Soul of the Sacred Earth

by Vella Munn

  Fray Angelico and Pablo were speaking, or rather the padre’s voice droned on and on in what Cougar took to be a prayer as the soldier knelt before him with his face uplifted. Cougar remembered when the padre had placed his hand on his head and said the words that meant he’d been baptized. What was taking place between these two was no more important to him.

  “They are done with us,” Drums No More whispered.

  “Maybe.”

  “Through the Hopi woman, you told them where to find emeralds, and they have no more use for us.”

  “You are wrong. Until we have guided them—”

  “Do not say that again. It does not make a lie of the possibility that they will kill us now.”

  The soldier had driven a stake into the ground and tied Cougar to it, but he’d left Drums No More free. Hopefully, as intended, the Spanish thought he was too undone by fear to raise his single hand against them, but although his grandfather gave the appearance of someone on the verge of tears, Cougar knew better. Still, if Morning Butterfly was right and Drums No More had hidden his true emotions all these years, having to see, hear, and smell the Spanish might have brought back the nightmare.

  “You are all right?” Cougar whispered.

  “All right? They are poisonous lizards and bear dung, something to be avoided.”

  “Grandfather, I love your words. They speak the truth.”

  “More truth than you did.”

  “Do you think I should have done otherwise? Did you want me to tell them there are no emeralds at the great canyon? That they risk their lives by looking for them? That it is both sacred and dangerous and that once there, you and I can escape and hide?”

  “No.” Drums No More sighed. “You did what you had to. As for whether your plan will work . . .”

  “I know.” How long would the padre continue to pray? And when he’d finished and gone away, would the soldier then run his sword through him and his grandfather? Was that what the captain had ordered him to do? “They believe we are helpless. Defeated.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Is that your belief as well?”

  Drums No More didn’t immediately answer. Then: “I have lived a long life, watched my children grow up and become mothers and fathers. A man could not ask for more.”

  “You could have had both hands.”

  “A wise man does not pray for what will never be. Our fate is in the hands of a man we both hate.” Then, to Cougar’s surprise, his grandfather chuckled. “I was going to prepare myself for death with prayer. Instead, I will think of when the Hero Twins took the multicolored hoops their father Sun God had given them back to their mother Changing Woman. She blessed them and sent them in the earth’s directions. After that, thunder was heard, the sky grew dark, and a great white cloud descended. That was followed by whirlwinds that uprooted trees and tossed great rocks around. The storm killed many Naye’i and created the great canyon. Perhaps when the soldiers go to it, Sun God and Changing Woman will see them as Naye’i and destroy them.”

  • • •

  The dream had always been the same. His first child had just come into the world and he was reaching for it when, to his horror, he discovered he had no hand with which to cradle the infant. As the newborn fell to the earth, blood spurted from his ruined wrist and his mouth filled with the need to scream. Something, however, stopped him from giving the cry freedom—he’d always silenced it, the effort exhausting him.

  The soldier who’d tied his grandson to the stake stood before Drums No More, the man’s stench pulling Drums No More out of the nightmare.

  The soldier, who had left and then returned, walking alone and like one who does not wish to be seen, now held his sword awkwardly in both hands, firelight glinting off the shining surface. He kept glancing in the direction the captain had gone, and he muttered to himself, the unintelligible words reminding Drums No More of the padre’s earlier prayer. Drums No More didn’t know or care what the soldier was thinking; nothing mattered except the deadly weapon and the one that had come before it so many years before.

  Cougar’s large black eyes burned into his grandfather, searching for the truth of his heart, but Drums No More didn’t return his grandson’s gaze because he was afraid the courageous young man would see his fear.

  He forced himself to concentrate on his enemy. The man’s awful smell became even stronger, pungent and hot like a horse after a long run.

  Up, up went the sword, its strength all-consuming, and Drums No More knew—as he’d known on the day they hacked off his hand—that he was about to die. He didn’t fear death, sometimes cried out for it. Would welcome it.

  But it wasn’t his grandson’s time.

  The soldier’s eyes were an agony of determination, his prayer going on and on.

  “No!”

  The earth was strength and life, Mother and Father. Everything. It flowed through Drums No More and became him. Young again, he gathered his legs and charged. His head slammed into his enemy’s belly and the man flew back, a surprised grunt his only sound.

  Drums No More followed him to the ground, landing on him. The sword flew off into the night and the soldier was scrabbling, reaching . . .

  “No!”

  It didn’t matter whether the cry came from Drums No More or Cougar. His hand, his one hand, locked around the soldier’s hair, yanked his head up and then slammed it down onto the summer-hardened earth. Again and again he pounded until the soldier stopped struggling and blood spurted from his mouth and nose. The blood-smell became Drums No More’s thoughts, his reality. He had been made to bleed and now he had returned the deed.

  “Grandfather! Free me.”

  • • •

  “Madariaga de Oñate” stopped in mid-stride, but although he held his breath in an attempt to hear better, he couldn’t say what had caught his attention. A quick prayer wouldn’t hurt—not that he hadn’t already asked God on numerous occasions to see him safely through the night, or day.

