Shaman Winter

  His father, who had been raised in Socorro, and his mother who was raised in La Joya just across the river, told him stories of the “day the sun shone at night.” They were children then. His father told of getting up at the crack of dawn to milk the cows when, on his way to the barn, the morning lit up. Five twenty-nine AM on that fateful day, the demon light of the bomb exploded over the desert before sunrise, lighting up the skies. “The work of the devil,” the old people warned.

  Now the Bringer of Curses controlled some of that power. Raven hadn’t gotten the Zia medallion he came after, but he had the plutonium. Sonny dozed and saw him holding the nickel-coated ball aloft with his bare hand. A burning sun, a power no man dared to touch, the Raven was flirting with it. Invincible, Raven taunted, I am invincible.

  Raven was growing in power, growing in the madness Sonny had recognized at their first meeting. Now the FBI had uncovered part of his past. Raven wasn’t Raven, that was just one of his many names. Raven was a sorcerer, one of those brujos who could fly. Not fly like the old curanderas to do a healing, to deliver a blessing, but to destroy.

  All this went through Sonny’s mind as he struggled to stay awake during the long drive home. Lorenza had called Rita, letting her know when they’d get back, so Rita was waiting at Sonny’s place when they arrived.

  Chica came bounding out of the house ahead of Rita, barking, tail wagging, jumping up on Sonny’s lap the minute the lift hit the ground. Tail wagging, whining with a secret message of love, licking his face, and sniffing the strange smells on her master.

  “Chica, good dog.” Sonny hugged her.

  Rita kissed Sonny, then seeing he was pale and shivering, she exclaimed, “Dios mío! What happened? Your clothes?”

  “Raven,” he tried to explain with one word.

  “Let’s get you in the house,” Rita said, taking charge. They got him into the house and into the bathroom where Rita stripped his clothes off and helped him into a hot bath. She had made a strong lemonade, hot and flavored with osha, an herb she used for colds. She poured two shots of bourbon into the glass, and Sonny drank the soothing mixture.

  Then she helped him out of the bath and rubbed him vigorously with a towel from head to toe. The circulation returned to his limbs.

  “Ah, great,” he kept muttering. How sweet it was to be cared for by the woman he loved. She covered him with Mentholatum, wrapped him in a warm terry-cloth robe, and got him into bed. Chica jumped in with him.

  “She’s been waiting all day,” Rita said. “Don Eliseo kept her, tried to feed her, but she wouldn’t eat. Imagine a dachshund that doesn’t eat? She’s been worried.”

  “Hey, I’m home, safe and sound,” Sonny said, rubbing Chica’s belly.

  “Let’s hope you don’t catch pneumonia,” Rita scolded as she served him hot chicken and rice soup.

  He thanked her weakly. “What would I do without you?” He held a piece of tortilla with butter up for Chica.

  Lorenza brought the bowl in and set it on the lamp table. Under the light it shone with a mysterious beauty.

  Rita gasped. “It’s beautiful. The bowl in your dream!”

  Sonny ate while Lorenza told of their meeting with Raven.

  “What does it mean?” Rita asked when Lorenza finished. “You dream a bowl and it appears?”

  “It means what don Eliseo suspects,” Lorenza said. “Raven has found a way to get into Sonny’s dreams.”

  “But he needs to sleep.”

  “I don’t know—” Lorenza cautioned.

  Rita arched an eyebrow. “Por qué?”

  “She’s afraid if I sleep, Raven might appear in my dreams,” Sonny said weakly. “Or nightmares.”

  The warm bath and food and fatigue were already more than he could bear. He was going to sleep regardless. Chica had already burrowed under the blanket.

  “He doesn’t have a choice, does he?” Rita asked, looking for guidance from Lorenza.

  Lorenza shook her head. “He needs the rest. No, he doesn’t have a choice.”

  Sonny’s eyelids felt heavy. “Chica will guard my dreams,” he mumbled. “Tomorrow I want to—”

  Rita placed her fingers over his lips. “He doesn’t know when to quit,” she said, and kissed his forehead.

  “Is there any way we can guard his dreams?” he heard Rita ask.

