Soul of the Sacred Earth

by Vella Munn

  “And what?”

  “I do not know! His beliefs were—are—not the same as mine and he would go to war when that will never be the Hopi way.”

  “But those things do not mean your heart cannot be touched by his.”

  “How do you know? You are wise in the ways of love?” Regretting the words the moment they were out of her mouth, she reached for her sister. “I am sorry. I attack you when it is I who should feel my anger.”

  “Why? Because to love a Navajo is wrong?”

  “No. Yes. I do not know.”

  Chuckling, Singer of Songs hugged her. “Our legends tell us what our rhythm for life should be, but they do not say enough about matters of the heart.”

  “No,” Morning Butterfly agreed. “They do not.”

  “Perhaps that is because there is no wisdom where the heart is concerned. I hope—I pray—the day will come when a Hopi man comes to me and asks me to become his wife and my heart answers yes.”

  “I want that for you,” Morning Butterfly admitted around the lump in her throat.

  “As I want the same for you.”

  • • •

  Nothing had changed about the damnable place. Oraibi still stood sentinel over the inhospitable land and the wind continued its hellish sound as it ripped its way over the worthless earth. A man with more in his belly and less weight in his heart might feel pride at seeing the work that had been done on the church, but Captain Lopez was hard put to find anything positive about the day. His back throbbed and his left knee was swollen to twice its normal size. His lips were split in numerous places.

  As he expected, his appearance caused the miserable Hopi to stop what they were doing and stare at what remained of his troops. Only the fact that they had no way of communicating what they were witnessing to his fellow Spaniards kept him from utter despair. Let the creatures point and laugh; at least his superiors and father-in-law would never know. Maybe.

  Whether he was glad to see the padre or not was hard to say. Still, Fray Angelico took his responsibilities seriously and was a compassionate man. Without comment or question, the little brown man hurried over to him, then waited patiently as he dismounted.

  “Food and water,” Captain Lopez said, his tone as unhurried as he could make it. “Care for our horses. And medical attention.”

  “I will see to those things,” the padre assured him. “And prayer? Surely you wish—”

  “Later. Later.” In truth, his need for prayer was stronger than it had ever been, and if his knee’s throbbing hadn’t been so persistent, he would have bent before the padre. “Some of my men were wounded and their injuries have become infected. Whatever Morning Butterfly used on Pablo, that is what they need.”

  “Of course, of course. Captain, you left with six men. One is missing.”

  “Dead.” He forced the word. “Killed by murdering Navajo.”

  “I will pray for his soul.”

  A harsh laugh worked its way up from somewhere deep inside him. “If you are determined to pray for the dead, you have your work cut out for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Eyes half closed, he went back to the hot, exhausted afternoon four days ago when he and his men had been attacked. The hatred he’d felt then surged back, shoved aside everything else. “The miserable savages paid for what they did. By all that’s holy, they paid!”

  His outburst must have exhausted him, because he didn’t remember saying or doing anything for a long time afterward. He had a dim memory of someone, probably the padre, taking his arm . . . and somehow he found himself inside the half-finished church. His men were there as well, stretched out on the ground, one or two moaning.

  There was another dim memory—of “Madariaga de Oñate” first warily studying him and then assisting in making the others as comfortable as possible. Later he’d demand that Madariaga give an accounting of himself, but for now only one thing mattered—drinking until his sunken belly threatened to burst.

  The blessed water revived him. He realized that he was sitting in a surprisingly comfortable wood-and-leather chair. When he commented on it, Fray Angelico explained that he’d spent considerable time overseeing the work the Hopi women did on it. He wanted more, but getting the women to work with any degree of enthusiasm was proving difficult.

  “At first I told myself they were so lacking in intellect that I should not berate them for their inability to comprehend the most basic of instructions,” Fray Angelico said. “But I know different now.”

  “I could have told you that a long time ago. Still,” he said as he looked around, “I compliment you for what you have accomplished. I did not expect to find the work here so far advanced.”

  Looking pleased, Angelico said, “God’s hand is truly here. My prayers are indeed being answered.”

  “Perhaps prayers,” Lopez muttered. “And perhaps it is simply in the Hopi’s nature to bend their backs to any task.”

  Ignoring his comment, the padre explained that he’d sent for Morning Butterfly. “I must confess that having to rely on her has proven burdensome.”

  “Oh?”

  “No matter how strongly I word my desire to have her at my side at all times, she professes not to understand. Also, I cannot trust she is faithful in her translation of what I need to impart.”

  “She defies you?”

  A look of pain touched Angelico’s features, but instead of explaining, he got to his feet and started toward the church entrance, but before he reached it, a small figure passed through the opening. For a moment Lopez thought it might be Singer of Songs, but of course she wouldn’t care about his welfare.

  “You took your own sweet time getting here,” he told Morning Butterfly. “Could it be you do not care whether a soldier lives or dies?”

  She met his gaze. “I came as soon as I heard.”

