Storykeeper Page 9

  King Issqui paused and glanced back at his people. He motioned to the gifts of skins and foods arranged on either side.

  “My ability to serve is small, according to your great merit. And though you should consider even my most abundant will and humility in providing you all manner of services, I must still deserve little in your sight. If my ability to serve you can, with reason, be valued, I pray you receive it, and with it, my country and my people. For though you were the lord of the earth, with no more goodwill would you be received, served, and obeyed.”

  King Issqui put his hand to his mouth and bowed his head. My chest swelled to hear such an elegant speech given on behalf of the Casqui people. Surely, the words of their leader would be as grand.

  The black beast strutted forward. His master rose-up spread his arms wide, hands open and empty. Then he spoke through the interpreter.

  “I, Hernando de Soto, as governor of all these lands by the grace of the one true God, and on behalf of the Emperor and King of all Spain in the year of Our Lord 1541, accept your kind words and many gifts, but most of all your offer of peace and servitude. In return, I shall release all of your vassals whom my conquistadors have captured.”

  The interpreter paused. No one moved. Like me, they waited, expecting more.

  “Now, may we go in peace to a place where I might find rest for my army?” The interpreter bowed his head.

  “He offers no gifts?” someone behind me mumbled.

  “No words of respect for the Great King of Casqui?” another asked.

  “We have offended the Son of the Sun,” some said.

  “No,” others shouted, “he has offended us.”

  King Issqui turned around. The grumbling stopped. He turned back to the translators.

  “Very powerful Master, all that I have said and that which I have given is small and unworthy in your sight. However, it is my sincerest desire not to offend, so I offer that which has been my home and the home of my ancestors for many generations. You may rest in comfort surrounded by all that is the best of Casqui.”

  The translator quickly returned with Lord de Soto’s reply.

  “Though I am governor of this land, I wish to cause no inconvenience. I desire to camp close to your town, but outside its walls, for I need an agreeable spot to accommodate all my men and horses.”

  “Horses,” I repeated to myself. “This is what the strangers called their magnificent beasts. Horses.”

  Issqui, the King of all Upper and Lower Towns, had given many fine gifts, offered his servitude and the ancestral lodge atop the sacred Mound of Casqui. He received little in return, but the right to lead the grandest procession ever to enter Nine-Rivers Valley.

  Chapter 15

  Manaha’s Journey

  Ninety-four years after “their” arrival

  Story finished, the fire faded. Manaha’s listeners slipped away, leaving an old woman without comfort or companion. The stillness around her invited little notice, but a flicker from above caught her attention. Did she blink or did the sky?

  There was no moon and the only stars she could see were off to the west. Another blink. She heard no thunder. Not the slightest breeze stirred, but the air tingled.

  In the village, they would be watching the same sky with concerns for their crops that needed rain, but not too much. Tension lay as thick as the dry heat. Young and old worried about the empty hunting grounds and the men crossing the river.

  Light flashed across the dark sky. Manaha recalled the Hiding Cave, and the strange sights captured in the spark of Grandfather’s flint. She promised herself once more. I will never again go into that cave or any other. The next flash brought the first lightning bolt. Manaha remembered an old song children would chant to tell if a storm was getting closer.

  “When Brothers Thunder and Lightning race, know rain is near. When Brothers Thunder and Lightning race, know a storm is close. When Brothers Thunder and Lightning race, know it is best if Thunder is last.”

  Brother Thunder rolled across the island, down the creek, and back. A storm from the northeast is rare, she thought. “Maybe I should sleep in the village-lodge.” Lightning answered with a strike from cloud to cloud.

  “When Brothers Thunder and Lightning race, know rain is near. When Brothers Thunder and Lightning race, know a storm is close. When Brothers—”

  Thunder grumbled. Manaha shook her head. Only her stubbornness would keep her out of anyone’s lodge on a stormy night. Lightning filled the sky, spreading out in branches too quickly to count.

  “When Brothers Thunder and Lightning race, know rain is near. When Brothers Thunder and Lightning race, know a—”

  Brother Thunder rumbled around and around. Manaha began stacking up her firewood in a square around her basket of cuttings from the lightning wood, the pot of sofkee, a bag of hominy meal, and her pouch. Another flash lit up the island.

  “When Brothers Thunder and Lightning race, know rain is near. When Brothers Thunder and Lightning—”

  Wind came with the Brothers, tugging at the buckskin she had pulled over the pile of belongings. Not much to cover up, Manaha thought as she fought to weigh down the buckskin with rocks. Lightning ripped across the black sky.

  “When Brothers Thunder and Lightning race—”

  Thunder shook. Manaha wedged two pieces of firewood under her bad arm, took up her walking stick, and started for the village. “No reason to suffer,” she told herself.

  Lightning.

  “When Bro—”

  Thunder.

  The wind began to howl, the trees to sway. She crossed the creek. Lightning ... thunder, she could see the village. Then it was gone.

  Lightning! Thunder!

  The Brothers ran side by side. Manaha lost her race. The storm was on the village and there was no shelter nearby to keep her dry. She dropped her two pieces of firewood, untied her deerskin skirt and wrapped it tightly around the wood.

