A Navajo HoganA Navajo Hogan
The Heart of the Tyuonyi: The excavated lower story of the great terraced Communal HouseThe Heart of the Tyuonyi: The excavated lower story of the great terraced Communal House
Shyuote left in haste; he felt very much like crying. Hayoue said to his brother,—
"Didn't I tell you that Shyuote was lazy? Okoya is far, far more useful."
"Let me alone about Okoya," growled Zashue; and both went on with the work as before.
Shyuote stumbled across the patches of corn, rather than walked through them. He felt sad, dejected, and very wrathful. All the buoyancy with which his victory over the girls had inspired him was gone. Since that heroic feat nothing but ill-luck had crossed his path. He was angry at his father for scolding him and driving him home, in the presence of Hayoue, for whom the boy had as great a dislike as his uncle had for him. Why, it was worse than the threats and cuffs of the old Naua! It was not only an injustice, it was an insult! So the lad reasoned, and began to brood over vengeance. He was going to show his father that he, the ten-year-old boy, was not to be trifled with. Yes, he would show his teeth by refusing to become a Koshare. Would not that be a glorious revenge! The little fellow did not know that he was pledged to the Delight Makers by a sacred vow of his parent which it was not in his power to break. After a while his thoughts changed, and he concluded that it might be better to say nothing and to go home and ask for something to eat. But never, never again would he favour his father with a friendly call in the corn-patch. This latter resolve appeared to him so satisfactory, the revenge so ample for the injury received, that he forgot the past and fairly danced through the fields, hopping sometimes on one foot and sometimes on the other. He crossed the brook and reached the large house almost to his own surprise.
It was noon, and the full blaze of the sun flooded the valley with light. Not a breeze fanned the air, nothingstirred. No vibrations troubled the picture which the cliffs, the caves, the buildings, presented in the dazzling glare. The cliffs had lost their yellowish hue and appeared white, with every protuberance, every indentation, or cavity, marked by intense shadows. The houses inhabited by the Eagle clan along the foot of the rocks were like a row of irregularly piled cubes and prisms; each beam leaning against them cast a jet-black streak of shadow on the ground. Below the projecting beams of the roofs a short black line descended along the wall, and the towering rocks jutted in and out from dark recesses like monsters. So strong were the contrasts between shadow and light that even Shyuote was struck by it. He stood still and stared.
Something indefinite, a vague feeling of awe, crept over him. For the real grandeur of the scenery he had no sense of appreciation, and yet it seemed to him as if everything about were new and strange. Thousands of times had he gazed at the cliffs of his valley home, but never had they appeared to him as they did now. So strong was this impression, and so sudden, too, that he shrank from the sight in amazement; then he turned his eyes away and walked rapidly toward home. He was afraid to look at the colossal pillars and walls; they appeared to him like giants threatening to move. All his plans for revenge, every thought of wrath and indignation, had vanished.
Suddenly his left knee was struck by a stone hurled with such force that Shyuote bounded and screamed. At the same time six or seven boys, some apparently of his age while others were taller and older, rushed from the bushes skirting the ditch. Two of them ran directly in front of him. They were armed with sticks and short clubs, and the largest, who seemed to be of the same age as Okoya, shouted,—
"You have injured Sayap, and caused her blood to flow. You rotten squash, you shall suffer for it."
Shyuote took in the situation at a glance. He saw that only desperate running would save him from being roughly handled. He darted off like an arrow toward the cave-dwellings in front of him. Unfortunately these were the quarters of the Corn people who had not yet moved into their new homes. To them belonged Sayap and the boys that were assailing Shyuote; and as the fugitive approached the slope, he saw it occupied by other youth ready and eager to give him a warm reception. At the same time the tallest of his pursuers was gaining on him rapidly; rocks flew past his head; a stone struck him between the ribs, stopping his breath almost. In despair he turned to the left, and making a last effort flew towards the houses of the Eagle clan. Panting, blinded by exertion and by pain, he reached one of the beams leading to a roof, rushed upward along it, and was about to take refuge in the room below, when a young girl came up the primitive ladder down which he had intended to precipitate himself. Issuing from the hatchway she quietly pushed the lad to one side; then, as in that moment one of his pursuers appeared on the roof, she stepped between him and Shyuote.
"Get out of the way, Mitsha! Let me get at the wren!" cried the youth who had just climbed the roof. Shyuote fled to the very wall of the rock; he gave up all hope and thought himself lost. But the girl quietly asked,—
"What do you want with the boy?"
"He has hurt Sayap, our sister," the tall youngster answered. "He threw a stone at her and caused her to bleed. Now I am going to pay him for it."
"So will I!" shouted another one from below.
"I too!" "And I!" "He shall get it from all ofus!" yelled a number of youthful voices, and in an instant the roof was crowded with boys.