  “Hm. I want you to immediately treat my men’s wounds. And you had better pray no one’s condition worsens. If it does—”

  Although she nodded to indicate she understood, she didn’t look at all intimidated. In fact, if he was as shrewd a judge of human nature as he prided himself on being, she had her own reasons for being here. If nothing else, her attitude pulled him back to reality. After telling him she’d brought along a supply of healing herbs and would apply them as soon as she’d assessed the soldiers’ wounds, she asked if it was true that they’d been attacked by Navajo.

  “I do not believe I said. In fact, I am certain this is the first time the miserable tribe has been mentioned today. Tell me, why did you say that?”

  Confusion briefly clouded her dark eyes, and she held herself so taut that he half expected her to snap in two. Her fingers were fisted, the flesh around her knuckles white. Hoping his injured knee wouldn’t give way, he stood, stepped toward her, and took hold of her wrist.

  “You do not care whether I live or die,” he told her. “In fact, it would bring you great pleasure to be looking at my lifeless body right now, wouldn’t it?”

  As before, she boldly returned his gaze.

  “I thought so. Ah, Morning Butterfly, you remind me so much of my own ‘dear’ wife. She too does not show respect to a man who is in every way her better. But where she is well schooled in what emotions she should reveal and those she should keep to herself—at least in public—you are all too easy to read.”

  A slow blink was her only reaction.

  “You are here not just to nurse the injured, but because you want to know what happened. I am right, am I not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why does it matter to you?”

  “One of your men is missing,” she said after a brief silence. “He is dead?”

  “I think you know the answer to that.”

  “Was his the only death?”

  “The only— Wait. I understand. You want to know how many of the savages we killed.”

  Yes, she answered without saying a word.

  “Oh, yes, my dear Morning Butterfly, my men and I w
on that battle. Overwhelmed by our superior weaponry, the creatures fled.”

  “Fled?”

  “Tried to run away like the cowards they are. But they had nowhere to run except toward the canyon’s edge. The sounds of their screams as they fell to their deaths was music to my ears.”

  “They are all dead?”

  “It gives me great pleasure to report to you that, yes, they are.”

  Morning Butterfly’s hands belonged to someone who knew what had to be done and went about the necessary tasks. She knelt over one soldier after another, washed dirt and dried blood off scratches, blisters, and wounds, covered them with healing poultices, sometimes spoke a few words, but heard nothing of what they said to her.

  These men had forced the Navajo over the canyon’s edge that had no gentle slope, nothing for a desperate warrior to cling to. Death might not come until a man reached the river at the bottom, but there could be only one end.

  And as that man fell, he’d know what that end would be.

  She prayed that Cougar—and the others—hadn’t suffered, that their fear had soon been extinguished and their souls were at rest. When she wasn’t praying for that, she prayed for forgetfulness for herself.

  And, although maybe she was deluding herself, she prayed that Captain Lopez had lied to her.

  • • •

  Lopez slept without moving until nearly noon the day after their return, then ate until his stomach refused to take in any more. He’d tried to get Morning Butterfly to send Singer of Songs to him, but she’d pretended not to understand. He and the padre would have to decide how to deal with her defiance, but the truth was, he still wasn’t up to sex, or even facing the young woman who’d become more than a way of releasing physical tension. Calling Madariaga to him was easier.

  “What were my final words to you?” he demanded of the dark, handsome young man.

  “That you never wanted to see me again.” Madariaga didn’t meet his gaze.

  “Then why have you defied me?”

  “You know,” Madariaga whispered, “I have just a single horse. If it did not survive the journey back to Santa Fe . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “It is not just that,” he went on after a minute. “A man out alone in that wilderness—he might not survive.”

  “You should have thought of that before questioning my leadership.”

  “Not your leadership, sir. Never that. I simply . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “We—we were sent here to assist in the spreading of God’s word. It concerned me that He was not being given His due at a time when His guidance and protection were needed.”

  They—at least he—were here for reasons beyond religious ones, but instead of telling Madariaga that, Lopez pondered whether the expedition to the great canyon and the confrontation with the Navajo might have turned out differently if he’d done more to assure that God rode at his shoulder. Never mind; he hadn’t.

  “I am not going to discuss that with you,” he said, eager to finish the conversation. “For once disobedience has turned into a benefit. Until my men have recovered, you must assume their duties.”

  “I have been assisting Fray Angelico. The supplies are nearly ready to be sent to Santa Fe, and the church—you see how much has been accomplished.”

  “Hm. Be that as it may, from now on, you will again report only to me. Do you understand?”

  Although he nodded, Madariaga hesitated just long enough to let Lopez know where his loyalties lay; it didn’t surprise him. After all, the Church’s hold on its subjects was a powerful one. Only a few, like him, ever questioned that control.

  • • •

  Captain Lopez had turned back into a strutting stallion. When he’d first dragged himself back to Oraibi, he’d been a cowed, even frightened man, but that hadn’t lasted. Why had he expected it to? Angelico asked himself as he watched the captain take inventory of the garrison’s weapons. A man’s basic nature doesn’t change, at least not that of a worldly man incapable of surrendering himself to the Lord.

