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After a while you learn to ignore the sky, when your nose is
sharper than your eyes. In the still air, beneath faint stars,
you could navigate the Apache camp with your nose alone...
provided that nose was sharp enough and close enough to the
ground. Drift past a wickiup and the leather within the shelter
brushes the inside of your cheeks with warm authority. Dried
strips of deer meat tantalize, hanging high on the racks outside
the wickiup.
From the clogging scent of the creosote bushes at the faint edge
of the camp to the salty sweetness - among other odors - of the
dried grass near the horse corral, each area announced itself
with the aroma hanging about it.
Outside one wickiup the odor was distinct. Fur. Fur and tough
wet leather and wolf pup saliva. The fur was inhabited by an
indignant Wolfwalker, and Wolfwalker was tied to a stake,
replacing a pony. This is how he got there:
A PLACE FOR THE NIGHT:
Just when he thought he was home free, just when he was loose and
about to scamper to the springs to splash in cool water, it
happened. Wolfwalker yelped as he felt himself gripped by the
scruff of the neck and lifted into the air. He cut off the
exclamation and growled tinily as he recognized the face of the
person holding him.
"Ah! I have you, little furbag!" the person exulted,
"Undoubtedly you thought to escape my clutches, but no one gets
away from Buffalo Wattle! Especially not you, my charming little
pest!"
The chief's son gazed with satisfaction at the wriggling bundle
of fur in his grip. "The fair Lucha shall be missing her cute
little pet," he grinned. "I shall make certain you are there to
greet her when she awakens in the morning." He looped a leather
thong about the wolf pup's neck and tied it to a post outside
Lucha's wickiup.
Wolfwalker snapped at the fingers holding him and Buffalo Wattle
decided against rubbing his fingers through the wolf cub's fur.
"Stay here," the Apache commanded. "Be cute. Be helpless, so
she will want to hold you. Women like helpless, adorable little
creatures. They are more satisfied to stay home and keep house."
He chuckled as Wolfwalker strove mightily to bite him.
The wolf cub growled after him and chewed at the leather
restraint long after Buffalo Wattle had gone.
There were people who passed him in the night - Yucca drifted by,
watching the shadows; Red Cloud slipped out the doorway and
headed for Cornsilk's fire; and Lonesome accompanied a shaman to
the outskirts of the camp. Consumed with his own problems,
Wolfwalker paid scant attention to them. He lay his muzzle on
his front paws and fought down the urge to send a mournful howl
to the heavens.
WATCHING:
Yucca stood warily, struggling to keep her eyes open. She had to
be watchful. She had to remain alert. She could not sleep.
He could be anywhere. He was good at hiding. He had seemed to
come out of nowhere, that time when she was returning from her
quest. Her heart was clear, before he appeared, her mind was as
cool as the high waters. Then he had simply appeared before her,
shimmering into visibility as would a mirage, blocking her path
and denying her escape, and nothing seemed to be clear any more.
There was something else that had happened.
Yucca strove to recall the event, the man with the morbid
expression striking away her will and causing her to freeze into
immobility.
"He struck me!" she recalled.
She glanced about, as cautious as a fieldmouse watching for a
snake. Weariness made her stagger against a bush and she had to
free her skirt from the brambles, a task made more difficult by
the dim light and her terrible need for watchfulness. She had to
see him first, before he could get close to her.
"No, he did not strike me at first. First, he...." As accustomed
as she was to the peculiar actions of the shamans she had seen,
she still found the memory of Espuma's attack difficult to hold
onto.
"He held his arm toward me, and a cloud came from his hand...a
choking, evil-smelling cloud. I was frightened and I hit his
hand, and the cloud became very large...that was when he struck
me, and I knew no more. He said I had wasted the cloud essence."
She blinked and twisted around again, trying to see everywhere.
"He struck me!" she repeated, "I shall never forgive him for
that!"
BEAR NECESSITIES:
The middle of the night was not the usual time for business.
However, it was not every night that one had the opportunity to
purchase genuine Yanquis sharpening stones. Especially when the
seller had a short life expectancy. Lonesome was doing a booming
business when Nomiro came by, leaning on his cane. "Come with
me," Nomiro said, and Lonesome wisely shut down his affairs and
took up Nomiro's baskets.