  “No,” Lorenza replied. “We may be in the dream, but only another shaman can walk with him. He has to learn to be the actor in the dream.”

  “Is there anything we can do?” Rita was worried.

  “Follow don Eliseo’s instructions,” Lorenza said, leaning to make sure Sonny heard her. “It’s very important that you construct the dream. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Sonny mumbled. “I must pick the place, I have to set up the stage. When I pass through the door into the world of spirits, I must be in charge.…”

  “Who is your guide?” Lorenza asked.

  “Coyote.”

  “Y los santos,” Rita whispered, making the sign of the cross. “May they guard your sleep. Your Señores y Señoras de la Luz, may they shine light on your path.”

  “Buenas noches, amor,” Sonny replied, his eyes closing.

  What a woman, he thought. He and Rita had been dating a couple of years, dancing on Saturday nights, and sharing his investigating work. She, like his mother, nudged him from time to time to get out of the detective business. Rita’s restaurant was booming, business was good, the city and the state were on a roll, and she had suggested more than once that together they could run the café.

  “Become a taco pusher. Me?” He often teased her.

  “You need to settle down,” she said. “Marry me. I’ll make you happy.”

  “Oh, I know.…”

  He loved her, the way she talked, spoke, the color of her eyes, hair, the fragrance that lingered around her, her magic green thumb that grew flowers and herbs, her business sense, and in a hundred other ways he loved her, but he wasn’t sure he was ready for marriage. He had quit teaching literature at Valley High because he found the schedule too restraining. He liked the freedom of private investigating, even though it meant that from one month to the next, he didn’t know where his next meal was coming from.

  “Yes, I’m ready to settle.…” he whispered, smiling at the thought. Sleep could be as sensuous as Rita, a wave of pleasure washing over him. The soreness in his body and the fatigue of the day melted into the mattress, and instantly he was breathing in an even, soft rhythm.

  “You need this,” he heard Lorenza say. She slipped something cold under the covers. The Zia medallion.

  Ah, he smiled.

  “And this,” she said, and slipped another cold object into his hand. He recognized his pistol.

  “You said bullets don’t hurt Raven,” he mumbled.

  “They can’t hurt him when he has taken the form of his nagual, his guardian spirit,” she replied. “But when he’s Raven the man, then you draw first.”

  She moved away, leaving her enticing body aroma in the swirl of the oncoming dream. The door closed and the room was dark and silent again.

  He was sure the hammer was on an empty chamber, just like his father had taught him. An old rule of the West. Billy the Kid always kept his hammer there. That way if you dropped the pistol, you didn’t shoot yourself in the foot.

  Carry the pistol into sleep? He shivered. Damn, he couldn’t stay awake!

  Be master of your dream, he heard don Eliseo say.

  It was up to him to will the dream into being. Which dream? The next momentous event in the history of La Nueva México was the expulsion of the Spaniards by the Pueblo Indians. He had to go there. According to the rough family tree he had sketched out, that’s where the Anaya branch of the family tree joined the Bacas. The only name he had found in his research was the name Caridad de Anaya. Did he have to find her in his dream?

  He moved toward the door of dreams and was surprised to see don Eliseo waiting for him.

  Don Eliseo? br />
  Who were you expecting? Bugs Bunny?

  Sonny laughed. The old man had a sense of humor.

  Are you going with me?

  No, not this time. You see, to become the master of your dream you must first go alone. I cannot interfere. Not now.

  I’ve got to face Raven on my own?

  Walk straight into the dream. Like this.

  The old man walked up to the door.

  You open the door, and you walk in. The dream must not be foreign to you, it must be part of your history. Something you create. Look closely at everything. Study every image. Don’t let the dream be jumbled up. Pretend it is a story, or a good movie, and when you get back home, you have to tell the adventures in the dream.

  Adventures, like Odysseus?

  Sure, like that Griego. Or like Juan Chicaspatas, or Pedro de Ordimalas. Any pícaro will do. Remember, this is La Nueva México. It’s your homeland, your stage, get it?

  Yes.

  Where are you going?

  Taos. Sixteen eighty. Remember the book of families? The Anayas married the Vacas and became part of the family tree.