Mitsha had placed herself so as to shield the trembling lad with her own body. Very quietly she said,—
"Don't you see that he also is bleeding? Let him go now, it is enough." A stone had indeed grazed Shyuote's scalp, and blood was trickling down his cheek.
"It is not enough!" shouted one of the older boys, angrily. "Get out of the way, Mitsha!"
"You shall not hurt him on this roof," replied Mitsha, in a calm but very positive tone.
"Do you intend to protect him?" cried the tallest one of the pursuers, and another one exclaimed,—
"How does it concern you? You have nothing to do here." All turned against the girl. A little fellow, who carried several large pebbles in his hand for the occasion, endeavoured to steal a march around Mitsha in order to reach Shyuote; but she noticed it, and grasped his arm and pulled him back so vigourously that he reeled and fell at full length on the roof. Then she ordered them all to leave forthwith.
"You belong to the Corn clan," she said, "and have nothing to do here on the houses of the Eagle clan. Go down! Get away at once or I will call our men. As long as I am here you shall not touch the uak."
"So you take his part?" cried the biggest one of the invaders. He raised a stick to strike her.
"Lay down your club, you dirty ear of corn," replied the maiden, "or you will fare badly." With this she drew from under her wrap a heavy war-club; it was the same weapon which Tyope had used the night previous.
The boy's arm remained uplifted, but still the attitude of the girl, her threatening look and resolute appearance, checked the assailants. Mitsha stood with apparent composure,but her eyes sparkled and the expression of her face denoted the utmost determination. Besides she was fully as tall as most of her opponents, and the weapon she was holding in readiness looked quite formidable. But the superior number of her assailants exercised a certain pressure on these assailants themselves, and the Indian under such circumstances has no thought of chivalrous feeling. A dozen boys stood before the solitary maiden on the roof, and they were not to be intimidated by her. For an instant only neither said a word; then a threatening murmur arose. One of the lads called out to the tallest of the crowd,—
"Strike her down, Shohona!"
A stone was thrown at her but missed its aim. At this moment the boys nearest the brink of the roof were suddenly thrust aside right and left, the one who had threatened Mitsha with his stick was pulled back and jerked to one side violently, and before the astonished girl stood Okoya. Pale with emotion, breathless, with heaving chest, and quivering from excitement, he gasped to her,—
"Go down into the room; I will protect my brother." Then he turned to face the assailants.
The scene on the roof had attracted a large number of spectators, who had gathered below and were exchanging surmises and advice on the merits of a case about which none of them really knew anything. Now a woman's voice rose from amid this gaping and chattering crowd,—the sharp and screechy voice of an angry woman. She shouted to those who were on the roof,—
"Get down from my house! Get down, you scoundrels! If you want to kill each other do it elsewhere, and not on my home!" With this the woman climbed on to the roof. She seized the boy nearest to her by the hair and pulled him fairly to the ground, so that the poor fellowhowled from pain. With the other hand she dealt blows and cuffs, and scratched and punched indiscriminately among the youngsters, so that a sudden panic broke out among these would-be heroes. Each sought to get out of her reach with the greatest alacrity. She at last released her hold on the first victim and reached out for another; but the last of the young Corn people was just tumbling down from the roof, and her clutch at his leg came too late. In an instant the roof was cleared. The young braves from the Maize clan were ungraciously received below. A number of their parents had assembled, and when the woman began to expostulate, they looked at the matter from her point of view. They saw that it was an infringement, a trespass, upon the territory and rights of another clan, and treated their pugnacious sons to another instalment of bodily punishment as fast as they came tumbling from above. The final result for the incipient warriors of the Corn people was that they were ignominiously driven home.
While peace was thus restored upon the ground it still looked quite stormy on the roof. The woman who had so energetically interfered at last discovered Okoya, who was looking in blank amazement at this sudden change of affairs. Forthwith she made a vicious grab at his ebony locks, with the pointed remark,—
"Down with you, you stinking weed!"
But Mitsha interfered.
"Mother," she said gently, "do not harm him. He was defending his brother and me. He is none of the others."
"What!" the woman screamed, "was it you whom they were about to strike, these night-owls made of black corn? You, my child? Let me tell them again what they are," and she ran to the brink of the roof, raised handfuls of dust from it, and hurled them in the direction of the caves of theoffenders. She stamped, she spat; she raved, and heaped upon the heads of the Corn people, their ancestors, and their descendants, every invective the Queres language contains. To those below this appeared decidedly entertaining; the men especially enjoyed the performance, but Mitsha felt sorry,—she disliked to see her mother display such frenzy and to hear her use such vulgar language. She pulled her wrap, saying,—
"It is enough now, sanaya. Don't you see that those who wanted to hurt me are gone? Their fathers and mothers are not guilty. Be quiet, mother; it is all over now."
Her mother at last yielded to these gentle remonstrances, turned away from the brink, and surveyed the roof. She saw Okoya standing before weeping Shyuote, and scolding him.
