Apache

  The father of Dahtet would mirror Chodini’s route, and come from the other side of the valley.

  “I will follow the stream.” Golahka’s voice was hoarse; he would not meet my eyes. Suddenly I saw that he was afraid. I had never known him thus. My own teeth clenched in response and I found I could not speak. Digging my heels into my horse’s side, I rode forth noisily along the trail.

  I snapped twigs, and sent stones rolling from the scree. With agonizing slowness I moved across Keste’s land. He knew these valleys, these rocks; I did not. I could not be certain he had not watched, hidden, as we parted our ways. Even as I clattered along, he might be slitting the throat of my chief. Of Golahka.

  And as I rode a fresh uncertainty snapped at my heels. We had accepted that Punte would ride beside us. None questioned his honour, his belief in justice. But were we right to do so? Was it not possible that he had ridden not to kill but to save Keste? Would he betray his tribe to save his son?

  I hesitated, pausing on the track, thinking to warn Golahka.

  But I did not. I could not. For there, sudden on the mountain trail before me, was Keste. Beside him stood his father, Punte, gazing at me with unwavering eyes, his expression an unfathomable mask.

  Keste smiled. A baring of teeth. A grimace that betrayed his madness. The gun gleaming in his hand was pointed at my chest.

  “And so you all come,” he said, his voice soft and sweet. “The girl warrior rides willingly as bait towards her death. I saw that it would be so.”

  “I bring word from your wife,” I answered.

  Keste laughed. “You lie. You come to kill me.” He sat idly upon a rock, his finger never moving from the trigger. “You see, Siki, I have Power too. I foresaw your coming. I have watched you these past days and have seen what you planned. And now I use my Power to do you harm. Golahka is right to be afraid.” He nodded towards the juniper. “They go to the tree; they think to protect you there. But look! I am here. Here, where they cannot defend you.”

  I looked to Punte to intervene, but he said naught.

  “You think my father will save you?” Keste laughed long and loud. “My father, who even now urges me to flee to safety? You think he will not put his son’s life above all else?”

  “Dahtet carries your child.” I said it to delay the pulling of his trigger, but at this Keste laughed once more – a great, ringing roar that must alert the others. Punte looked about him, but Keste did not.

  “Not mine,” he said. “She spoke many loving lies, but she was faithless. She thought to make a mockery of me. As you did.”

  I could not keep my silence. “I did not! It was your own pride that betrayed you; your own folly that took you into exile.”

  Anger flickered across Keste’s face and I knew my words had struck him. “You think me foolish? You? A girl whose father fled weeping from the fight? Who deserted his brothers? A stripling girl who now dares to ride beside those same warriors? You dishonour the whole tribe by doing so. Chodini is a woman to allow it. I will not have such a chief. I make my own tribe.”

  At this I could not help but laugh bitterly. “Ah yes. Keste, leader of renegades; chief of outcasts. How proud your father must be!”

  Punte flinched at this gibe, but still did not speak.

  “Do not talk to me so!” Keste’s voice was tight with threat. “Be silent! You are but a girl!”

  I would not obey him, though it would provoke him to attack. “A girl, yes. A stripling girl that has always bested you.”

  “You will not do so again. Nor trick me either. I have learnt that lesson well.” Keste smiled – a twisted grin of pleasure in the harm he would now inflict. “It is time for you to join your brother. Perhaps your clever hands can fashion him a new head.”

  He fired his weapon.

  My horse reared in fright, and I fell back on the hard ground. The breath was knocked from me and I lay gasping, wondering where I bled, waiting for the blow that would drive me from the living earth.

  And then I heard the voice of Punte, dry as the winter leaves. “You are not slain, Siki. Get up.”

  Punte stood over his son, his bloodied war club dangling from one hand. Keste’s cheek was caved in with the force of the blow, and his eyes blazed with shock and pain.

  I got to my feet, and as I did so, Golahka came running. When he saw Punte standing over his injured son, the great warrior let out a breath so deep that he had to steady himself against the rock.