There was a chill in the air that swallowed the campfire and
nibbled at Lonesome's exposed skin. He had carried Nomiro's
baskets and pouches to a place outside of camp, where the tiny
fire they had built could not be seen by others. The cowboy had
roused to find more wood for the fire when he heard a noise.
Out of the shadowed pines stalked a beast as tall as a house. It
had dark embers for the pupils of its eyes, a toothed cave for a
mouth, and its hide was as gray as the firelit tree trunks. Quiet
as the flight of an owl, it brushed through the pines. Only the
crackle of splintering pine tree branches marked its approach.
Lonesome stood, frozen in place, looking out into the gloom at
the creature. He found his gaze tracking higher and higher.
It came and stood before the campfire, large and ominous.
Starlight showed through the holes it had for eyes, as it gazed
down upon him and the tired old shaman slumped by the glowing
coals of the campfire.
Nomiro stirred. "It is cold, tonight," he called as he shivered,
"Come throw some more wood on the fire."
"I don't think that would be a good idea," said Lonesome.
Something in his voice caused the shaman to look up and peer
blindly about. The bear grumbled, a sound resembling words.
"Aiyuh..." Nomiro choked off further exclamation as he jerked
back from the fire, "This is terrible!"
"Can you run for it?" asked Lonesome, "Maybe I can get it to
chase me."
"Aiyuh, no. There is no need." Nevertheless, Nomiro moved to
place the fire between him and the ghostly presence. "The bear
spirit will not harm us, if we are righteous. But for him to
show himself like this! Something terrible will happen!"
Lonesome had a knife hidden in a scabbard between his shoulder-
blades, one in each sleeve, several about the belt, and one in
each boot. Still he felt vulnerable, peering at the stars
through those empty eye sockets. He could hear the growling
voice, and he wondered what the creature was saying to the shaman.
[Dang!] he thought, [That old man has got some tricks up his
sleeve! That bear looks downright real, and as spooky as Old
Vinegar himself!]
**We would not make demands,** the hollow voice rang, **however,
events will occur which make it necessary for you to send the
nancin back to Mexico, from whence she came.**
Nomiro showed none of the shock he felt when he heard the words.
"Why does the bear spirit use the language of the warpath?" he
wondered.
**Events will occur in that land,** the spirit continued. **The
sisters from the South must return there. This land will no
longer welcome them. They are needed elsewhere.**
"I have already made arrangements," Nomiro snorted. "Although it
makes my heart heavy to send a daughter of the Apache away from
her home."
**Keep them together,** advised the spirit voice, **Do not
separate them from their mates.**
"Them? I speak of only one, the girl we call Lucha."
**There are two sisters of the South here in the camp. They are
attended by their future mates. See that they depart hastily.**
Nomiro shook his head. He had heard the rumors flying about the
camp, that the girl She Goes Ahead had chosen a cowboy for her
mate, but he had wanted to discount them as women's romantic
fantasy. ['They are attended by their future mates,' then?] he
mused.
"I will attempt to send them away, quickly," he promised.
**You will do so, although it is already too late,** growled the
bear.
"Then why bother me with this warning?" Nomiro snapped. Lonesome
became more alert at his tone, then returned to his nervous
pacing.
**Because you must make the effort, even though you will fail.**
"I must protect them, knowing it is useless? What madness is
this?"
**A divine sort, perhaps,** the voice said, with a trace of
wistful laughter. **Start the ceremony. Send them away. It is
necessary.**
A blazing twig from the fire snapped and suddenly there was
nothing before them but a misty shape melting into to the brushy
tree limbs. From beyond the village, seemingly miles away, there
arose the faint sounds of a brass horn.
The sound of the horn galvanized Nomiro where the voice of the
bear did not. "There!" cried Nomiro, "What was that? It is the
sound of demons calling!"
"Sounds like some Mexican song," said Lonesome, "Can't make it
out. Who's playing tunes this time of night?"
Nomiro faced Lonesome, who was fingering the collar of his shirt.
"You have gained the favor of the girl, Lucha. Do you know what
this means?" he asked the cowboy.
"Nope," Lonesome admitted. "Though I imagine what you are going
to tell me ain't gonna make me happy."