  “Lord,” Angelico prayed aloud, “whatever path You choose for me, I gladly walk it, but I believe You have sent me a message. If I am to do Your work here, I must be free of certain oppressive presences. The Hopi need not a heavy military hand, but my gentle guidance—only that.”

  He cast about for something to fix his attention on but found only a small, dark cloud. Perhaps he was that cloud, alone and yet secure. Free to roam the heavens—free to spread the Lord’s Word.

  That, he prayed, would happen once his latest letter of complaint reached the governor.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “He may be dead.” Morning Butterfly threw back her head and stared up at the sky. Her eyes burned from her sleepless night, but she didn’t dare close them for fear an image of Cougar’s lifeless body would appear.

  “Listen to me, my child,” One Hand said. “It is not for us to know what happens beyond where our eyes take us. What I say to you is, live with what is around you; that is your truth.”

  “The truth is not always what we want,” she said, her gaze going to his stump.

  “Hating reality does not turn it away.”

  Most of the conversations she and One Hand had had over the years had been about practical matters, the day-to-day concerns of life. By unspoken agreement, they’d never brought up his nightmares or her efforts to ease his mind. His insight this afternoon touched her deeply.

  “I need to take your words into me,” she admitted. “I must learn from your wisdom so I no longer resist the changes to our way of life. So—so Cougar’s death becomes part of reality.”

  “You ask much of yourself, more than I have been capable of.”

  “No. You are teacher. I—”

  “Do not look at my footprints and plan your journey from them, Morning Butterfly.” His words were as soft as hers had been. “I am not one man, but two. The one you see now is as you say, accepting of reality. But there is another—fearful.”

  “I know.” She dropped to her knees before where he was sitting and covered his stump with her hand.

  He stared at what she’d done. “Yes, you do, because you have seen and heard and held that fearful man. Because you do not turn your back on my weakness.”

  “Never! One Hand, I love you.”

  “As I love you, granddaughter of my heart.” Leaning forward, he kissed her forehead. “Your eyes speak of great weariness. Caring for the soldiers took much from you.”

  “Not so much,” she admitted. “Their injuries were not mine, and what I saw and did today did not touch my soul. When they cried out, the sounds were nothing like what escapes you at night.” There. She’d said it.

  Nodding, he met her gaze with eyes as weary as hers felt. She started to stand, but he rested his hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “It is right that you and I are together today, and that I see your fears for Cougar. Morning Butterfly, you have given me gifts without end. I want it to be my turn to give to you.”

  How could anyone have thought this gentle man was their enemy!

  “You are not at peace,” he went on. “Your heart struggles for answers, as does your soul. You must walk with a man who believes everything about the Hopi is wrong and should be changed, a man who wants us to renounce all we have ever been and follow only his teachings. Maybe that is what has torn your heart.”

  “No,” she told him without the slightest hesitancy. “I—I feel sorry for the padre even as I acknowledge that his belief is as much a part of him as his need for air. I listen to his prayers, but they will never become mine.”

  “Have you told him that?”

  “I tried once. I no longer do.” A memory washed over her and took her from thoughts of Fray Angelico. Not fighting, she buried herself in it.

  “Morning Butterfly, what are you thinking?”

  “Of—when I was with Cougar, he and I spoke of what is different about our people, but there was no anger between us, only under
standing.”

  “He did not tell you to cease being Hopi and become Navajo?”

  “He would never do that.”

  “And you did not ask him to leave his beliefs and embrace yours?”

  “No. I would never—”

  “I know,” One Hand assured her. “What I say to you today is that that, in part, is why Cougar touched your heart.” Unable to speak, she could only nod in mute agreement. “Morning Butterfly, you are more than heart and soul.” He touched the top of her head. “Remember the lessons from the First People. As long as we listen to the earth, wisdom and peace are ours.”

  “I know.” Had she ever known peace? Lost in turmoil, she couldn’t remember.

  “When a child is born, certain ceremonies are held that make that child one with not just his family, but also the earth. As a child grows, he learns that his real parents are not those who live with him but Mother Earth, from whose flesh all are born, and Father Sun, who gives life to the universe.”

  “Why are you saying this?”

  “Because Mother Earth and Father Sun will give you the answers that Hopi people cannot.” He increased the pressure on her head. “When you were born, this place was not hard as it is now but soft, your kopavi.”

  Kopavi, the open door through which Hopi received life and communicated with their Creator. With every breath an infant took, the soft spot moved up and down with a vibration that communicated to the Creator. At the time of red light, or Talawva, the soft spot hardened and the door closed, remaining that way until a person’s death when the door reopened so his life could depart as it had come. Below the kopavi was the second center, the brain, which carried out the plan of all Creation. Third was the throat, which, along with the mouth and nose, accepted the breath of life and had the ability to speak and sing praises to the Creator. The heart came next, where man felt the good of life and its true purpose. The navel was the Creator’s throne; from there he directed all of man’s functions.