by Vella Munn
“Be one with the Creator, Morning Butterfly. One with the earth so it can speak to you.”
When the Creator gave life to the First People, they’d known only peace and happiness and had multiplied and spread over the land, but eventually they forgot Sotuknang and Spider Woman’s commands to respect their Creator. When they did, animals drew away and people became estranged from one another. According to legend, Sotuknang told the few believers that the world as they knew it would be destroyed and another created so harmony could return. They were directed to listen to their kopavi’s wisdom, which allowed them to see a certain cloud they should follow by day and a star to lead them at night, taking them far from the destruction.
“I am confused,” Morning Butterfly admitted. “My thoughts are full of the Creator and what he did to make us one with the earth, but I am only an earth woman, not Sotuknang or Spider Woman.”
“But you believe.”
“Yes.”
“Because of that, if the time has come again when the Creator is no longer respected, you will not be destroyed, will you?”
She couldn’t answer, could only head into the future guided by the past. She stood and began to walk. The sky was blue and pure, contrasting sharply with Oraibi’s gray walls. As summer gave way to fall, the blue would fade, and by winter, sky and Hopi home would be nearly the same.
A single cloud hung in the distance. White as a newborn sheep’s coat, it looked forsaken, silent, and untouchable. Cloud-shapes were like the wind, always changing, and yet this one held a warrior’s features. No matter how long she looked at it, the features remained.
Sotuknang had directed the ancient believers to follow a magical cloud.
Feeling suddenly weightless, she looked around for One Hand, but he had not accompanied her.
The cloud was west of her. If she stood directly under it, she would be—at the great canyon.
“Sotuknang, is this cloud for me?”
• • •
After filling a bladder with water, selecting several pieces of piki so she’d have the finely ground and baked cornmeal to eat, and picking up a length of rope, Morning Butterfly scrambled down off the mesa. She’d debated telling her sister and parents what she was doing, but her father had fallen twice recently and her mother’s eyes turned dark with concern whenever she looked at him. Singer of Songs had been spending much of her time with their aunt’s newborn—and waiting for Captain Lopez to again demand her presence. Hopefully Morning Butterfly’s family would think she was with the padre or tending to the soldiers.
Although she avoided the areas where the soldiers and other Spanish were, she gave them little mind. Her heartbeat seemed so loud that she wondered if her heart had been touched by thunder, and her head throbbed. When she covered her throat with her hand, she felt the rise and fall of each breath, and when her hand moved to her navel, she thought of the woman-part of her, the Creator-given gift that made it possible for her to create life. Her feet—Hopi feet—stood on Mother Earth.
With each step, she became more and more one with the earth. She was surrounded by kachinas, guided and protected by them, a Hopi woman seeking the truth.
Seeking a Navajo man.
Her hands belonged to someone else as they untied the cord holding the corral gate in place. Moving among the horses, she breathed in their scent and remembered the first time she’d seen Cougar as he galloped away on one of them. When a long-legged mare stepped toward her, she secured the rope around its lower jaw as she’d see Cougar do. Then she gathered her muscles and sprang onto the animal’s back. She was closer to the cloud now, and although night would swallow it before she stood under it, she prayed a star would emerge to show her the way.
And if it took her to where Cougar’s body lay . . .
With her eyes on the sky, she cantered away from Oraibi. Only one person saw her leave. Captain Lopez.
• • •
The cloud had given way to a blue-silver star that cast a steady light through the night while Morning Butterfly slept. Her horse remained nearby, perhaps comforted by her steady breathing. At dawn, the cloud reappeared and held steady throughout the day. On the second night, the star returned; the same thing happened the third night. By then she’d reached the forest, and the trees often hid the star’s light from her, but she knew it was still there. She ate a little yarrow and needle grass to supplement the piki, not enough to completely silence her hunger but enough to keep her strong.
A child of open spaces, she wasn’t sure what to make of the close-growing trees. She was grateful for the cool shade they provided, and their crisp scent fascinated her, but the trunks and branches hemmed her in, stole her view of her world. Accustomed to the wind’s constant presence, she missed it. She heard it pressing against the treetops, the branches’ random movements a kind of dance, but her flesh needed to be touched by moving air.
When the shadows threatened to take over everything, she told herself that the forest wasn’t that different from the walls of Oraibi, but although remembering her home and family comforted her a little, she couldn’t stop thinking about how strange and new everything felt.
The first time she caught a glimpse of movement in the shadows, it was all she could do not to turn and run. Quickly dismounting and sliding behind a tree, she peered around it, didn’t think to breathe until she realized she was looking at a doe—by far the largest she’d ever seen. Relief flooded through her, causing her to sigh so loudly that the doe bounded away. After that, she trained herself to let curiosity take precedence over fear so that when she spotted a creature nearly the size of a newborn sheep but covered with what looked like a blanket of pine needles, she guessed it was a porcupine. Her people had long traded with other tribes for porcupine needles, but she’d never imagined the animal itself looked like that.
