Return of the Bones: Inspired by a True Native American Indian Story

by Belinda Vasquez Garcia

  The wind howled, sending shivers up her spine.

  “Jesus! There you go again, scaring me,” she said.

  “I do not have Jesus Christ’s fortune telling abilities but I tinker with the middle eye.”

  “Will you please shut up?”

  “Maybe she’s just trying to warn you of impending danger instead of kill you,” he said, sounding conciliatory.

  “Kill me?”

  “Be careful on the roads today.”

  It was at that moment her truck wouldn’t start.

  She kicked the tires and cursed. She then lifted the hood and played around a bit, tightening nuts and bolts, adding water to the radiator. She got behind the wheel and carefully restarted, thinking the gas line was flooded.

  She jumped down from the seat, slammed the truck door, lifted the hood and banged against the motor with a wrench.

  He seemed amused by her battle. He held out his hands and hummed, casting off evil spirits.

  “Hello, I could use some real magic here instead of your mumbo jumbo,” she said.

  “I can make a horse fly but this pile of metal has no soul,” he said, shrugging his shoulders and walking away with a deep sigh. “I hope I do not live to see the day technology makes sorcery obsolete.”

  With a heavy heart, she called a tow truck to haul her pickup to the closest repair shop.

  She punched in the numbers of NAGPRA and they told her to come in after lunch.

  They decided to kill time by returning to the Capitol building.

  They caught the number 83 city bus across from the office at Cherry Hill.

  She blew her breath against the window and the glass fogged up. She wrote in the fog: Hollow-Woman was here!

  She bounced on the springy seat and grabbed onto the bar in front of her.

  They got off at the College Park Metro Station stop.

  Neither of them had even traveled on a normal train, much less a subway train. She managed to buy fare tickets and maneuver their way around by badgering other passengers.

  They caught the subway for the Federal Center SW Metro station, the closest stop to return to the Capitol building and Popé.

  Once again they made their way to the National Statuary Hall and Grandfather excused himself and headed for the bathroom.

  Remembering her dream, she walked behind the statue and counted the number of whip scars on Popé’s back.

  Her dream catcher must be working overtime and driving the mechanic who fixed her truck insane. A flash of the woman who masqueraded as her dream catcher turned the corner, her black hair flying behind her.

  Hollow-Woman spun on her heel to follow, but Popé stepped from the podium and blocked her way. He still had a wide-eyed look, like he was astonished as she, that he was mobile but still made from pink Tennessee granite marble.

  With his magic he showed her the war. One wave of his hand conjured upon the floor a vision of a skeleton army summoned by Masawkatsina. The skeletons rode skeletal horses to the rancheros and slaughtered Spanish men, women and children. They spared some of the women and took them captive, though most fainted at skeletons scooping them up into bony arms.

  Yowi beheaded priests, while the Puebloans ran around with torches, setting the churches on fire, just like in her dream.

  She smiled when Yowi beheaded the Agent of the Inquisition, Fray Bernal.

  Yowi murdered Fray Velasco, Guardian of the convento at Pecos, along with young Fray Pedrosa.

  With his sorcery, he showed one thousand Spanish survivors flee to the governor’s palace in Santa Fe, their faces terrified in disbelief.

  The Indians laid siege and cut off the water to Santa Fe.

  Parts of the capital burned while the sun set and rose for seven days.

  Atop Mudhead Katsina’s head, footsteps appeared of sixteen hundred Spanish roaring out of Santa Fe, their horses’ hooves squashing a few hundred Indians and capturing prisoners.

  The remaining Puebloans scurried to kill the Spanish women they held captive in revenge for all the Indians who died in the rebellion.

  Governor Otermín interrogated the captive Indians before ordering their slaughter.

  On Mudhead, the indentation of wagon wheels, prints of horses’ hooves, and petticoats swept across the mud. But nowhere was there an impression of a monk’s robe across the Río Grande because the priests were all murdered by Yowi, whose alligator head rose from the river to cut them off.

