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  To the right, a shadow listener stepped close, maybe another one, then the faithful listener settled in behind her. She let the three cuttings clutched in her hand fall into the flames.

  “I will tell a story.”

  Chapter 19: Meadow Creek

  Nanza’s Journey

  Forty-nine years after “their” arrival

  The seventh morning of my journey to Nine-Rivers Valley, I woke well before sunrise. He poked at the dying fire. A few embers flashed to a flame, lighting up the rocks all around and above me. I sat up, ready to jump to my feet before I saw the night sky beyond the edge of the overhang.

  “This is not a cave,” I reassured myself and turned my back to sleep.

  It was still cold, but it was light when I woke the second time.

  “Nanza.” He shook me. “A late-winter wind blows from the northeast; we must cross Meadow Creek before the storm catches us.”

  I rolled over and took some jerky from my back-bundle.

  The results of heavy morning dew dripped from the ledge and floated in the air with the musky dark odor. He kicked dirt over the fire while I tried to eat then he yanked the bundles onto his back and started off. Even with his walking stick, he slid twice on the way down the bluff.

  “Nanza,” he called from the stream at the bottom.

  I tied on my bedroll and stomped after him. When I reached the bottom, he had already crossed farther up the stream. It split into two fast-moving branches around a bed of rocks and pools of stagnant water. I jumped the first channel and danced across the rocks. A thin layer of ice rimmed the puddles. The other channel spread wider than the first, but if he had jumped, so could I.

  The shelter bluffs on either side vanished into forest-covered hills as I ran to catch my guide. The valley between was flat and open with few trees or briars. Pale shades of orange, red, and yellow mingled with new green in the distant gray forest. A cool wind twirled the brown waist-high stalks of purple-top as wisps of clouds raced across a dark blue sky.

  My guide followed a slight depression meandering across the field as Father Sun topped the tree line. “In the shelter of that hillside,” he said and pointed, “where the stream we just crossed joins Tick Creek, there was a village full of people, but that was a lifetime ago."

  “What happened?” I asked before I thought.

  “Sickness,” he said as I stepped to his side. For a moment, his eyes turned on mine. I wanted to ask more, but the pain in his expression stopped me. He walked away. I followed with the word “sickness” still resounding in my thoughts.

  Before high sun, we reached Tick Creek. The swollen stream would have been difficult to cross if not for a spot where logs were jammed one against the other. On the far side, the forest closed in and started downhill. Everywhere lay green-gray, moss-covered rocks, large and small, but not on the trail that he followed. Nothing but an occasional tree grew from the leaf-covered depression, attesting to its great age and lack of use in recent times. Rocks pushed to the downhill edge lined the trail as it began to zigzag against the steepening slope. Each time we cut back to the right, the sound of crashing waters rushed up.

  “Meadow Creek,” he said.

  A few paces off the trail, the mountainside dropped almost straight down to a boulder-filled ravine, too deep and narrow to see the bottom.

  “It is there.” He had learned to read doubt in my face.

  I could hear it, but I wanted to see. With a good hold on a young oak, I leaned out. The churning creek roared and twinkled in between the tumble of boulders.

  “You will see it again,” he said and continued down the trail.

  The descent was long and slow, but not difficult. Even so, Taninto, the great wanderer, fell once. He pulled himself up before I could reach him. I did not notice his limp until we were on the valley floor. The path that brought us down the mountainside disappeared among river-worn rocks and patches of brown grass. He stopped to listen then trotted across the open field. I followed, stomping on the small hole his walking stick left in the sandy soil.

  We quickly waded through a wide but shallow stream. On the other side, the trees stood tall and spread themselves into a dark roof over thick patches of lifeless vines, waiting in the moist soil for a warmer day. A hint of green sprouted from large-leafed plants, no more than a hand high. Pools of sunlight warmed the cool north wind.

  We crossed two more streams and another field. Water was all around, even under my feet. I could feel its power surging. I could hear it roar. It was more than just a meadow creek. It was rain-swollen and raging.

