She kept her head down to avoid their piercing eyes and followed discreetly behind to San Miguel Chapel in old Santa Fe.
A tall, thin friar swaggered from the church, lifting his hand in blessing and greeting the other friars. This man wore a black hooded robe, his hands clasped in the wide arms. He appeared to float on the dusty road. The sun shone on his bald head that had a ring of blondish hair like a halo. There were deep marks on the sides of his pock-marked face, but the marks were fresh, like he indulged in self-flagellation as a religious fanatic and whipped his skin mercilessly with branches so sharp, the cuts looked like a razor blade sliced across his skin. Blood oozed from his face. Lavender-colored, spider-like veins protruded from his cheeks. A cross of ashes smudged his forehead. Specks of blood splattered across his chin and his robe, and dribbled down his neck. Teeth marks outlined his bottom lip which bled profusely. His chest rose up and down and something like a growl escaped his lips so that his spectacles vibrated on the bridge of his nose.
He jerked his hood up over his head so only a black hole was visible because he held his head back like a cobra about to strike.
With her head bowed she shuffled behind the friars to the back of the church where a group of Indians huddled, their wrists tied together. Armed soldiers guarded the prisoners.
A crowd of mainly Indians gathered at the fringes and looked down at the ground, avoiding the Franciscans’ eyes.
The faceless friar in the blood-stained robe pointed to one of the Indians.
A soldier shoved him and he landed on his knees. The Indian bowed his head, his black hair sweeping the dirt.
“You are guilty of missing mass yesterday. Fifty lashings,” the friar said, sounding like fingernails clawing a chalkboard.
The Indian didn’t protest when a soldier ripped off his shirt, tied him to a tree and whipped him.
“You there,” the friar said, pointing to another Indian.
The soldier pushed him forward to his knees and he cried out holding his leg in pain.
“I’ve done nothing wrong, Fray Bernal. I attended mass yesterday.”
“You did not sing. Nor did you appear mournful during Communion. How can you save your soul if you do not fulfill your duty? Forty lashings,” he said, holding up four fingers.
The sound of wheels on the nearby road diverted everyone’s attention. Five wagons pulled up behind the church. Bars enclosed the wagon beds. Each cage held ten Indians, except the last cage which held only seven prisoners.
The wagons attracted a larger crowd who drifted into the arena behind San Miguel Church. Spanish soldiers, businessmen, ranchers, women and children all gawked at the caged Indians. A festive air crackled about the Spanish while groups of Puebloans huddled together at the fringes with wide eyes and hands grasped behind their backs, their faces flushed with fear. From their terrified faces it was apparent the friar with the freshly scarred face was head Agent of the Inquisition. His name Juan Bernal stationed at Pecos, rushed through the Indian crowd like the crack of a whip.
Fray Bernal smiled and held his hands up like everyone was a friend.
“These forty-seven prisoners are medicine men the Holy Office arrested for sorcery. Seven are to be hung each day,” he said.
“What is their crime besides the fact that they are healers?” one Indian said.
The other Indians scurried away from him so that he stood alone.
“Where are you from?” Fray Bernal hissed.
“San Juan. I see among the healers my countryman El Popé. The healer saved my son’s life by removing a stone from his throat.”
Hollow-Woman jerked her head to a man who gripped the cage bars so tightly, his knuckles turned white. Like the other prisoners, he had been severely beaten yet there was such a supernatural glow about him, he seemed to tower above the others, though he was but medium height and wiry. Muscles bulged from his arms. Swelling on his face and bruises on his skin could not disguise his good looks, nor could cuts above his eyes hide intelligence that sparkled there. Like the other medicine men, the Inquisition chopped off his hair in punishment for idolatry. His reputation was legendary but he bled like any man. His knuckles were white since he clenched the bars; it seemed, to keep from falling. Or perhaps all the blood drained from his hands because he fought back. His hands were swollen, bruised, scraped, yet he did not cry out in pain. From the look on his dark face, he may have broken his hands on a few Spanish heads but they could not break his spirit. His hatred was so palpable; it was odd the friars did not sense his threat. The friars, in their arrogance, apparently believed God cheered for their side.
