Storykeeper Read online

  He had told me many times, “You are too young to climb the sacred mountain.”

  Now he had instructed me to meet him there. I knew the importance of this event. My emotions leaped from fear to hope and back again. The day lasted longer than the patience of my youth. I was at the Narras early. I walked around its base to the Buffalo River, keeping an eye on the rim for Grandfather.

  From the bend in the river, it is possible to see both the north and south side of Narras. One side followed the old trail that I had just walked, and the other bordered the churning river. At the water’s edge, I could see its highest point almost straight above me. More than once, I saw Grandfather standing on that ledge, but not today. I ran all the way back around to where the trail to the top of Narras started.

  The beginning is not difficult. When Grandfather left me alone in the valley I had climbed the lower part several times. The roots of an old cedar tree growing into the rocks made the first steps easy and tempting. Above that, layers of rock formed natural steps worn by the wind and Grandfather.

  The climb went quickly until the point where I could see no other place to grab. I tried to convince myself that I had always turned back at that point because of guilt rather than fear.

  I had no reason to feel guilty now. Fear alone tested my resolve and seized me as tightly as I gripped the rock. My fingers crept across the surface as I searched for a handhold, a crack in the rock. I could not see the handhold, but I could feel its strength as I pulled myself up and found more, but none within an easy grasp. The rock face began to slope inward. Soon, I could crawl. I stood and laughed at myself for having given up in the past.

  A grove of trees shared the high ground with me. Short with thick trunks, twisted but strong, they seemed as old as the mountain. Their gnarled branches forced me to stoop as I followed a well-traveled path.

  A few steps into the tiny forest, the view opened to clear sky and a straight drop to the river. Wind rushing up from the blue waters below chilled my face and stole my breath. My legs buckled. Never had I witnessed a more powerful sight. I cowered back and hugged the closest tree.

  Rooted to its trunk, I took in the beauty of Mother Earth. The Buffalo River snaked around hills and valleys until it stretched out of eyesight and beyond my knowledge. Off to my right, Taninto’s valley, the world I did know, lay peacefully in the crease of two great mountains. The boundary between the worlds, known and unknown, was a ledge no wider than a single stride.

  Across that narrow rim and up another steep climb loomed the top of Narras, Grandfather’s sacred place. The path twisted and turned before me. Patches of grass grew between the rocks, but either side fell away to jagged cliffs.

  A crow’s caws drew my attention.

  “Haw ... haw ... haw,” I called back, thrilled to be looking down on his flight as he soared over the river and disappeared into a darkening forest.

  “I cannot be afraid,” I said and straightened up. I let go of the last branch and focused on my next steps. Few had been taken when I heard the crow again, returning to taunt me.

  Circling overhead, he called out, “Caw, caw, who is proud, now? Who is brave, little girl? Caw, caw, caw.”

  I tried not to listen as he flew closer. “You are in the world of the Winged Ones now. Look up to me, the Mighty Crow. Caw.”

  I held my arms out like a soaring bird but looked only at the path. Before I reached the other side, I stopped and gazed out over the river into the unknown from the world of the Winged Ones. It was a grand view, but brief. I lunged forward and grabbed the rock wall. I might have shown courage to the crow, but I had proven little to myself.

  My legs shook, but I could not turn back. I forced myself to reach up. Like a snail, I clung with my whole body. The crow gave one last caw and flew off downriver.

  I pushed up and up, determined to reach the sacred grounds. At the top, I peered over. An island of rock in a lake of sky lay before me. Grandfather stood at the other end, his back to me, arms lifted. Faint sunlight glowed over everything in both worlds, and Grandfather seemed to float between the two.

  Without a thought for myself, I climbed on top and walked toward him. He lowered his arms. The vision of his power faded. Fear drained the strength from my body.

  The land under me was so scant that I could see death on either side. I fell to my knees and reached for all the earth I could grab.

  “Nanza, look into my eyes,” Grandfather said.

  His voice gave me balance.