  He’d barely begun to cross himself when he heard what sounded like a sigh. Quite possibly one of his companions had chosen a nearby spot to take one of the native women . . . and yet—

  The sigh—or whatever it was—was repeated. Drawing his sword, Oñate inched his way forward. Although he still strained to hear, now there was nothing except the usual night sounds—sounds he’d become accustomed to while working on the farms of wealthy New Spain landowners. Unfortunately, familiarity with what crawled, walked, or flew at night wasn’t enough to make him comfortable, not with so many savages about.

  Cursing the sound his well-used boots made, he slipped closer until firelight told him what he didn’t want to know. The Navajo was no longer tethered to the stake. Beyond, a dark shape lay unmoving on the ground.

  Instead of hurrying toward what he feared was Pablo’s lifeless body, Oñate spun and raced for Fray Angelico’s tent. It wasn’t until he’d burst into it that he asked himself why he hadn’t gone looking for his captain. The answer was simple. He’d do everything he could to avoid his superior officer.

  “He is dead!” he blurted. “Pablo. The Navajo killed him.”

  Angelico, who’d already gotten to his feet, froze. “What?”

  “Please, Padre, I beg of you, come with me.” Madariaga dropped to his knees and clutched the hem of Angelico’s robe. “Wrap me in God’s goodness. Ask Him to take pity on me so that my—my captain . . .”

  His words fell away, but not before they’d echoed back at him and revealed him as the coward he was.

  “I am ashamed,” he managed. “Pablo may yet be alive, but did I go to comfort and protect him?”

  To his everlasting relief, he felt the padre’s warm hand on his head. “Listen to me, my son,” Fray Angelico said softly. “Do not chastise yourself for your actions. The devil’s influence here is great; no mortal can attempt to vanquish him.”

  “My friend—”

  “Is in the Lord’s hands. My son, we will pray for his soul and then do w
hat we must.”

  • • •

  Banished to Oraibi, Morning Butterfly eagerly returned her family’s welcoming hugs, but even as she told them about her trip to the Navajo village and why she’d returned with two Navajo, her thoughts and heart remained far below, with Cougar.

  Was he dead?

  Singer of Songs had once again gone to spend the night with the captain. Since Morning Butterfly had left, her younger sister hadn’t once returned to her pueblo until nearly morning, and when she did, all she wanted to do was sleep. Her chores had gone undone, not that anyone blamed her. Instead, they’d prayed for her, just as they’d prayed for Morning Butterfly.

  Her mother begged her to never again go to the Navajo village, but her father, brothers, and sisters, and even One Hand wanted to know what she’d seen and learned. She tried to satisfy their curiosity, taking time to share what Cougar had told her about Navajo beliefs and ceremonies, but the whole time she heard his voice inside her, and she prayed for him.

  Her youngest brother fell asleep first. Then her mother started to snore, and even her father, who had turned more and more to talking as his physical ability lessened, stumbled off to his sleeping mat. Finally it was just her and One Hand in the faint glow of what remained of the cooking fire.

  “If you do not want this question, tell me and I will be silent,” she said. “But when I was with the Navajo, I met a man like you.”

  “Like me?”

  “His hand had been hacked off.”

  “Atch!”

  She reached out to wrap her arms around him, but he pulled into himself and the shadows, distancing himself from her. Still, she continued. “Do you remember a Navajo—”

  “I do not think of that time. You know that.”

  Maybe not during your waking moments, but at night . . . “He is now Drums No More, and I do not remember what he was called before that. His grandson is the one who took the horses, the one I freed earlier.”

  If anything, One Hand seemed even further away than he’d been a moment before. “The grandson is a brave man.”

  “Yes, he is.” Please live, Cougar. Please! I should not have left— “One Hand, I thought—I thought that if you met someone who had survived what you did, that you two could learn from each other.”

  He expelled his breath in a harsh gasp. “I do not live in the past! And if he does, he is a fool!”

  “I meant no harm. I only—”

  “Morning Butterfly, my heart continues to beat because I turned that time into darkness. It has died inside me.”

  “Has it?”

  Again she heard his breathing, only he didn’t seem so angry anymore. Rather, he sounded like a very old man whose lungs have grown weary.

  “I will not speak of where my thoughts go when I am asleep,” he told her, “because if I do, they may follow me into morning.”

  “I understand,” she whispered, loving him, “but I cannot forget the words you sometimes utter when you dream, or your need to be held.”

  She’d never thought they’d speak about that and was afraid he’d throw her words back at her or deny the truth of what she’d just said, but he only pulled his stump against his chest and gently massaged it.

  “I can walk just one way, Morning Butterfly.” His words sounded hollow and lifeless. “The way that keeps me from drowning in darkness, from screaming to the sun. Do not ask me to speak to the Navajo Drums No More. Do not.”

  • • •

  One Hand’s plea still echoed inside Morning Butterfly when the endless, sleepless night came to an end. Her sister hadn’t returned, and between worrying about her and the awful question of whether Cougar and Drums No More were alive or if Cougar had wanted her near him as he died, she’d been unable to quiet her mind enough for sleep to invade it.