  Don’t allow Raven to fragment your dream! The dream is a story, a vision, and it must make sense to you!

  Don Eliseo’s final warning echoed as Sonny opened the door. Gracias, don Eliseo.

  The wind whispered de nada.

  Sonny stepped through the door and entered Taos Pueblo on foot. Instantly the images of the dream scrambled, but Sonny willed them into order. Like a good story.

  He saw a pueblo man who cast no shadow sneak into a church and steal a crucifix.

  Popé, Sonny said. This is the chief of the Taos Rebellion. I will follow him.

  The man stole through the narrow streets of the Indian pueblo, muttering as he went, cursing the Spaniards, whom he blamed for so much misery. He, Popé, would bring destruction on the Españoles, their god, and all their santos.

  He entered an underground chamber and Sonny followed. The walls of the kiva were smooth, hand-plastered. Half sunken into the earth, the kiva was accessible only by using the wood ladder that dropped from the small entrance on the roof.

  In the middle of the earthen floor, a small fire burned in a pit, and the flickering flames cast dancing light on the designs that decorated the walls.

  Around the fire sat other war captains from other pueblos. Sonny remembered the list he had made in his notebook. Now here they were! Luis Tupatu from Picuris; Antonio Malacate from La Cienega de Cochiti; Francisco El Ollita and Nicolas Jonva from San Ildefonso; Domingo Naranjo from Santa Clara; Domingo Romero from Tesuque; Antonio Bolsas, a Tano Indian; Cristóbal Yope from San Lazaro; Felipe de Ye from Pecos; Juan El Tano from Galisteo; Alonzo Catiti from Santo Domingo; and Luis Conizu from Jemez.

  These war captains and others represented their pueblos, and tonight they met on a very important mission. Tonight they would decide whether war against Spanish rule should be declared.

  Popé entered, sat quietly, and smoked the ceremonial tobacco. For a long time all were silent.

  Finally Popé spoke. I vow to take the power from the Españoles.

  The men in the room looked uneasily at each other.

  One spoke. If we are to drive out the Españoles, then we will do it as brave warriors.

  The others nodded. The decision before them was momentous. The Españoles had lived on their land since the Capitán Oñate came in 1598. Each man spoke his mind. Should they make war on the Españoles and drive them away?

  The oldest of the war captains spoke. These men of iron who ride on horseback, and their medicine men—the ones they call padres—have become harsh rulers. We welcomed them and accepted their kachinas, those they call santos, into our ceremonies, into our kivas. We have accepted the man who dies on the cross, their Cristo, we treated La Virgen as our own mother. But they call our own kachinas devils. The padres do not allow us to pray to the spirits of our ancestors. They have burned our kachina masks, the prayer sticks, the amulets. They have come into our kivas and desecrated everything we hold sacred. It is time to throw off the yoke of the Spaniards.

  Silence filled the kiva, the thin smoke from the fire rose and curled upward and out into the night sky. Again the men smoked the pipe. The men had many vecinos in the Spanish pueblo, farmers like them, many who respected their dances and ceremonies. But the rule of the civil authorities and the padres was harsh.

  Another captain spoke. It is not good. We have farmed for them, raised their crops, taught them how to use our acequias to take the water from the streams to the fields. We have paid tribute in corn and blankets. They take our women and children to use as slaves. They quarrel among themselves. The governor and the soldiers tell us one thing, and the padres another. A drought has come over the land, and in every pueblo our people are dying. Surely our ancestors are angry that we are praying to these foreign gods. Our kachinas have guided us since we came to this earth. All this must end.

  It is time to cleanse the land, another war captain said. It is time to vote.

  Popé did not speak. He was deep in meditation. Even though he was a San Juan man, he had been coming to this kiva in Taos Pueblo for many years. He was an old man now, his sons and daughters were married, and now was the time to be a grandfather and teach his grandchildren. But he could not rest or enjoy his old age when his people suffered so much.

  A passage in the history book he had been reading flashed through Sonny’s mind. Only five years before this fateful meeting, the former governor, Treviño, had led his soldiers against the kivas, prohibiting all the rituals. Forty-seven medicine men were arrested by the governor and taken to prison in Santa Fé. Four of the medicine men were hanged in the plaza, and the others, including Popé, received a public flogging. Popé still nursed the scars of that whipping.