  “Do not look away.” He picked me up and carried me on his back down the rock wall and across the rim. He sat me down at the edge of the stunted forest, facing west. In the last light of the day, he began to sing.

  I had never heard him sing before, nor had I heard the language he used. He sang to Father Sun while the yellow disk slid toward the distant mountains. Wisps of clouds drifted in the golden light like giant flames from a world on fire. I remember well what he said when he finished his song.

  “My child, whom I rescued, raised, and will always cherish, you have shown great courage and strength in climbing to the top of Narras. Use that power well—hear and remember every word.”

  Turning from me, he said, “Time has come for the story I kept far too long.”

  After a painful pause, he raised his arms and said, “Let the trees and the ancient mountains be the circle of listeners and the Great Father Sun be our story-fire. May the spirits of all the wise and honorable men who sat at the fires of my youth hear these words as truth.”

  Chapter 3: One Slash

  Grandfather’s Story

  Forty years after “their” arrival

  I, Taninto, lonely wanderer for thirty-eight winters, traveled for seven days from my valley along with my dog, provisions, and an offering. The pilgrimage took me up the White River to the Blue Spring on the edge of the Healing Mountains. Mother Earth gives forth pure water from springs all over Nine-Rivers Valley, but from these mountains flow many healing springs, each with different powers.

  Blue Spring is the greatest of these. Its water flows never-ending down into the White River and on to mingle with all the rivers and streams that bless our land. The closer I came to the spring, the harder the current pushed against the canoe. The quiet comfort of tree-lined banks faded, and the sight of an open field broke the rhythm of my paddle.

  Always quick to take advantage, the river forced me to the shore. Several turtles slid into the water as I pulled my canoe next to a fallen cottonwood. Though on its side, the tree still grew strong and mighty.

  My dog, Chachiz, climbed onto the tree and scampered up the roots that clung to the steep riverbank. He scouted the area while I tied the canoe under a spread of limbs. I unloaded my offering and the supplies we would need for the climb over the mountain and down to the spring.

  Chachiz waited at the top of the bank, ready. That was all I needed to know. I had lived alone since my seventeenth winter. Those are sad words for an old man to boast about his life. My home in a valley so far from any villages, made it easy to avoid people. Sometimes the hunger to travel—to wander over the next ridge—challenged my isolation.

  Chachiz walked in front, smelling and listening with every step. My hearing was almost as sharp as his. Sharper that day were the memories of my distant childhood.

  I last traveled through this land in my youth with my uncle Tecco, a Tassetti or Wise-One from the temple town of Casqui on the banks of the Little Muddy River. He brought me on his second pilgrimage to Blue Spring. I recalled those happy times with my uncle, but I could never let my thoughts turn back to Casqui. There, memories lurked, ready to snatch my spirit.

  Chachiz and I traveled most of the day without seeing anything more than a few squirrels. When we came upon a path, I could hear my uncle say, “The only safe path is your own.” Thorny briars scratched at both of us as we followed the overgrown path in the quiet before sunset.

  The path led to a larger trail on the edge of open land. I knelt at Chachiz’s si
de and whispered, “My friend, this must be the road to Blue Spring. Come, we will find a place where we can wait for the night.” We crossed the road and climbed up through the undergrowth to a spot where I could see the road. Chachiz and I settled into the growing shadows.

  As the last rays of sun lit the road, I saw a small group—two men, three women, and two children. Judging by their brightly colored garments, they were from the Nation of Palisema, known for its dyed skins. They hurried away from the river. I soon understood their haste. Warriors painted and armed for war followed close behind.

  “War is forbidden here!” I wanted to shout. All nations considered this as sacred land. Who would violate the code? The world slipped into darkness. My thoughts ran on, but I remained rooted in my own terror.

  “Ahaya ... Ya, ya, ya, yaaaa.” The cry hushed the night’s creatures and doused my hopes.

  Chachiz lunged to his feet. I grabbed him. The new songs of the evening were yelps and war cries.