  Despite his hurt, Keste would not be still. He spat blood, and though his tongue was thick, his lips swollen, he managed to say petulantly, “Why must you take her part? Has she bewitched you all?”

  “Be silent,” Punte told him.

  “She is not your kin! Who is she that you should side with her? I am your son!”

  “Siki is of my tribe,” Punte answered. “And you are my son no more.”

  “You disown me?” Keste’s voice had risen to a high, hysterical pitch.

  “You disown yourself.” Punte’s reply was no more than a whisper. “You condemn yourself. With every word you seal your own fate. There must be justice.”

  As he looked upon his father, Keste seemed to shrink. And now he was deathly silent.

  Chodini came upon us then, with the father of Dahtet, driving Keste’s renegade band before them. Drunk on Mexican liquor and lying in a deep slumber, they had only been roused by a jab from the point of Chodini’s gun. Their capture was an easy task.

  All were allowed the opportunity to speak. To defend themselves.

  They did not.

  None asked for mercy. The renegades cursed, boasting of their Power and the evil they would call down on the heads of Chodini and his tribe.

  “Witches all,” pronounced my chief. There was a dreadful pause as we waited for the words we knew would come next. “They must die.”

  At this, Keste spoke, his voice cold with menace. “Do not think you will be free of me,” he told Chodini. “I shall not go to sport and hunt in the Happy Place.” His eyes met mine as he sent forth his venom. “While you live, I will walk the living earth and cause you harm. My spirit shall stalk you. This does not end here.”

  These words held such horror that I could not answer. Well I knew that Keste would do as he said. Every moment of solitude would be haunted by him. His chill hatred would follow me always, smothering me in an enveloping mist. I would never be warm again; I would never be free.

  Golahka spoke. “She bested you in life, Keste. You think it will be any different in death?”

  Keste’s eyes flashed with malice, and he struggled to throw off his father’s restraining hand.

  “Enough,” Chodini commanded. “Let us finish this now. Siki, return to the horses. This is not for you to see.”

  Glad I was of it. I did not wish to watch this execution. I mounted my horse and turned to go. As I did so, Punte lifted his sagging head and braced his shoulders. His words were ripped from his throat.

  “My chief, this task is mine.”

  Chodini gave his assent as I urged my horse forward.

  I rode swiftly to where the other animals were hobbled, and there I slid from her back and fell, curling weakly upon the earth, for suddenly my body was seized with violent shaking. The air was yet warm; the sun still shone; but I shivered with shock, my teeth clacking noisily together as if I had plunged into an icy mountain stream.

  When the warriors returned, they had the look of men sickened by what they had been forced to do. Punte’s face was dark, frozen still as a mask. He walked as stiffly as the oldest of our tribe, as though he might crack at the slightest touch.

  No one spoke. On the long days of our journey home none said a word.

  Though I had known much sorrow and tasted much grief, I felt I had never looked upon its true face, nor heard its true sound, until I woke in the cold grey light that comes before the dawn and heard the soft sound of Keste’s father crying. Punte, that brave warrior, was sobbing like a child.

  No blaze of tr
iumph gave me admission to the warrior council, no battle victory, no triumphant feast following a raid. But in hunting Keste I had ridden on my fourth such journey as a novice. Unless any now found fault with me, I was to be considered a warrior. An equal. Chodini talked quietly to the men, and none made any objection. And thus he came to me some days after our return, and embraced me.

  “Now I must call you brother,” he laughed. “The next time we fight, you shall be at my side.” This is the way for the new warrior – to be amongst the leaders in battle to test courage and prove worth.

  “Were you a young man you would now be free to marry, Siki,” said Chodini. “You have no father to speak for you, but gladly I would do so, if you wish?”

  “No,” I answered at once. My thoughts were full of Tazhi. I would have no child. All else I could bear: I would suffer and struggle and be strengthened by it. But not this: I could not bring forth a child to see it slaughtered. This alone was unendurable.