  Terror filled the land. The god of the Españoles had brought only war, pestilence, hunger, and drought. Even the Virgin Mother had appeared in a vision and foretold doom for the colony. Now was the time to join together and drive out the Spaniards. For five years Popé had been speaking to the other pueblos, and many of the men had listened and agreed.

  I am for war, Popé said in anger. I will not rest until the Españoles are gone from our land, and their homes and churches burned to the ground.

  One by one the other war captains nodded.

  Set the date for our attack, the oldest captain said with heavy heart. Each had spoken. Now they would act together.

  Popé set the date. August 10, 1680, according to the calendar of the Españoles. He tied knotted cords of yucca and sent them to all the pueblos.

  Sonny turned and the time of the dream turned with him. The last knot on the yucca cord was untied and cries of war sounded in the juniper-covered hills and echoed across the ravines of northern New Mexico.

  The Pueblo Indians swept down on the Spanish settlements, killing everyone in sight and desecrating the churches. Leaving a trail of death, they descended on Santa Fé. There they surrounded the thousand men, women, and children who were left alive. They cut off the water ditch that fed the city, and they fought off the feeble attempts of the Spanish soldiers to open it. They would starve the Spaniards into submission.

  Sonny followed the images of his nightmare, ordering them as he went, and though all was clear, he realized he couldn’t change the course of history.

  From the other pueblos word came to Popé. The pueblos of Acoma, Zuni, and Hopi had joined the revolt. Everywhere the warriors of the pueblos burned churches, killed priests, and marched on Santa Fé.

  Tossing and turning away from the carnage, Sonny let out a cry. He opened his eyes, and in the dim light, he saw Rita. She touched a cool cloth to his forehead.

  “Murder, murder,” he gasped.

  “No!” Lorenza pressed him down. “Stay in your dreams! Don’t let Raven control it!”

  “Have to,” Sonny replied. He knew he had lost it. Could he return and face the outcome of the violent nightmare?

  “My notes,
” he whispered. He knew that on Monday, August 12, after two days of siege, Governor Otermin had stepped out of the burning rubble and mud huts to parley with Popé.

  Sonny closed his eyes and returned to his dream.

  Are you mad? Otermin asked the Indian leader. We have brought the holy faith to you and your people. We have brought our civilization so you might progress. Is this how you thank us?

  Since your Oñate came, we have been made to pay tribute and work your fields, Popé answered. You have desecrated our kivas and punished our priests. Now you must leave this land.

  This is also our land, Otermin answered. The king himself has sent us to colonize and Christianize this region. This rebellion is against His Most Royal Majesty. If you desist, I will pardon you, but you must return quietly to your homes and be obedient to the law of His Majesty.

  Popé laughed. We will no longer be obedient.

  Obedience had brought too much suffering. He offered the governor two crosses. One red, one white.

  If you choose the white, we will let you leave in peace, Popé said. If you choose the red, we will make war, and all your people will die.

  Otermin chose the red, and for three days Popé made war on the beleaguered settlers who had taken refuge in the Palace of the Governors. A force of two thousand Pueblo men ringed the capital. It was only a matter of time before Santa Fé would fall.

  “What can I do?” Sonny cried.

  Where was Coyote? Where was the guide he needed to take hold of the dream?

  There is only chaos and madness, a voice replied, and the Bringer of Curses appeared. Sonny saw the dark figure walking the alleys of the besieged capital.

  Two soldiers guarding the back gate of the Palace of the Governors challenged him.

  Quién pasa?

  Un soldado de Su Majestad, Raven replied.

  I don’t recognize you, said the suspicious sentry, drawing close to Raven.

  I came with the new group of soldiers to serve Governor Otermin and defend the Villa de la Santa Fé.

  What is your name? the second sentry asked.

  Antonio de Cuervo.

  No! Sonny heard himself shouting, trying to warn the guards. Don’t let him in! But struggle as he would, Sonny could not influence the events of his dream, Raven was controlling the dream.