  Every sound of the massacre reached into our hiding place and ripped at my soul. I could do nothing. There was no way to turn that I did not hear the attack.

  Then silence spread over the forest. Every creature stood still, straining to hear the next sound. Screams. It came as screams. Torture of the survivors began. I thanked the shadows that I could not see what I was forced to hear.

  What could I do? I had to leave. I had no weapons. I was an old man with no strength or will for fighting. If I stayed, if I listened, those old memories would find me again and overrun my soul.

  “I must go,” I whispered. Pain cracked my stiff legs as I stood. “Chachiz, we must go.”

  I hurried through the night forest, rambling. “I must go. I must go.” Louder than their screams, I said, “Chachiz, we must go!”

  He did not lead, but stayed by my side. I stumbled often, cutting and bruising my arms and legs, but I could not stop. “Hurry, Chachiz. I must go.”

  So it went until blind haste brought us back to the trail, the most dangerous path, but the fastest way back to the canoe. I stepped onto the road and turned toward the river. Chachiz circled me and dashed out front, grinning at the sight of an old man running. My chant became our pace. “I-must-go, I-must-go, I-must-go.”

  We ran until the road curved out of sight around a steep hillside. Uncertain what might be around the bend, Chachiz turned toward the hill and the cover of trees. I had had enough of running through the forest and started for the open field to the left.

  Chachiz hesitated a moment, then raced ahead to scout the field and disappeared among the tall weeds and morning fog. I saw him again at a distance, standing above the meadow grasses waiting for me. I crouched and crept toward him.

  He stood on a pile of freshly dug earth. “Ch ... a ... ch ... iz ...,” I whispered more like a sound than a name. He remained still and resolute.

  “Chachiz,” I said. He sat down on his back legs. I stood and walked away. He did not move. “Chachiz, we must go.”

  I stomped my foot. “Come, dog, come. I must go.”

  He lay down. Again, I edged toward the small mound, close enough this time to peer over.

  A glimpse, a forgotten sense of hope to one who had seen so much tragedy, was a great surprise. Hope did not spring from the sign of life, those whiffs of breath meeting the cool morning air. Nor had hope returned at the thought of having someone to fill my empty life.

  Hope came from a smile—a child’s smile. A child ill with Black Sleep, smallpox! I knew the signs well: the painful, oozing boils, the fever and confusion. The child, a girl properly wrapped in a cougar skin, lay in an open grave. She wore a copper and crystal necklace. A red-striped water bottle rested above her left shoulder, with a basket of cornmeal above her right. A child’s toy bird fashioned from clay and painted blue perched above her head.

  Her family must have brought her to the healing springs after she grew sick. When she did not improve, they prepared a burial site. Fear of the disease was so great that many parents refused to touch a child who died of the sickness. Her family could do nothing but place the small child in the grave and wait for her death.

  An even greater fear of men had caused the loving family to abandon her. Unable to wait for her passing and unwilling to do death’s deed, they left their hopes in a bundle for me to find. I did not fear her sickness. It could do me no harm, for the disease is my curse.

  Waging a battle in my thoughts were things I must not remember, must not see, must not do—and one sick child. As I paced, she followed with tiny eyes struggling to stay open. Then I heard her voice, weak and frail, but crashing like thunder.

  Terrible, choking memories bubbled up from deep inside. I fought for breath.

  A small voice repeated the question. “What is your name?”

  How long has it been since another person spoke to me?

  “Ta ... nin ... to,” I stuttered.

  “Ta ... nin ... to,” she repeated.

  It sounded good to hear my name.

  “Taninto, the Wanderer,” I said.

  She echoed back with even more confidence. “Taninto, the Wanderer!”

  I knew then, I could not leave this child. I tried to speak, but the words lodged in my throat. I climbed over the piled earth, scooped the child from her grave, and held her close to my heart. She nuzzled her face into the hollow of my shoulder, looked up, and smiled. I had lived those miserable, lonely forty-two winters if for nothing else than this child.