  Chodini seemed surprised by the passion of my answer. I did not explain. I could not frame the words without choking and I would not show weakness before my chief. I kept my eyes fixed upon the earth. Thus I did not see Chodini walk from me to where Golahka stood in the shadows, nor hear their murmured conversation. I did not see Golahka’s eyes narrow as if with pain. Of this I was only told many moons later, by Dahtet. But by then it had ceased to matter.

  Strange it felt to have achieved my task. I walked proud amongst the warriors, and was glad to call myself their equal. But in truth, I took less joy in it than most, for it had been bought with the heart’s blood of Dahtet. Always her eyes – heavy with the accusation of betrayal – followed me about the camp. Often I felt a chill prickling my spine, and knew not whether it was Keste’s restless spirit come to haunt me, or Dahtet’s new-roused hatred.

  I could not now rest in her family’s tepee, and thus I began to fashion my own, bartering arrows and small game for hides with any who would trade with me. I made but a small framework, for it needed to house only myself. Even so, with all the hides I had gathered, a gaping hole remained. Nahasgah would have laughed at my ineptitude, but I cursed myself that these homely skills ran so low in me, for I would be cold indeed when the winter winds blew.

  I was rescued from discomfort by Dahtet’s mother, Hosidah. She came quietly at sundown, a buffalo hide in her arms.

  “A payment, daughter,” she said. “For the rabbits you once gave.”

  “They were not worth so much!” I protested, but Hosidah shook her head.

  “Take it as a gift then, if you will not accept a payment. Dahtet will never thank you. But we, her parents, know how great a debt we owe you,” she said. Laying it down, she proceeded to set my clumsy work right.

  A question had troubled me ever since Dahtet had first gone from the camp. I could not now know the answer from Dahtet, for she would have no more talk with me, and so I asked her mother, “Did she go willingly?”

  “Oh yes,” she answered.

  “But to cause you such distress! And herself such shame! Why could Keste not have waited until he was made warrior? Then they could have wed with honour!” I sighed, shaking my head, and added, “I thought perhaps he had forced her into exile.”

  Hosidah gave a rueful smile. “Keste was Dahtet’s whole tribe: mother, father, brother, all. While he smiled on her, she cared for nothing else. This was love, misplaced though it was. You are a warrior, daughter. Do not expect to understand it.”

  But as I lay that night in my solitary tepee I was filled with the sudden, overwhelming knowledge that I understood Dahtet’s feeling. Full well could I comprehend it. For – though we seemingly now stood on either side of a great canyon – I knew that Golahka had become whole tribe to me.

  I was a warrior then, but I did not expect to be tested in battle for many moons. We had repaid the Mexicans for their treacherous attack at Koskineh; we had freed the Chokenne captives at Marispe. I thought that now a time of peace would come. With pleasure, I looked forward to racing on foot, and on horseback. I anticipated games of shinny, and long tales beside the fire.

  But in thinking so, I had forgotten the White Eyes.

  Such friendship as had once existed between our peoples grew thin, stretched tight as a bowstring.

  I had avoided contact with these strangers since I had ridden with Chodini to trade at Fort Andrews many moons ago, but it was becoming harder to do so. They were drawn to our land like flies to fresh spilt blood, and like flies they swarmed and multiplied, so that soon we could not ride across the great land Ussen had given us without seeing their presence on every horizon. If I stood on any mountain top and looked about me I saw distant dwellings in every direction. Smoke rose from their many fires, so numerous that it seemed to me they would choke the clear sky. The sight gave me much distress, for I felt that these people would not give peace, no matter how much we longed for it.

  There was another cause for my unease. Since Keste had been killed, Golahka had been strange and cold with me. Punte knew of my father’s betrayal, and yet had trusted me above his son. But this was not so with Golahka. Many times I felt his gaze follow me about the camp. Often I would turn and see his black eyes slide swiftly away. I knew not why he watched me thus, and could only think that he looked on me with suspicion, lest I follow my father’s cowardly path. For Golahka had heard the gasp of relief I had breathed unguarded when the Mexican cheese farmers had fled with their lives. Did he think I carried the seeds of my father’s treachery in my blood? Did he watch for signs of those seeds growing in me? I dreaded that he would speak to me, for if he did I would have to ask him what he knew of my father’s death.

