Soul of the Sacred Earth

by Vella Munn

  He’d started to cry, his thinly muscled body shuddering as if in a storm-wind. His manhood, so hard that it made her think of a stick, ground into her belly.

  “Kneel and kiss my hand. Render obedience. Render—obedience . . .”

  He bent her back and off balance. She couldn’t take her eyes off his blurry features. He reminded her of a stalking wolf. She wondered if he saw her as his prey.

  But she wasn’t a trapped and wounded deer, not with Siliomomo at her side.

  “No!” she screamed as she wrenched free. “No!”

  • • •

  Panting, his mind a dust storm of disjointed thoughts, Fray Angelico stared at his surroundings. Morning Butterfly was hurrying away from him, her thick hair no longer caught in coils on either side of her head but streaming out behind her.

  His arms ached and his legs threatened to buckle; his manhood throbbed, but how could that be? He’d surrendered himself to the brotherhood and believed with all his heart and soul that he’d been chosen for life as a Franciscan monk. He was no longer a mortal man, was above such base desires, and yet . . .

  He’d wanted Morning Butterfly. Might have taken her if she hadn’t yelled.

  Mortification replaced confusion as he quickly remembered everything that had happened. His cheeks felt on fire, and he was drenched in a sweat that had only a little to do with the hot afternoon. It was incomprehensible that he’d lost control of himself, and yet . . .

  “Lord my God, please, please, I beg forgiveness. This country is indeed in the devil’s clutches. What I experienced during my sermon at Oraibi was his doing, his attempts to turn me from You.”

  This was the first time he’d allowed his thoughts to return to that terrifying experience, but it was too soon. Later, when he felt stronger, he’d pray for understanding.

  “And the people living here—the devil looks out through their eyes and has woven his evil way throughout their bodies, tempting . . .”

  His throat was so dry that he was barely able to get the words out. Instead of forcing himself to say more, he took another, longer, look at his surroundings. To his everlasting relief, he saw no soldiers, and even the few Hopi he’d spotted in the distance appeared to be concentrating on their labors. But he could not assure himself that Morning Butterfly would keep what had transpired to herself.

  “The creature you saw today was not me, Morning Butterfly. I was in Lucifer’s clutches.” He stumbled into his tent. There wasn’t enough air inside, and he thought he might pass out. Bent over to avoid rubbing the top of his head on the low canvas roof, he reached for a long switch with a trembling hand. Then he stood in the center of the tent and closed his eyes and bowed his head.

  “My Lord, I have brought shame upon both You and myself. My actions are reprehensible and if it pleases You to strike me dead, do so.”

  Barely able to breathe, he waited, but the thunder and lightning he half expected did not come.

  “I will—I promise You, from this moment forth, I will walk the path You, in Your great wisdom, have set for me. I acknowledge the devil’s temptation, fear it, understand that even the most innocent-appearing child . . .”

  Was Morning Butterfly a child? Yes, she was a heathen, but a comely one nonetheless, ripe with untapped womanhood.

  Groaning, he fell to his knees and gripped the switch so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “What have I done to deserve this torment? Please, Lord, what have I done?”

  His plea echoed.

  “I submit,” he gasped. “And I seek atonement for my sins. Guidance and salvation.”

  Not sure where the strength came from, he nonetheless forced himself to stand. Then he pulled his robe over his head and stood naked in the dim light. Eyes clamped shut, he gripped the switch with both hands, lifted it over his head, and brought it down—hard—onto his back.

  Pain flamed through him and forced out a cry, but he didn’t stop. He lashed himself until blood ran down his back. At last, he collapsed onto the pitiful collection of leaves and rags that constituted his bed.

  As darkness trapped him, he once again prayed for forgiveness and guidance, and to be free of Morning Butterfly’s image.

  • • •

  It was still full light when Angelico regained the ability to think. The effort of sitting up caused him to gasp. Shaking, he reached for the faded leather satchel containing his worldly goods and drew out a pen and a precious piece of paper. After placing it on his Bible for stability, he began a letter to Governor Zotylo in Santa Fe.