  A large drop of cold rain smacked her shoulder as she turned toward the creek where an old willow tree hung over its bank. With her back against its trunk and the storm, she placed her walking stick across her lap and bent over her bundled firewood. Like so many strands of hair, the willow tree flowed with the wind. Other trees around her moaned, wishing they could bend like the willows. Branches snapped and blew across the creek where the great oaks danced with the thunderbolts.

  The rain washed over her like a waterfall, like the healing waterfall her grandfather had taken her to long ago. She could see it all, even now, the clear pool, the giant boulders. She could hear the roar of the falls and most of all, feel the peace.

  How long it rained, she could not know. In her mind, she was swimming beneath the waterfall. Manaha pushed up from the mud and memories with her walking stick. She put the firewood still wrapped in her skirt under her good arm, and started for the village.

  The two women huddled around the small fire in the center of the village-lodge did not look up when Manaha entered. No one objected as she walked to her old bench. It was empty and had not been used. She lay down without looking for approval. None was given.

  She had no blanket, but she was not on the wet ground and there was fire close by. She fell into an uneasy sleep and woke to a ruckus of voices.

  “The corn is gone!”

  “Thunder-winds knocked it down,” someone else shouted.

  “It is all gone.”

  Everyone rushed out. Manaha followed after she had gathered her dry firewood. People came out of every lodge and ran to the fields.

  Broken by the wind and pounded by the rain, almost all of the cornstalks lay on the ground, pointing like morning shadows to the west. Blackbirds had already discovered the tragedy. No one even tried to chase them away.

  “We cannot let birds take our food,” Manaha said.

  No one wanted to hear her.

  “Listen,” she called out, “it was not a good crop, and it is not yet ready for harvest. But what is standing will grow, and many of the green ea
rs on the ground can be saved.”

  No one responded. One by one, they turned away, leaving Manaha alone with the blackbirds and crows gathering in the surrounding trees.

  “Ah yie, ah yie, ah yie!” Manaha yelled at the birds.

  She turned and shouted at the village, “When the snow is deep, you will want for a cob of green corn.”

  She tore an ear from a crumpled stalk. The green shuck, with dry patches of brown, opened easily. Rubbing her hand over the few kernels, she mumbled, “It will take a lot of ears to make a meal.” Still, she could not let her work go for nothing.

  Pulling up one stalk at a time from the mud, she picked off every ear no matter how small. With her bad hand tucked in her skirt, she cradled as many ears as she could hold and carried them to the edge of the field. After her second trip, crows swarmed the pile as though it had been gathered for them. Manaha chased them off, but they returned before she could get back in the field. She sat down next to the pile and stared across the field. How could this happen? Did her stories bring the thunder-winds?

  “I cannot let them think that,” she said as she watched a young boy run toward her. It was the shy boy who had carried wood for her first story-fire.

  “I can help gather the corn ... if you like,” he said.

  “You have helped me before, but this time, you must give me your name.”

  “Ic ... hisi ... Ichisi,” he stammered.

  “Ichisi, I should know that,” Manaha said. “But as a woman grows older and slower, youth becomes more an object of disdain than interest.”

  “I can help,” he repeated.

  “Are you the youngest of Ta-kawa’s sons?”

  He looked down and nodded. Any boy with three older brothers had to be either a fighter or a loner. Small for his age, he did not look like a fighter.

  “Yes, Ichisi, I believe you can help,” Manaha said, “but I do not want to cause you any trouble with your father.”

  He stood for a moment before bending down and pulling an ear off one of the broken stalks. Manaha smiled when he laid his ear of corn on the pile she had started.

  “Gather what you can around here,” Manaha turned and walked back into the field, “but stay close enough to keep the birds away.”

  She carefully stepped over the bean pods and gourd vines. With the blessing of Father Sun, they would continue to grow. Harvesting was slow, hot, and messy and, in the end, disappointing. Manaha eased down next to their meager heap of corn.

  “Ichisi, could you bring us water and something to eat?”

  He returned with a gourd of water, hickory bread, and a bearskin to cover the pile and keep the birds out. After they had eaten, they gathered the few remaining good ears. Then Manaha and the boy marched off toward the village with as much green corn as they could carry.

  Several boys ran out as they approached. A few tried to help Ichisi carry his load, but he held on tightly. Manaha marched across the plaza to the raised mud hut where green corn was stored. She placed her gift near its entrance. Ichisi added his load and ran back for the rest, leading a pack of boys.

  Someone yelled, “Get Casinca to open the door.”

  Manaha began shucking the corn in the shade under the storehouse, between the four tall greased poles that held it up and kept the mice out. Others joined in, creating a stack of ears, a pile of shucks, and a basket of corn silk.

  When he arrived, Casinca climbed a short ladder and yanked open the sealed door. Manaha had earned the right to place the ears inside. She stood them on end, starting a new row along the back, behind the layer of shucks covering the very last of the winter corn. The door was resealed with a mixture of straw and mud.

  Manaha had proven her worth and her loyalty to the village, but still no one spoke to her. She walked back to the island, alone, telling herself she did not need to hear their thanks. She had her listeners, but soon she began to doubt them. As darkness crept over the island, a half-moon cast a dim light across her empty fire-circle.

