Heads pressed together, we sat in council.
“The sunrise that follows this is the day they worship. All but the guards that stand at the top of the canyon go in.”
“Then our warriors must spend their strength on these,” Sotchez said.
“We will be in the valley, waiting,” Chodini murmured. “When we have confined our enemy within the building, strike then.”
Sotchez grunted his assent, and laying his hand on Pocito’s shoulder said, “Brother, you shall come with me.” It was a command, not a request, and together they slipped away to gather our force.
The remaining scouts waited, motionless. I cursed that I had not thought to find a way of filling my water vessel, for it was near empty and the day would be hot. I rationed myself, taking one small mouthful when my thirst grew too great. By the time the sun was directly above us, my water was gone. Golahka saw, and wordlessly shared his supply with me; and thus, as the long day progressed, we both went thirsty.
At nightfall we moved. The great hand of Ussen cast clouds across the moon as Pocito and Sotchez joined us once more. I felt the unseen presence of many warriors, concealed amongst the rocks, waiting for the light of dawn. Sotchez had a bundle tied to his belt. I knew not what it contained, but was certain that it meant death for the men below.
“I will climb upon the roof,” he said, indicating the dwelling place of their god. A tree grew beside it that would give an easy way up. “It is but mud. I will pick a hole through it.”
Chodini nodded. Our assault was planned thus: Golahka and Punte were to bar the doors once all the Mexicans were inside the building. This would signal the moment for our warriors to attack the guards at the top of the canyon. Pocito, Chodini and myself were to free the captives.
This time, I carried all my weapons and could not then fit within the concealing crevice. I, like the others, must climb down the rock face and take my agreed position behind the dwelling where the captives were imprisoned. While the Mexicans slept, we descended. It took much time, but it was done without detection, for none can move with such silent stealth as the Apache. When the wide sky began to flush red we were in our places.
I had curled myself tight between two boulders that stood at the rear corner of the captives’ dwelling. From here I could see the house of their god.
At first light, a Mexican crossed the valley floor towards the building where Sotchez crouched, hidden in the roof. He was dressed in a hooded robe that hung from his shoulders and flapped as he walked like a vulture sidling towards a corpse. He entered and soon afterwards a great clanging filled the valley, the sound bouncing from rock to rock as the bell swung in its tower. I feared that Sotchez would surely be deafened.
Thus roused, fresh guards emerged and went to replace those of the night watch. Others hastened towards the building. It was as Goyenne had said: one by one each man removed his hat and filed inside. There remained but two guards on the valley floor – those who stood in front of the captives’ dwelling, preventing their escape.
And then I saw the son of Pocito being led by the hand to worship the tortured god. His face was tight with anguish. As he passed the dwelling which housed the Chokenne women, he turned towards the window, looking for his mother, but the Mexican leading him gave his arm a sharp tug, and spoke harsh words of reprimand. The boy had the look of Tazhi. I could not let him go to his death. Neither could I save him, for to act now would be to pour all our lives into the laps of our enemy.
Yet I could give him warning.
Lifting my hands to my lips, I gave the cry of a mountain bird that dwelt high in the ranges of the Chokenne, not here in the dusty heat of this canyon. The Mexican cares little for living things: I knew the man who led him would not even notice the call. But if the boy’s soul were truly Apache, he would hear it.
His small body stiffened as he walked. He missed a step, and stumbled. He had heard. He knew of our presence, but there was enough of the warrior in him to know not to turn and look. And now his fate was in his own hands.
He was led into the church; the doors were pulled shut. At once, Golahka and Punte slid out from the side of the building to bar them. But before they could do so, a piping wail erupted from within.
“¡Quiero miar!”
I knew not the words, but could see from the great haste with which the doors were flung open and the boy was ejected from the building, clutching at his groin, that he had convinced his captors he was desperate to urinate. He came out from that place quickly. He came out alone.