  “Come, Chachiz,” I said as I wrapped the child in my old deerskin. “We must get her into the forest.”

  Before I took a step, Chachiz growled. I knew the sign and fell to my knees in the center of the grave, carrying the child gently to the earth.

  I pulled Chachiz in with us then peered over the top. Through the tall grasses, I saw three warriors trotting east on the trail. Blinded by the morning sun, they might pass us by. I crouched down and listened. They ran as one, but I heard each set of feet.

  When they rounded the bend, I could hear only two. Had one of the warriors stopped? Did I hear true? There must be three, I told myself. Chachiz told me differently. One of the warriors headed in our direction. He would find us soon.

  An old man of frail spirit, my torment would be short, but Chachiz’s death would be slow. I could not let that happen. Because of me, they would torture him.

  What of the child? If they saw the signs of Black Sleep, they would not touch her.

  I pulled my old companion close and buried my face in his fur. He sat on his back legs and licked my chin. I pointed his head to the sky.

  “Spirit of my good friend, be free of this wretched world. Soar to the clouds. Lead my way as you have always done.” I reached for my knife. I had no choice. Once started, I could not hesitate.

  One slash. One quick slash.

  Chachiz rolled his head. His eyes fixed on mine. That brief gaze has lingered for a lifetime. He fell into my arms. I fell apart, crumbling into the bottom of the grave. His blood ran down over my body as I pulled the deerskin and the child over my face. The warrior would be upon us any time.

  I untied the child’s cloak and slipped out her small arms. For her to live, the warrior must see her sores. I took a deep breath and whispered, “Be still, small one.”

  I waited ... and hoped. I could see nothing. My nose filled with the smell of blood. How long could I endure?

  The morning songbirds were interrupted by the sound of a blue jay. Even with my ears covered, I knew it was not a bird. The warrior had alerted the others to the grave. Soon I heard voices.

  One yelled, “The intruders from Palisema have honored us with a sacrifice and gifts. This is truly our land.”

  “Aquan, do not take anything,” a more powerful voice shouted.

  The first warrior spoke again. “Who are you to tell me what I can do? I helped kill the intruders from Palisema, and these skins belong to me.”

  “The grave is cursed. The child has the sickness. We should leave this place,” the o
ther said.

  I heard movement, but I could not tell how many were leaving. My body begged for relief.

  “Ahaya ... yaaaa.”

  “Aquan, come back,” someone yelled.

  He did not heed, but ran to the edge of the grave and shouted of his bravery in a flurry of war cries and boasts. “I, Aquan, great warrior of Pa-caha, fear no man. I fear no curse—”

  ~~~

  “Stop!”

  Chapter 4

  Manaha’s Journey

  Ninety-four years after “their” arrival

  The magical web the story and the fire had woven around the children vanished with a sudden roar.

  “Stop!” Ta-kawa roared again and threw water onto the fire. It slapped the flames; in the hiss and mist, the children disappeared into the shadows.

  Manaha snatched up the remains of the splinter she had cut from the lightning tree. Holding it like a staff between her and Ta-kawa, she spoke so all those in hiding could hear. “I have the right, and the guidance to tell this story and many more.”

  “Woman, I say you have no right to speak of the old nations. And never again say Pa-caha, never—”

  Manaha cut him off. “I will hear no more.” She sat down, and closed her eyes.

  “The Council will deal with you.” Ta-kawa shouted, disappearing as quickly as he had come.

  After a time, Manaha rose. She walked to the village without ever looking back at the smoldering fire, took her bedding from the village-lodge, and returned to the island.

  The story-fire flared up around its wet edges as Manaha spread out her bedding. She thought about her day. She stood on her own. Her fire had burned bright, and her words had been true. She thought of the children and their faces, and she thought of her grandfather.

  Somehow, she did not feel her age or her troubles. Her prayers were short but thankful. A blanket spread on the ground was not as comfortable as her bench in the village-lodge, but she took little notice.