"Aiyuh. I should have known you could not hear," Nomiro grunted.
Well. He would have to tell the cowboy something, to get him to
agree to the plan, but how much must he know? "You must take the
girl from this camp. Get her out of here. She is in danger...
there is something here which wishes her harm. Now it appears
that the spirits themselves are conspiring to make her leave."
"Ahhh...yeah. Not that I can understand what you are up to. How
can I help?"
"I have told you. You must take her away from here."
"I ain't exactly thrilled about getting married right away, old
man. Sir. Even if she is pretty. I got a lot of business to
do before I settle down."
"Hmm...." Nomiro sat with the cane before him. He rested his
chin on his fist for a moment. "Then let us figure out a way to
do this," he said. "We will bargain."
HANDLING CHORES:
On the opposite side of the camp, another encounter was taking
place.
There was a breeze, soft and slow, to make the leaves whisper and
the flames sway. These flames lighted an old woman and the
visitor who had crept into her campsite only moments before.
"Hmmmphh! Your wounds are unremarkable." Cornsilk blew out her
cheeks. No one ever dared come to see her. Of course, she had
not exactly made herself available, but still.... "You have
already dosed your scratches with ointment," she said, digging
into the supplies in her voluminous pouch. "However, you will
worry about scars. This salve will help, so you will be radiant
for your future husband."
"Thank you, Grandmother." Red Cloud waited as Cornsilk smoothed
the ointment onto her arms, bearing the stinging of the scratches
as the pungent salve covered them.
"You did not need me," the old woman accused, putting the clay
bowl away. "I am thinking you can concoct any remedy that I have
here. So - why did you come to see me, Child of the Azuma?"
"I have come to show you this," Red Cloud said. She drew a
cornshuck doll from her own pouch and handed it over.
"Warrior. Unfamiliar weapons. Strange headdress. Yet, there is
something remarkable about this doll," Cornsilk said, handing it
back. "Who made you this?"
"The doll-maker from my tribe."
"Oyeh!" Cornsilk muttered, "Such a rich people! A fine thing it
is, when a tribe can afford to have a person who does nothing but
make dolls."
Red Cloud tucked the doll away. "But it is not mine," she added.
"It belongs to the one you call She Goes Ahead."
"The boy, Ramon?" Cornsilk watched as Red Cloud's eyes widened.
"Ah, yes, I know his natural condition, Child. Even if I did not
have these pesky snoops whispering in my ear all day, I could
have told you that. I am not blind. And I know of you, 'She Who
is Guardian of the Cat'...or is it the cat who is the guardian?"
The old woman eased her puzzled smile to say, "But what about
this boy? Why would a Mexican boy have such a ceremonial device?
I could feel traces of power about it, and he could not handle
such power."
"That...that is why I have come to speak to you," Red Cloud spoke
softly, as though now uncertain. "In my tribe, there are those
they call the Sisterhood, and they have instructed me in what to
request."
"Of course! I am a member of this Sisterhood. Go on with your
story." Cornsilk looked up at her and chuckled, "Don't be so
surprised, Child. I get around. We women have to stick
together. Otherwise, the men would have everything botched up."
Red Cloud ventured a weak smile, which quickly faded. She
continued, "There is a great danger rising in our country.
An ancient sorcerer tries to gain power, and he threatens the
entire world."
"The people of that region never could mind their own business.
Always something or other causing doomsday," griped Cornsilk.
"Oh, go on, Child. I am just being cranky."
Red Cloud kept her eyes on the campfire as she said, "This
sorcerer is seeking Ramon's sister, and also an instrument of
power. I do not know its nature, but if this evil person gets
them, he could control immense power. No one can stand against
him yet, but the Doll Maker says a warrior can be trained to
thwart him. She is asking you to help with Apache powers."
The old woman stared at the coals, her thoughts hidden by the
shadows from the tiny fire. "I can guess," she said. "You mean
the boy, Ramon."
Red Cloud swallowed. "This is so, Grandmother. He must be
prepared."
"What you ask is impossible, a useless waste of effort. And
what, exactly, is going to happen when this innocent boy goes up
against a powerful sorcerer?"
Red Cloud fumbled at the frayed corner of her woolen cushion. "I
do not know, Grandmother," she admitted.