  “Much as I hoped to distance myself from civil matters, I find that is impossible, as I would be doing you a disservice if I did not apprise you of conditions here. Captain Lopez is an experienced military man, and I was initially much impressed with his leadership abilities, but I am deeply distressed by his disregard for the Church. He professes to be a servant of the Lord, but he is not. As a consequence, my holy task has become most difficult. Currently, Captain Lopez is little interested in anything except finding and punishing the nearby Navajo who have stolen a number of horses and ascertaining the existence of emeralds at or near the great canyon. Even more distressing is his and his men’s treatment of the Hopi women, which is in direct opposition to the Crown’s orders. I have attempted to remind Lopez of his obligations to the Church and to me as the Lord’s servant, but to no avail. Much as I hate writing these words, his morals and priorities are inexcusable. As a consequence, I must ask you to have him replaced with a man who fears the Lord and is faithful to the Crown.”

  Done, he carefully folded the letter and placed it inside a small deer-hide pouch. The next morning, as soon as early mass was over, he hurried—struggling to ignore his discomfort—to where the captain was instructing his men as to their duties for the day. Angelico presented him with the status reports he’d prepared—one for the missionary father Fray Bernardino de Luna, currently residing in Santa Fe, and an official one for Governor Zotylo. The private letter to the governor remained in his pocket.

  “Captain,” he said, “we are both eager, I’m sure, to let our superiors know of our accomplishments. My chronicles are now complete, as, I trust, are yours. My only concern is whether the documents will indeed reach the hands they are intended for.”

  “They will.” Lopez’s voice held only a touch of irritation. He nodded in the direction of the horse enclosure, indicating the two Indian servants who, although they’d been among the last to leave following the service, were already busy tending to his three personal animals.

  “I chose those two with great care,” he explained. “Not because they are blessed with any greater intellect than most of their kind—indeed, they do not appear capable of any independent thought and have learned only a few Spanish words. However, their families are working my father-in-law’s land, and they are well aware that any disobedience on their parts will result in punishment to those they care about.”

  That announcement didn’t surprise Angelico, who’d noticed that the two acted more like hostages than servants. Just the same, they faithfully attended all of his services and served as an example to the Hopi.

  “Will you be sending both of them?” he asked.

  “I considered it, since two would have a greater chance of reaching Santa Fe safely, but they are brothers. If one remains with me, the other no doubt knows his brother will suffer greatly should he not fulfill his mission.

  “Yes, indeed. I see the wisdom of that. So, when will the journey begin?”

  Lopez waved the two letters in the air. “You are eager for these to reach their destinations? I would think, given the little you have been able to accomplish toward establishing a church, that you would not have that much to report.”

  “Ah, but you are wrong—as I have no doubt you will realize when you read what I have written. You may see but small steps in my missionary work, but I have been laying vital groundwork, preparing the Hopi for acceptance of the true religion.”

  As he suspected, Lopez lifted his
hand to stop him from continuing. Then he explained that he hadn’t completed his own report but hoped to within the next day or two. As soon as that had been done, the messenger would be dispatched.

  And when he was dispatched, Angelico thought, he would also be carrying the padre’s personal letter to the governor.

  Chapter Eleven

  From his perch on a rise a half day’s walk from Oraibi, Cougar watched a number of Hopi men fan out over the land. They carried short, thick sticks that they used to turn over any large rocks they came across. Occasionally one or another would bend over, grab a wriggling snake, and shove it into a large deerskin pouch.

  Cougar had never watched a Snake Ceremony but knew it was the most important of the Hopi traditions, part of Niman, which was essential if there was to be a bountiful crop. Until he’d spotted the men, he’d given little thought to the fact that their harvest season was approaching, but now he smiled, not because he concerned himself with whether the Hopi had abundant corn, but because the fact that they were preparing for the elaborate ceremony meant the Spanish hadn’t changed them in this most fundamental of ways.

