Soul of the Sacred Earth

by Vella Munn

  “That this is not the time for old men to wear out their voices telling us things we already know.”

  She turned toward him, revealing the slightest smile. “What things?”

  “The paths the Holy People compel us to walk. In the stories of our beginning, what we call our Emergence, are the lessons for how we should live our lives. Those things are important, and no Navajo child can become an adult before learning the Rainbow Way, but sometimes old people lose themselves in the past.”

  Her smile broadened and for the first time since reaching the village, she didn’t look burdened.

  “It is the same with our old ones,” she admitted. “They love to talk about the different kachinas, how they came into being, and what befalls those who displease them. When I was a child, the stories fascinated me, but now . . .”

  “You want to tell the old people you have taken those things into your heart and do not need the lesson again.”

  “Yes.” Her laughter was a beautiful thing, a warm spring breeze. Then she indicated the conferring men. “This will take a long time?”

  “I am afraid it will.”

  “Then—Cougar, I spent last night in a Navajo village surrounded by Navajo. I did not think that would matter, but I have become a child who wishes to learn everything about your people.”

  The urge to embrace her washed over him, but even if they had been alone, he wasn’t sure she would want his touch. “There is not time,” he pointed out.

  “I know. But, please, tell me about the Way of the Rainbow. Why is walking its path so important?”

  Wondering if she had any idea how complicated her question was, he nevertheless went deep inside himself for an explanation she could take home with her.

  “The right way is narrow,” he began, “and it is all too easy to stray from it. But no one wishes it was different.”

  “Why not?”

  “The path is there,” he said, not sure that meant anything to her. “If you walk where you have never gone before, if the day is new and there has never been one like it, you feel safer if others have been on that journey before, do you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if you know how to stay on that path and not stumble off into the darkness, you feel safe, do you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is how it is for us. Chindi are fearsome things, the ghosts of Earth Surface dead. Even if the person was good and gentle, his chindi can be evil. That’s why we want nothing to do with someone who has just died, and why, if he dies inside a hogan, the body must be removed through a hole broken in the north wall, which is the direction of evil, and the hogan burned. But we know how to protect ourselves from chindi. We may not always do it the right way, but we know and that brings us comfort.”

  “What can you do?”

  He patted the small medicine bag he carried around his neck and explained that it contained a mix made from the gallbladders of mountain lions, bears, eagles, and skunks, which protected him from chindi poison.

  “That is only a small part of the path we walk,” he explained. “Our ceremonies are times of complex rituals and chants. We have ceremonies before a child is born, then take care to place a newborn at its mother’s left side and anoint its head with corn pollen. A father sings a special chant as he makes the cradle board, and when the child has reached his seventh year, he becomes an adult through the Yeibichai ceremony. If such things are done as they should be, there is little to fear.”

  “But if your chindi are angered—”

  “Then the person who has earned their wrath will go to a singer, who will perform rites to protect him; most powerful is a dry painting that takes a long time to make and may cost a great deal. Each painting is destroyed as soon as it has been created.” He frowned, then said, “I am sorry I cannot show you the symbols used to banish chindi.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I was stalked by a wolf-chindi and still may be a target. I do not want to anger him or make him stronger.”

  “You were stalked . . .”

  “Yes,” he said simply. “Today I will not speak more of it with you.”

  She nodded. Then, as the old men’s conversation increased in intensity, she stared intently into Cougar’s eyes. “The padre will never understand what you and I have shared.”

  “I know.”

  “I will never understand why he and those of his religion believe there is only one way.”

  He wanted to tell her how much it meant to have her care about his people’s beliefs, but his concentration was fading, floating . . .

  From where he sat, he could see as far as he could run in a long day. The land included depressions deep enough to shelter any number of creatures, twists and turns in the earth, but the horizon, although hazy, was well known to him. A few clouds rode in the sky; not strong enough to support rain, they were whimsical things that gathered and then fell apart. The elders’ voices were like distant drumbeats, part of his being, and yet they did not command his attention.