"I see. This boy...he means something to you, then? You would
have him love you?"
Again the Azuma girl hesitated. Finally, she spoke, "I cannot
think this."
"You are only the messenger, and he is the sacrificial goat, eh?"
Cornsilk watched the girl's brown eyes as Red Cloud glanced up
at her, then back to the blanket.
"Let me see. You want me to arrange to have your lover trained
so he can go off and get himself killed...." Seeing the tears
leaking down the girl's nose, Cornsilk puffed her cheeks out once
again. "I will talk to someone," she sighed. She stacked the
pouches to one side and ascended to her feet, using the cane for
a brace.
"You have come to the right person," she announced, "If anyone
can turn that immature colt into a fire-breathing stallion, it
will be me!" To herself, she added, [And it will probably kill
us both!]
TO SLEEP, PERCHANCE:
In the quiet of the night, as others in the wickiup slumbered,
one person stirred uneasily. Machita was watching the flicker of
shadows thrown onto the brush wall/roof of the wickiup by the
tiny sheltered campfire outside. She was homesick, sore and
tired from the strenuous day, and weary of being a she.
Also, there was a small, nagging pain, a feeling that she had
done something wrong. Sandy would not speak to her. In fact, he
pointedly avoided her. This shunning was making her stomach ache
like the bruise on her shin made by a javelina's hoof. Sandy had
always been Ramon's friend...well, after he had come to know him,
at any rate...and as Machita, Ramon was beginning to think that
she had let Sandy down. Either that, or that old woman's spells
were giving her a stomach ache.
Now everyone else was acting as though she were an outsider.
Machita recalled how Estrellita had chattered inanely about the
particulars of trading for a real Apache dress, as though she
could think of nothing else. The rancherita had never worried
about clothes that way before. She had always been carefree
about the dresses Mama had made for her, and ready to share
whatever she had with Machita. Now, it seemed she would rather
talk about anything rather than face her friend.
Red Cloud, too, acted ashamed. She had cast her eyes down or
looked the other way when Machita was around. Eventually, she
got up from her blanket and walked away into the night. "Probably
to get away from me!" Machita grumbled.
"They do not understand!" she complained in a low mutter, "I HAD
to do something! Those guys were driving me crazy!"
Machita shifted uncomfortably, lifting the pendant from where it
had fallen behind her shoulder and pulling it around in front,
where it would lie upon her breast. Touching the silver and
turquoise, Machita tried to imagine herself within the snug walls
of Mama's kitchen while Mama busied herself with breakfast.
Beyond the hills, the song of a coyote wavered through the night
air.
Sleep came upon her suddenly, the walls of the wickiup fading
into plastered stone. She heard the remembered sounds of
morning - the braying of conch shells as the priests
celebrated the rise of Venus, the ever-present murmur of the
crowds in the marketplace, and above that the scolding of pet
birds in the aviaries outside the temple doorways. Somehow
these unfamiliar noises were reassuringly commonplace.
She knew that it was the time for the Festival of Corn, though
she was not certain from where this knowledge came, nor what
this event involved. She did know that the festival was a
joyous occasion, with feasts and dancing, but the ache in her
throat and the tension in her jaw kept her from enjoying it.
Later, the attendants would want her to drink something to
ease the pain.
Machita had time to wonder muzzily who the attendants were that
she was remembering before the dream dragged her back from
awareness.
Being chosen to participate in the ceremonies in the capitol
city was both exciting and frightening. Every year, a girl
went to take the people's prayers and present them to the
gods. Always, the girl was of good family and comely. Her
father was head of the village, and some said he was distantly
of royal blood. He said he was proud of her for having been
chosen, for the honor she bestowed upon the village. Her
mother agreed. Her lips said this, but her eyes were sad.
Machita wanted to run free, back to the village. She was
fleet of foot, a valued hunter, and she knew that she was
considered beautiful. The ancient crone who attended her
assured her of her good fortune, and the glory which was to
come this morning. Still, the ritual preparations were
stultifying, rigid, and had become boring.
She had tried to walk out to the terrace, to see the sunrise,
but there were servants who forbade even that. She was not to
be seen before the proper time. She was honored, a celebrity,
and people would demand too much of her time and energy if she
went among them before the ceremony. So they kept her
occupied with rituals, and the steam baths, and the
all-important sacred meal.