  “It is higher than I expected,” he said. “Still, we must cross it before the storm reaches us.” I shook my head even as he continued. “I will carry everything over then come back for you.”

  He took off his moccasins, pouch, breechcloth, and rolled them in his cloak. Leaving his walking stick behind, he picked up his bundles and wobbled barefoot across the rocky shore.

  “We can have a big fire on the other side,” he said as he waded in. The farther he went, the deeper he sank. Soon, only his head and bundles bobbed above the racing water. He struggled to get up the muddy bank on the far side, dropped the bundles, and returned to the creek without ever looking up at me.

  A gust of wind chilled my bare skin as I watched him carry away my clothes and back-bundle wrapped in the buffalo hide. It took longer for him to cross the second time and even longer to return.

  He staggered out of the creek and grabbed up his walking stick. Spasms shook his body as his pale lips quivered. His voice wavered, but his steady eyes fixed on mine. “Come,” was all he needed to say.

  I followed him to the water’s edge. He held his walking stick by the bottom and waved the end that should have been bound to his bad hand at me.

  “I will pull you across,” he said and dragged me in, deeper and deeper into the swift current. Cold spread up through my legs. They moved ever slower. He pulled on the walking stick and it slipped out of my hand.

  “Hold on, my child,” he said.

  “I am not a child!” I shouted back. The frigid water had numbed my body, but inside I burned. I snatched up the stick.

  “Use both hands,” he said. “Hold on.”

  He tugged on it. I pushed back. We fought each other and the current on into the channel. Water reached his chest and skimmed over the stick between us. I stopped fighting.

  Taninto tugged me across the main channel, his head bobbing in and out of the waves. Water slapped my face, splashed over my head. Against it all, I felt his steady pull.

  And I felt him slip. He disappeared. The current grabbed me and pulled. The walking stick yanked back. Taninto regained his footing. He tugged again. My hand slipped. I clutched the bindings. They broke.

  “Grab it!” he shouted and shoved the stick toward me.

  “Grandfather,” I screamed, stretching, reaching for the stick, a low-hanging branch, the bottom—anything. I was separate and apart, moving with the spring flood.

  Taninto plunged into the channel and swam toward me. His walking stick floated past as he reached for my arm. The creek had carried us far from the crossing. It was too swift and deep to reach the far side. Against the current, he pulled us back to the shallows. I crawled onto the rocky shore and curled into a quivering ball.

  “Get up,” he said.

  I could twitch. I could shake. But I could go no farther.

  He yelled, “Get up. We must cross the creek.”

  “I am too cold.”

  “Our provisions—our clothes—are on the other side. Get up. Now!”

  Large raindrops began to pound the earth around us.

  “I cannot do it,” I said. A drop hit me on the head. “I need your help.” Another stung my back. It felt as if each one bored a hole into my skin.

  He jerked me to my feet and marched back up the creek. My body shivered. I could hardly walk. But I followed. Sleet began to mix with the rain.

  Taninto waded out until the water reach
ed his chest. The creek felt warm against the wind. He stopped and waited for me. Bits of sleet floated by, as I reached out to him. He picked me up and raised my head above his.

  His arms shook. He was unsteady and stumbled, but fought to keep my head above the water. Cold mud squished through my toes when he put me down on the other side. I climbed onto the shore and started for my shawl.

  “Brush the water off first,” he said as he dragged himself out of the creek.

  All around, large drops of ice snapped against dead leaves and the bare branches. I shook and wiped off what I could. He handed me his buffalo cloak. “This will be warmer.”

  My teeth chattered; I swayed, unsure of my legs. I wanted to lie down.

  He pitched my moccasins in front of me. “Put them on,” he said, gathering up our clothes and back-bundles. Draping my shawl over his head, he started running, still naked.

  “Hurry, Nanza,” he called as he climbed toward an outcropping of square-shaped boulders. One large slab leaned against another with its corner buried into the hillside. In the shelter of the two, he knelt down and opened his back-bundle.