  She’d gone outside and was watching dawn touch the horizon when she spotted someone walking slowly toward her. Jumping to her feet, she started forward, then, alarmed by her sister’s haggard appearance, she stopped.

  “Morning Butterfly?” Singer of Songs said once she was close enough that the sisters could look into each other’s eyes. “The captain said you were back. I prayed he spoke the truth.”

  “He knows you understand Spanish?”

  “No. That is the one thing I can keep from him.”

  Singer of Songs looked so small. When Morning Butterfly held out her hands, and her sister snuggled against her, she wished with all her heart that she could wrap her in a blanket and carry her into the wilderness.

  “You are all right?” she managed around her tears. “He still treats you well?”

  “He has not injured me.”

  Not your body, but what about the rest of you? “I give thanks to Taiowa for that. Sister, I must ask you something. The captain, did he say what happened to the two Navajo?”

  Singer of Songs leaned back slightly in Morning Butterfly’s arms. “No. He had fallen asleep when one of his men woke him. They spoke so rapidly that I could not understand. The captain started to leave, then with gestures ordered me to stay. I thought he would return, but he did not.”

  The knot in the pit of her stomach Morning Butterfly had lived with all night returned, forced her to struggle to speak. “I am afraid he killed them,” she admitted. “I tell myself he still has need of them, but . . .”

  “They are Navajo, sister. They angered the captain and he hates them.”

  “I know,” she admitted, “but . . .”

  “Do not burden your heart with thoughts of the Navajo. The Spanish have changed our lives; the weight of that is enough.”

  As if to add emphasis to what she’d just said, Singer of Songs rested her head on Morning Butterfly’s shoulder and a shuddering sigh rocked her slight frame.

  “What is it?” Morning Butterfly demanded. “You heard something that fills you with fear? Something you are afraid to tell me?”

  “Yes, yes.” Singer of Songs began to weep, soundless tears dripping down her face.

  “What?” Please, do not let it be about Cougar!

  “I will say this to you first because I pray you will give me the courage I need to share it with the rest of our family.” She took a deep breath and the tears stopped. “I . . . I am with child.”

  “Spider Woman, no!”

  “Yes.”

  Taiowa the Creator had ordered Spider Woman to create trees, bushes, plants, flowers, and other growing things out of the earth. When she’d finished, Spider Woman used more earth to fashion birds and animals, and told them to travel to the four corners of the land to live. Finally, she’d gathered yellow, red, white, and black earth and mixed that with tuchvala, the liquid from her mouth, before covering everything with her white-substance cape that was creative wisdom. Then she sang over her creations until the forms became human beings. Spider Woman gave life; she didn’t take it away.

  “I wish it was otherwise,” Morning Butterfly managed. “I prayed your body would not accept a Spanish seed.”

  “So did I.” After another shaky breath, Singer of Songs pulled free so she could study the rapidly emerging horizon.

  “Maybe you are mistaken.”

  As she feared she would, Singer of Songs shook her head. “My breasts feel different, heavier. And my stomach does not want to keep food in it.”

  “No one else knows?”

  “No. I tried to tell our mother, but she is so seldom alone. She looks at the Spanish and our father with fear and sorrow in her eyes, but when she speaks, it is about things that do not matter—things that make her laugh. It is easier to tell you first.”

  Morning Butterfly had been learning how to talk and run when her mother had called her own mother and the other women of their clan together and retired to a small room. Morning Butterfly had heard the women’s encouraging voices and her mother’s occasional groan, and when, finally, they’d emerged, her mother carried a small bundle which she placed in Morning Butterfly’s arms. From that day on, she’d loved her younger sister and tak
en care of her as best she could. Today, however, there was little she could do.

  Maybe one thing.

  “This child will be Hopi, not Spanish,” she said. “It was conceived on Hopi land and will grow up as a member of our clan. Its father is nothing to it.”

  “You—you think so?”

  “Yes. Listen to me. From the time of the first Hopi, children have always belonged to their mother’s clan. When we need guidance, we call on our mother’s brother. Our father is but a visitor in his wife’s house and his responsibilities are to his sister’s children. You will never welcome the captain into where you live, will you?”

  “No. Never.”

  “There.” She spoke with confidence, reassuring both herself and her sister. “It is done then. This little one will be yours, mine, our mother’s. Hopi.”

  Singer of Songs started to cry again, and this time Morning Butterfly cried with her. Then she began to undo her sister’s hair. A pregnant Hopi woman had to be careful not to have knots in her hair, so the baby wouldn’t be “tied-up.”

  “After the others awake, we will stand before them and ask them to celebrate the coming of another Hopi child,” she said.

  “You will stand beside me?”

  “I will not have it any other way.”

  • • •

  Morning Butterfly and Singer of Songs faced their family as they gathered for breakfast. Although Roadrunner was concerned about how long her daughter could keep her condition from the captain and what he would do when he found out, everyone agreed the child would grow up learning what it meant to be Hopi.

  “I am a fortunate man,” Deer Ears said. “My sisters’ children and my sons have blessed me with grandchildren, and when I die, they will remember me. Now—” He squeezed his youngest child’s hand. “Now I wish to live even longer so this one will carry memories of me in his or her heart.”