The golden mirror which reflected her image told of a
sophisticated, elegant (though young) lady with a radiant face
and worldly, knowing eyes, thanks to the servant's efforts
with makeup. They had washed and plaited her hair into the
royal coif, and applied modest rouge. Her cheeks looked warm
and red, not the deathly pallor she felt when she touched
them.
There was a stir in the anteroom. A priest had entered
leading another girl, one who looked very much like her. The
priest was a thin grey man with leathery skin and cold eyes.
She had seen similar eyes on a boa constrictor, crushing and
swallowing a rabbit back in her home village.
Then she was forced out of the chambers, to be dragged by the
priest to a different room. His grip was pitilessly strong,
and he was grimly silent as he strode further into the temple,
beyond all light and noise, until the hallway creaked in
silence and the only sounds were the pad of their slippers
over the carven tiles.
Then at last, he stopped in a dimly lit room and bound her to
a column near the center of the floor. "You were not meant to
feed Huitzilopochtli," the grim priest said, "Your flower will
bloom in the heart of time." In the silence that followed,
she realized that he had melted away back down the hallway.
Something was wrong. This was not expected. The ceremony was
supposed to be public! Where were the attendants who were to
escort her, and why was there no one offering prayers to the
heavens?
Unbidden, she heard her own voice calling for help, although
who might appear to rescue her she could not imagine. Only
faint echoes of her cry answered in mocking tones. She
struggled against the restraints until she realized that the
dark circle before her was not a carpet. It was a well,
echoing her cry for help, and somewhere below there was a tiny
splash as a pebble fell into the water. She felt herself
drawn forward into it, but creaking ropes held her back.
She heard voices approaching as the grey man said, "Lord Toc
is not at his sanctuary. He appears to have departed for the
battle site."
"The idiot!" responded a second voice, "We are ready for his
contribution!" This voice was familiar. She knew it, and
feared it, needing no reason.
"I had feared he had become uneasy because of the maleficent
auguries, but perhaps I am mistaken," said the leathery grey
man. "Perhaps, even now, he prepares to conduct the Mexica
into the heaven of Valiant Warriors, in a last glorious
battle."
"Caution! That has always been one of his talents. Not
valor! He probably has his archives moved to the West Coast by
now. Very well. Prepare the girl. We must move along without
him."
Strong hands grasped her arm, she felt the stinging pain of a
knife slash, and her other hand freed and filled with cotton
wadding. The second man cried, "Do not bleed all over! Hold
this compress until it staunches! I want you healthy!" She
knew him. She could pronounce his name, but her throat was
frozen in horror.
She looked out over the well again, and saw a single drop of
blood falling into the emptiness....
And now she fell with it, into brilliant sunlight.
Ramon swayed, as the surface beneath his feet moved. Realizing
he was in a boat, he regained his balance and looked around.
He was away from the temple, away from Kaliche, and standing
in the prow of an ungainly boat rocking near the bank of a
waterway. The side of the boat clunked against stone blocks of
the pier as the boat slid alongside high pilings.
"Here you be, Missy," came a voice from behind Ramon. "Your
village be that-a-way, two-three days. You be careful, take
your time, don't get caught."
"Why do you think I am afraid of being caught?" Ramon asked.
He lifted his hand and examined it and the sleeve of his
garment, which resembled an abbreviated robe. His hand was
his own hand - He saw a big, male hand, which meant that he
was not a girl. [At least, I see myself as a boy,] he
thought. He did not think he was a girl.
Yet the gnarled man in the stern of the boat had called him,
"Missy." This was confusing. What dialect was he speaking?
"Ferry other runaways before," the gnarled man chuckled.
"Don't you worry, none. Old Crudscraper don't tell no one.
Not a word. Nothing gets past these lips. You just get
yourself home. Maybe your Mama be glad to see you."
Ramon climbed out of the boat, using a cypress piling to pull
himself up. He turned and looked over the boat, a
shallow-draft affair with low sides, apparently carved from a
whole log. What had he been doing in a boat? Water, broken
into canals, stretched as far as he could see, and he had the
feeling that they had been travelling a long way - since early
morning.
