Apache

by Tanya Landman

  I watched the departing backs of the White Eyes, and suddenly my stomach heaved within me.

  For amongst those many men, with their heads of grass-yellow hair, walked one whose hair was black. He was as dark as a Mexican. Or an Apache.

  Red Face squatted in the valley like a vast toad, his great guns either side of him to fire on any Apache that showed themselves. We could not cross to our own mountains, yet neither could we flee into the hills of the Dendhi behind us lest we come upon the many soldiers we had seen enter there.

  Thus, at nightfall, Golahka and I moved west, skirting through the lowlands before turning for the south, where we hoped to find safety. Golahka spoke not a word of complaint, though he was sorely injured and dizzy from much loss of blood. Scraping thorns from the leaf of a prickly pear, I pulled the sides of the wound together and bound them beneath the split leaf as I had with Dahtet. As I did so I saw the skull was crushed, and I trembled at the sight of it.

  On foot, we travelled dangerously slow. Full well I knew we must have a horse, if we were to get far enough from the pass to avoid the soldiers. And yet how was I to find one? But the White Eyes had multiplied on our land like the rabbits on the upland plain. Rising before me in the clear moonlight was the smoke of a settlement.

  It was a sign of his great hurt that Golahka made no protest when I told him to rest where he was. He lay upon the ground and I went forth alone.

  Many cattle were penned in a wide corral, and amongst them ran a number of horses. I needed but one. One might pass unnoticed; one would not provoke pursuit. A sturdy mare stood at the edge of the herd, grazing quietly. She was stocky and would carry two with ease. And she was no showy riding horse that would soon be missed. I had no rope, so I untied the cloth that bound my hair, and crept softly into the corral.

  Had their dogs barked, had the horses startled, all would have been lost. But they did not. I watched the mare until she saw me, and then turned my back and crouched low in the dust, trusting that her curiosity would bring her to me. When she nudged my shoulder I twisted so that I could blow breath into her nostrils. Her trust settled upon me, and gently I tied my strip of cloth around her muzzle so that I could lead her away. Slipping the poles of the corral down, I took her out, replacing them as soon as she was freed, for I wished to delay the discovery of her loss. From the animals’ trough I filled my vessel; I did not know when we would next find water.

  Golahka did not spring upon her back, but rather mounted as a small child will do, by digging the toes of his moccasin into the skin above her elbow and using the horse’s bone to aid him. He sat awkwardly, his back curving to one side, and I knew that if we rode swiftly, as I wished to, he would be unseated. Mounting behind him, I turned the horse’s head away from the Black Mountains, away from where the soldiers’ fires burned brightly in the darkness.

  All that night I scarce knew where we rode. The sky was clouded, and I could see no stars. Without the moon, neither could I see the line of distant mountains to guide me. I was truly lost.

  At dawn, I did not recognize where we were, but of one thing I was certain.

  We were followed.

  It was the pricking of my palms that told me. The pricking of my palms, and a chill that sent the flesh of my arms into small bumps.

  Leaving Golahka to rest and eat what little meat we had, and setting the horse to graze, I crawled to the crest of a hill.

  Many soldiers.

  A dark-haired man.

  They were yet far from us, and they were on foot, but across that great distance I could see that they had picked up our trail. The dark one looked in our direction, his eyes shaded by his hand.

  I knew not what to do. If we went by foot we would be harder to follow. But Golahka could not walk far: they would swiftly catch up with us. Thus we moved on, taking no rest, no sleep. Golahka I forced to remain on the horse, while I walked behind, sweeping our tracks away with brushwood as best I could. I thought to get into Mexico, for although it was the land of our enemy, it was not the land of the White Eyes. The Mexican guards what he considers his territory with a jealous fervour. I hoped the White Eyes would not dare pursue us there.

  Through that long day, we edged southwards, and each time we paused, I knew the soldiers drew ever closer. My palms began to burn with their nearness. Late in the afternoon I climbed a tree, and saw that the dark-haired man was now ahead of the White Eyes. He came on alone. At great speed. His tracking never failed, no matter how I tried to mislead him with false trails.