Once more, the doors were closed. Forgetting caution, the boy ran to where I had concealed myself and threw himself against me joyfully, hot tears coursing down his cheeks. Before the guard who stood beside the captives’ door could move to investigate, the body of a Mexican arced through the air from the top of the canyon, thudding into the dust, an arrow buried in his chest. The warriors had silently commenced their assault.
The guard stepped back and stared in astonishment as his comrade fell to earth. That slow reaction cost him his life, for at once Goyenne reached through the barred window and, seizing his hair, pulled back his head and drew my flint-bladed knife across his throat. Pocito plunged his into the belly of the other.
Thereafter, battle noise shook the narrow canyon. When the Mexicans realized they were under attack, cracks of gunfire split the air from above, and alerted those within the building.
Golahka and Punte wedged the doors tight shut even as the Mexicans within began to hammer upon them. From inside came shouts of anger and fear. There was a muffled explosion that I later learnt was the sound of a chilli bomb, and Sotchez appeared on the roof without the bundle at his waist. Shouts changed to gasping coughs and groans of desperation as the bomb brought choking death with each indrawn breath. At last there was naught but silence.
The single shots that had been fired by the Mexicans in defence of their gold became triumphant volleys, for our warriors had finished their task and now fired into the air with their captured guns. Our attack had been swift and successful: all the Mexicans lay dead, and we had lost not one warrior, not one captive.
Blinking, the women and children staggered into the light. It was a joy to see Chodini embrace his daughter, and lift his grandson high in the air, and watch Sotchez enfold his wife and son in his loving arms. They were weak with hunger and hard labour and could not walk the long distance to the Chokenne range. We took horses and mules that the freed captives might ride, and bound the smallest children to their mothers, so that they would not fall.
I watched Pocito lift his wife tenderly onto the back of a fine spotted mare. She shrank from his touch, and sat with dead eyes, staring straight ahead. Pocito flinched as if she had struck him. Yet when he placed his daughter on the horse in front of her, she clutched at the girl, as though she could prevent her drowning in the horror that engulfed her. Her son was put behind, his arms about his mother’s waist, giving such comfort as he could. I saw that these children alone would keep Denzhone amongst the living. To be shamed – as she had been by the Mexicans – was unbearable. Had her children not held her, Pocito’s wife would have taken a knife, severed her vessels, and emptied out her life upon the earth.
No eager boys waited to take the warriors’ horses when we returned to the Chokenne camp, for they lay slain upon the red earth. Lacking them, the tribe was deeply wounded: who would now fill the places of the warriors as they grew old?
Yet even as they mourned, there was happiness amongst the captives, who rejoiced in their freedom. The trees rustled with content; the spring babbled in greeting; the land thrilled beneath the horses’ feet to feel its people come home.
Upon our arrival, a mule was butchered and fires were lit to roast its meat. Ishta, who had trained beside me, had now completed his fourth journey, and was made a warrior. I had returned from my third, and knew well that with one more such expedition I too would be admitted to the council. My heart beat loud with excitement that I had come so far towards achi
eving my goal. I ached with impatience for the next time I should ride as a novice. And yet how could I wish for another fight such as this to come quickly?
After all had eaten, Sotchez spoke of the raid, telling the old men who had remained in the camp of our deeds. He spoke my name, honouring me for my part in it. I kept my eyes to the ground, for even while I gloried in his praise, I could not help but think that if I was raised so high in his esteem, a vengeful spirit might be tempted to cast me down.
But Sotchez’s account was swiftly over, and the warriors’ conversation moved to other things.
There was much talk of the White Eyes.
The camp we had seen when we raided cheese from Mexico had now become a great fort that squatted at the feet of the Chokenne range. Fort Cross, the White Eyes named it. Sotchez was at peace with these men; indeed, he had kept them supplied with firewood during the winter. But he was puzzled by their strange ways.
“They are like misguided children!” he said with a great laugh bursting from his chest. “They say the land is theirs! That they were given it long ago by the Mexicans!”