  When he’d first known he’d marry Sweet Water, the same thing had happened. He’d mentioned the experience to his uncle, who was of his mother’s clan and thus bore much of the responsibility of guiding him to adulthood, and his uncle had nodded and smiled.

  “A man’s heart is not his to control,” he’d told him. “Once a woman touches it, it becomes like a bird, flying this way and that in the wind.”

  It couldn’t be happening again. It couldn’t!

  • • •

  “It is my turn, Grandfather.”

  Drums No More folded his arms across his chest, his stump tucked under a bony elbow. The meeting among the elders had finally come to an end, and in his long-winded way, Drums No More had been explaining their decisions to the others. Much as the elders wanted the wisdom of the Blessing Way ceremony, he’d told them, the soldiers might come while they were in the middle of it, forever marring what was sacred. When he announced it was time to discuss Blue Swallow’s suggestion, Cougar rose.

  “You have already spoken, Grandson,” Drums No More pointed out. “We gave your words weight and will continue to do so.”

  “I am grateful for that, but the words I need to say are new ones. I will speak in both Navajo and Hopi so Morning Butterfly can understand.”

  At length, Drums No More nodded.

  “I have been here since early morning,” Cougar began. “I have listened and spoken, and told Morning Butterfly what was happening.” He pointed toward the distant clouds. “They called to me, commanded me to look deep into them. I saw countless horses. They gave my heart strength and I knew I had done right by bringing them here. But then the spirit-horses faded and were replaced by . . .”

  Speaking first in Navajo and then Hopi wasn’t easy, but one look at the expression in Morning Butterfly’s eyes told him he was doing the right thing.

  “The cloud-horses became a wolf.”

  Gasps followed that; even Morning Butterfly looked alarmed.

  “It was not an earth-wolf but born of the chindi.”

  “You are sure?” Drums No More asked.

  “Yes.” He forced the word through his tight throat. “Some of you know that when I returned from Oraibi after Blue Corn Eater’s death, I was followed by a chindi-wolf.”

  More gasps accompanied by low muttering briefly distracted him from the haunting image.

  “I do not fear the chindi-wolf; if it wishes me harm, so be it, but I do not believe that is why the ghost showed itself in the clouds.”

  He waited, wanted someone to question him, but no one did.

  “My vision is a message from the gods. The chindi-wolf was not alone. The Hero Twins were also there, speaking to me with their presence. Making me remember that it was they who saved our ancestors from the Naye’i.”

  His fellow villagers silently accepted the explanation, but Morning Butterfly asked to be told about both the Hero Twins and Naye’i, who were alien to her.

  Long before hi
s people came to Dinehtah, they’d scattered over the land in an attempt to escape the Naye’i monsters. They carried with them a small turquoise image of a woman which became Estanatlehi, Changing Woman, and a white shell that became Yolkai Estan, White Shell Woman. The two bore twin boys who in four days grew to the size of twelve-year-olds. Compelled to travel, the boys passed through the country of the cactus and into the land of rising sands. There they encountered a number of monsters, which they appeased by chanting sacred formulas. Finally they reached Tsohanoai, who held the sun.

  Tsohanoai put the twins through a series of tests, which they passed. Then Tsohanoai showed them how to defeat the remaining Naye’i by using lightning bolts as weapons. Each fierce battle caused a great deal of blood to flow, but finally Bear That Pursues, Traveling Stone, White Under the Rock, Black Under the Rock, and even Sa, which was Old Age, were destroyed.

  “This is what I say.” Cougar now addressed everyone. “I do not have the strength of the Twins but neither are the Spanish as powerful as the Naye’i. A chindi-wolf appeared before me and yet did not kill me. I now believe that is because my reason for being born is not over. The first time I spoke to the captain, I believed in what I was doing. I was wrong to have run away. I must return, must make them so greedy for what they call riches that they will leave on their own and leave all Indians safe.

