All was confusion in the camp. Chodini selected those men who would stay, for well he knew our own women and children must be protected. Amongst them was Chee, who glowed with pride to be entrusted with such a task. Bidding him a swift farewell, I took my weapons, and prepared myself for the journey ahead. Thus I would take my third step along the warrior’s path.
Strange it seemed to enter the Chokenne camp, for it was near empty. No children played; no women chattered. But one fire burned, and around it were grouped the grim faces of warriors readied for battle.
We sat in a circle upon the ground, Sotchez at the centre. It was Sotchez whose family had been taken, Sotchez whose tribe’s heart had been torn from it, and thus Sotchez would direct the battle. In the clear night air, he began to describe the place his people had been taken to.
“There is a narrow canyon two days’ journey from here. At its head lies the entrance to the mine. There are many soldiers to defend it, positioned high amongst the rocks. My brothers, this will not be an easy fight. I must warn you our losses will be many.” He paused awhile, letting his words sink into the silence. It is not the Apache way to fight when heavy losses are certain, and Sotchez knew how great a favour was the one he asked. “I do not force any to come.”
“You do not,” murmured Chodini. “This fight is ours too.”
As Sotchez spoke of his battle plans, I ceased to hear him. While I sat staring into the fire, shapes began to form in the flames. Women and children, laden heavily as mules, shuffled wearily over a rope bridge that spanned a swollen river. Suddenly they stopped and stared wildly about them, as though afraid. Apache warriors swarmed into the canyon, and were fired upon by Mexicans. In the dancing flames I saw the proud face of Goyenne, and beside her Denzhone, wife of Pocito. Both reached for the hands of their children, their faces torn with terror. A Mexican sword was raised high, and cut the ropes that held the bridge. It fell. The women and children of the Chokenne dropped into the torrent, weighted by the burdens strapped upon their backs, and sank under the water like a handful of stones.
The words fell from my mouth before I knew it. “They will perish.”
All eyes turned coldly to me. For a novice to speak was an offence; to interrupt a chief was an insult past imagining. None knew how to fill the silence that fell, until at last Sotchez spat angrily, “Better they should perish than live as slaves.”
A loud rumble of agreement ran through the warriors. To the free Apache imprisonment is agony: the cruellest torture the Mexican can devise. Before the murmurs died down, I realized that Golahka was speaking softly into the ear of the Chokenne chief. From the movement of his head, I knew he talked of me.
And thus, when Sotchez spoke again, it was to ask, “You have seen this, sister?”
I nodded.
“Did Ussen show you more?”
I nodded again. After the women and children had dropped into the river, I had seen the image of a man burning brightly in the fire – a man nailed through hands and feet upon crossed branches. It was the effigy I had found long ago in the deserted dwelling, but I knew not why I should see it now.
Slowly – my face hot, my mouth clumsy with awkwardness at speaking before the assembled warriors – I described my vision. I did not know its meaning. No one did. Until at last Punte spoke. “The tortured man is their god.”
Their god? I was astonished at the Mexican’s savagery, for who would drive nails through a god’s hands until he screamed in agony? What manner of man would then fashion the image of this horror that he might look upon it daily?
Punte continued thoughtfully, “On each seventh day, the Mexicans gather together in the house they call church to pay worship to this god.”
“All of them?” Golahka’s voice was sharp as though he had begun to detect meaning in this strangeness.
“So it was in the place I was enslaved.”
“Then that is the time to strike.” Golahka’s black eyes flashed with triumph. “And perhaps thus we may free the captives without their loss.”
It was agreed, then, that we would not travel as a massed body of warriors that would alarm the Mexicans and drive them to murder their slaves. Furtively we would set forth, a small band of scouts travelling ahead to observe the mine and determine the best moment to attack. The Apache neither name the days, nor number them, and it was only by covert observation that we would know which was the Mexicans’ sacred day. Thereafter we must act as opportunity allowed. Runners would pass from the scouts to the main body of our force, and instruct them how to proceed.
Sotchez went with the scouts, as did Chodini, who, though he was an aged man, was still a lithe and powerful warrior. Goyenne was his daughter: even had he been crippled and bent, none would have refused his right to go first into battle. Golahka was also to go ahead, along with Pocito, and Punte, who knew the ways of the Mexican.
And so was I. Novice though I was, Golahka took me aside and spoke quietly. “We have need of you, Siki, if you will come. Ussen has shown you much, little sister. Perhaps he will speak again.”
I agreed. Of course I agreed. I could do naught else.
We did not like to move at night, but for greater secrecy we did so. The moon was bright and lit our way, and we walked hoping that we would not lay our feet upon snakes and scorpions.
At dawn on the third day, we came upon the narrow canyon from above. We had rubbed earth into our skin and with dampened clay set grass into our hair; thus we would blend into the rocks and not be observed by the many guards we knew to be there. Keeping low, we crept towards the edge. A deep cleft beneath a jutting boulder, where trees overhung, was large enough to conceal us, and from there we could observe all that happened.