"What are you doing to this child?" asked Mitsha's mother, still under the pressure of her former excitement. She was ready for another fray.
"He is my brother, and the cause of the whole trouble," Okoya explained to her. "I chide him for it, as it is my duty to do. Nevertheless, they had no right to kill him, still less to hurt the girl."
The woman had at last had time to scrutinize the looks of the young man. She herself was not old, and when not under the influence of passion was rather comely. Okoya's handsome figure attracted her attention, and she stepped nearer, eyeing him closely.
"Where do you belong?" she inquired in a quieter tone.
"I am Tanyi."
"Who is your father?"
"Zashue Tihua."
The woman smiled; she moved still nearer to the young man and continued,—
"I know your father well. He is one of us, a Koshare." Her eyes remained fastened on his features; she was manifestly more and more pleased with his appearance. But at the same time she occasionally glanced toward her daughter Mitsha, and it struck her forcibly that Mitsha, too, was handsome.
"I know who you are," she said smilingly. "You are Okoya Tihua, your little brother is called Shyuote, and Say Koitza is your mother's name. She is a good woman, but"—and she shrugged her shoulders—"always sick. Have you any cotton?" she suddenly asked, looking squarely into the eyes of the boy.
"No," he replied, and his features coloured visibly, "but I have some handsome skins."
Mitsha too seemed embarrassed; she started to go into the room below, but her mother called her back.
"Sa uishe," she coaxed, "won't you give the motātza something to eat?"
The faces of both young people became fiery red. He stood like a statue, and yet his chest heaved. He cast his eyes to the ground. Mitsha had turned her face away; her whole body was trembling like a leaf. Her mother persisted.
"Take him down into the room and feed him," she repeated, and smiled.
"I have nothing," murmured Mitsha.
"If such is the case I shall go and see myself." With these words the woman descended the beam into the room below, leaving the two alone on the roof, standing motionless, neither daring to look at the other.
While the colloquy between Okoya and Mitsha's mother was going on, Shyuote had recovered somewhat from his fright and grief and had sneaked off. Once on the ground he walked—still trembling and suspiciously scanning the cliffwherein the Corn people had their abodes—as straight as possible toward the big house. Nobody interfered with him; not even his two defenders noticed that he had gone; they both remained standing silent, with hearts beating anxiously.
"Okoya," the woman called from below, "come and eat. Mitsha, come down and give sa uishe something to eat."
A thrill went through Okoya's whole frame. She had called himsa uishe,—"my child." He ventured to cast a furtive glance at the maiden. Mitsha had recovered her self-control; she returned his shy glance with an open, free, but sweet look, and said,—
"Come and partake of the food." There was no resisting an invitation from her. He smiled; she returned the smile in a timid way, as shy and embarrassed as his own.
She descended first and Okoya followed. On the floor of the room, the same chamber where Tyope had taken rest the night before, stood the usual meal; and Okoya partook of it modestly, said his prayer of thanks, and uttered a plain, sincere hoya at the end. But instead of rising, as he would have done at home, he remained squatting, glancing at the two women.
While he ate, the mother watched him eagerly; her cunning eyes moved from his face toward that of her daughter like sparks; and gradually an expression of satisfaction mingled with that of a settled resolve appeared on her features. There was no doubt that the two would be a handsome pair. They seemed, as the vulgar saying goes, made for each other; and there was something besides that told that they were fond of each other also. Okoya had never before entered this dwelling; but the woman thought that they had met before, nay, that her desire had been anticipated, inasmuch as the young people already stood to each other, if not in an intimate, in a more than merely friendly, relation.
"Why do you never come to see us?" asked the woman, after Okoya had finished his meal.
"I stay at the estufa during the night," was the modest reply.
"You need have no fear," she answered pleasantly, "Tyope and your father are good friends. You should become a Koshare!" she exclaimed.
Okoya's face clouded; he did not like the suggestion, but nevertheless asked,—
"Is she," looking at Mitsha, "a Koshare also?"
"No. We had another child, a boy. He was to have become a Delight Maker, but he died some time ago." The woman had it on her lips to say, "Do you become one in his place as our child," but she checked herself in time; it would have been too bold a proposal.
Okoya glanced at the daughter and said timidly,—
"If you like, I shall come again to see you;" and Mitsha's face displayed a happy smile at the words, while her mother eagerly nodded.
"Come as often as you can," she replied. "We"—emphasizing the word strongly—"like it. It is well."
"Then I will go now," said Okoya, rising. His face was radiant. "I must go home lest Shyuote get into more trouble. He is so mischievous and awkward. Good-bye." He grasped the woman's hand and breathed on it; gave a smiling look to the girl, who nodded at him with a happy face; and returned to the roof again. Thence he climbed down to the ground. How happy he felt! The sun seemed to shine twice as brightly as before; the air felt purer; all around him breathed life, hope, and bliss. At the foot of the slope he turned back once more to gaze at the house where so much joy had come to him. A pair of lustrous eyes appeared in the little air-hole of the wall. They were those of the maiden, which were following him on his homeward way.