  Yowi snapped at other survivors escaping across the river.

  He cut the bodies of some of the Spanish in half and the Río Grande ran red with blood.

  While Franciscan friars writhed in agony, their faces scorched, their hair ablaze, a Spanish boy hugged the Lady, La Conquistadora, and burst through the church doors in Santa Fe. Her once magnificent dress blackened by fire, her golden-brown hair singed, her body swaying, her wooden eyes wide with fear, the Lady made it all the way to El Paso where the Spanish survivors cheered their Patrona.

  The Lady’s eyes drooped; her shoulders slumped with defeat, while the governor scratched his head, flabbergasted that the Puebloans would abandon God and their sovereign, King Charles II. The Spanish demanded vengeance and swore to wipe every trace of Indians off the face of New Mexico. The Lady’s hands were held open to entreat them. Wasn’t this what they were trying to do all along? Wipe out their culture, their language, their identity, all that made them Native American? Hadn’t they learned anything at all, living among these people for more than a century? The expression in her painted eyes seemed to change to astonishment as she realized it was they who had wooden heads.

  Then Popé switched focus to Santa Fe and Hollow-Woman watched the rebels raid the haciendas and the governor’s palace.

  The Spanish left behind a hoard of jewelry and Popé, dripping with Spanish jewels, resembled King Charles II as he rode triumphantly in Governor Otermin’s carriage through the Santa Fe streets and the pueblos, waving at the people. His most royal Governor El Popé bounced in the carriage, his flesh melting from his bones until all that remained was a jeweled skeleton waving a skeletal hand at his subjects.

  The booing of the crowd shocked her.

  The images wilted until only Popé stood before her in the Statuary Hall, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

  “No more Spanish lived in the lands of the people of the middle path because I led the warriors from the cornfields to rise up against the lions of Spain, who used us as work horses so we had little time to nourish our own crops. Our bellies were never full since the invaders came to our lands. Thousands died at their hands so, the death of some four hundred settlers was a small price to pay. I do not count the friars. The so-called holy men deserved to die. Yet, after the rebellion some of my people who before hailed me as the right hand of the god Pohéyemo, now labeled me a dictator and a tyrant, and compared me to the Spanish. Everything I did was for the pueblos. Tributes I demanded the people pay after the revolution were not paid with joy to honor me for freeing them from Spanish enslavement but instead, the people compared me to the invaders. The only model I had for governing was the Spanish, but I never captured Indian slaves nor shipped slaves on Spanish Galleons across the great waters. How could the people turn against me and call me the devil incarnate?” Popé said, sounding miles away from the confident leader in her dream the night before.

  “No Puebloan could have made this work. Until you became governor of all, each pueblo had its own leader. It is not inherent in our people for one man to lead all the pueblos. This goes against all we believe in. Any man who does must wander far from the Middle Path to do so. Often great men aren’t appreciated in their time. In your day, the people criticized you and were ungrateful, but your revolution was a great success.”

  “I had to rule with a firm hand to root out Catholicism and all things Spanish, to bring back the old ways so our gods would smile once more upon our people and lift the disease and famine ravaging our land. Their churches were destroyed. Ah, you should have seen
the bonfire at the great cathedral at Pecos as flames danced upon the rooftop and vigas tumbled down like burning spears. When the flames were extinguished, all that stood were the walls, black as night, so we danced on the walls to loosen the adobe bricks and pushed and shoved, battering the walls with poles until the church tumbled into a mound of blocks.”

  “Yet, after freeing my people from the Spanish iron hand my jealous enemies blamed me when the rains did not come, instead of looking into their own black hearts. I told the people our gods would not bless the pueblos so long as there were those amongst us who still secretly worshipped the Spanish god,” he said, sticking out his chin in a petulant manner, yet his eyes looked unsure and watery.

  She insanely longed to pat him on his pink head.