  He took out his flint and a wad of shredded cedar bark. I stood over him, numb. Sleet and rain fell. His shaky hand could not coax a spark from the flint.

  He glared up at me. “Do something,” he said. “Get some kindling, some twigs. Hurry.”

  I picked up the small branches around me and snapped them into kindling. Before I had a handful, a glow flickered in his cedar shavings. He set it against the standing slab and added a few dried leaves and some of my twigs. The slant of the boulder shielded the flame from the wind and rain.

  “Bring more kindling before it all gets wet,” he said.

  I brought what I could carry in one hand with the other holding the cloak tightly. Once he had a good fire burning, he stopped to dress. He warmed himself at the fire for a moment. Then he was gone. I dressed.

  “Give me the buffalo cloak,” he said when he returned with his load of firewood.

  I scowled as he handed me my shawl.

  “Keep the fire burning. I will build a lean-to.”

  He tied one end of the buffalo hide to a tree and the other to a broken limb that he wedged between the two slabs. He staked the bottom out to the west. Before he could weight down the edges with rocks, I had crawled under the lean-to.

  “Get out. Firewood goes in first.”

  We stacked what we had in the back. He went in search of anything else dry enough to burn while I tended the fire. The rain and sleet slowed then stopped after dark.

  I heard its soft patter before I saw the first flake of snow. Side by side, we sat and watched snow swirl about the firelight. The buffalo hide pitched and rustled, but I felt warm inside and out, sheltered.

  The fire dried my lips. I licked them and worked my jaw side to side. Slowly, I exhaled in a long sigh—one word followed, “Grandfather.”

  His eyes flashed from the fire to mine. He dropped one corner of his mouth and tilted his head the same direction, but the rest of him smiled. He put his hand on my back. I stammered, “Thank you.”

  Grandfather squeezed my shoulder and said, “I shall tell a story.”

  Chapter 20: Tallest Cypress

  Taninto’s Journey

  Two days after “their” arrival - June 24, 1541

  I had worn a hat of manhood for just two days, and had already pledged my service to a Spaniard while they remained in the land of Casqui. My master, Diego de Guzman, a conquistador of good fortune, had three horses where many Spaniards had none. Without question, a warrior of great courage, but he was just one of many in the army of the Son of the Sun.

  I spent the night inside the walls of Casqui and, like most of my people, I slept little. Saswanna and Shadow Wind, the best of Master Diego’s horses, filled my thoughts whether waking or sleeping. When I could no longer lie in my uncle’s summer patio, I got up and wandered about the streets to the plaza.

  Word had spread of Lord de Soto’s response to the blind men. Most found hope in the promise that the Son of the Sun would pray for their sight. But some distrusted him and doubted his power.

  I left the plaza and the arguments, drifting toward the Spanish camp as the rising sun cast an orange glow across the tops of the pecan grove. Light streaked down through the branches in long, smoky fingers across many fires.

  Spanish guards stood at the edge of the camp ready to turn back anyone who attempted to enter. Two horsemen and their grand beasts strutted among them. Their presence provoked fear in most Casquis and surely filled the guards with confidence. The horse made its rider more than a man. I admired that power.

  I wanted to see Shadow Wind again and talk to my new friend Cooquyi, but I had neither the nobility nor the courage to try the Spanish guards. Instead, I climbed a large mulberry tree where I could see most of the camp. Straddling a thick limb, my back against the trunk, I watched and ate mulberries.

  Through the morning haze, I could see the silhouette of horses tied where Master Diego’s had been the day before. The largest held his head high. I knew that was Shadow Wind. The men of Spain ambled about, showing little concern for what I could see around the grove.

  People gathered and filled the roads. Whole families carried the best of their spring crops. Young warriors in bright feathers ran in groups. Village headmen escorted gifts, and old warriors traveled alone.

  Of all the festivals throughout the year, none matched the excitement of this gathering to see the Son of the Sun. I searched the crowd for my family. I had little reason for doing so. If all but one man from all the villages of Casqui did not come, that man would be my father.