Tyope's wife was right in supposing that her daughter and Okoya were not strangers to each other. And yet not a single word had passed between them before beyond a casual greeting. As often as they had met he had said "guatzena," and she had responded with "raua." But at every meeting his voice was softer, and hers more timid and trembling. Each felt happy at the sight of the other, but neither thought of speaking, still less of making any advances. Okoya was aware of the fact—which he felt deeply and keenly—that a wide breach, a seemingly impassable chasm, existed between him and the girl. That gap was the relation in which he stood toward Tyope, the girl's father. Or rather the relation in which he fancied himself to stand toward him. For Tyope had hardly ever spoken to him, still less done him any wrong. But Okoya's mother had spoken of Tyope as a bad man, as a dangerous man, as one whom it was Okoya's duty to avoid. And so her son feared Tyope, and dared not think of the bad man's daughter as his future companion through life. Now everything was changed.
Mitsha's mother had said that Tyope was a friend of his father, and that Tyope would not be angry if Okoya came to her house. Then he was not, after all, the fiend that Say Koitza had pictured him. On the contrary he appeared to Okoya, since the last interview, in the light of an important personage. Okoya's faith in his mother was shaken before; now he began to think that Tyope after all, while he was certainly to him an important man, was not as bad as represented. The Koshare also appeared to him in a new and more favourable light. The adroit suggestion made by the woman that he should join the society bore its fruits. Okoya felt not only relieved but happy; he felt elated over his success. He was well trained in the religious discipline of the Indians; and now that he saw hopebefore him, his next thought was one of gratitude toward that mother of all who, though dwelling at the bottom of the lagune of Shipapu at times, and then again in the silvery moon, was still watching over the destinies of her children on earth, and to whose loving guidance he felt his bright prospects due.
He had no prayer-plumes with him. These painted sticks—to which feathers or down of various birds, according to the nature of the prayer they are to signify, are attached—the aborigine deposits wherever and whenever he feels like addressing himself to the higher powers, be it for a request, in adoration only, or for thanksgiving. In a certain way the prayer-plume or plume-stick is a substitute for prayer, inasmuch as he who has not time may deposit it hurriedly as a votive offering. The paint which covers the piece of stick to which the feather is attached becomes appropriately significant through its colours, the feather itself is the symbol of human thought, flitting as one set adrift in the air toward heaven, where dwell Those Above. But as in the present instance, the Indian has not always a prayer-plume with him. So he has recourse to an expedient, simple and primitive.
Two little sticks or twigs, placed crosswise and held to their place by a rock or stone, serve the same purpose in case of emergency. Such accumulations of rocks, little stone-heaps, are plentiful around Indian villages; and they represent votive offerings, symbolizing as many prayers. There were a number of them at the Rito around the big house, along the fields, and on the trails leading up to the mesa. Okoya went to the nearest one and placed two twigs crosswise on it, poising them with a stone. Then he scattered sacred meal, which he always carried with him in a small leather wallet, and thanked the Sanashtyaya, our mother, with an earnest ho-a-a, ho-a-a.
Then he turned homeward. The very thought of that home, however, made his heart heavy and sad. For more and more he became convinced that his mother was false to him. The assertion made by Tyope's wife that he was welcome in her house, and that Tyope would not object to his visiting there, worked another breach in the faith he was wont to place in his mother's words. Not that the invitation to join the Koshare had exercised any influence upon his opinion regarding that society of men and women. He mistrusted, he hated, he feared them as much as ever, but toward Tyope personally he felt differently. His thoughts were carried back to the gloomy subject; one by one his doubts and misgivings returned with them, and a longing after some friend to whom he might communicate his fears and whom he might consult with absolute confidence. As he was thus pondering and walking on, slowly and more slowly, he saw at some distance two men climbing up toward where the cave-dwellings of the Water clan lay. One of them was his father; he recognized him at once. Who was his companion? He stopped and looked. It was his father's brother, Hayoue; and with this it seemed as if a veil had suddenly dropped from his eyes. The tall, slender young man yonder, who was advancing up the declivity at such an easy gait, was the friend upon whom he could fully rely, the adviser who would not, at least purposely, lead him astray. Hayoue was but a few years older than Okoya. The relations between the two were those of two brothers and chums, rather than those of uncle and nephew. Hayoue was not a member of his clan, consequently not exposed to any influence which his mother, through her father, Topanashka, might attempt to exert. Hayoue, he knew, disliked the Koshare as much as he disliked them himself, and Hayoue was thoroughly trustworthy and discreet, though very outspoken if necessary,and fearless. Yes, Hayoue was the friend in need he so anxiously desired to find, and now that he had found him he resolved to seize upon the first opportunity of consulting him on the subject that so seriously troubled his mind. He was so delighted at this sudden discovery, as it might be called, that he attributed it to an inspiration from above, and stood for a moment in doubt whether he should not return to the stone-heap and offer another prayer of thanks to the mother above, for what he considered to have been a gift of her goodness to him. But the house was too near, and he bethought himself of Shyuote and what the mischievous urchin might have done since he had left him. He entered the front room of his mother's dwelling with a lighter and easier mind than the day before, and what he saw at once diverted his thoughts into another widely different channel.
