by Len Levinson
I've returned to my family.
Nathanial sat heavily, realizing his tirade had gone too far, but his wife's cool rejection had unhinged his mind, and he felt lost without the order of the Army. Moreover, his father was insane, and Mother had disapproved of everything he did from the day he was born. But worst of all, Clarissa didn't love him anymore. Alone in his bedroom, where no one could see him, he permitted his eyes to well with tears.
The Chiricahuas camped in broken country west of the Dos Cabezas Mountains, where women cured meat for the upcoming season of Ghost Face, when snow covered the land. Their refuge was a region of impossible-to-scale cliffs, box canyons, and trails that led nowhere. The Pindah-lickoyee and the Nakai-yes never had been there, and many peaks were available for observing the approach of enemies.
Cochise's hold on the Chiricahuas had tightened since his defeat of Elias and Esquiline, although those two war chiefs never would forgive him. He'd have to watch his back constantly, but at least his wisdom had provided food for Ghost Face, and after the snow melted, he would inaugurate new campaigns.
One morning word was received that a large number of riders approached from the south. Fearing a disgruntled warrior had betrayed their hideout, Cochise sent scouts to determine more closely the character of the visitors. When the scouts returned, Cochise was relieved to learn he would be host not to bluecoat soldiers, but Chief Mangas Coloradas and the Mimbreno People.
Cochise's heart gladdened, for Chief Mangas Coloradas was his father-in-law, and Cochise had become war brothers with Victorio, the chosen heir of Mangas Coloradas. There were many connections of friendship and blood between the Chiricahuas and Mimbrenos.
As the visitors drew closer, they sat not like stalwart warriors and women of the People, but slouched on their horses, their skins an unhealthy hue, and Cochise feared they were diseased. The Mimbrenos rode among the wickiups, and even their horses appeared sickly, their great heads passing barely above the ground. Finally, the procession came to a halt before the wickiup of Cochise, where the Mimbrenos dismounted. Mangas Coloradas and Victorio appeared twenty years older, skin hanging loosely on their faces, as they stepped forward. Cochise silently embraced Mangas Coloradas, then Victorio, and waited for them to speak.
Mangas Coloradas's voice was faint. “The bluecoat soldiers have invaded our homeland and inflicted many casualties, among them my war brother Cuchillo Negro, for whom I carry a heavy heart. We moved to the land of the Nakai-yes and sought to make peace with Colonel Garcia at Janos. He said to me, ‘Let your people camp near us, and we will give you food and drink, so you do not need to make war.’ I agreed, and the Mexicans were true to their word; they gave us plentiful food and drink, but then we became ill and realized they had poisoned us. So we have left the Nakai-yes and wish to live among you until we are well.”
“You are welcome,” said Cochise, “and one day we shall repay Janos for its crime.”
An unsteady figure stepped forward with the help of a knobby wooden cane. Cochise recognized Nana, a notable medicine man of the Mimbrenos, who possessed the power of geese, the power of endurance, but it appeared his gift had been drowned in the poisoned wells of Janos. Nana's eyes were half closed, his lips tinged blue, as he leaned heavily on his cane. “We need the devil dance,” he intoned.
Cochise bowed solemnly to the request, for the mountain spirits had ordained the devil dance to drive away evil, and the People believed evil the cause of all illness.
“We shall commence preparations at once,” replied Cochise.
Nathanial doubted anyone would find him at the Atlas Hotel on Duane Street. Not frequented by traveling musicians and thespians, it wouldn't contain Clarissa's new friends, and neither was the Atlas visited by the foremost classes, for it was not especially luxurious. Nathanial rented a room facing the back alley, with office buildings and other hotels opposite, the air redolent with cooking odors from a restaurant below.
On the morning after the incident at the Academy of Music, Nathanial sat on his bed, pondering his prospects while smoking a succession of cigars and taking regular sips from a bottle. He reread the letter from Charles Mix, which directed him to proceed without delay to New Mexico Territory, but he could throw it out the window, and no one would give a damn.
Nathanial had come to the turning point of his life. He had to do something. Pacing back and forth, hands clasped behind his back, puffing his cigar, he decided to analyze the facts as coldly and objectively as possible.