Easier to accept were the different kinds of birds, such as the large but skittish turkeys and loud jays, dark red squirrels, tiny, shy mice, and once—fleetingly—a short-eared bobcat that melted into its surroundings with a single, graceful leap. She’d heard of great bears who lived in the woods and knew no fear, but surely, she told herself, if one of the fierce creatures was about, the other animals would warn her. At least she prayed they would.
She’d always thought of the earth as something hard and dry, soil robbed of richness because of the lack of moisture, but here everything felt faintly damp, as if earth and trees had wept cool tears. It seemed impossible that every drop wasn’t precious, that in fact there was more than enough, and she vowed to tell her family of her discovery.
The days and nights she’d spent alone had made it possible for her to dismiss the Spanish presence from her mind. Although she occasionally tried, she couldn’t recall a word of what Fray Angelico had told her about his God.
The cloud was nearly overhead now. In the past, the canyon hadn’t been any more interesting to her than any other place she hadn’t seen. She’d been told that looking over its edge was like staring into the center of the earth where Sotuknang had once taken First People so they could live with Ant People. She wanted to pull the vision into herself and make it a part of her so she could eventually describe it to her children.
That was what she would concentrate on, not what might wait for her once she was within the cloud’s shadow.
She’d been following the child of the river that ran through the canyon’s belly, sometimes riding along its banks, occasionally veering aside when it twisted and turned upon itself. No matter how many times she gazed at it, her wonder at this much water never ceased. If she could pick it up and carry it back with her, there would no longer be a need for Niman and corn would grow so thick and rich that it might become like the forest. She chuckled at the image of herself dragging a river behind her. Her horse started to lower its head to eat, then stopped, its muscles quivering.
Morning Butterfly heard the sound then, not part of the forest’s song, but set apart and existing on its own. Sotuknang and Spider Woman might
have shown her the way, but she wasn’t so foolish as to believe they would guide her every step, be her eyes and ears, her wisdom.
After a quick prayer asking the horse to forgive her for leaving it exposed, she dismounted and slipped into the low-growing vegetation. Sharp branches scratched her calves and thighs, but she was barely aware of the discomfort. The sound grew stronger and closer, taking shape inside her mind, becoming horse and human.
Like a teasing child, the forest gave up its secret by slow degrees, but at length she knew the truth—a truth that filled her with tears, laughter, and prayers of thankfulness.
Cougar rode at the front of a line of men and horses. They were all Navajo, none wary of their surroundings but easy and relaxed. Occasionally, Cougar turned to speak to those behind him, and Morning Butterfly warned herself to take measure of them, but her eyes saw only Cougar, her ears strained only for his voice.
Alive. He was alive.
She was still taking him into her when he spotted her horse and instantly became like his namesake, cautious and aware but not afraid, passing on his knowledge with a minimum of words. In her mind she saw herself walking toward him, lifting her hand in greeting, telling him how relieved she was to find him alive, but she felt suddenly naked and vulnerable. For now she would remain hidden.
Through a blur of tears, she saw the others gather around Cougar, their eyes scraping over their surroundings as they reached for their bows and arrows. Cougar took hold of her mare’s rope, and it occurred to her that he would know it hadn’t been ridden by a soldier. Would he think—
She placed her hands, fingers splayed, on the ground. This was Mother Earth, and she owed her existence to it and Father Sun. Belief had brought her here and belief would see her through what came next.
The song resounds back from our Creator with joy, and we of the earth repeat it to our Creator. At the appearing of the yellow light, repeats and repeats again the joyful echo, sounds and resounds for times to come.
Surrounded by the Song of Creation, she stood and walked toward the Navajo. The first man to spot her cried out a warning and aimed an arrow at her, but instead of shrinking away, she continued forward.
“Cougar,” she said in Hopi, “I have been sent to you.”
• • •
Morning Butterfly hadn’t said anything about being hungry, but Cougar had seen it in her eyes and gladly shared some of his venison with her. He still didn’t understand how she’d found him or what she’d meant by her greeting.
That could come later. It was vital for him to learn everything he could about what Captain Lopez had been doing and what he might do next, but although she willingly answered his questions as everyone sat in a circle in a small clearing, her explanations were like pollen on the wind—gone before he could capture them.
Morning Butterfly had come here alone, the journey taking three days and nights, riding fearlessly through land unknown to her, unarmed.
“No one knows you are here?” he asked, although she might have already told him.
“One Hand, maybe. I should have said something to my parents and sister, but . . .” She pressed her hand to her forehead. “Changing Woman came to me and told me what to do.”
“She told you to come to the canyon to look for Navajo?”
“No.” She didn’t meet his eyes. “Captain Lopez boasted he had killed you, but my heart would not hear those words.”
Something hummed between them, but how could he concentrate on it while surrounded by those who were family to him? “The captain lied,” he said.
“I know that. Now.”
But you did not for a long, hard time. “I am sorry for his lies.”