  Golahka had taken himself to the place where he felt nothing as a means to drive away his pain. All that day, he had not spoken. But when he saw my troubled expression he returned to me.

  “Tell me, Siki,” he said, his face braced tight against the hurt he now felt. “They come nearer?”

  “There is one whose hair is black. He comes ahead.”

  “A scout. A good one. He tracks as well as an Apache.”

  I did not wish to doubt my chief, but I could not help it. “Did you see Keste die?”

  “I did not.” Golahka’s tone was flat. “No more did Chodini. We trusted his father.” His eyes were bright with challenge once more. “Were we wrong to do so?”

  I did not answer his question, but said, “We must move on. Could we but get to Mexico we may be safe.”

  Golahka laughed. “Strange, to seek refuge in the land of our enemy! But these days are strange, are they not, Siki?”

  “Indeed.”

  There was nothing more to be said. We went on, on, on, until our mouths were dry, our tongues swollen, and the horse near to dropping. We had not reached the Mexican border, and I knew we would not do so before we were caught. Golahka’s eyes had clouded, and my hands were scalding with the closeness of the man who trailed us, when at last I saw a single juniper tree, clinging to a rock.

  Keste’s valley. A hidden place. If it were Keste that followed, he would know of it. Yet it had but one entrance. Easily defended. We could go nowhere but there.

  Golahka dismounted and edged stiffly beneath the rock that was the doorway to the hidden valley. Not troubling now to conceal her hoof prints, I slapped the mare across the rump and sent her galloping away that she would lead our pursuer behind her. Walking on stones so as not to leave a trail, I too slipped beneath the rock.

  I could see at once why Dahtet had thought it akin to entering the Happy Place. Bushes hung with berries, and sweet water flowed.

  We drank. We ate.

  We waited.

  And before long, a soft scrabbling informed us that our pursuer still followed. A great chill set my teeth chattering. It was Keste, I was certain. Who but Keste would know of it?

  With the last of his strength, Golahka stood, pulling the knife from his waist. As the man’s dark head appeared, Golahka seized his hair and, yanking his head back, put the knife to his throat.

  When I saw his eyes I screamed in horror.

  The dark-haired man was not Keste.

  It was my father.

  Still holding his hair, Golahka lowered the knife from my father’s throat and twisted his head to face him.

  “Ashteh.” Golahka’s tone was flat, heavy, as if unsurprised. “We thought you dead.”

  He released his hold and my father stood upright, displaying his White-Eyed garb, unperturbed by the scrutiny of the great warrior.

  “Ashteh is dead, as you see.” He smiled, his easy charm oozing forth. He spoke Apache, but his phrasing sounded strange to my ears, stilted, like that of the White Eyes. He spoke with no trace of shame. “They call me John Bridger.”

  I had not heard his voice for many, many moons. It was as if I had been bitten by the savage wind of winter: it chilled me to the bone. I felt the dead walked once more upon the living earth. Or perhaps my fleshly being had slipped into the afterlife and now roamed amongst the spirits – unhappy, tormented ghosts for ever scarred by mutilation.

  “John Bridger?” Golahka laughed with contempt and shook his head. “I see the
re is a tale to be told, but I have no wish to hear it. John Bridger… Do you not know your daughter?”

  My father turned. Those eyes fixed on me in disbelief. Astounded, he sought the child in my woman’s face. And then he gasped with shock. “Siki?” he asked. “My little Siki? You have become a warrior?”

  My tongue lay leaden in my mouth. I recoiled, flinching, from his gaze and did not answer. My father heeded not, but spoke once more.

  “I see it is so! By God, fate is a curious thing! Who could have wagered that the child of a Mexican would become an Apache warrior!”

  Mexican?

  My father was Mexican!

  The fragments Ussen had shown me took their true shape. At last I saw the whole. Mexican. Taken as a child. Reared by the Chokenne as their own.

  Horror threatened to sweep me away. Feverishly, I whispered, “Only half my blood is yours.”

  “That’s true,” my father replied. “But your mother too was taken as a child. Oh, Siki… Did you never wonder that you had so few relatives amongst the tribe?”