There was a trail up the bank, and traces of a traveled path
beyond that. Ramon looked back at the boatman again, and the
boatman waved farewell.
"Be you smart, and watch for dogs," the bent man said. "The
soldiers, they always have dogs. Dogs run around, run around,
they see you they come, want you to feed them. You see dogs,
run and hide. Dogs mean soldiers near."
"Okay," Ramon said. "Thanks." Now, what would he do? He
stared down the trail leading toward the hills. The path was
well worn, and foliage had been cleared on either side to give
the impression of a boulevard. Many men could walk this path
side by side. Many soldiers.
"You will see home before long," the boatman called. "Pretty
girl like you, stay away from villages. Go farmhouse, ask for
food."
"I am not a...." Ramon stopped his protest, remembering that
he could be a girl. He felt like a male. He saw himself as a
male. Why did the boatman see him as a girl? He felt odd, as
though this was a dream.
Then he must have walked, and slept, and dodged people -
caravans of merchants, soldiers trading banter as they marched
between villages, even farmers on their way to their fields.
They formed a mirage that he moved through, until he saw the
gates of a village which looked, for some reason, to be
familiar. When he started toward the gates, he felt a
wrenching sensation, of being torn in two directions, of a
grey foreboding.
At first, there was no one around. He wandered the paths
which made up the streets of the village, looking for someone,
anyone. Then he came to the packed ground of the plaza at the
center of the village, and saw people hurrying the other way.
He followed, though the weight in his chest seemed to grow
with each step. He caught up with them and could hear them
talking.
"They must have done something terrible!" one woman said. "For
the priests to call upon the old gods...."
One man saw Ramon and made an incomprehensible gesture.
Somehow, Ramon knew the gesture was to ward off evil.
"You should be up there with them, Dawn Flower!" spat the man,
"You were to ascend with our prayers, but you ran away! It is
your fault!"
The foreboding had become genuine fear as Ramon ran ahead,
into the undergrowth and the trees. He burst into the
clearing and saw a huge boulder, carved into a rough wheel. It
was pulled by ropes to the top of a shallow depression, almost
a trench. Rough hands grasped his arms to pull him back, but
he could see. In the depression....
Machita awoke with a stifled cry.
"That was not me!" she insisted, trying to convince herself that
it was only a dream. "I did not know those people! What could be
causing these nightmares?" The light of the campfire reflected
off turquoise, and she felt such a revulsion that she stripped
the necklace from her with shaking hands. She threw it from her,
and the leather thong caught on a projecting twig as unerringly
as if she had aimed it.
There were no more dreams that night.
KEEPING COUNCIL:
Even after the cowboy named Lonesome had returned to his own
shelter, Nomiro Nada stayed. The tiny fire before him gave him
heat but little light. Unable to sleep, he sighed and felt for
his pipe, the better to while away the quiet nocturnal hours.
A movement at his side told him that he was not alone. He
listened carefully as he decided who his companion could be. A
soft hush of leather sliding across leather, the hiss and scritch
of a bone needle - not the iron needle demanded by today's women
- gave him the identity of the person sitting across the fire.
Nomiro puzzled momentarily, then decided that he would gain
nothing by doubting his senses.
"Sewing Woman," he announced.
A soft chuckle answered him. "Took you long enough to notice,"
she said. Nomiro wondered greatly. Rare to meet her outside of
his dreams. Rarer still for her to speak without riddles.
"I suppose you are wondering what I am always sewing," she said.
The pleasure of old memories caused a smile to creep across his
face. "Not for many winters," he replied.
"Look here," she said, and he could see her holding out a patch
of gray and tan leather toward him. Of the world outside the
small circle he could see nothing but black, but her gentle eyes
and sad smile were clear. The leather she held for him to
inspect was patterned with footprints, javelinas and wolves, and
eagles. In her other hand she held more patches of various
colors and designs.
"In this hand, I hold yesterday," she said. "In this other hand
I hold tomorrow. I am never sure which pattern to use for
tomorrow, so I must keep them all ready. Occasionally, they
surprise me."
"Why then do you sew?" Nomiro was aware of an unnatural calm
about the camp, as though all the noisy insects had gone to
sleep, along with the birds and coyotes. The fire glowed with a
stationary flame.