He shook his head, chuckling at their idiocy. Mirth spread amongst the warriors, for all knew such a thing was not possible: this land was created for the Apache. It was not for the Mexicans to give.
“How could any think to trade land? One may as easily exchange a blanket for the clouds, or a basket for the sky!” said Sotchez.
Chodini did not join in with the laughter. He sat silent, and did not speak of the humiliation he had endured at the White Eyes’ hands. He would not open the wound by laying it before his fellows. Besides, the men at Fort Cross were not those at Fort Andrews; we thought them separate tribes, and one could not be answerable for the actions of the other, no more than the Black Mountain tribe were responsible for the actions of the Chokenne.
But Chodini surely would not rest until he had taken revenge against them. Fear for my people clutched at my heart, holding it in its tight, cold fist. I trembled at what it might cost my tribe to have such an enemy at the very edge of our mountains – an enemy who had seemingly emptied the plains of the deer we fed upon. An enemy well armed, and plentiful, who could press us from the north even as the Mexicans did from the south. Thus squeezed, how were we to survive?
We stayed but one night amongst the Chokenne. At dawn, taking our portion of the mules, horses and ammunition we had captured from the Mexicans, we departed. But before I mounted, I found Paso at my elbow, daughter of the old man who had spoken to me of my father.
“He has gone to the Happy Place,” she said softly.
It came as no surprise. Paso had been amongst the captives, and without her to tend to his needs, Danzih had turned his face to the tepee wall and slipped from the living earth.
“Last time… You had gone before he found the chance to talk with you again. He wished you to have this.” She pressed something into my hand. “He said you would know from whose breast he had pulled it. He said it would have meaning for you.”
It was an arrow. He could only have taken it from the body of my father. Its head was flint, its tail split with feathers to ease its flight, its shaft striped with red ochre. Recognition of it sent a wave of icy shock flooding through me. I kept my eyes averted from Paso’s curious stare as I tried to quell the sickness that rose in my throat.
I knew who had fashioned it. Had I not spent long mornings of my childhood sitting beside him learning the skill of its creation? How was I to understand this new strangeness?
It seemed my father had been slain by his own arrow.
Despite the many troubles that snapped at the heels of my people, we retained our love of celebration. When we returned, triumphant, to our Black Mountain camp, there were many days of joyful feasting.
While we were in Mexico, Chee had come across a great nest of bees hanging high upon a rock. With arrows he had shot it down, letting it fall upon an outstretched hide, and with delight all now shared in eating acorn cakes dripping with the sweet honey.
“A hard time you have had of it, staying safely at home,” Golahka teased him, for Chee’s skin swarmed with bee stings. “You should have come with us. None of our war party suffered such injury as you.”
“Save perhaps Siki,” called Chodini. “Who has skinned her legs as deftly as she skins rabbits!”
I laughed, and at once began to cough, choking on my cake. Chee, placing his arm about my shoulders, thumped me hard on the back while merriment rippled amongst the warriors. When I had recovered my breath, I turned once more to speak with Golahka, but found that – swiftly and silently – he had gone.
In our absence, Zani, sister of Huten, had passed from girl to woman with her first flow of blood. With the return of our chief, her womanhood ceremony took place. Her father was dead, but her grandfather was not, nor her uncles, and thus there were many older relatives to provide all that was needed for the ritual.
By the grey light before sunrise, the men erected the ceremonial tepee. I was amongst those who gathered to watch them fasten scented boughs to the frame, and partly cover it in hides. As they worked, they sang the songs and prayers of this most sacred rite. Huten’s voice rang high and clear above the men’s lower tones, his joyful pride in his sister carrying skywards to the stars that now faded before the rising sun.
In the centre of the tepee, a fire hole was dug. Beside the fire, blankets were spread that Zani and the women of her family would later sit upon. Opposite would sit the medicine man. An opening was left for those who would come and receive the blessings that Ussen would bestow through Zani during the four days of the ceremony, for at this time Zani would be a sacred figure: she would become one with White Painted Woman, the Mother of all Apache. Ussen would speak to her.