He didn't want employment with one of his uncles, because buying and selling stocks and bonds at a desk until he keeled over did not appeal to his romantic vision. He found New York hideous, with buildings that blocked the sky, traffic barely moving, widespread crime, armies of prostitutes, the stink of smoke, garbage and offal, and a police force mired in corruption and scandal. He especially disapproved of the New York obsession with fashion and felt like a monkey whenever he put on one of his suits.
With a smile he remembered when he'd worn a breechclout and moccasin boots, a red bandanna around his head, and saw himself riding with Mangas Coloradas, Victorio, Juh, Nana, Geronimo, Chatto, Loco, and all the other Mimbreno Apaches, beneath the hot summer sun, with incredible vistas around them.
I was raised in New York, he thought, but I never felt more myself than when I rode with the Mimbrenos. Am I supposed to follow Clarissa from concert hall to concert hall, carrying her bags?
In his mind, Clarissa had abandoned him for her glorious musical career. But what kind of woman would desire the acclaim of the mob, and what do newspaper reviews have to do with music? Nathanial had graduated from the West Point Military Academy, fought in the Mexican War, and like many Americans, he believed the West was the future of the nation. Even Horace Greeley had said so, while New York was filth and false elegance. The frontier is where I belong, and I've got a job at Fort Thorn, so what am I waiting for? he asked himself.
Nathanial found his mother and father sitting to tea in the parlor when he arrived at their home on Washington Square. The colonel had been shaved, bathed, and dressed in clean clothes, appearing almost normal, were it not for the warped gleam in his eyes. His mother wore a yellow dress with navy blue bodice, golden earrings, and a ruby necklace. Nathanial couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her so happy. What is this love that makes imbeciles of us all? he wondered.
He sat with them as Belinda brought another cup and a selection of pastries, and after exchanging pleasantries, Nathanial said, “I'm afraid I have bad news.”
“You have misbehaved in public,” replied his mother. “But your father and I are used to that, aren't we dear?”
“Certainly,” replied the colonel on cue.
Nathanial was amazed at their reconciliation. “I lost my temper, and I apologize if it blackened the family name yet again, but you needn't worry about my discourteous behavior anymore, because I've decided to return to New Mexico Territory, and I'm leaving as soon as I put my affairs in order.”
“What about Clarissa?” asked his mother.
“If she wants to go West with me, that would make me very happy.”
“But Nathanial, she has eight concerts scheduled. Do you expect her to give them up for you?”
“Perhaps she should have told me of this overweening aspiration before we married.”
“She was so young—she hardly knew her own mind.”
His father cleared his throat. “It's always important to know your own mind,” he said gravely.
Who'd know better than you? thought Nathanial. “I'm going to West Point tomorrow, to say good-bye to Jeffrey.”
“And Natalie?”
“She will stay with her mother.”
His father leaned forward, as if he wanted to say something portentous. “Don't ever disappoint the Army,” he told his son solemnly.
After the interview Nathanial headed for his tailor, for he couldn't wear old Army uniforms at Fort Thorn, and needed rugged civilian apparel. He felt relieved to have
a plan of escape and couldn't wait to return to New Mexico Territory, where a man could feel like a king, instead of another ant on the New York hill.
He looked forward to sitting at a campfire with his warrior friends, and especially wanted to see Nana the medicine man, who had taught him the power of geese. This is America, he thought, and I can live anywhere I want. If Clarissa doesn't like it, she can go to hell.
He crossed Broadway and spotted a well-dressed, dark-skinned woman, probably Spanish or Italian, and she looked oddly familiar, like a certain Apache warrior woman, wife of sub-chief Juh, with whom Nathanial had enjoyed a brief hour of passion at the Santa Rita Copper Mines. It had been during the summer of 51, and the woman on the Broadway sidewalk somewhat resembled her.