"Because they must come together somehow, and I must make them
fit." She sighed, neither dejected nor discouraged, but simply
from the pleasure of flexing her old, worn fingers. "As I said,
sometimes they surprise me. I prefer the older patterns, but
nowadays the colors and the designs...oh, they do not always
match. Would you care to see?"
Nomiro nodded politely. Again she produced several patches,
holding them up to be illuminated by the glow of the unmoving
fire. One of them caught his gaze, a rough sketch of a child
dragging something black and misshapen behind her. "This is the
day Lucha came to our camp. She was such a lovely child, full of
life. Yet she carried something with her that could harm us all."
"The pendant," Nomiro guessed. "I have been negligent. This is
something I should have noticed. It is causing the family group
to sicken."
"Perhaps," agreed Sewing Woman. "But the thing is not bad in
itself. The demon within sits and waits. It will never come out
- it takes and never gives. It must be released by someone far
more powerful than you." She frowned at him, "Be thankful you do
not have that power."
"What can we do? I have met a dark creature, the one who blinded
me."
Sewing Woman's gaze was without pity. "The one whom you seek to
dignify by remaining blind is not worth your scorn. He is but a
fool, a doll for the other. Your concern should be for your
people!"
"He attacked me! He suborned my niece, and perhaps even now is
conducting his evil attempt to destroy our families!"
She shook her head, slowly, returning her eyes to the leather
patch. "Remain prepared, for when the moment comes, you must
destroy him. You will want to lure him close enough to reach
him. To do this, you must marry our daughter to her mate as you
have already planned."
Spider objected, appearing so suddenly by their side that Nomiro
was startled, "The others will never consent to this! They are
saying that you do not have the right to command this wedding!"
"Then take the right!" cried Sewing Woman. "This is the only
way to protect her! You must have her married immediately!"
"I have thought of this. It makes my heart ache, to send her
away when she needs our help!"
"She will fare better than you know. Worse to leave her here,
exposed to other forces."
Nomiro had been staring at the ground, amazed that he could see
the pebbles there. He lifted his head with a jerk. "Others?
There are others?"
"The empty stone the girl brought here, and which her brother now
carries, has been recognized. Yet another sorcerer comes to
claim it. When he does, there will be warriors as well as widows
who grieve, for he will not be gentle in his efforts."
"Very well. I must send them both away!" Nomiro decided, "Both
of the Sisters of the South!" His heart seemed to labor as the
shadows slid between them. The flames began to dance on the wood
and a cricket chirped softly.
"Let me see," muttered Sewing Woman before she faded away. She
picked amongst the small mound of leather patches, pleased with
the selections. "I know I have that design in here, somewhere.
Ah, yes. Here it is! A double wedding, for Sisters, no less!"
---------------
Nomiro left the campfire, to return to his own tipi. Finding his
way with the cane, he stopped at a noise; the whisper of a knife
being drawn. He knew from the harsh breathing that the other
person was young, agitated, and frightened. He stepped back and
pivoted so he was talking to the open spaces, using the formal
speech.
"Why is this young person not in bed and asleep?"
"Oh, Uncle!" came Yucca's voice, strained and...yes...near to
tears. Nomiro steeled himself to display no remorse.
"This child should be resting. It is not safe to wander the
trails alone, at night. How long has it been since you have
slept?"
"I cannot sleep, Uncle. I am sorry. I am sorry I drew the knife
when I heard you. You surprised me."
"Your bedroll awaits you. Rest." Nomiro broke from the formal
speech to command her.
"I cannot! He may come at me anytime! I must be alert, I cannot
allow him to find me again!"
"Aiyuh...Will this person allow another to help?"
"No, Uncle. You cannot help me. I have made this path for
myself. I...I must walk it."
Nomiro heard her footsteps drag away, toward the outer perimeter
of the camp. He shook his head sadly and again found the trail
with his cane. There was much to do, tomorrow. He too must
rest.
As he walked surefootedly down the trail, he wondered why he had
elected to send Lucha with the cowboy. It was a flash of
intuition, and his intuition was rarely wrong. Yet.... What was
the significance of such a wedding? Why was it so important that
she be married?