As soon as the tepee was complete, the men and women of the tribe gathered, standing in a wide circle around it. Chodini was magnificently attired in deerskin, a blanket of black and red draped from one shoulder, and wearing richly beaded moccasins. The women of Zani’s family and the medicine man took their places within the tepee. When the sun crested the mountains, Zani’s grandfather lifted his face to the east and raised his arms in prayerful song.
Then Zani came forth from her mother’s tepee, and walked proud across our camp. She had been bathed and her hair washed in the crushed root of the yucca. Fragrant and soft, it hung loose about her shoulders as she came, carrying two lighted torches, dressed in the beautiful pale buckskin robes of the womanhood ceremony. Long had her mother laboured at sewing these robes. Much sinew had Huten been made to chew to soften it for the stitching – for many moons it had not been possible to pass him by without seeing the steady motion of his constantly grinding jaws. Now the work was rewarded. Zani’s mother’s eyes gleamed – moist with unshed tears – to see her daughter look so fine. A necklet hung upon Zani’s breast, but its bright beads were dimmed by her shining beauty.
Beside me, Chee gasped at the sight of her. It seemed but days since Zani had been a girl who played and ran in the dust with the children. Now her face knocked breath from the chests of the men and boys who looked upon her. Naite’s eyes burned with longing, and I was sure that Zani’s womanhood ceremony would be swiftly followed by her marriage. Naite was nephew to Chodini; the match would be a welcome one for her family. And – proud warrior though he was – Naite was brimful of kindness; he would be a good brother to Huten.
Zani entered the ceremonial tepee and bent to light the sacred fire. Then, kneeling before the medicine man, she received the pollen upon her face that was a symbol of fertility. And now a long line of those who sought healing began to enter, filing past her to receive the blessings of Ussen.
I joined the line, and when my time came, I stood before her. Zani laid her hands on my skinned legs and at once I felt Power course through me. My heated flesh cooled, and the jangling nerves that had throbbed and kept me from sleep for many days eased and vanished.
For four days our tribe feasted and danced. For four nights th
e men’s feet pounded in the dance of the mountain spirits. They leapt in the firelight while others sang and beat upon drums and set the mountains ringing.
Then came the social dances, when any woman could choose herself a partner and oblige the man to pay her – with meat or hides – for the privilege. Much mirth was there when Zani’s aged aunt fell upon the blushing Ishta and compelled him to join her in the shuffling step around the fire. I was content to watch, for I did not wish to call down gossip on my head by choosing a partner. I could perhaps have danced with Chee, for he was as a brother to me, but in truth he had eyes for none but Zani and I did not wish to disturb his reverie.
And so I sat, wrapped in a blanket alongside the singers, lifting my voice to the black sky and feeling my spirit fly beside it. The dancers moved in a circle around the leaping flames, and it seemed to me that they were at the centre of many circles that wound outwards from this core: that of the swirling seasons and the spinning stars and the endless dance of life and death. Here was happiness. Here was harmony. Here was peaceful content. My people, beloved by the land that fed us, dancing in exultation beneath the moon.
But even amid this joy, a discordant note clanged within me. It started softly – a mere buzzing in my ears – but became louder and would not be silenced. Try as I might, I could not stop its noise, and it rendered my song tuneless.
I could not forget the arrow of my father. I carried it wrapped in a cloth inside my quiver. Alone of our tribe, my father had painted the shaft of his arrows with ochre. There could be no doubt that it was his. My father had ever loved to gamble. It was not hard to see how it had come into another’s hands, for had I not lost a whole quiver on a game of shinny? I knew not to whom it had fallen, and yet it seemed likely that it would have been won by a Black Mountain warrior.
I had been slow to examine the thoughts the arrow called forth, burying them deep inside my mind as ones too dark to look upon. I could evade them no longer.