over the next two days, he wagered and lost two of his horses in a Spanish game of cards to win the woman of his desire.

  “Diego de Guzman renounced his loyalty to Governor de Soto and his service to the King of Spain. That night, riding Shadow Wind with the king’s daughter, he left the people of Spain forever, and I followed.”

  “Where did you go?” I asked to break the silence.

  “We took shelter in Chuguate in the king’s own lodge. Lord de Soto sent soldiers, assuming my master had been taken against his will. They brought with them parchment and paint so that if Diego did not return, he could explain his actions and intent in symbols that only the Spanish understood.

  “Master Diego took the parchment, then threatened an attack if the Spanish did not leave Chuguate territory. After the expedition marched east toward the Mizzissibizzibbippi River, Master Diego released me from service.”

  Little Pup wiggled in my lap. Taninto looked at me. Years of pain and loneliness filled his eyes.

  “I could not return to Nine-Rivers Valley carrying the Spanish curse,” he said, and looked away. “So I climbed into these mountains and wandered the Ozarks without hope or purpose until I found the Hiding Cave. In that dark place, I hid from the world and the ones upon whom I would bring the sickness.

  “Seasons passed, and finally, the madness. I crawled out of the cave to live in the valley below, believing I would never talk to another person. Then I found you. It is there that my story ends, and yours begins.”

  “You never returned to Nine-Rivers Valley?” I asked.

  “No!” he said. “From this day on, Nanza, the journey is yours.”

  “You cannot send me down there alone. How will I find my way?”

  “It is not far from here—less than a half day’s walk. Straight down the mountain, you will come to a creek. Follow it until you can cross over. On the far side is a road which leads to the villages of Palisema.”

  “How can you know this?”

  “I walked that road all the way from Coligua to Cayas with the Spanish.”

  “Did they harm my people, the people of Palisema?”

  “I remember your proud people well. They were known to be generous and good hunters. Wearing garments of cougar skins, they built lodges using buffalo and bear hides and covered the floors with deerskins. They welcomed Lord de Soto with many gifts. The Spanish took the salt, hides, corn, and more than offered, but left in peace.�
��

  “Will Palisema welcome me?”

  “Nanza, I do not know.”

  “If all that you have told me is true,” I said, “I would be just as wise not to enter Nine-Rivers Valley.”

  “No!” he said. “The time has come. Find your people or live with an emptiness you can never fill.”

  He turned. I looked away.

  “The past and the future are on the same path,” he said, “differing only in which direction you choose.”

  I had heard enough and jumped off the boulder.

  “Here, take your back-bundle,” he said as Little Pup dashed to my side.

  Down the mountain we bounded, never intending to look back. But I did. He stood on my boulder, waving his good hand. How long would he have stood waiting to wave if I had never turned around?

  I ran, leaping with one great stride to the next, almost flying over rocks and bushes. I felt more alive than all the trees glistening in their new leaves, more than all the birds in their branches. The bright sun lit a day well made.

  It did not take long to reach the valley floor. Its soil felt moist and soft. The breeze was gentle and rich with the smell of everything that bloomed. The trees grew to great heights and stood far apart. Little Pup quickly found the creek. A road lay along the other side, not as well traveled as I had hoped, but flat and wide.

  As I stepped onto the road, I thought, I know no faces other than his and mine. Will the people of Palisema look like me? I looked down at Little Pup in wonder, “I have seen fawns, cubs, and puppies, but I have never seen a baby or even a girl my own age.”

  I rubbed my face. Would they have scars? Would it matter to the faces I had never seen? Women and men, young and old, boys and girls—would they smile at me like Grandfather did when I was young, before he told that first story?

  My stride shortened as the road turned alongside the Little Red River. It appeared as he had described it, a deep channel with steep banks of sandy, red soil. Not much wider than the Buffalo River, but its slow waters suggested it was much deeper.

  “On the banks of the Little Red River,” I had heard him say so many times.

  “It cannot be far now,” I told Little Pup. I wanted to run. Run the other way, but I stepped forward, caution without haste. I saw a lodge with plastered walls then another and even more.

  I began a shout “Pali ... sema” that ended in a whimper. A dark silence swallowed my voice. No one called back or rushed out to greet me. Little Pup tucked her tail and retreated.

  I summoned my courage. “Is this Palisema?” I yelled.

  As I got closer, I could see some of the lodges had burned. Most of them still stood, but all had been abandoned. Little Pup remained behind. I made my way past the empty lodges to the center of the village. The large plaza would hold more people than I could imagine. Where were they?

  I knew I had found Palisema, not because of the remnants of skins on the walls or because it stood where he said it would be. I knew in my heart. I knew they had gone, left without me.

  I sat down in the center of the abandoned village. I tried to imagine it full of my people with children running and shouting, with young women my age gathering at the river’s edge. One of the grander lodges could have been my grandmother’s. My childhood hopes withered in the bleak surroundings.

  Little Pup eased across the plaza and slid her nose under my arm.

  “Come on, puppy, there is nothing here for us. This may be Palisema, but it is not my home.”

  As we walked away, I kicked the wall of one of the empty lodges. Several rotten posts snapped. I grabbed one, yanked it down, pulling away part of the roof. I attacked the lodge, tearing at the walls, smashing benches until the whole thing collapsed. Hunched over the post still in my hand, I gasped for breath while Little Pup waited at a distance.