Nathanial had tried to put Jocita out of his mind, but now that he was virtually single, he couldn't help thinking about her and her light-haired son, who had no idea his father was a White Eyes, while Juh pretended the boy was his. Quite simply, Jocita had been the most erotic female Nathanial had ever known, with her long, sinewy legs, muscular body, and eyes that never failed to hypnotize him. I wonder what she's doing these days, thought Nathanial, as he approached the tailor shop. Perhaps Juh has got himself killed, and she's free to marry again. And what about my half-breed Apache son? I'll bet he's real big by now.
Fast Rider, six harvests old, limped along a trail near the encampment, fighting weakness and dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him. Arsenic coursed through his veins, eating his organs, but the Mimbrenos struggled to move about in an effort to work the evil out of their bodies.
Fast Rider had been told all his life that he was outstanding and believed it totally, his strange hair considered a mark of special recognition from the Mountain Spirits. In addition, his Uncle Geronimo had given him the power of the bat, which enables a warrior to be an expert horseman. Once when his friends were in danger. Fast Rider had stolen a horse and ridden a great distance for help. That's how he'd won his name.
Like every boy of the People, Fast Rider received regular lessons in bow and arrow, fighting hand to hand, hunting, and participating in feats of physical endurance, such as swimming in ice water or running up mountains. But now Fast Rider was skinny, his stomach full of red-hot coals. He would hate Mexicanos until the day he died, which he considered imminent. Sometimes it hurt so much, he wanted to cry. He felt humiliated that his family had to beg the Chiricahuas for charity. When I am a warrior, he thought, I would rather die than beg.
His legs trembled with weakness, then his knees gave out. He went crashing to the ground, but managed to hold his hands out, to prevent his nose from being broken. His head spun, his breath came in gasps, and sparks flew across his eyeballs. I should have stayed with Mother, but a warrior should not want his mother at all times.
A silver glow arose out of the ground before him, and Fast Rider narrowed his eyes at brightness streaming into his skull. The figure of an old man in white breechclout and moccasin boots appeared, a white bandanna around his head. Fast Rider was astounded to recognize old Miguel Narbona, the dead chief of the Chiricahuas. The boy became terrified as the ghost of Miguel Narbona approached, a terrible scar visible on his throat, raising his hand benevolently. “The Mimbreno People will be saved by the devil dance,” he intoned. “The power of the People is greater than the power of poison. Go and tell this to the others.”
Fast Rider bowed his head. “But I fear I will die, Chief Miguel Narbona.”
“Your time has not yet come. Do not be afraid.”
Tears streaming down his face, the boy struggled to his feet. “Don't go, Chief Miguel Narbona.” Fast Rider stumbled forward in an effort to touch the ghost, but was overcome by the power of the vision, and collapsed onto the ground, where he lay still as death.
Jocita, mother of Fast Rider, had been following him, despite her own poison-sickness, for she'd never let the boy out of her sight. She'd seen him on his knees, talking with someone, in the grip of a mighty vision.
Stooped, bent, with deep lines in her face, although she was only thirty-one harvests old, she kneeled beside him and rolled him onto his back. His breath came softly, there was foam on his lips, and she feared he was going to die. “Nana!” she screamed. “Geronimo!”
At the campsite the two medicine men heard their names. Tottering, they made their way to Jocita's voice. Nana, a full-blooded Mimbreno, was fifty-two, skilled in the medicinal arts, while Geronimo, thirty, of the Bedonko clan, was considered a rising medicine man of great potential.
They found mother and child in a small clearing. Geronimo chanted healing prayers, while Nana sprinkled the boy with sacred pollen. Then Nana rubbed the boy's limbs, while Geronimo wet the boy's pale lips with water. After an interval Fast Rider opened his eyes.
“Chief Miguel Narbona spoke to me,” the boy said innocently.
“What did he say?” asked Nana gently.
“The devil dance will save us, for the power of the People is greater than the power of poison.”
They helped the boy to the campsite as the prophecy spread among the People. The Mimbrenos drew new hope from the words, while the Chiricahuas dedicated themselves more diligently to preparations for the devil dance.
No one was more pleased than Cochise, who went off by himself to pray. “Thank you for your words, my beloved chief,” he whispered in the darkness of the cave. “Now I know you are with us, but why did you speak to a child instead of me, your chosen heir?”