  “Your deeds were so great that even centuries after your death you are a hero to the Puebloans. Because of you, we are free to speak our languages. We still perform our ancient dances. We worship as we please. We have our Kachina priests and our sacred societies. Our kivas still exist and newborn souls can make their way from Shipapu into sunlight. Dead spirits are not trapped in the black lagoon beneath the earth and can exit the kivas to become cloud people and bring us rain,” she said.

  Peace settled across his face, and he climbed his podium, slowly turning back into cold marble.

  It seemed he appeared not as wide-eyed as before, not so surprised that his spirit lived in the National Statuary Hall of Fame.

  “Yipes! You scared the bejesus out of me,” she said to Grandfather who patted her on the back.

  “Who were you talking to?” he said, with twinkling eyes.

  “No one,” she mumbled.

  “Ah, Popé’s statue is so real it seems that at any moment he might come to life.”

  “What happened after the Spanish returned?” she said, dreading to hear of retaliation. If what happened at Acoma spilled Indian blood, she shuddered to think what the revolt spawned. Perhaps this was the real reason the earth glowed red at Pecos.

  He looked down at the floor and sighed. “Let’s leave this place; Popé stirs up painful memories. The scars on my soul dwarf the scars on his back.”

  They rode the bus to the offices of NAGPRA to pick up their paperwork.

  “I shall wait here,” he said and folded his arms across his chest, his cue for her not to argue. He leaned against the building, puffing on a cigarette, ignoring passersby who gawked at the Indian with wrinkled leather skin and high-top tennis shoes, and baggy jeans. On purpose, the old coot had put on a headdress of feathers. Give them what they want, he always told her. Don’t argue with your betters.

  Before she left him to confront NAGPRA, she whispered in his ear, “No one is better than you are, Governor.”

  He winked at her and laughed, like she finally discovered his contrary secret.

  In very little time, she trotted out of the building waving the required paperwork to claim the bones.

  “NAGPRA will pay all expenses to transport the bones back to Pecos,” she said in a breathless voice. “We’ll find a nice hotel. After all, NAGPRA is footing the bill. Had I known, we would not have camped, but they reimbursed us for our expenses so far. I understand the Marriott in Crystal City has a subway stop that goes right into a nearby shopping center so maybe we’ll find a good steak house. Come on, Governor, let’s go to lunch.”

  “I am in a mood for steak,” he said, smacking his lips and rubbing his hands. He held out his fingers and happily took the papers which he hugged to his chest with a wondrous look upon his face. “This is more than a grant. This pile of tree shavings and ink means freedom for the missing ones to come home where they belong. Normally I hate the waste of trees, but in this instance the bark undertakes a great honor,” he said.

  They strolled down the street, arm-in-arm, like they were really somebody, her whistling a rowdy tune and him banging the ceremonial staff against the sidewalk.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The mechanic called with bad news about her truck, something about the timing chain and ruining the engine.

  They rode the subway to Crystal City, as near to the National Mall as one could stay and rented a room at the Marriott.

  Grandfather napped while she went to pick up their luggage and important stuff. She arranged for another repair shop to look at her truck for a second opinion.

  When she returned, she rested for a short while then checked out the shops at Crystal City, without even having to go outside since an opening existed to the indoor mall from the Marriott.

  She went back to the room and fetched Grandfather so they could walk to dinner at a nice seafood restaurant that had just opened up.

  “All we catch is trout and catfish at home. I have never had pink fish such as this,” he said, washing his meal down with white wine.

  “It’s salmon,” she said.

  “Ah, I must remember that name so I can ask Masawkatsina to serve it at dinner at my death celebration. The others will enjoy this fish.”

  “Actually,” said the waiter as he poured another glass of wine. “Trout is part of the salmon family but salmon lives in the salty oceans rather than the fresh water of rivers.” He bowed and left the bottle.

  “To the bones,” Grandfather said, toasting her. “They have lived near the salty ocean but will soon return to the valley of the Río Grande to join their brothers. They will have much to tell of their adventures. I can hardly wait to hear them speak of it.”