Shyuote sat in a corner, and his eyes were red from crying. Beside him stood Say, agitated and angry. Without giving her elder son time to speak, she asked,—
"Who sent the boy to the fields?"
"I don't know," replied Okoya, in astonishment. He knew nothing of Shyuote's morning rambles. "He must know; how could I tell?"
"He says that they drove him from the corn because he threw mud at a girl," added the mother.
"That is quite likely," rejoined his elder brother. "That is why the lads of the Corn clan intended to beat him, I presume."
"Why did you not stay with your father?" cried Say.
"Because,"—he held his arm up to his eyes and commenced to sob,—"because my father drove me off."
"Why did he drive you away?"
"Because—" He stopped, then raised his head as if a sudden and wicked thought had flashed across his mind.
His eyes sparkled. "I dare not tell." He cast his eyes to the ground, and a bitter smile passed over his lips.
"Why dare you not tell?" both Say and Okoya inquired. "Has sa nashtio told you not to say anything about it?"
"Not he, but the Koshare Naua." It was like an explosion. Say Koitza felt a terrible pang; she stared vacantly at the wicked lad for a moment, and then turned and went into the kitchen. Shyuote wept aloud; his brother looked down upon him with an expression of mingled compassion and curiosity.
The doorway was suddenly darkened by a human form, and with the usualguatzenathe grandfather, Topanashka, entered the apartment. Okoya stood up quickly and replied,—
"Raua opona."
"What is the boy crying for?" inquired the old man.
"The Corn people tried to hurt him because he threw something at one of their girls," Okoya explained.
"Is that all? I heard scolding and crying going on here, and so I thought I would come and see what was the matter. Where is your yaya?"
Say, when she heard her father's voice, came out and leaned against the entrance to the kitchen. Her face was convulsed, her eyes glassy. Topanashka scanned her features quietly and then said in a cold tone,—
"Guatzena."
She understood the meaning of his cold, searching gaze, and gathered all her strength to meet it with composure.
"Shyuote cries also," she said, "because his father sent him home from the fields."
"Why did Zashue do that?"
"This he dare not tell, for the Koshare Naua"—her voice trembled at the mention of the name—"forbadehim to say anything about it." Her eyes clung to the features of her father. Topanashka turned away slowly and quietly, and she followed him to the door. As he was crossing the threshold he whispered to her,—
"There is nothing new as yet."
The people of the Water clan dwelt at the western end of the cliffs which border the Tyuonyi on the north. They occupied some twenty caves scooped out along the base of the rock, and an upper tier of a dozen more, separated from the lower by a thickness of rock averaging not over three feet. This group of cave-dwellings—and vestiges thereof are still visible at this day—lay in a re-entering angle formed by the cliffs, which overhang in such a manner as to form a sheltered nook open to the south. Ascent to their base is quite steep, and great heaps of débris cover the slope. The gorge is narrow, a dense thicket interspersed with pine-trees lines the course of the brook, and the declivity forming the southern border of the Rito approaches the bottom in rocky steps, traversed laterally by ledges overgrown with scrubby vegetation.
Vestiges of former occupancy are still scattered about the caves. Some of these furnish a clew to the manner in which the dwellings were formed by scraping and burrowing. Splinters of obsidian and of basalt—sharp fragments, resembling clumsy chisels or knives—served to dig an oblong hole in the soft pumice or tufa of the cliff. After this narrow cavity had penetrated a depth of one or two feet, the artisan began to enlarge it inside, until a room was formed for which the tunnelled entrance served as a doorway. The room, or cell, was gradually finished in a quadrangular or polygonal shape, with a ceiling high enough topermit a person of average size to stand erect. Not unfrequently side rooms were excavated connecting with the first by low apertures, to pass through which it was necessary to stoop, or even to creep on all fours. These passages were too low for doorways, too short to deserve the name of tunnels. Into the front apartment light and air were admitted through the entrance, and sometimes through small window-like apertures. The side cells were utterly dark except where excavated parallel to the face of the rock, when sometimes another entrance was opened to the front, sometimes an air-hole only admitted light and air.