Fray Bernal slithered closer to the man from San Juan who dared defend Popé. Fray Bernal had no lips yet foam bubbled from the black hole of his hood.
“Your El Popé is no healer but a brujo. Your witch from San Juan seduced Fray Duran with the sole intention of recruiting the good friar as the devil’s disciple. Fray Duran then butchered his entire family. You are Popé’s disciple. You hide wooden Kachina images in your home and keep feathers for mischief of the foulest sort.”
“No,” the man said, taking a step back.
“Over here. Turpentine,” Fray Bernal screeched.
He lit a torch, waving the flame around his hood encircling him like a fiery halo.
“Don’t burn him,” she yelled.
Fray Bernal’s robe lashed against her bare calves though he stood some distance from her. His robe was made of material like a hairshirt, yet his robe felt slimy like snakeskin.
He seemed to glide as he moved towards her. His reddish eyes peered out of his hood from spectacles, proving he had his flaws even though he judged others like he was God.
He pointed at her and his fingernail advanced like a claw.
He splashed a bucket of turpentine on her bare feet and dangled his torch closer until flames licked her legs and the tips of her eyelashes glowed fiery-orange.
She screamed and a loud moan came from the closest cage. Popé’s face filled with suffering, it seemed, for her. His hand reached through the cage bars. He was too far to reach her, yet his comforting touch stroked her cheek.
An Indian in the crowd grabbed a blanket and beat her feet until he extinguished the fire. He held her by her arm pits and supported her. She clenched her teeth to keep from screaming; afraid to draw attention else Fray Bernal might finish the job.
He seemed to grow two feet and cast an ominous shadow as he swirled around the square, his robe flowing behind him, his arms spread like a flying crow.
“Ten missionaries have died from mysterious causes and even more settlers have sickened. These so-called medicine men confessed to witchcraft. Throw the witches into their cells and let the trials begin,” he said, lifting his neck and screaming like a mad man.
The Inquisition had severely beaten the medicine men, young and old, so most had to be helped to their jail cells.
Soldiers threw the men into seven adobe cells that encircled the church courtyard.
Heavy doors slammed shut behind them and iron locks snapped into place.
A soldier dragged a medicine man from the first cell.
Fray Bernal accused him of witchcraft.
A soldier twisted a rope around his neck and hung him from a tree.
The rope did not humanely break his neck and so he lingered, his moccasins kicking in the air, his face turning blue.
God, end his suffering. She stood there in the crowd, clasping her hands in prayer.
Finally, he expelled his body fluids, his body stilled and his choking sounds quieted to an eerie silence.
The other Indians moaned, and the Spanish clapped.
Fray Bernal repeated the atrocity until seven corpses swayed from branches, their moccasins pointed at the earth, their heads touching between their shoulder blades.
Oh God. She sickened and slapped her hand across her mouth.
A soldier led a naked Indian woman from San Miguel Chapel by a chain around her neck. She staggered about, ye
t managed to hide her breasts with her tangled hair but couldn’t hide her shame. From her swollen, purple lips she muttered an oath in Towa and was apparently from Pecos or Jemez, perhaps an ancestor.
The woman’s suffering exposed her soul. Oh, God, not just her soul; she hemorrhaged between her legs and bled from her bruised woman’s spot which swelled and bore witness that her interrogators brutally raped her. These agents of the Inquisition, Franciscan friars who claimed to practice celibacy, perhaps saw her as a field animal instead of a woman, so in their eyes did not break their covenant with God by forcing her to have sex with them.
The woman swung her head to a noise coming from one of the cells.
Popé stared out from the window bars. His head seemed to shrink. He sounded like he strangled. Finally, the words he choked on erupted from his mouth and he screamed in Towa at the woman. “Angeni, stay strong my Love. I will come for you and save you. I will turn into a hawk and fly from this prison. My fingers may be broken but my wings are not.”