A torrent divided the valley floor, a rope bridge strung across it. On the side furthest from us was a narrow path leading towards a dark chasm that pierced the belly of the earth like an open wound. Below us were several houses – adobe dwellings one storey high. The largest stood at the narrow end of the valley. A bell hung from a tower above its door, and the crossed sticks made the sign of their tortured god.
Punte pointed at it. “That is their church,” he whispered.
Sotchez answered, “Then that is where they shall die.”
This valley was a loathsome place.
Gold is sacred to Ussen. In our mountain home small pieces can sometimes be found in the streams, and these we know as the tears of the sun. My father had once delighted in their colour, and kept many such pieces in the pouch at his waist. But in truth they were of little use for anything but ornament, for the metal is too soft to form an arrowhead. To pick up what lies upon the land is permitted, but Ussen forbids us to dig in search of gold. The earth is our mother; she feeds us with her bounty. How could any then hack into her living flesh?
To see these Mexicans carving into the body of Mother Earth was a sight that filled me with sick revulsion. Could they not hear her anguished cries? Could they not feel the mountain spirits quaking with anger? Could they not taste the wrath of Ussen? No. Their ears were stoppered by greed; their hearts were in thrall to this yellow metal. They would deprive our people of their liberty in pursuit of more, more, more. And yet these Mexicans had made themselves captive too. They could not see the ropes that bound them, but their souls were enslaved. Their love of gold cost them their own freedom.
As we watched, the sun’s rays began to lighten the canyon, and movements came from below. Filing out of a small, squat building were the women and children of the Chokenne. There were Goyenne and her son. There Denzhone, the wife of Pocito, one hand upon the shoulder of her son, the other clutching her small daughter. Their faces showed nothing. No one wept; no one cried; not even the smallest child let out a whimper. With the dignity and grace of the Apache, they stepped out of their prison. But even across this great distance I could feel the horror of their confinement. The very air stank of despair.
Our people were loaded with baskets upon their backs as if they were mules: brute, stubbor
n beasts with no sense and little feeling. Shouting harsh words of command, the Mexican guards waved their guns and forced the Chokenne to cross the rope bridge and enter the dark tunnel which split the earth.
There was a movement to my left, and instinctively I froze, pressed against the chasm where the scouts lay hidden. It was as well I did, for a Mexican guard paced the top of the canyon. He walked on without seeing me. It was then that I knew the full peril of the captives’ imprisonment and saw the enormity of the task before us.
Any guard that stood at the top of the canyon could fire with ease upon those who entered below. Yet if a force came from above, those in the canyon would be alerted at once, and would slay the Chokenne in an instant. To divine when the Mexicans would enter the dwelling of their god was of vital importance. As Golahka had said, it was the only time an attack could succeed. And the warriors had to know when to move, for even if many of the Mexicans were contained within the building, still there would be guards outside to be overpowered, and overpowered simultaneously.
But how were we to discover the knowledge that we needed? The answer slipped into my mind as soon as the question was formed. The women will know. They had been held in this dread place for many sunrises: they would know the ways of their captors. Someone would have to enter the canyon unseen, and ask them.
Golahka, it seemed, had had the same thought, for when I whispered the words into his ear he nodded without surprise. “At night,” he answered. “It can only be done at night.”
All that long day, we could do nothing but wait, looking down at the women and children who laboured as slaves for the cruel Mexicans. We watched them crossing and recrossing the bridge, laden so heavily with ore-filled rocks that their knees buckled beneath them. It was torment to Chodini to remain so, and for Sotchez, who itched to slit the throat of each guard that passed by where he lay. And were it not for Golahka’s warning hand, fingers pressed so hard into the shoulder of Pocito that his nails drew forth blood, Pocito would have given himself and his fellow scouts away.
What caused him to flinch so was the sight of his wife and children coming once more across the rope bridge. As they neared the side below us, his son staggered beneath his burden and fell. The sound of what passed next rose clearly from the canyon. The boy spoke – a curse of exhausted despair expelled through his lips. But it was a word of Spanish.
“¡Demonios!”
At once the guard who had stood with his gun pointed towards the captives put aside his weapon and bent to aid the boy.
“¿Hablas español?” he asked urgently. “¿Eres mexicano?”
The boy shook his head frantically, reaching for his mother. But in understanding the guard’s question he had betrayed himself. The guard ripped the boy’s basket from his back, calling to his comrades. “¡Mexicano! Este mocoso es mexicano!”
No matter that the boy screamed for his mother. No matter that she wept and pleaded for his return. Roughly she was thrown aside, falling into the dust as the boy she loved as her own was carried, sobbing, fighting, away from her.
Small wonder that Pocito ached to help her. Much control it took him to restrain himself under the hand of Golahka and remain still. His body stiffened until it was rigid with effort, and he had then the look of Keste when the burning leaf had been placed on his arm. But this pain was far worse than any of the body. This was beyond enduring. It pierced us all as we watched from our hiding place.
For well we knew that now Pocito’s son was taken he would be kept by the Mexicans and reclaimed as their own. On the seventh day he would be amongst those who entered the dwelling place of the suffering god.
And when he did so, Pocito’s son would perish.
