He lifted his musket to his shoulder, took aim upon Golahka and fired. But not before I had swung the shaft of Tazhi’s spear, knocking his arm and spoiling his shot. Incensed, he threw his gun to the dusty earth and drew his sword.
I spoke Tazhi’s name aloud. In that moment, I called him – maimed as he was – from the spirit world. The air quivered with his presence. Tazhi stood beside me when I avenged him.
The Mexican smiled upon me. He laughed.
And then he lifted his sword.
Tazhi’s spear burned in my hand. With the swiftness of the wind that had run in my brother’s veins, I drove it into the breast of the Mexican. Easily, softly, as if guided by Ussen, the sharp head slid between his ribs and found his heart.
A gunshot is not silent. All had turned at its sound. All had watched the Mexican fall, Tazhi’s spear buried in his chest. All had witnessed my vengeance.
Clenching my teeth against the sudden cold that seized me, I pulled Tazhi’s spear from the heart of his slayer and went to wash it clean in the shallow river that wound through that valley. As I plunged my bloodied hands into the fast-flowing water, I felt again Power course through me.
The water ran darkly, and in it I saw another Mexican dwelling. A woman was there; the same woman I had seen flee with her babe clutched to her breast. But now she lay slain, her skull split wide, her blood spilt upon the floor. A Chokenne warrior held her child fast in his arms. He took the babe from the dwelling and placed him upon his horse, riding far away into the sloping hills.
The water ran clear once more, and the darkness became naught but the stony bed of the river. I was left standing knee-deep in the cold torrent, wondering at the meaning of what Ussen had shown me.
Following the heated thrill of battle came great weariness. It crept amongst the warriors, bringing heavy silence upon them. Yet none could rest; there was much to be done before we could turn our faces for home.
Kinsmen took the bodies of their dead, carrying them away for burial in secret places. Chee and I moved amongst the slain Mexicans, gathering weapons. Golahka and Chodini reasoned that if the Mexicans were armed with guns, then so must we be. The Black Mountain Apache had to master this weapon, and master it swiftly, if we were to defend ourselves against further attacks. As I plucked the gleaming gun from the hand of a dead man, I saw that more attacks would come, as surely as dark night must follow bright day.
I knew the women of the town quaked; the children wept in dread of what the Apache might do to them. If it had been possible to quench their fear, I would have done so. But I had no words of the Spanish tongue to tell them that this was not our way. We would not ride against the powerless, the unarmed. Our fight had been with the men, the soldiers who had ridden barbarously against our people; the women and children of Jujio would be left unharmed. Silently I pitied their sorrow, even as I gloried in our victory.
Taking only such things as we needed – horses, swords, guns, ammunition – we began our journey homewards. We divided into many small bands so that pursuit, if it came, would be made difficult. Sotchez rode north through the river valley; Toah took his men east across the hills; Ozheh, son of Chodini, took a route that curved first to the south; I followed Chodini and Golahka across the broad plain, heading north when we reached the hills.
It was agreed that the bands would meet at the foot of the mountain plateau where our people camped; thus we would enter the settlement together in triumph for the feast of victory. Our scouts went swiftly by the shortest way that they might give the women news of our coming.
As we rode beside a winding river towards the distant hills, I thought Golahka seemed little relieved by his revenge. Battle lust had drained him, and left a tired, brooding warrior who sat silent in his saddle, his loathing of the Mexican unquenched.
For my own part, I joyed in my vengeance. I could neither ease Tazhi’s passage through the afterlife, nor wipe away the horror of his perpetual mutilation, but the weight of pain I had long carried was a little lightened by the justice of my act. Yet I also feared what lay ahead, for well I knew that word of my triumph would inflame Keste’s enmity still further.
Of the visions Ussen had shown me, I thought less, for I could make no sense of them. I did not wish to feel pity for the Mexican, nor did I wish to learn what lay in his mind: such knowledge weakened me. I was to be a warrior. A warrior must have no weakness. Thus I pushed the images aside, and shut my heart against them.