Angeni did not acknowledge Popé. She lifted her heavy head to two Spanish officials who stood beside Fray Bernal. They all tapped their boots against the dirt as if they were impatient for these festivities to end so they could get on with more important business.
“Francisco Xavier,” Angeni said.
The dandy cocked his head.
“Diego López Sambrano,” she said, wheezing and appearing faint.
Sambrano stroked his beard and smiled mockingly at her.
“I beseech you both as my husband’s enemies and compassionate men, release Popé; he has done nothing wrong,” she pleaded in Spanish
“Your husband will hang tomorrow,” the men sang in unison.
Angeni turned her heavy head towards his jail cell, reaching out a hand to Popé. She stumbled and fell. Her buttocks hit the ground with such a loud thud, she split open and blood gushed from between her legs like the parted Red Sea.
Within moments…her head fell forward, her body lay limp and her eyes remained open, unblinking.
“Behold this lesson to any who harbor a witch,” Xavier and Sambrano said, pointing at the dead Angeni.
Suddenly, a hawk swooped from the sky with talons drawn and dug out Sambrano’s eyes.
Xavier dodged; swinging his head and protecting himself with his arms so the hawk merely scraped a claw across his wrist.
Chaos followed the blinding of Sambrano and attack on Xavier therefore, no Spaniard witnessed the hawk fly back to the second jail cell.
Hollow-Woman peeked though the bars of Popé’s cell. He lay on the floor breathing heavily. His beak-like nose melted back into a human nose, and the feathers on his arms and legs dissolved back into his skin. A howl came from his throat and he rocked in a fetus position.
She had witnessed Grandfather shapeshift and knew Popé could have maintained his transformation for only a few minutes because of his weakened condition from the beatings. She wished with all her heart Grandfather had taught her the secret of shapeshifting; she would transform into a robin, fly through the cage bars and comfort him.
“Tomorrow the witches from the second cell will hang,” Fray Bernal roared.
A thunder blast followed his words and grinning teeth appeared in his faceless hood.
A fellow prisoner whispered, “Do you hear that, El Popé? Tomorrow you will join Angeni and Masawkatsina will welcome you. This is why the sky darkened and she has not become one with the cloud people. Angeni waits for you, my friend.”
Popé mewed, thrashing about the floor in agony.
“Perhaps we’ll not hang tomorrow. I hear the pueblos are restless because of our arrest. The people will not forget their medicine men,” another inmate whispered.
The crowd dispersed and she followed some Indians to the Governor’s Palace, where a greater number had gathered, including a few hundred Tewa warriors from the north. Their numbers were so many that some defiantly stepped onto the long covered porch seeking dryness from the rain. A sign proclaimed Governor Juan Francisco de Treviño, appointed governor of New Mexico, 1675.
The Indians chanted, and yelled, and raised their fists.
“Our sorcerers and priests are in jail and will hang. Who then will stand between us and the dark spirits?” they said.
“Who will protect us from the power of the owl feather and black corn?”
The armed warriors threatened to kill Governor Treviño and every Hispaño if they did not release their sorcerers. Now!
The governor cowered in his palace while Capítan Sanchez swaggered on the flat rooftop, surrounded by a dozen armed soldiers.
Hollow-Woman leaned against a tree in the plaza yet the branches didn’t cool her burnt feet.
A couple of soldiers with pale faces shivered beside her. One soldier held the butt of his rifle with a trembling hand. She cocked her ear to their conversation.
“In all of Nuevo México we are but two thousand, including women and children. How can we stop seventeen-thousand Indians if they all rebel? Treviño is insane, agreeing with the Inquisition to arrest all their medicine men.”
“Let’s just hope Treviño isn’t as dumb as he looks. Most of the army is off chasing Apaches.”
“Shush now. There’s the Capítan. Let us hear what he has to say.”
Sanchez spread his legs wide and waved his hands to shush the crowd.