  He was out today, not to spy on the Hopi but to learn how far a strong horse could travel. At the moment, his horse was eating on the far side of the rise, hobbled so it couldn’t wander away. He’d chosen this particular one because it had the longest legs and didn’t seem to have as many fears as some of its kin. If he was going to venture where soldiers might be, he must ride an animal who didn’t easily panic and could be trusted, at least a little, not to betray its presence.

  Walking back to the horse, Cougar allowed his thoughts to remain briefly with the Hopi—specifically Morning Butterfly, who, he prayed daily, hadn’t come to grief because of what she’d done for him.

  His trip to Oraibi had accomplished nothing. The soldiers hadn’t left for the great canyon after all, and he’d been left with the question of whether he’d been visited by a chindi and whether the chindi was Navajo or if the Spanish possessed such things.

  • • •

  The Snake ceremony had begun several days before Cougar spotted the Hopi men. The entire rite, designed to bring the rain that would insure a good harvest, lasted for nine days and was conducted by members of the Snake and Antelope religious societies. First, the societies’ men had prepared themselves by praying, fashioning prayer sticks, and setting up altars inside their respective kivas. After that, every morning for four days, Snake and Antelope men would go in search of snakes. It didn’t matter whether the reptiles were poisonous or not, just that a sufficient number were brought back.

  On the eighth day, the marriage was held—not a marriage between two people who would spend their lives together, but one done in accordance with the Chu’tiva tiva ritual. As tradition dictated, it began before midnight when the Snake chief brought a virgin who’d been initiated into the Snake women’s society inside the Antelope kiva. The upper half of her forehead, chin, and throat was painted with tuma, or white clay. The rest of her face had been painted black with nananha from a diseased ear of corn. She wore a woven black dress, a Snake dancer’s kirtle, and a red-and-white cape. A small eagle-down feather had been tied to her loose hair, and a turquoise-and-shell necklace hung around her neck. She carried an earthen jar full of prayer sticks, corn, squash, melon, and bean vines.

  She and the Snake chief were met by the Antelope chief and a young man known as the Antelope Youth. His hair, too, was loose, with another feather tied in front. The youth carried a snake and also wore a ceremonial kirtle. In contrast to his “bride,” his face was painted ash-gray except for his white chin. His body, arms, and legs had white zigzag lines on them.

  The wedding ceremony consisted of a ceremonial washing of their hair in soapy water made from yucca roots, following which the girl was seated on a plaque of seeds brought in by the Antelope chief. The seeds symbolized food for birds, animals, and man. Once the boy and girl completed their part of the ceremony, the pavasio began, the singing of songs lasting until dawn.

  Although Morning Butterfly was tired from last night’s activities, which had brought together the Snake and Antelope societies, she eagerly awaited the dancers’ arrival. Sitting in front of her family’s pueblo, she divided her attention among the knot of soldiers standing to one side of the village plaza, her companions, including her silent sister, and the kisi where the washed and sand-dried snakes had been placed.

  She spotted Fray Angelico with the soldiers but did not acknowledge him. In truth, she reverently wished the Snake men hadn’t allowed the outsiders to watch. There might be less conflict this way, and in the wake of no less than ten “baptisms” in the past two days, the padre needed to understand that his actions had had no impact on tradition; that Niman was for the Hopi.

  “They come,” her father whispered as the sun set.

  “I pray the ceremony will strengthen you,” she told him. “That you will become young again.”

  “Youth is a visitor, not something we can hold on to.” His voice, although sober, wasn’t filled with sorrow as it sometimes was when he contemplated his physical condition. “Perhaps youth can only touch so many people at once. If that is so, it is your turn, yours and Singer of Songs. I gladly give you the gift.”

  She and Deer Ears seldom spoke of such intimate matters, in part because his responsibilities lay with his mother’s clan, and now she cherished his every word.