If on the afternoon of the day when Shyuote had his perilous adventure with the young people of the Corn clan, we had been able to peep into the third one of the ground-floor caves, counting from the west end of the group inhabited by the Water people, we should have found the apartment empty; that is, as far as human occupancy was concerned. But not deserted; for while its owner was not there, ample signs of his presence only a short time before could be detected everywhere. In the fireplace wood was smouldering, and a faint smoke rising from this found egress through a crude chimney. This was built over the hearth, with two vertical side slabs of pumice supporting a perforated square flag, over which a primitive flue, made of rubble cemented by mud, led to a circular opening in the front wall of the cave. In a corner stood the frame for the grinding-slabs, ormetates, and in it the three plates of lava on which the Indian crushes and pulverizes his maize were placed in the convenient slanting position. Not only the prismatic crushing-pins, but freshly ground meal also, lay in the stone casings of the primitive mill, and on these the plates themselves. Deerskins and cotton wraps were rolled in a bundle in another corner. Others hung on a line made of rawhide and stretched across one end of the room, fastenedto wooden pins driven into the soft rock. On the floor—to which a thick coating of mud, washed with blood and smoothed, gave a black, glossy appearance—there were beside, here a few stone axes with handles, there some black sooty pots, painted bowls, and finally the inevitable water-urn with wide body and narrow top, decorated in the usual style with geometrical and symbolical figures painted in red and black on whitish ground. The walls of the cave were burnished with burnt gypsum; the ceiling was covered by a thick coat of soot; and a band of yellow ochre, like wainscoting, ran along the base of the sides.
The owner of this troglodytic home, however, is not to be seen; but in a side chamber, which communicates with this apartment through one of the dark and low passages just described, a rustling sound is heard, as of some one rummaging about in darkness. After a while a woman's head peeps through the passage into the outer room, and little by little the whole body emerges, forcing itself through the narrow opening. She rises and stands erect in front of the hearth, and the sunbeam which still enters the apartment by the round hole above the fireplace strikes her features full and enables us to scan them. The woman into whose dwelling we have pryed, and who stands now in the dim chamber as sole occupant and owner, is Shotaye, Tyope's former wife, and the friend who has given Say Koitza such ill advice.
If Shotaye be a witch, she certainly is far from displaying the hag-like appearance often attributed to the female sorcerer. There is even something decidedly fascinating about her. Shotaye, although near the forties, is for an Indian woman undoubtedly good-looking. No wonder some other women of the tribe are afraid of her. She is tall and well rounded, and her chest is of that fulnesss that develops at an early age in the women of the Pueblos.Her face is even pretty,—her lips are pouting and sensual, the nose small and shaped like a short, pointed beak, the cheek-bones high, while the chin indicates remarkable determination. Magnificent black hair streams down her back. It is as full as a wave, as lustrous as polished obsidian.
Her dress consists of a buckskin wrap without girdle, embroidered at the lower end with multi-coloured porcupine-quills. Bracelets of white shells, a necklace of feldspar crystals and turquoises, and strings of yellow cotton threads around her ankles complete the costume. Such is the woman who has played and still plays an ominous part in the history of Okoya's mother, and in the history of the people at the Rito de los Frijoles. Now that we have seen her home and her person, let us proceed with the tale of her doings on the afternoon to which the close of the preceding chapter has been devoted.
Shotaye had been rummaging about in the inner cell of her rocky house in search of some medicinal plant, for that cell was her storeroom, laboratory, and workshop. But as the room was without light at all, she had entered it with a lighted stick in her hand; and just as she had begun her search the flame had died out. So after a vain attempt by groping in darkness, she crawled back to the exterior apartment and knelt down in front of the hearth to fan the coals with her breath and thus obtain another torch for her explorations. At that moment the deerskin robe closing the entrance to her grotto was timidly lifted, and a feeble voice called the usual greeting. "Opona," replied Shotaye, turning toward the doorway. A lithe figure crept into the cave. When near the fireplace it stood still, enabling the mistress of the dwelling to recognize the features of Say, her friend and now fully recovered patient.
But how different was Say's appearance from what itwas when Shotaye a few days ago saw her last? How changed,—how thin and wan her cheeks, how sunken her eyes, how sallow and sickly her complexion! Her face seemed to bear the seal of approaching death, for the eyes stared expressionless, the mouth twitched without speaking. But one thought seized Shotaye, that her friend must be ill, very, very ill,—that the old disease had returned in full force and had clutched her anew with perhaps irresistible power. Anxiously she rose to her feet, and scanned the face of the invalid.
"What ails you, my sister," she inquired tenderly. "Has disease come on you again? Speak, sa uishe, speak to me that I may know."
Her visitor only shook her head and glanced about as if seeking a place to rest herself. The medicine-woman gathered hurriedly a few robes, folded them so as to make a cushion near the hearth, and then gently urged Say to sit down on this soft and easy seat. She yielded, and then remained motionless, her glassy eyes staring vacantly at the floor.