“Our Royal Governor Juan Francisco Treviño, head of Nuevo Mexíco by order of His Majesty, is a just man who has only the good of the Puebloans in his heart. He has therefore decided to release your medicine men since you rely on these men as…uh…doctors…of sorts.”
The captain spun on his heels and the soldiers marched from the roof in pompous fashion.
The medicine men were released and they drifted from their jail cells. Two Indians carried one man on a litter. His corpse joggled on the blanket. He must not have heard the rumors of impending rebellion and committed suicide rather than endure a hanging.
She returned to San Miguel Chapel and hid beside the wall.
Popé knelt beside Angeni’s body. He wrapped his wife in a blanket and lifted her corpse in his arms. He hugged her to his chest and her head fell back. The Inquisition had severely beaten his back, but his wife’s weight in his arms seemed to strengthen him and his muscles bulged as he rose to his feet.
She followed a distance behind him towards the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
The sun shone its rays on their faces then began its slow descent to the west.
The Pecos Pueblo rose up from the earth to greet them just as the sun fell behind their backs.
Stars sparkled in the sky and a full moon shone down upon Popé and Angeni.
She quietly climbed a tree and sat hugging her knees to her chest.
He laid his wife’s body down beside a mound of earth and dug with his fingers, unmindful of pain to his broken hand. He dug up a shallow grave and exposed a small skeleton with bony hands crossed below its neck.
“I bring you back, Angeni, like I promised to the land of your birth and bury you with our little Patomon,” he said, cupping his wife’s cheek with his hand.
Patomon means raging and the word spilled from his lips like a volcano. The flesh had fallen from his son’s bones. A skeleton, the size of a three-year-old, lay in the shallow grave. His son may have died from Spanish diseases the Indians talked about at the Santa Fe plaza, probably mountain fever, measles, or smallpox, diseases which had killed so many other Indians. If true, then Popé had even more reason to hate the Spanish.
He cradled his wife and stepped into the grave. He gently laid her in the red earth.
“How can I live without my angel,” he yelled, beating his heart with his fist.
He fell to his knees in the shallow grave and wrapped his arms around both his wife and son. Tears dampened his face and he rubbed his cheek against her hair.
He stayed in that hole until Hollow-Woman’s knees stiffened, making it hazardous for her to climb down from the tree.
He climbed from the grave and waved her hands in the air.
“Your gentle hands could once soothe my rage, but your hands are now brittle. There is no longer a reason for me to live.”
His shoulders shook with sobs and he appeared a broken man.
Thunder boomed in the sky above his head and lightning illuminated Popé. He no longer appeared broken but whole. Even his hands were straight and no longer swollen. He clung to his wife’s hands and lowered his brows.
“When a man no longer fears death, he is set free. Love breathes life into a man’s heart, but then so does hatred and revenge, as a father, as a husband and as a man,” he growled, showing his teeth like a wolf.
His snarl jolted Hollow-Woman back to Cherry Hill Park and she blew her nose on the arm of her robe, fully awake now and sitting on the sidewalk outside the bathroom.
She stumbled to the camper and lay there thinking about Popé, seeing his statue in her mind’s eye; his apprehensive look and open nostrils as if he smelled an enemy. Her heart went out to this hero of the people because he was all too human. He was a man who suffered the pain of losing a beloved wife and child.
Her dream catcher spun from the ceiling and seduced her so her eyelids grew heavy. Her brain numbed. Nonsensical, disjointed thoughts drifted in and out of her consciousness.
And in the background…an image of a flattened corpse made her body jerk against the mattress.
She could tell by the air hitting her face that her dream catcher spun wildly above her. The smell of tree sap snaked through her nostrils. She stared cross-eyed with her nose pressed up against the bark of a tree and peeked around the trunk. The sun ricocheted off the adobe of a pueblo that appeared made of gold. Ah, one of the fabled golden cities of Cibola. The Taos Pueblo was the most rigid, strict, and conservative of all pueblos. In her previous nightmare, soldiers whispered that Taos had a history of bad relations with Spain.
Return of the Bones: Inspired by a True Native American Indian Story Page 12