The land we traversed opened into a broad valley, where tall cottonwoods swayed, graceful beside a fast-flowing river. There Chodini pulled his horse to a sudden halt.
There, in that tranquil vale, where the wind rippled the leaves and the sunlight danced on the water, I first looked upon the face of a white man.
They were camped beside the river. Soldiers, all dressed in the same garb. Five men, with hair as yellow as the sun-dried grass and skin of a strange, light hue. When I saw their eyes, my breath came in a sharp gasp.
The eyes of the Apache are dark throughout: at the centre a dot of black is circled with deepest brown and the eye is edged with the soft buff of deerskin. But the centres of these men’s eyes were circled with the blue of the wide sky and edged with the shocking white of sun-bleached bone.
Chodini urged his horse forward, and as he approached he smiled and raised his hand in greeting. The men came forward to meet him, and our chief swung down from his saddle.
“Welcome, strangers to the great land of the Apache.”
Our chief spoke in Spanish and in Spanish the men replied; it was the only common tongue, for Chodini knew none of the White Eyes’ language and they spoke no Apache.
“We come in friendship,” said the yellow-haired leader. “And in peace. We seek a small corner where we may live quietly with our brothers.”
Chodini held his arms wide as if indicating the extent of Ussen’s creation. “Our land is broad. Make your homes here. Mother Earth can provide for us all.”
For a little while the men stood and talked with our chief. Chodini warned them to be wary; amongst these mountains were known to be renegade bands of Apache – wild young men who put themselves beyond the jurisdiction of their chiefs. The strangers seemed little troubled by this information; they were well weaponed and could defend themselves.
And so, with hands clasped all swore brotherhood. Such words are binding to an Apache: these men would suffer no harm from my tribe.
It was a pleasant exchange – a meeting that promised warmth and friendship between our peoples – and yet as Chodini mounted once more, I felt fear trickle coolly down my spine. It was as if I had passed into a dark cave where the sun’s rays could not warm the air. Once before I had felt this sensation, and then the chill had come from the hate-filled eyes of Keste. Now I looked about me for its source, but could see nothing.
We rode on, and as we passed, the White Eyes smiled in perfect amity, their faces bearing expressions of openness and honesty. I had no reason to feel as I did, and was startled by the strangeness of my sudden dread. I told myself it was mere fancy, and yet unease pursued me like the wolf who slips from shadow to shadow.
At the head of the valley, the trail wound sharply and the land began to rise. I rode at the rear of our party. Before we passed out of sight of the strangers’ encampment, I chanced to look back. Had my eyes not been so sharp, I might perhaps have missed the small, furtive movement of a man within the tent.
A sixth man. A man who had remained hidden when Chodini extended his vow of friendship. A man who had not come forward to clasp hands and bond in brotherhood with our people. His hand held to his forehead to shade his eyes from the sun, he looked in the direction of our party of warriors. When he saw we were not yet all gone from view, he withdrew swiftly back into the tent.
It was not his covert movement alone that set my nerves jangling. What alarmed me more was the colour of his hair. The five pale-skinned strangers were yellow-headed. This man was dark. As dark-haired as a Mexican. Or an Apac
he.
We met the rest of our war party in the appointed place and returned to our settlement as the sun sank low in the sky. The women knew of our approach and already the fires were burning in readiness for the feast to come. As we rode upwards along the precipitous path to our tepees the distant smell of woodsmoke was a sweet balm to my senses.
We came in triumph, and yet full well I knew that our homecoming would bring raw sorrow to many.
I rode behind the war party but I could feel the excitement from the camp, where I knew a row of eager boys would be waiting, desperate to attract attention to themselves. It is a fine thing to be noticed by a warrior returning from the warpath: to be handed his horse to tend is a great honour, and boys fought amongst themselves for the positions where they would most likely be seen. As a novice, I would tend my horse myself, and thus when I rode into our camp the line of boys had already dispersed, and become instead a noisy swarm that buzzed after the warriors, eager for tales of battle.