  “To the bones,” she said, banging her glass against his.

  He nudged her in the ribs, winked, wiggled his eyebrows and made her distract the waiter while he put the wine glass in his coat pocket.

  He leaned on her as they walked back to the room.

  “You should not have taken that glass,” she said.

  “As much as that wine cost it should include the glass. I could buy an entire bottle.”

  “Well it’s not that cheap wine you drink; you could buy two bottles.”

  “And tell me of the wine of life; would you rather have just a sip or two bottles, though you pass out in your own vomit?”

  She rolled her eyes at him.

  “Here,” he said when they entered their room. “I took this glass for you because you admired the craftsmanship.”

  “I never meant for you to steal it.”

  “How else can I give you a gift since you take all my money?”

  He staggered across the carpet and passed out on his bed.

  She removed his shoes and belt and covered him with a blanket.

  All your money, she thought. All $65.00 a month doled out weekly to him else he would give it away the day after he got his check.

  The time was going on six o’clock and she walked back to a gift shop and purchased a souvenir, stopping at a drug store to buy a magazine.

  She sat at a café, sipping a cup of coffee and reading all the latest movie gossip.

  Just before nine o’clock she returned to the room to find him sitting up in bed, his eyes bloodshot, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and his hair sticking straight up from his head.

  “Read me the diary of the man who shipped my bones across the country so they could see the great ocean,” he said in a cloud of smoke and hiccupped.

  “Drink,” she said, twisting open a water bottle and handing it to him.

  “I am parched because the wine grows grapes in my stomach, and I must water them,” he said.

  “You shouldn’t smoke in the room,” she said, pulling the diary from the leather case.

  He grunted, blowing smoke in her face.

  She glowered at him while he puffed away.

  “August 27, 1915

  My historian tells me that after Popé’s death, twelve years after the revolt, the invaders returned in 1692 with a wise governor, Don Diego de Vargas, who began his reconquering with the mighty Pecos. He pardoned the pueblo in the name of King Charles II and promised no retaliation. The missionaries then forgave the Pecos Indians their sins and baptized
all children born during church absence, with de Vargas acting as godfather.

  Most of Pecos Pueblo wanted no more bloodshed and refused to join in a new plot to kill the colonists because de Vargas proved an honorable man and true Christian who promised to be a friend. In fact, he so impressed most of the warriors, they offered to fight at his side, if need be. The Pecos governor even sent him food while de Vargas bided his time outside Santa Fe, waiting for the right moment to recapture his Spanish capital. When he finally attacked, Pecos warriors joined him in his fight and helped him win back Santa Fe. In gratitude, de Vargas offered to defend the Pecos Pueblo when needed. Both sides often helped each other in skirmishes.

  Pecos also hoped that once the rebellions died down, trade would prosper, which is why Juan de Ye took Apaches with him to welcome de Vargas. Both the Pecos and the Apaches invited the Spaniards to the Pecos Trade Fair held every October.

  De Vargas hired Pecos carpenters to rebuild the governor’s palace, other government buildings, and churches in Santa Fe. Two years after the Spanish returned they constructed the Pecos cathedral which ruins stand there today.

  The Puebloans taught the Spanish a hard lesson with their revolt so the king abolished the encomíendas. The friars waited for the people to come to their God voluntarily.”

  “As the Mexicans say, you can lead a burro to water but you can’t force it to drink,” Grandfather said, slapping his knee and laughing heartily.

  “It states in the diary that most of the Puebloans welcomed back the Spanish with open arms,” she said.

  “I imagine they missed Spanish food and conveniences of Spanish tools and way of life, more advanced than the times of the ancients. We all like our comforts, do we not? As I recall, when you came back from school as a child, you demanded a television and a radio and all the other things you missed when you lived with the nuns,” he said.

  “I don’t remember ever asking for anything from you after you abandoned me to the nuns.”

  “It was for your own good.”

  “That’s open to interpretation,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.