THE LOGICAL CONCLUSION:
A round section of the cave wall flowed into a shiny and dark
mirror, with a face fading into view. In the chamber, an irate
Espuma was slamming things back into a leather carrying case,
muttering about large meaty boneheads who had no respect. He
lovingly picked up a nasty device with a handle on one end and a
nozzle on the other, with a scorched metal shielding to protect
the handle.
"Espuma!" said the shiny patch.
The creature whipped around to face the wall, keeping the
apparatus in his hands behind his back.
"Yes master?" His response was, while hasty, pitched to be at
once both fawning and arrogant.
"I need progress. Where is the girl?"
"She is safe at the Apache camp, master! [No thanks to that
boneheaded....] I am making my final plans to retrieve her."
The shiny patch smiled. "And my associate, Toc? Did you go to
see him? Good! I don't suppose you 'accidentally' mentioned
anything to him about the pendant, did you?"
"Oh, no, master!" Tiny beads of sweat suddenly gleamed on
Espuma's forehead.
"Perfect! I knew I could count on you, my loyal servant! But
you really shouldn't take too long about this, you know. I
really don't want you hanging around if the Apaches become
concerned enough to call out their power-hitters."
"All they are doing is preparing for a wedding," Espuma sneered,
"That will make my job easier. I will distract them and simply
walk in and take the girl."
"A wedding!?!?" Kaliche's face glowed with cheerfulness and
Espuma began to count back over his words, looking for his
mistake. Somewhere he had overlooked a detail, and he would pay
for it. Kaliche continued, "Weddings are grand! I am certain
you will not fail, in your timely efforts. So certain, in fact,
that I plan a celebration upon your return. A fiesta."
Espuma became more than worried. Real concern etched his face.
Kaliche happy was one thing. Kaliche suggesting a celebration
was, in his long experience, too often painful.
"We could get one of those big metal things...you know, the kind
they use to roast half a steer on...you turn this little handle,
and the meat spins around and around."
A rivulet of sweat rolled down Espuma's neck, staining his
uniform. "A spit, I believe you are trying to recall, master?"
he finally replied.
"Oh, yes! A spit. We can start a roaring fire and let it burn
down to the coals, and then we'll put the meat on the spit and
let it sizzle, so we can watch the juices dripping and sputtering
into the hot, hot coals...."
Espuma was in a near panic. "Is there something wrong with my
work, master?" he quavered.
"Of course not!" Kaliche's voice boomed in the cave, "Not a
thing! But, you do remember that the girl must not only be
alive, she must be healthy and untouched."
"That was merely a slip! An unintentional slip, master! I did
not intend to endanger her! I swear she will not be hurt!"
"Of course she will not be hurt! The thought never crossed my
mind. However...."
Espuma's mind began to race. He heard a gabbling, squeaking
noise which he feared was Kaliche's punishment come early, and he
tensed to receive the pain. When nothing happened, he looked
back at the mirrored surface.
"...However?" he said, hopefully.
"...However, you *have* given some thought to what will happen if
the girl arrives here for the ceremony and we find that she is
not pure?"
"Pure?" Espuma gasped in horror. Ages of memories of past
ceremonies and sacrifices clicked and he counted off the number
of hours he had left. Too few to squander. He would have to
hurry if he was to carry out his master's plans and still enjoy
his own vengeance.
The mirror's voice stopped him in his haste to gather his
belongings and depart. "Two things for you to worry about, my
faithful servant. Should the Apache call for a Mountain Spirt
Dance, you are on your own. Nothing I can do will save you.
And I do want you safe, so you can get the girl...before the
wedding comes to its logical conclusion."
"Yes...yes, master!...errr...that was one thing?"
"Oh, yes. You really should eat more. Put some meat on your
bones. You are far too skinny."
"Master?"
"You know. Bulk up. Gain some weight. If you have waited too
long, and the girl is not - you know - why, we'll have to use
those sharp wires with barbs to hold the roast on the spit. That
would be no fun at all."
Espuma nodded gravely and squeezed his eyes shut. "No fun at
all, master!" he admitted, blinking back tears of terror. He did
not stay around to watch the mirrored image smile in satisfaction.
CHAPTER TRIENTA Y DOS: END
------------ Glossary:
nancin: A term used by the Apache to signify Mexicans.
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