  “I ask for strength in this,” he said, addressing Storm Wind, who was the most respected shaman and whose beautiful Enemyway dry paintings had cured uncounted sicknesses. “I ask you to create a Slayer of Enemy Gods painting for me so that when I look into the eyes of the captain, I will not falter and he will believe my lies.”

  “That was my thought even before you asked,” Storm Wind said. “This I will willingly do, but first I want you to look deep into your heart.”

  “I already have.”

  “But is your heart clear?”

  “Clear?”

  “Unencumbered by a man’s thought.” Storm Wind indicated Morning Butterfly. “My son, it is good that a woman has touched your life, but she is not Navajo. A woman can make a man’s thoughts turn to other things. If that has happened to you, you may be in danger.”

  What Cougar felt for Morning Butterfly was new and untested, like a morning mist that might not survive the day. Surely he could walk through the mist and into the sunlight. That’s what he told Storm Wind and the others.

  “A wise answer,” Storm Wind said. “One which makes me proud. Yes, Cougar, it would please me to create a Slayer of Enemy Gods painting for you so the soldiers will see you as we want them to.”

  As Storm Wind, Drums No More, and other elders retired to begin their preparations, Blue Swallow walked over and sat beside Cougar. When his cousin thrust out his hand, Cougar grasped it.

  “I did not say what I did because I wanted you to be the only one to take up a weapon,” Blue Swallow said. “What I wish is the soldiers’ deaths, all of them.”

  “So do I, but Morning Butterfly is right. If we kill these, then others, filled with the need for vengeance, will come. The first path I walked around them must be walked again.”

  Although he still clasped Blue Swallow’s hand, he remained aware of the warmth at his side and admitted that Storm Wind was right; Morning Butterfly had touched his heart.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cougar sat cross-legged in Storm Wind’s crowded, sage-scented hogan along with the tribe’s elders—and Morning Butterfly. Cougar had been relieved when the old shaman had guided her inside so she could witness the sacred ceremony. Her eyes had filled with fear when she’d realized he intended to again try to convince Captain Lopez and the soldiers to leave Oraibi in search of emeralds, but she hadn’t argued with him. He was grateful, because he couldn’t do it without her.

  Creating the dry painting took the better part of the day. Although Storm Wind asked another man to help him lay out the bed of clean sand that formed the painting’s base, from then on he worked alone. The white, red, yellow, black, and blue powders were made from ground sandstone, charcoal, gypsum, and ocher, and Storm Wind shaped them into the familiar Slayer of Enemy Gods, a war deity with lightning bolt weapons. Once the painting was completed, Cougar sat on it while the shaman shook his sacred rattle, prayed, and chanted at length. Following that, Storm Wind destroyed his creation.

  Seated on the painting, embraced by his people’s prayers for his success, Cougar let go of his physical body and went back through the ages to when the Hero Twin known as Monster Slayer confronted Tsetahotsiltali, He Who Kicks People Down the Cliff. The Hero Twin killed the Naye’i by repeatedly striking him over the eyes with his great stone knife. Nothing in life happened without meaning; no dream was simply a collection of random thoughts. If the Hero Twin had destroyed his enemy with a knife, Cougar would carry a knife when he confronted the captain.

  He had been blessed and made strong by cloud-visions, the shaman’s ceremony, and his own belief in his courage. He would not, could not fail, because the alternative might be that the soldiers would attack his people’s village and do to them what had been done to the Keres at Acoma. With Morning Butterfly there to supply the words he lacked—

  “Wait. I have something to say before my grandson leaves,” Drums No More announced, his firm tone pulling Cougar into the present. “I tried to push my concerns aside and tell my heart that what just took place will be enough and no harm can come to someone I love, but our enemies are strong, maybe as powerful as those the Hero Twins confronted. And Cougar was not born of Changing Woman or White Shell Woman. He is a man, not a god.”