  “I accept the gift,” she told him. “Still, I wish you could keep some of it for yourself so your legs could be strong and sure.”

  “Do not speak of that today, Morning Butterfly. Today we ask that our land be blessed with water.”

  Surrendering herself to the ceremony, she watched the Snake men dance into view, each with a snake in his mouth. Snakes were wise and sacred creatures capable of looking deep into a man and knowing whether he had a pure and fearless heart; no member of the Snake Clan who’d walked the way of his people all his life feared being bitten by one of the creatures, and all considered them their brothers.

  Each Snake dancer was accompanied by a hugger who carried a whip, which he occasionally used to keep the snake from biting. Once a dancer had made a circuit around the plaza, he removed the snake from his mouth and placed it on the ground, which was the signal for a third man, a gatherer, to pick up the snake and either drape it over his arm or hand it to one of the chanting Antelope men.

  Although the ceremony was a lengthy one, Morning Butterfly was in no hurry for it to end. She still resented the newcomers’ presence, but had been lulled by the deep chants meant to duplicate the sound of thunder, and focused on the tipkayavi, or womb, and the plaza in front of the Snake kiva with its sacred sipapu.

  This was her motherland, the core of everything she was and would ever be. She would become whole with her people tonight. She glanced at the padre, who stared openmouthed at the suta, yalaha, and tuma painted dancers, each wearing a reddish-brown kirtle.

  How strange this must be to him, how incomprehensible—just as the things he did during mass confused her. Maybe that explained the fear she saw in his eyes, his nervous, incessant movements. If she’d cared, she could have pointed out the dancers’ dignity and explained that as each Snake dancer passed the snake-filled kisi, he stomped his foot against the pochta, or sounding board, so he could be heard by those living both below and above the ground.

  Once again, she dismissed the man of God so she could give herself fully to what made her Hopi. Clouds had been building for several days and now hung low and heavy over Hopi land, but like the others, she was careful not to stare at them because one does not court the gifts of Taiowa the Creator, one simply accepts that if rituals and ceremonies are conducted with a pure heart, reward will follow.

  Now, surrounded by her family, she pulled in the precious scent of water-laden air. The wind had picked up and was filled with an energy that came at her from everywhere. Her face uplifted and eyes closed, she began rocking to and fro in time with the chanting.
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  Tears of thanksgiving and acceptance filmed her eyes, but she didn’t try to blink them away. One, two, and then more raindrops landed on her cheeks and forehead, and she drew in a shaky breath.

  “Taiowa has heard us,” One Hand whispered. Despite his hatred of the Spanish, he hadn’t remained in hiding during Niman. “The Creator looks down on the People and knows our hearts are pure.”

  “Yes,” Deer Ears answered while Morning Butterfly gave thanks not just for the rain, but because Taiowa had seen fit to bless the Hopi even with strangers in their midst.

  As the downpour began, she wondered if Cougar might be nearby and whether he understood what the padre never would. As for why those things mattered to her . . .

  • • •

  “This is appalling! Unacceptable! The heathens—how dare they defy me!”

  “Are you saying they made it rain to spite you?”

  Barely able to contain himself, Angelico waited for Captain Lopez to sit on the rock that would have to serve as a guest chair until he’d taught the savages how to fashion something decent.

  The captain had finally dispatched one of the Mexican Indians to Santa Fe with the overdue military report, but the servant had days of travel ahead of him—if he could be trusted not to run away and hide among what remained of his tribe—and there was no knowing when the governor might read and respond to the letter Angelico had ordered the miserable creature to personally and privately deliver. In the meantime, he had no choice but to try to make the captain understand that the heathen ceremony they’d witnessed yesterday—had it been that long ago?—was the devil’s work.

  “I do not care about the rain,” he said, although he couldn’t help but question how a pagan ceremony could have been timed to culminate in a precious storm unless it was more of Satan’s work. “I warn you, Captain. Do not mock me.”