  He was indeed a ghost: an evil spirit whose cold, dead hand reached inside me and pulled my innards upwards through my throat. With that one speech he deprived me of all. In one stroke he cleft me from my chief; my tribe; my self.

  I could not speak. Could not act. Could do nothing.

  The wounded Golahka spoke for me. “The soldiers will soon be upon us. Will you give away our hideout, John Bridger? For I warn you, we will fight, and your daughter is a fine warrior. I doubt you will win this battle.”

  My father hesitated. Then he shook his head. “I will go,” he said hoarsely. “I will tell them the trail is cold.” He took one last look at me, a desperate plea in the familiar eyes. “Come to me, daughter, I beg you. These past years I have longed to speak with you. I will be at Fort Andrews. Find me there.”

  And he was gone.

  Golahka sat down heavily, leaning against a rock, his breath drawn in slow, pained gasps. Sickened with shame, I sank to the grass at his feet, hot tears spilling down my face. I could not stop them falling.

  With immense tenderness, Golahka placed his hand beneath my chin and raised my face to his. “Siki,” he said softly. “This matters not. The treachery is not yours.”

  My tears ran freely over his fingers. Aghast at my foolishness, I whispered, “I thought him dead! I thought you had killed him!”

  Golahka’s eyes narrowed. “And was this the reason for your great silence?” he asked.

  I nodded. “I thought you watched for my own betrayal.”

  Golahka laughed, in pain though he was, with seeming relief. “Siki, when I watched you it was not for that!”

  “You knew he lived?”

  “No. I knew he fled. But I thought him slain in the ambush. So did we all. Then, when we returned from Jujio, I saw a man slip inside a tent as we approached the White Eyes’ camp. I thought it was him, but had only the merest glimpse. I could not be sure.”

  “I saw a dark-haired man there too. But I never thought it could be my father! Why did you not speak of it?”

  “Because you did not. You thought him dead. When we danced before the battle you spoke of it with such certainty. How could I tell you otherwise?” With his tear-wet hand, he stroked the hair away from my face. “Truly, Siki, I have had such delight in you! I have known such fierce joy in your company. I could say nothing that would cause you pain. Did you not know why I watched you? Could you not see?”

  I looked at Golahka in confusion. My father had torn the heart from me; I scarce knew what he said.

  “I am Mexican.” It sounded within me as the clanging of the bell upon the house of their tortured god.

  Mexican.

  Enemy to Golahka.

  Enemy to my people.

  The wild cry of an abandoned child rose within my chest. “Why did my mother not tell me?”

  “Why? Because it was of no importance!” Golahka said fiercely. “It matters not!” He held my face. “Blood is nothing. Nothing! Would Ussen whisper to one whose spirit was not Apache? Your soul is Black Mountain, and your heart too. Can you not feel it?”

  Winding his hands in my hair, he pulled me to him and held me still, until I felt his heartbeat answering my own.

  “We have the same heart, Siki,” he whispered, his breath warm in my hair. “The same soul. We have grown from the same earth, you and I. Our roots entwine in the living rock. Hold fast to that certainty. It is the only truth that matters.”

  So it was that in the gathering dark of that hidden valley, I became wife to Golahka.

  By dawn I was his widow.

  Golahka’s arm was cold across my back, his fingers wound, unmoving, in my hair. I lay upon his chest. No heartbeat replied to mine. I knew him dead, and yet for a long time I did not stir. I could not. I pressed my warm body against his as if by doing so I could give him life. I longed to vanish into him like the melting snow. I wanted nothing but to follow him into the Happy Place.

  But flesh is not so obliging. It makes its own demands and forces the body to endure. To go on. To survive no matter if the spirit within has died.

  I left him there, twining saplings around and above him into a wickiup shelter, for I could not bear to dig a hole and cover his beloved face with earth. Leaving him lying on the sweet grass, I went from the valley.

  I walked towards the Black Mountains, for where else could I go? I came quickly upon the horse I had sent galloping. Perhaps she had not fled far, or perhaps my father had caught her and brought her back, for I was certain that it was he who had hobbled her beside the flowing stream. She had grazed and rested and stepped out eagerly when I climbed upon her back.