  I walked away from my dreams with my heart heavy. Why had he brought me this far? Did he know that they would be gone? There is no one left, no one but the old man.

  Once we crossed the creek, Little Pup led the way up the mountain. I paid little attention to the world around me or to her when she ran out of sight. When I saw her next, she lay at Taninto’s side. He sat where I had seen him last, on my boulder.

  As he stroked Little Pup, I saw the gentleness in his spirit, the sadness and concern in his eyes. I knew then, no matter how far I searched. I could find no greater love. Here was my family.

  “They are all gone,” I said. “Everyone is gone, many seasons ago.”

  “As I feared,” he mumbled.

  “No, listen to me, there is no one down there to fear anymore. No one to hope for.”

  He hung his head.

  “You said my time has come.” I reached up and touched his handless stub. “This is my journey, you told me. Climb down off that boulder. I am the guide, now.”

  He looked puzzled. I stepped back.

  “Do not dawdle,” I said. “I know a place on the Little Red River where we can camp.”

  He smiled like I had not seen since we left our home.

  “Come, Grandfather, walk beside me.”

  Chapter 41: One Circle Begins

  Ichisi’s Journey

  Forgotten generations after “their” departure

  The fire died long before the story ended. What was Nanza slumped into Manaha, battered and aged. The sky glowed from pale to dark in the west where a few stars still twinkled.

  I stood, “You only need to follow our trail to the last ridge before the river. You can rest there until you are ready to cross over.”

  Manaha said nothing.

  Squatting so I could see her eyes, I said, “No matter what happens, I will return tonight.”

  “Ichisi,” she said, “take this,” thrusting her walking stick at me.

  I stepped back. “I must return to camp before I am missed.”

  “It is for you,” she said.

  “I cannot take your walking stick.” I turned to leave as she used it to stand.

  “Ichisi, this is more than a splinter from the lightning tree.”

  I walked around to the other side of the fire, stirring the ashes in search of a flame.

  “No,” she mumbled, “it is too hot. Let it go.”

  She eased back onto her bedding. “If you will not take the stick,” she said, “you must promise to tell me a story when you return.” She closed her eyes.

  I promised and slipped into the mist of a beginning day. A day filled with new experiences, places, and people. I witnessed every detail: joy to sorrow, hope to despair. I committed to memory every word I heard from the quiet whispers of fear to the grand speeches of pride. All in all, and part, it made for another story of my people that should not be lost.

  I rehearsed the story as I ran to the top of the ridge where I hoped to find Manaha’s camp. I saw her resting against the trunk of a great oak, so old it had lost most of its limbs and some of its bark. From where she sat, she could see the mountains she loved to the north and the Lone Mountain that took her tribe to the south.

  She held the stick across her knees in the hand that had once been lifeless. I called to her, “Manaha.” At the same moment, I knew she would not answer.

  I sat down next to my friend and took the gift she offered. I rubbed the smooth sides of the white arrowhead lashed to the top and caressed the delicate carvings. Each different with no pattern, then I made out a turtle and next to it a bird and on around a dog, a child.

  I understood then. The stout wood from the heart of the lightning tree had become more than a walking stick.

  “It is a story-stick,” I said quietly.

  She had carved symbols for each story she had told and ones she could not. Here was Manaha’s life, Taninto’s life, and so the lives of their people. All to be forgotten but for the stick I held in my hand and the stories I carried in my heart.

  And here lay my life, to walk a path that would keep the stick safe, its stories sharp and deep in my heart until they could be told once again. I stoo
d and called to the spirits.

  “Know that a good and wise woman passes your way.

  Greet her with kindness and honor.

  Know that she is Manaha, the Storyteller.”

  Then I lifted my head and proudly chanted.

  For I am her listener.

  For I am her listener.

  For I am her listener, Ichisi the Storykeeper.”

  References

  To learn more about Casqui, visit the museum and mounds at the Parkin State Park 60 Highway 184, Parkin, Arkansas, or online at

  www.arkansasstateparks.com/parkinarcheological/

  Bierer, Bert W.

  1977 Indians and Artifacts in the Southeast, Bierer Publishing Co. Columbia, SC.

  Brown, Joseph Epes, Recorder and editor

  1953 The Sacred Pipe. University of Oklahoma Press. Norman, OK.

  Catlin, George

  1844 North American Indians, Volume II. David Bogue. London, England.

  Clayton, Lawrence A., Vernon James Knight Jr., and Edward C. Moore, Editors

  1993 The De Soto Chronicles The Expedition of Hernando de Soto to North America in 1539-1543 Volumes I & II. University of Alabama Press. Tuscaloosa, AL, and London.

  Covey, Cylcone Translator and Editor

  1986 Cabeza de Vaca’s Adventure in the Unknown Interior of America. University of New Mexico, NM.

  Crosby, Alfred W.

  1973 The Columbia Exchange: Biological and Cultural Consequences 1492. Greenwood Press. Westport, CT.

  Eastman, Charles A.

  1971 Indian Boyhood. Dover Publications, Inc. New York, NY.

  Davis, Hester A., Editor

  1991 Arkansas Before the Americans. Contributions by Morris S. Arnold, Samuel D. Dickinson, Patricia Galloway, Michael P. Hoffman, John H. House, Dan F. Morse, and George Sabo III. Arkansas Archeological Survey. Fayetteville, AR.