At nightfall the guard changed. Men came up from the canyon to replace those who had stalked the rocks through the long day, and they stood smoking and talking to one another. It was then that our group of scouts held a hasty council.
The moon cast shadows of the guards across the bare rocks of the canyon. The clear sky held no trace of cloud. To creep into the valley on such a night would be a task fraught with danger. And yet there was a fissure in the rocks that was in shadow, for the moon’s beams could not light it. A jagged crack that ran like a lightning bolt from top to bottom: so thin it would admit but one small person to creep along it.
“I will go alone.” I spoke swiftly, pointing to the fissure. “There! I will ask the women which is the seventh day.”
“No,” said Chodini. “You are too young for this task.”
But Golahka shook his head, whispering, “She is small. Silent. We must let her go. Truly, my chief. Ussen walks beside her.”
Thus it was decided, and as the fresh guards took their places for the night watch, I handed my gun and arrows to Golahka, for they would do naught but impede me. Only my flint knife I took with me, and this I tucked in the fold of my moccasin. The great warrior could make no sound that might alert the guards, so he spoke not, but from the clasp he gave my arm I drew much strength.
When the men below extinguished their fires and began to sleep, I started to move.
The first part of my journey was the most dangerous, for before I could reach the cleft I had to climb down a bare stone face where the moon was brightest and where – should any guard chance to look – I would be an easy target. Fingers and toes braced in cracks, it was a slow, precipitous climb. The guards did not look, and with great relief I slid into the cleft’s tight embrace. Now I could breathe once more, and for a moment I stayed, forcing my heart to slow its rapid beat. Then I began to creep slowly down towards the valley floor.
For some length the descent was steady and I was able to slip noiselessly along the rough passage. I had gone, by my reckoning, one third of the way, when the pass became so narrow I thought I could not proceed. I reached forward, and guessed that the fissure opened out from this place for I could feel nothing beyond. I forced myself down, feet first, scraping the skin from my legs, expelling all breath as my torso grated against the harsh stone, and suddenly I was through. Not only through, but dropping into the blackness, and landing hard on a rocky shelf below. I would surely have been discovered had the sound of my fall not been covered by a commotion that then came from where the Chokenne were held captive.
Men – their voices made loud by liquor – had opened the door where the Chokenne were held and had pulled out a woman. It was Denzhone, who had stood beside the barred window, her small daughter on her hip, hoping to glimpse her son. They threw her daughter back inside, casting the child to the ground as if she were a creature with no feeling. And now – scarcely troubling to drag Denzhone into the shadows where they could not be seen – they began to force themselves upon her.
Bile rose within me, for such had been done to my mother before she was killed. But I must not vomit; I must make no sound. I tried to suck in lungfuls of air, but it seemed putrid with the stench of men’s sweat. I bit upon my knuckles to stop the scream that swelled in my throat.
Cold hatred calmed me. I gathered my wits, drew a steady breath, and continued my descent. Rage quelled my horror. For this act, these Mexicans would perish. None – not one – would survive.
I reached the valley floor and fell at once to my knees, creeping and freezing in the pools of darkness towards the building which housed the captives. I would not approach it from the front for fear I would be seen. I could but hope that a window opened at the rear through which I could whisper to the women.
I was fortunate. There was a slit, smaller than a child’s head. I peered through and saw their cell, illumined in patches by the moon. By the time I reached it, the men had finished with Denzhone and she sat, dry-eyed, on the earth floor, her back to the wall, her small daughter clinging around her neck. Corncobs had been scattered carelessly on the ground, as if the Chokenne were birds that peck in the dust for food. It remained uneaten, and I saw from the gaunt faces of the women, the hollow cheeks of the children, that they had chosen to escape their confinement through star
vation.
Closest to the opening was Goyenne, her back stiff and proud even in this degradation. To her would I speak. But how could I attract her attention, without risking the notice of the guard who paced beyond the door?
Undoing the strip of cloth that bound my hair, I tied a pebble in the fold at one end, and this I poked through the slit. It made not a sound, but Goyenne’s eye was drawn to the small movement, and I felt an answering tug upon the cloth.
“Sister,” I whispered. “Help comes. But we must know when to strike. On what day do the Mexicans enter the dwelling where they worship?”
Goyenne answered at once. “In two sunrises. All but the guards at the canyon’s top will enter.”
“We will come then.”
I was about to go, for with this conversation we risked discovery. But Goyenne asked, “Do you have a knife, little sister?”
I slid my flint-bladed weapon through the opening, and Goyenne concealed it as I had done within the fold of her moccasin. She said no more.
I murmured, “You must eat. You will need strength for what lies ahead.”
Goyenne nodded, and I dropped to my belly and began my fearful creep and freeze back to the dark fissure.
The ascent was of longer duration and harder to manage than the descent. But as the sky began to lighten I returned to the hidden scouts and to a sight that filled me with all the horror I had buried. Golahka sat holding Pocito tight across the chest, his knife pressed against the warrior’s throat. A thin trickle of blood ran down Pocito’s neck. Well could I see why it was needed. Without it, nothing could have stopped Pocito leaping into the canyon to save his wife.
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