No answer came, forcing Cochise to meditate upon his question. Who is this magical child, and what is his destiny? Will he be the one to save the People from the bluecoat army, not I?
Everyone congratulated Juh for the vision of his son, and Juh accepted their compliments manfully, although he knew Fast Rider was not his flesh and blood.
Juh was chief of the Nednai, a tribe that once had lived in the Sierra Madre Mountains of Sonora, but now traveled with the larger Mimbreno group, where he had become a sub-chief. A fierce fighter covered with scarred slabs of muscle, he was respected nearly as much as Victorio, and could become overall chief of the Mimbrenos if anything happened to Mangas Coloradas and Victorio.
But even a chief of the Nednai needed sons, so he'd left the barren Jocita for Ish-keh, his second wife. Then Jocita secretly had become pregnant by Sunny Bear, and Juh had to pretend the boy was his, otherwise they'd consider him unworthy of leadership.
Juh couldn't understand why Jocita had produced a son with Sunny Bear, but not him. It seemed as if the Mountain Spirits had played a cruel joke on Juh, especially since he'd loved Jocita more than Ish-keh. Sometimes he wanted to kill Jocita for her treachery.
Juh tended to bury personal worries in obsessive hatred, so his thoughts turned to Janos, where Mexicanos had poisoned him. It gave him pleasure to know that the People would utterly demolish the town after the devil dance had worked its cure. We shall have revenge, he told himself, as he lay in his wickiup, breathing laboriously. Like many other residents of New Mexico Territory, Juh found it easier to hate than love.
4
* * *
Clarissa's Academy of Music concert was sold out, for wealthy New Yorkers in search of new thrills were eager to see the much-publicized female virtuoso who'd gone West, rubbed elbows with gamblers, cattle rustlers, and wild Indians, and played the piano with such panache. No one admitted they might be deceived by their own enthusiasm, for false hopes and joyful pretension were indispensable in New York society.
In the course of the concert Clarissa gave her audience Haydn, Beethoven, and Scarlatti, to whom they responded appreciatively. They especially enjoyed the medley of popular songs and clapped hands heartily following her rendition of “Old Folks at Home,” by Stephen Collins Foster.
As Clarissa's fingers raced lightly over the keys, she recalled when she was a child, dreaming of becoming a concert pianist wearing gorgeous gowns. How many people's dreams come true? she asked herself, as her fingers pressed an emphatic chord.
Ho
w dare Nathanial interfere with my art? she demanded, as she lightly touched a high C. Who does he think he is? Dissatisfaction concerning Nathanial gave a particular edge to her performance, as if she wanted to prove she was more than merely his dutiful little wife. What has he ever done? she mused. His only talent is violence, but what talent is that?
Following her final selection, she rose from the piano, advanced to the footlights, and bowed to the audience, their cheers and shouts trembling the rafters of the hall. Flowers rained upon the stage, and one bounced off her coiffure as she blew them all a kiss. So huge was the reception that she played one encore judiciously selected for such an eventuality.
While taking her last bow, she scanned the jubilant crowd, glad her husband was absent and therefore unable to embarrass her. She'd never realized he was such a boor, and it troubled her to know she remembered him during her greatest triumph. She gazed at smiling faces, saw love and admiration, and thought perhaps she wasn't the awkward and inexperienced woman she sometimes suspected herself to be.
I always knew that greatness resided within me, she thought. Now it has been confirmed, and nothing will stop me from performing again, certainly not my ill-mannered husband. If he ever bothers me again, I'll have him arrested.
The white paddle wheeler steamship plowed up the mighty Hudson, and Nathanial stood at the rail, wrapped in a high-collared black wool topcoat ex tending to his calves, plus a black knitted sailor cap. He felt as if he were on the funeral barge of his marriage, surrounded by the Jersey Palisades and the towering Hudson Highlands.
It was late October, the leaves red and gold, the air filled with the sweet odor of crumbling decay. The Hudson valley is magnificent, he realized, but I love the raw beauty of the frontier, where a man can make himself anew, without regard for whether his wife has left him, or if his father is a madman.