Chee, Ishta and Naite had gone before me, and were now embraced by their mothers as they slid from their horses, with muttered words of thanks to Ussen for their safe return. There was no one waiting for me. I glanced about in search of Dahtet; I had a strong wish to see her gentle face, and I thought she might perhaps have come to give me welcome. Not seeing her, I felt a rush of sadness, but reasoned that she must be occupied in preparations for the feast. I would go and seek her later, but first I had to look to my horse.
I dismounted and began to check her over. It was only when the animal started, half rearing and snorting with alarm, that I realized I was not, after all, alone. A boy was in the shadows, so still that in the half-light I had not been aware of his presence. A boy who was rooted to the earth, immobile and stiff as the stone mountains that circled the camp. A boy whose face was stricken with shock and grief.
Huten.
He had seen the warriors return. One by one they had passed him. Jotah, his father, had not been amongst them. And even as I stood watching him, the death wail of his mother and sister rang across the camp. They were joined by others as news of our losses spread, and the darkening sky was pierced with the terrible sounds of lamentation. The cries stirred Huten and without a word he began to stagger, like one mortally injured, towards his tepee.
My chest ached, for I knew how deeply the women and children of Jujio would also be mourning, and to me it seemed that the whole land was smothered by a huge cloud of anguish. I rested my head against the mare’s neck, and drew what little comfort I could from the animal. Then, freeing her to the herd, I went in search of Dahtet.
I could not find her. With growing unease I sought throughout the camp. I looked where Kaywin, wife of Toah, stood magnificent in beaded buckskin robes directing preparations for the feast. I searched where the women were spreading a great half-circle of skins and blankets upon the ground. I walked amongst those who filled jugs with tiswin – the drink the Apache relish in times of celebration – and those who tended the fires, and laid strips of meat and sweet acorn cakes to roast.
I did not see Dahtet, but at last I saw her mother, Hosidah. When I spoke her daughter’s name, Hosidah’s eyes met mine, but almost at once she cast down her head, and gave a small shake as if she did not want me to approach. In the glowing light her face was a grim mask and my heart contracted with sudden fear. I paused, wondering what I should do. I sorely wished to have news of Dahtet. But then the chiefs emerged from their tepees dressed in their finery and all questions would have to wait.
Singers and drummers took their places. By firelight Chodini, Toah and Sotchez led the line of warriors to the feast. The men sat upon the skins, each according to his rank and deeds of battle. Last came those who had completed their fourth raid, and were new made as warriors. Naite walked amongst them, his eyes cast down in humility, but with a broad smile creasing the corners of his mouth which he could not suppress. His father, Naichise, brother to Chodini, sat upright, his lips pressed tight together to conceal his proud delight. Naite settled himself upon the ground, and then the novices took their places. I was to sit in front of Chee, for though this was but the first time I had journeyed with the warriors, my act of vengeance had given me higher status. Once we were seated, however, I edged back until I was beside him, for I thought to question him of Dahtet as soon as I had the opportunity. The women and children settled themselves in rows behind us.
Food had already been taken silently to families who did not join the celebration: those who had lost a husband, a brother, a father, kept to their tepees. When all were served, Chodini lit an oak leaf rolled with tobacco and blew smoke in the four directions. Then, raising his cup of tiswin, our feast began.
At once I spoke to Chee. “I cannot find Dahtet.”
Between mouthfuls of strong, sweet meat, Chee spoke words that turned the food sour in my mouth.
“Keste would not stay to guard the women,” he murmured. “It is said he felt shamed by Chodini’s words – shamed beyond enduring. And so he left. The sunset that followed our departure he went from the camp, secretly, in the dark.”
“And Dahtet went with him?”
Chee nodded.
We were silent while we considered the rashness of his deed. Shame is horror indeed for the Apache, and to lose face will cause more intense and lasting pain to a warrior than any hurt to the body. Well I understood how hard Keste had found it to endure. And yet I felt with rising anger that he should have endured it. To leave the tribe – to go willingly from the protection and fellowship of his brothers – was an act of utter folly. No words from Chodini or Golahka could shame him as much as he had now shamed himself. Ignominy would be heaped upon his name. He had made himself a renegade, an outcast. And worse – much worse – he had carried Dahtet into exile.