  I rode unwarily, taking no care for concealment. With every step I invited death to come. But my life, it seemed, was a small, worthless thing, for neither man nor beast would take it. Neither did Ussen want my spirit, for he sent small game scurrying across my path. My well-trained warrior’s body killed and ate without ever any conscious thought passing through my sorrow-deadened mind.

  At dawn on the sixth day, I entered the Black Mountains. By sunset I came into our camp on the cold peak. The gaunt faces of my tribe watched me, warmed for a moment with the light of hope.

  “Golahka comes?” asked Chodini.

  I did not speak. I did not even shake my head. My eyes met those of my chief. In one look I told all.

  As word of the great warrior’s death passed from mouth to mouth, all hope was extinguished. Despair settled heavy with the darkness, and death wails echoed across the mountains.

  I made no sound. My cry was trapped within me.

  I slid from the mare’s back and stumbled. A gentle touch steadied my elbow and I turned. Dahtet took me by the hand as her eyes spilt tears. Without a word she led me to her brushwood shelter, and wrapped me in her own blanket. She fed me with the meagre broth that boiled upon her fire. And for that long night, and the many nights that followed, she lay warm against my back, holding me as I had once held Tazhi.

  It was the hardest winter my tribe had ever endured. Chodini took warriors into Mexico, but returned empty-handed, for although he had captured many beef, the White Eyes had robbed him of them, and returned them to the Mexican. Pressed as we were between these two enemies, our people began slowly to starve.

  I told Chodini of my father. He was little surprised to hear Ashteh lived, for he too had glimpsed the man who hid within the tent.

  “I see it pains you, daughter,” he said. “But your blood is of no consequence to me.”

  I should have rejoiced that Chodini took so little heed of my father’s treachery. But I could find comfort in nothing. Nobody. When I looked at the faces of my tribe, I saw strangers. I could not hold fast to certainty as Golahka had urged me, for without him, there was none. And it was bitter indeed to know that he walked in the Happy Place beside Tehineh while I remained on the alien earth alone.

  When Chodini set forth to raid once more, I did not go with him. I would be naug
ht but a hindrance and a danger to him. For to fight well a warrior must lust to live, and with each breath, I wished to die.

  In Chodini’s absence, Dahtet’s child was born – a son – whom she held with fervent passion. The infant cried ceaselessly. There was not enough to feed Dahtet, and so her son hungered too. I went alone to hunt such small game as I could find, for I sorrowed to hear the child’s cries. Often I returned empty-handed; everywhere I went it seemed the White Eyes had stripped the land of all that moved upon it. Sometimes I came home with rabbits, birds, mountain rats. By the time such meat was divided amongst the hungry, there was barely a mouthful for Dahtet. Yet we survived, clinging to life by our fingertips, my living heart weighing like a stone within me.

  Through that long winter our camp smelt of defeat: it soured the air and poisoned all who breathed it. It was not only the battle at the pass that caused this despair, for in truth we had survived such losses before; it was the vision that Ussen spread upon the night sky that told the tribe it was vanquished.

  When Chodini returned again from Mexico he brought but one stringy mule to feed near three hundred of his tribe. Two warriors had been lost in gaining even this, for he had been pursued by soldiers of both the Mexican and the White Eyes’ army.

  It was midwinter. At Chodini’s request the medicine man built a ceremonial fire, scattering herbs upon it. As the scented smoke rose skywards, our great chief chanted prayers to Ussen, for sorely were his people in need of guidance. In answer, Ussen painted a picture on the moonlit clouds.

  Marching across the night sky were many soldiers, all dressed in the same dark uniform. Men whose hair was yellow, and whose skin glowed pale. They marched side by side together, a hundred – a thousand – abreast, faces devoid of expression, looking neither left nor right. Could there be so many men upon the living earth? I stared, thinking that soon they would stop; they must stop. But no end was there in sight. The men marched shoulder to shoulder, until the vast dome of the sky was filled with their number; and yet still more came over the horizon to push them forward.