  Is no one coming? She wondered.

  The answer came in a rustle of footsteps off to the left, then behind her. When they settled, she circled the fire. Dropping in her offering of lightning wood, she chanted three times, “I hear listeners about.”

  Face to the fire, she spoke out in a loud voice. “Manaha, gatherer of corn, child of Palisema will tell you a story.”

  Chapter 16: Cayas Trace

  Nanza’s Journey

  Forty-nine years after “their” arrival

  My first thought, Do not talk!

  “Nanza, get up,” he yelled again. We were five days across the mountain forest from my burned home on the Buffalo River. I had not talked to Taninto in three days and last night only to ask for a story.

  “Get up,” he said and shook me.

  I pressed my lips tightly.

  He shook harder. “Did you hear me?”

  “Today, we will cross Cayas Trace.” He glared until I nodded. “We have to be cautious. There might be others about.”

  What did he know? I thought. Last night, staring into the fire, surrounded by darkness, I fell into his story. I walked through the crowded streets of Casqui, followed a grand procession of hundreds of warriors, and witnessed strange men on stranger beasts. With the light of morning, I saw only one old man surrounded by the damp, overgrown mound he had chosen for a campsite.

  “Time to go,” he insisted.

  I stooped to drink from the stream.

  “Wait,” he said, “there is better water close by.”

  I took a drink anyway. He started across the field to a massive red oak growing at the edge of the steep hillside.

  “Oak Springs,” he announced when I walked up.

  The spring flowed around and through boulders and a tangle of exposed roots, trickling down into a pool formed from smooth flat river rocks. I took a drink and a second while Taninto filled the water-skins.

  We walked through the morning without another word. Glimpses of a valley appeared and disappeared off to the left.

  “Valley of White Oaks,” he said as we approached the rim.

  Larger than Taninto’s valley, but this was not a great valley of nine rivers. Distant ridges rose up as high on the other side.

  He pointed down. “Can you see the creek?”

  I stepped forward.

  He jerked me back. “Not too far, someone might see you.”

  I pulled away.

  “You can see from here, if you just look.” He waited. “Can you see it?”

  I shook my head.

  “Cayas Trace runs this side of the creek and follows it until it flows into the Little Red River. The trail turns south, down to the land of the Cayas people and the Akamsa River.”

  Through the bare tops of countless white oaks, I could see flashes of sunlight reflecting off the water. I saw nothing of a trace.

  “It is a path traveled by beast and man since ancient times,” he said. “We must cross the trace, the creek,” he pointed across the valley, “and climb that mountain without stopping.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Stay here until I find a way down.” He walked off to the north, still talking. “Eat some jerky and be ready to climb.”

  I nodded and watched him leave before venturing farther out on the black slate covering the ledge. I could see the mountain curved off to the right and back in a face of sheer rock. A chunk of slate snapped under my feet, pieces slid over the edge and tumbled down into the forest.

  I glanced around, hoping he had not heard. Looking out over the valley reminded me of standing on the edge of Narras Mountain. Will I ever feel at home again?

  Thump, thump, thump. Taninto stood behind me, pounding the slate with his walking stick. “Come away from there,” he demanded.

  He led me to a dry wash that ran between two bluffs. We zigzagged from one side to the other down the steep gully. The farther we went, the lower Taninto crouched. When we reached the bottom, the old man was hunched and skittish.


  The trace lay only a few steps away. Beyond that, I could see the far bank of the creek. He threw his arm in front of me. I waited as he crept out into the opening. He motioned me forward.

  “Follow me,” he whispered, then bolted across the trace and kept running.

  I strolled onto the old trail. It was like a shallow streambed that had never seen water. Wide enough for ten men to walk abreast, it was not dug or cut, but pounded into the earth. Nothing grew there, but it vibrated with the spirits of all who had passed. By the time I started up the other side, his panic had taken hold of me.

  I ran for the creek and started down at the first place I came to. Taninto stepped from behind a thicket, grabbed my arm, and turned me upstream.

  “The bank is too steep and muddy there,” he mumbled.

  At the bottom, we took off our moccasins and waded in. The knee-deep water ran strong and cold over solid bedrock. Across first, I easily climbed the other side, and waited at the top with a smirk.

  He said nothing, put on his moccasins, and started running again. Almost no brush grew under the spread of the white oaks that filled the valley floor. His pace slowed as the land sloped up toward the far hilltops. I stopped to look back over the valley.

  He rapped his stick against the ground and waved his arm.

  “What are you afraid of?” I blurted out.

  He ran back to me. I ran at him.

  “Is this the place where my family was murdered?”

  “Not here. This is not the place for talk,” he growled through clenched teeth.

  I did not care. I had broken my commitment. I had spoken, and now I wanted an answer. “Is that why you are so frightened? Did they torture my mother and my father here?”

  “No!” He took a deep breath and whispered, “You are just a child, Nanza. You know nothing, nothing of this world.”

  “I am not a child. I am a woman, a woman returning to my people,” I boasted in full voice.

  “If you are so, be a woman of good sense. Speak in a whisper.”