Even as I rued the loss of her, I began to wonder if she had gone willingly.
“Is it said that Keste forced her from the camp?” I asked.
Chee shook his head. “I do not know. None saw them go. But, Siki, her fondness for Keste was no secret.”
He spoke truth. Dahtet’s love had burnt beyond sense, beyond reason. I had to yield that it might, perhaps, have severed her from her people. And yet the thought did not lie quietly in my breast.
“She was a loving daughter. Mindful, always, of her duty. She would not lightly have caused her parents shame. And now she is dead to them.”
Chee acknowledged that it was so.
“She wished for marriage,” I continued, speaking the thoughts freely as they ran through my mind. “Honourable marriage. Keste had only to ride on one more raid before he could wed her. Proudly she would have stood beside him as his wife. She desired her parents to look on and approve her match, of that I am certain. I do not think Dahtet walked willingly into such disgrace.”
“Perhaps you are right, Siki,” said Chee. “It may be that Keste deceived her into banishment. But I doubt we shall ever know the truth.”
With a heavy heart, I agreed. Dahtet was an outcast: it was impossible that we would meet again. I must mourn for her as another one dead.
When we had eaten, Chodini stood, and all fell silent to hear him. In a low voice he named the warriors who had died in battle. “Our honoured dead are fortunate. They died for their tribe. They have gone before us to the Happy Place. Let them not be disturbed. From this day, let not their names be spoken.” A murmur of assent – of farewell – rippled around the listeners.
And then from the darkness, boys led forth horses heavily laden with guns and ammunition that we had brought with us from Mexico. These were distributed to those who had need of them. Each chief made sure his people were well supplied. They took naught for themselves, as is the way of an Apache leader. Although I had requested nothing, I found Golahka placing a sleekly shining musket in my hands, and sprinkling ammunition into my lap. My heart leapt with joy that the great warrior should bestow such honour on me, and I lifted my eyes to his. No smile answered mine. Rather his eyes seemed to flash with ir
ritation as he noticed where I sat beside Chee. In not heeding the ritual of the feast and staying in my position I had shown disrespect, and I thought this irked him for he moved past without a word.
I sat fingering the cold metal of my gun. I was full aware that it was an accolade, a tribute, and I was grateful for it. And yet I disliked the weapon. To me it seemed a spiritless thing. I hoped never to have need of it.
After the distribution of supplies, it was Golahka’s turn to speak. He gave an account of the battle and detailed the valiant exploits of those who had excelled. Of me, he said, “This girl has avenged her brother. It was well done. Much honour is due to Siki.”
Approving whispers spread from mouth to mouth. An aged Chokenne warrior, his face so withered that the bones gleamed through his skin, tilted his head towards me in a gesture of respect. It seemed I had passed from being a strange oddity to being one who was held in high esteem. Flushed with triumph, I fixed my eyes on the ground before me. I could not help but feel pride glow in my heart; there was great delight in being praised thus. Once more, I raised my chin to look at Golahka, and saw him staring back at me. But his eyes did not glory in his pupil’s achievement as I had expected; instead he looked searchingly at my face, as if he sought to know the secrets I kept hidden. Under his burning scrutiny, I felt my soul begin to blister, even as the sage leaf had once seared my flesh.
Scalded, my eyes recoiled from his, and came to rest instead on another’s face.
Punte, father of Keste.
A chill stab pierced the night air between us. He veiled his expression at once, and sat gazing blankly back at me. But for that one unguarded moment, I had seen his heart. It was brimful of fury.
For many days our tribes remained feasting together on the high plateau. Our victory had been great, and thus our celebrations were long and joyful. New-made warriors strode amongst the tepees full of delighted, youthful pride. To be a full warrior was also to be a man, and some who had discreetly courted before our journey now took new wives into their tepees. Some older warriors – whose skills at hunting allowed them to support more than one wife – took the widows of those who had been slain at Jujio under their protection. There is little ceremony to an Apache marriage: it is a private thing, arranged between families, and any celebrations became part of the general feasting.
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