  I kept my fears caged within my breast; I thought I had twined together the strands Ussen had placed before me, and I now saw the shape of the whole. My father had gone ahead. By accident – I could not think it was by design – he had seen the Mexicans too late. I understood not why he fled, but was certain such a deed would have enraged any who saw it. I would not ask who had fired the red ochre arrow that killed him, for I feared the answer would be Golahka. It was knowledge I did not desire.

  This, then, was the shape of what I saw. I could not know that this truth I had fashioned was as poor and lopsided as the jug I had made at Koskineh.

  Ill crafted as it was, it caused a great awkwardness to grow between myself and Golahka, and I began to seek ways to avoid him. In doing so, I felt as though I plucked the living heart from my chest. My soul was threaded to his, and with each step I felt its tug. I ached with his absence, and was gripped by the same weary, irritable restlessness that had possessed me after the loss of Tazhi.

  I took refuge in the company of Chee, for well I knew that the greater part of his heart had belonged to Zani since her womanhood ceremony. She had wed Naite and now carried his child, but Chee could not help his eyes growing big as a doe’s whenever she passed near, though he never spoke of her. Thus we were as brother and sister; between us there could be no mistrust, no misunderstanding; and often in the days that followed we rode side by side in search of antelope and deer.

  In the fading heat of late summer, Chee and I hunted together. By the time the sun began to sink we walked homewards with two antelope slung across our horses. But a new dwelling at the foot of the mountain track blocked our way: a small house, a fenced corral beside it with a few head of beef. I froze.

  “White Eyes,” I whispered, and turned to go by another path.

  But Chee laughed, and led his horse forward. His good humour made him look kindly on all. “Why do you waste your strength on needless worry? We have nothing to fear. I wish to return to our camp, and this is the quickest way.”

  “Have you forgotten the insult the White Eyes gave to our chief?”

  Chee stopped. “I have not. But that insult was not given by these people. These are farmers, not soldiers. Besides, those whom Chodini met at the spring had been drinking, had they not? All men are idiots when they have drunk much liquor. Chodini knows it.”
Chee looked at me confidently. “It is why he takes no revenge.”

  “Perhaps,” I said uncertainly.

  “It is so,” declared Chee. “Come, Siki, let us pay a visit to these newcomers. I wish to taste their hospitality.”

  Without listening to my anxious protestations, he walked towards the dwelling.

  I had never seen such terror, nor known so little cause for it.

  Tethering his horse to a rough-hewn fence, Chee had boldly entered the dwelling, and sat himself smiling down on the beaten earth floor. I followed, for I felt I could do naught else.

  It was dark inside, and briefly I was blinded. But as soon as my eyes grew accustomed to the deep shadow, I saw a yellow-haired woman standing with her back pressed flat to the wall, her hands frozen either side of her mouth, her eyes wide with fear. The mere sight of two Apache had reduced the woman to speechless horror. Beside her, clutching at her skirts and whimpering, were several small children.

  I was shocked at the sight of so many offspring. An Apache woman has one child, followed by another after perhaps three or more summers. It is rare indeed for her to have more than four children in the whole course of her life. But this woman had so many children of such similar size that I thought perhaps the White Eyes gave birth to their babies in litters like dogs or rats.

  Chee, who had learnt some of their tongue from the soldiers at Fort Andrews, spoke words of friendship. The woman made no answer. Chee’s brow furrowed with confusion.

  “Why does she not offer us food?” he said.

  It is the Apache way that when strangers come, we give at once the best of what we have. It is the rule of hospitality to give freely to those who have need. And yet this woman made no move. Looking about him, Chee noticed a large cake – perhaps made from the strange white powder that Ozheh had once traded for – standing on a wooden box. He pointed, but the woman did not attempt to share it.

  “Maybe she lacks meat,” he suggested, reaching for the bag at his waist that he might offer her some.