"Sister," Shotaye reiterated, "sister, what ails you? Speak, and I will do all I can for you." But the other merely shook her head and began to shiver. Shotaye noticed the wristbands of red leather on her arms, and it startled her. She asked eagerly,—
"Why do you wear in trouble the colour that should make our hearts glad? What has happened to you that causes you to seek relief for your distress?" The tone of her voice sounded no longer like entreaty; it was an anxious, nay stern, command. Okoya's mother raised her eyes with an expression of intense misery; she threw toward her questioner a look imploring relief and protection, and finally gasped,—
"They know everything!" Then her head dropped onher knees, she grasped her hair, covered her face and chest with it, and broke out in convulsive sobs.
"They know everything!" Shotaye repeated, "Who know everything?" Suddenly the truth seemed to flash upon her mind.
"What, the Koshare?" she cried in terror.
Convulsive sobs and groans were the only reply to her exclamation. They amply confirmed her worst apprehensions. "The Koshare know all." Unconsciously the cave-dweller uttered these words while staring into the remnant of gleaming coals on the hearth; then she became silent. Neither could Say Koitza utter a word; only from time to time her spasmodic sobs broke the stillness of the room. The bright disk which the light from the outside painted on the wall opposite was fading little by little, a sign of approaching sunset.
Shotaye's features displayed few signs of the terror which her friend's disclosures had produced. Soon her face betokened that fear could not retain its hold long on her resolute mind, that intense reflection had superseded dismay. She turned to her visitor and asked,—
"Tell me, sister, how you came to know that the Delight Makers are acquainted with your doings? Tell me, and do not weep." And as Say remained silent and immovable she crouched beside her, removed her hair gently from her face, then raised her head and placed it so as to rest on her bosom. Then she looked deep into the eyes of the poor woman. They were glassy and almost lifeless. While thus gazing intently at Say, Shotaye's features changed and became sad and dejected.
It was for a moment only. Soon the expression of hopelessness vanished and the lines of her face became resolute, hard, and determined. Surprise had yielded to reflection, reflection to pity and remorse. Now remorse in turn gaveway to determination. Shotaye felt that she, much rather than her friend, was lost, irretrievably lost; but her energetic nature demanded that she should see the situation clearly. Although the spasmodic hints of Say, her broken words, spoke enough, she wanted more. Her mind craved the full truth, however terrible it might prove.
Say Koitza had slowly recovered from her stupor. She became quieter and quieter. In the arms of her resolute and sympathizing friend consciousness returned; she sobbed no more, and from time to time would raise her eyes with a look that besought pity, mercy, and assistance. The medicine-woman eagerly watched these changes and repeated her previous query.
"How do you know that the Koshare are aware of it?"
"Sa nashtio told me," moaned the poor woman.
Shotaye sighed. This was bad news indeed. She muttered,—
"This is bad, very bad. If the maseua knows it, then the tapop will not be long without notice."
"The tapop knows nothing," breathed Say.
"But how can the maseua have been informed without the knowledge of the other?" Shotaye asked with surprise.
"He is my father," replied Say, and wept aloud. "He is my father, and yet"—she started to rise and grasped her hair with both hands, screaming—"he has to kill me with his own hands!"
So loud and piercing was her shriek that Shotaye was seized with sudden fright. Rising quickly, she ran to the doorway and peeped outside to see if the scream had attracted attention. But there appeared to be nobody about, except a few children who were playing and romping in front of the caves and whose cries had drowned the shriek. Reassured she returned to Say, who was lying with her faceon the floor, tearing her hair and uttering low convulsive groans. Shotaye grew frightened, and brought water in a gourd. She moistened her forehead and hands with the liquid, rubbed her face, and thus finally brought her back to some composure. After drinking some water Say sat on the robes again, shivering and gasping. Her mind seemed entirely gone, the expression of her features was akin to idiocy. The room had grown darker, night was approaching.
As soon as she appeared to be quiet, Shotaye felt tempted to resume her questionings. But she bethought herself of the late hour, and of the suspicion which might arise in case Say Koitza should not be home in time. Still, she must ask some questions; her positive mind required some additional knowledge which must be gained ere she could afford to let her visitor return home. Shotaye returned to the entrance, looked stealthily outside, and listened. Dusk had set in, and the bottom of the gorge was wrapped in twilight. The shrubbery along the brook appeared dim and pale, the lofty pines looked like black monuments. On the southern declivity all detail had vanished, but the top of the southern mesa glistened yet like a golden seam. In the recess formed by the angle of the cliffs which contained her home, the usual bustle of the evening hours prevailed; and laughter, merry and boisterous, issued from a cave opposite that where Shotaye, concealed by folds of the half-lifted curtain, stood watching with eye and ear. In those caves fronting hers dwelt the family of Zashue, Say's husband. Thence sounded the merriment, and the woman recognized familiar voices. Surely enough Hayoue was there; and there could be no mistake, that clear good-natured laugh was from Zashue himself. Shotaye dropped the curtain and turned back considerably relieved. If Zashue was at his mother's and brother'shome, she reasoned, he would not return to the big house that night; and since he was so gay, so merry, it was not likely that he knew anything of the terrible accusation against his wife and her. If that were the case there was no immediate danger, since all the Koshare were not informed of the matter. Returning to the hearth she poked the embers, placed on them another stick of pitchy wood, and fanned it with her breath until the flames burst forth, lively and bright. Until then Say had remained motionless in her seat. She had taken no notice of her friend's movements; but when the wood flamed and a warm glow began to spread over the apartment, she started like one whose dreams are suddenly disturbed and began to speak.