“I thought—it came to me that he might be like a stag, full of himself.”
“The Navajo were the stags, not soldiers,” he said, laughing a little. “We came at them like grizzlies, killed one and forced them to flee.”
“Not grizzlies,” she whispered. “Your name led you into battle.”
“Not just my name. Captain Lopez’s grandfather sought to destroy mine. The time for that to be made right had come.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Can a Peaceful One understand—”
“Cougar, you and I have said these words to each other before; I do not want to do so again. Besides . . .”
“Besides what?”
Closing her eyes, she lingered behind her lids for a long time. “It is not so easy to be Hopi these days. When I see what is happening to my people . . .”
With a little prompting, she told him and the others about the recent changes at Oraibi. Although he tried to imagine what the church looked like, that didn’t concern him as much as the hardships being forced upon the Hopi and what might happen now that the soldiers had returned.
Although the others occasionally asked questions of her through him, she seemed barely aware of their presence. Instead, her eyes remained on him, her words were for him, her body leaned toward his. She’d started to ask about Drums No More when her eyes filled with tears. He took her hands in his and then flattened them on his chest.
“I am sorry,” he whispered.
“Sorry?”
“When I took my grandfather’s dreams of the Hero Twins into my heart and said I would act on them, I should have thought about what my decision would do to you.”
“Me?”
“My actions touched you, became part of your life,” he started, then fell silent because there were no words for what he now felt. Seeking wisdom, he looked around at his fellow braves, but of course they didn’t understand what she and he were saying to each other.
“What are you going to do now?” he made himself ask. “I must—must return to my people.”
• • •
Singer of Songs was rubbing her father’s legs when she heard the first warning cry. Jumping to her feet, she hurried outside in time to see Captain Lopez and the other soldiers approaching. They were all heavily armed, but with helmets shading their features, she couldn’t see what was in their eyes.
“What are they doing here?” her mother hissed from behind her. “They cannot—they have already taken so much.”
“A little food remains, but if they know . . .”
Singer of Songs glanced behind her long enough to spot her father silhouetted in the doorway and leaning against it for support. If Morning Butterfly was here, she would walk up to the soldiers and with her presence ask for an explanation, but her sister was gone—looking for Cougar, she had no doubt.
“He will not hurt me.” Singer of Songs indicated the captain.
“You cannot be certain of that.”
The pueblo rooftops were already dotted with Hopi and even more were climbing onto them for a better view. All she wanted to do was run, but she couldn’t. Her heart hammered so she could barely breathe, and yet she forced her legs to move. She stopped a few feet in front of the soldiers, the sun beating down on her.
Recognizing her, Captain Lopez stopped in mid-stride, and despite the helmet-shade, she thought she saw hesitancy in his features, but it didn’t last long.
“We are here for everything which belongs to us,” he announced. He turned toward the soldier who’d returned before the others. “Get it. Get it all.”
• • •
Food was a wonderful thing. Once eaten, it turned into strength, flowed into the muscles and brought the mind back to life. Morning Butterfly had always known that, but she couldn’t remember ever having been as hungry as she’d been before Cougar fed her.
And yet food wasn’t responsible for the way she felt now, she acknowledged, still drinking in Cougar’s reality. She’d been starved for him without knowing it. He’d told her that he and the others hadn’t attempted to follow the soldiers but had gone into the canyon, where memories and wisdom of the Before Ones waited. She understood why standing where the Before Ones had once lived had been important, even wished she could walk into the rock homes of the Anasazi so she could study
the artwork and carvings they’d left on the canyon’s sides and look for discarded pottery, jewelry, cooking utensils, or weapons. There was indeed wisdom and continuity to be learned from the Before Ones, and these days she ached for that.
Still, if Cougar hadn’t spent days and nights within the canyon’s great walls and in its shadows, her fear for him wouldn’t have stripped her of every other emotion.
Looking around, she took note of the rapidly dying daylight. Cougar’s companions had remounted and were getting ready to ride away. Only half aware of what she was doing, she started toward her mare, but Cougar stopped her.
“This is our time,” he said simply. “Nothing else.”
“But . . .”
“You do not want to be alone with me?”
“No, that is not it. My family.”
“Send them a prayer. Maybe their hearts are open and they will hear it.”
Closing her eyes, she concentrated on her parents, Singer of Songs, and One Hand. In her mind, she saw herself touch each of them on the shoulder and whisper that she was all right and would soon return. That done, she looked up at Cougar.
She thought night must love him because although it was still coming to life, its shadows embraced him and painted him in dark, bold colors. He’d soon have to put on a shirt or blanket but the mountain chill hadn’t yet touched him. Instead, he remained nearly naked, part of his world.
“This is as it should be,” he said as they listened to the retreating hoofbeats. “Spider Woman and the Cloud People guided you to me because it is right for us to be together.”
“You believe in her and the Cloud People?”
“They are not Navajo, but they exist for the Hopi.”
“Just as chindi are part of the Navajo world?”