  Cougar whispered a translation for Morning Butterfly.

  “My words are not meant to make less of Cougar’s courage,” the lean, sun-dried Navajo continued. “I have always been proud of him, no more than I am at this moment, but—but that does not silence an old man’s fear that he may never see his grandson again, because our enemies have killed a warrior.”

  “You say my ceremony was not enough?” Storm Wind challenged.

  “I say your skills were learned during a time which no longer exists. We are not just Navajo here; there is a Hopi among us, one with a pure heart, yes, but still her presence changes things . . . just as this new enemy does.”

  Once again, Cougar helped Morning Butterfly understand. When he mentioned her possible impact on the ceremony, she responded with a somber nod.

  “These are my thoughts,” Drums No More continued. “My beliefs. I spread them before you so each can take them and look at them.

  “Once before, my grandson went to the soldiers and they made him their prisoner. Instead of heeding his words and going to the great canyon, our enemy is still here. What I ask myself is what must be different this time so we will be rid of them.”

  Cougar had asked himself the same question, then turned from it as he buried himself in ceremony and prayer.

  Drums No More lifted his mutilated hand over his head. “Look at this, not as something you have seen all your lives but as a Spanish soldier would. What does it say to you?”

  At first no one answered. Then, as what his grandfather was getting at made itself clear to him, Cougar spoke. With all his heart he wished he didn’t have to.

  “A soldier would see a man who cannot fight.”

  “Yes.” Drums No More’s voice was filled with resignation.

  “A Navajo who has reason to fear the Spanish.”

  “Yes.

  “Perhaps even a man too afraid for anything except the truth.”

  “Yes.”

  • • •

  “Do you think I want him to travel with us?” Cougar asked Morning Butterfly when, finally, they stood in sunlight. “He has lived all his life hating the Spanish and should not have to look into the eyes of men like those who hacked off his hand. That is why I want the Spanish gone, so his memories can go back to their sleeping place.”

  “I understand.” She stood across from him, her arms hanging at her sides, her hair still flowing over her s
houlders as it had when the day began.

  “You understand?” he repeated in surprise.

  “Drums No More’s fears are the same as One Hand’s.”

  “No! My grandfather walks with courage. However, his words have merit because the Spanish do not know the truth of him.”

  Morning Butterfly continued to look doubtful, but she didn’t argue with him. Instead, she questioned his decision to return on horseback.

  “I know the journey will take much less time that way, and I do not want to see your grandfather walk that far, but the soldiers will be angry when you approach riding what was theirs.”

  “Listen to me and tell me if you believe my thoughts have wisdom,” he said. The soon-to-be-sleeping sun had spread red lights over her hair, making him wish he could touch it. “When we reach Oraibi, you will tell the captain I took you captive, but you convinced me to free you and try to win favor by returning three of their horses and promising to tell them where the emeralds came from.”

  “I was not your captive.”

  “You and I know that, but the captain does not. He will trust you.”

  Running her fingers through her hair, she frowned. “I should have given my actions more thought before I came looking for you,” she admitted. “Only once I was under way did I ask myself how I was going to explain my long absence.”

  “I know you do not want to lie, and if I could think of another way, I would not ask it of you. I would not—” Giving into impulse, he brushed a strand off her neck. “would not have you standing at my side when I tell my own lies to the captain.”

  “I am not afraid.”

  “No?”

  She shook her head, hesitantly it seemed, then began to nod. “You say lies are not the Hopi way and you are right, so I will tell you the truth. What I want is to spread corn on the roof of my family’s pueblo so it will dry, nothing else, but I fear there will not be enough corn to see us through the winter. More than that, the padre says our beliefs are the work of the Catholic devil and we will spend eternity burning in his hell. If the Hopi are ever going to go back to the life they once knew, the newcomers must go away.”