  My father was a pottery-maker, who cared nothing for ritual or tradition. His water vessels and head-pots were known throughout Casqui, but he thought of little else.

  A procession began to take shape outside the north gate. Like the day before, singers and a flute player led King Issqui toward the Spanish camp. But today, Uncle Tecco walked among the party with two other wise-ones.

  I climbed down and joined a group of other onlookers cautiously following the party into the Spanish camp. We huddled together, trying to hide behind the last warriors as a shy child would with its mother. The flute fell silent. I pushed to the edge of the crowd.

  Hernando de Soto stood flanked by his royal guard. Issqui approached alone as he had done the day before. He made a great bow to Father Sun in the east then bowed to Lord de Soto.

  With his head still bent, he said, “As your humble vassal, I ask first that you forgive this intrusion on your day.”

  De Soto nodded slightly when the interpreter finished.

  Issqui straightened and continued, “I speak for the people of my nation. And I say that all are waiting for the time to serve you and your god. A god so great as to be served by a Lord as powerful and wise as you must indeed be a god greater than all the gods of Casqui.”

  Two Spanish holy men stepped closer as Issqui’s words were translated. Lord de Soto showed little interest.

  Bending a knee, then his back, King Issqui cried out, “Son of the Sun, I beseech you.” His voice wavered. “Do not leave your humble servants without the promised sign, without a hope of knowing your god.”

  Some of the conquistadors stirred, ambushed by Issqui’s passion. The power of his plea brought tears to the eyes of the Spanish holy men.

  Lord de Soto motioned for Issqui to stand. “Do not be troubled,” he said. “I could not depart from a nation of people so in need of our Heavenly Father without leaving behind a manifestation of His true love.”

  “Return tomorrow,” Lord de Soto said as he stood. “I will give your people that which you seek, that which all men should seek.”

  I could feel joy spreading around and through me as I listened to the translation. Some bowed their heads, some mumbled, and some ran back shouting Lord de Soto’s promise to anyone who would listen, but all felt the power. Word of the gift that tomorrow and the Spanish would bring reache
d into the town of Casqui, out its gates, and up and down its rivers.

  Everyone began his or her own preparation for the coming of the greatest of all days. I quietly slipped away to the mulberry tree before Uncle Tecco spotted me.

  I could see signs of activity on the far side of the Spanish camp. Two lines of slaves staggered from the back toward the camp guards. Bound together with the Spanish ropes of metal, they wore nothing but a metal collar.

  Freedom taken, their spirit had fallen long ago. Every eye downcast, their backs bent under the burdens they carried. Those wretched beings surely were once men of little courage or evil intent toward Lord de Soto to be so broken, I thought.

  Spanish foot soldiers flanked by horse warriors surrounded the slaves. A tender ran at the side of each horse. I thought that I recognized one as the tender to Master Diego’s dark-brown horse. I felt certain that to toil in the service of a Spanish master must be an adventure every day.

  The Spaniards and their slaves marched out of sight on the road to the Tyronza River. Soon after, I spotted Cooquyi walking with Shadow Wind, the other brown horse, and its tender, Wasse. I climbed down to meet them at the edge of the camp. Cooquyi nodded as he approached. Shadow Wind seemed even larger than I remembered.

  “Your friend, Taninto, is here,” I said if he had forgotten my name. “I come to serve your master, the master of these great beasts, and the one to whom I am indebted, Master Diego de Guzman,” I boasted, more for the Spanish guards than for Cooquyi.

  “Yesterday, you served my master well,” Cooquyi said. He frowned and said something in Spanish. The guard nodded.

  Cooquyi turned back to me. “Master Diego is grateful. Your debt has been paid.” His expression hardened. “Now you can go back to your family.”

  “I pledged my service to your master for more than one day.”

  “Go back to your people,” he insisted.

  “But I can guide you and these fine horses to the river.”

  “In my servitude to the Spanish,” Cooquyi said, “I have crossed more rivers than you know of and am certain I can find this one again without your help.”