"I must go," she exclaimed anxiously. "I must go home. I must cook for Zashue! He is looking for me! I must go," and she attempted to rise.
Shotaye tried to quell her sudden apprehension, but she kept on with growing excitement,—
"I must! Let me go! Let me go! For he is looking for me."
"He is not," assured the other. "Be quiet. He is yonder with his people in the cave. There he sits and there he will stay till late."
A sudden tremor seized the body of Say. Her hands shook like aspen leaves. "Is he there?" she gasped. "Then he is coming after me. Is he not a Koshare?" Her eyes glistened with that peculiar glare which betokens aberration of the mind.
Any ordinary Indian woman would have concluded from the appearance and utterances of Say that she was hopelessly insane, and would either have resorted to incantations or left her in terror. Shotaye, although very much frightened, did not think of desertion, but only of relief.With keen self-possession she said in a decided and convincing tone,—
"Fear nothing, sa tao; he will not come, for he knows nothing."
"Nothing?" inquired Say, looking at her with the shy and sly glance of a doubting maniac.
"Nothing at all!" Shotaye exclaimed, firmly. She had recovered her ascendency. She directed her glance, commanding and convincing, straight at the wavering gaze of the excited woman, whose look became dim and finally meek. Shotaye took advantage of the change.
"Zashue knows nothing at all," she asserted, "and that is very, very good; for it gives us hope."
"But if they tell him!" and the anxious look came back to her face.
"Let them tell, if they choose," defiantly exclaimed the other; "afterward we shall see."
Say shook her head in doubt.
"But how did the Koshare come to know about it?" Shotaye again pressed the main question.
"I do not know," sighed Say; and she again stared into the fire, and her face quivered suspiciously. The cave-dweller quickly interjected,—
"What do the Delight Makers really know about us?"
"They know—they know that I spoke to the dark-coloured corn."
"Is that all?"
"No—yes—no. They know more." She spoke with greater vivacity, and in a natural tone of voice; "they know about the owl's feathers, too." A deep sigh followed this reply, and tears came to her eyes. Say was herself again.
Shotaye also heaved a deep sigh of relief. Her friend's mind was restored, and she had gained the much-desiredinformation. But it would have been dangerous to proceed further in this conversation, lest the cloud which had threatened Say's mental powers should return and settle permanently. So, after a short silence, she turned to her friend, and said in a positive tone,—
"Sister, go home now and rest easy. Nothing is lost as yet. Go home, be quiet, and attend to your work as usual. I shall be on the watch."
"But the Koshare!" Say anxiously exclaimed.
"Leave them to me," the other answered; and so powerful was her influence on the timid mind of her visitor, so unbounded the confidence which the latter had in her abilities and her faithfulness, that Say rose without a word, and like an obedient child, covering her head with one corner of her wrap, went out and meekly strolled home. It was night, and nobody noticed her. Okoya was already at the estufa; Shyuote and the little girl were asleep. Say lay down beside her sleeping children and soon sank into a heavy slumber. Her body, weak from over-strain, compelled a rest which the mind might have denied to her.
In her dark chamber in the rock, Shotaye sat alone before the fire on the hearth. It began to flame lustily, for the woman fed it well. She wanted the glow, first in order to cook her food, next in order to brighten the room; for with the dark and tangled subject on her mind, she felt the need of light and warmth as her companions in musing. When the flames rustled and crackled, Shotaye squatted down in front of them, folded her arms around her knees, and began to think.
She felt far from being as reassured about the outlook as she had pretended to be when she sent Say Koitza home with soothing and comforting words. But the preservation of her friend's mental powers was an imperative necessity. Had Say been permitted to fall a prey to her momentaryexcitement, everything would have been lost for Shotaye. Had Say's mind given way permanently, the cause of that calamity would have been attributed to her, and she would have been charged with her friend's insanity in addition to the charge of witchcraft already being formulated.
These thoughts, however, came to her now in the stillness of the night and by the fireside. So long as her poor friend was with her she had acted almost instinctively, with the quick grasp of an active intellect and under the good impulses of compassion and attachment. Now that she was alone the time had come to ponder, and Shotaye weighed in her mind the liabilities and assets of her situation. She began to calculate the probabilities for and against.
It was not difficult for her to escape; but this was only possible when attempted alone. With Say Koitza flight was next to impossible. Beside, it appeared very unlikely to her that the woman would flee from her children.