People of the Mesa: A Novel of Native America. Ardath Mayhar
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The mesa was not a thing for mankind alone. It was a circle, and his own kind had a place inside it. But all the creatures, the plants, the stones, even, had their own places there, too. If one disrupted that circle, all would suffer. It was his task to see that the circle was never broken at any of its links, to sense if any danger threatened its integrity.
One who had not purified himself, learning to hear the voices that were too small for normal ears, could not be a powerful One Who Smelled the Wind. He had known that before, but now he understood it completely.
He rose and turned toward his mother’s part of the pueblo. It was time to prepare for his acceptance into his new position.
As his mother combed prickles from his hair with her brush made of fine rootlets, he stood very still. Even when she pulled, he didn’t protest. His sisters were brushing the deer hide robe they had decorated with beads and quills when he was first chosen to be trained for his position. He didn’t object, now, when they turned him around to try it about his shoulders.
He understood them, as well as the magpie and the beasts and rocks and plants. They were glad for him, and he felt their affection like the warmth of small flames licking about his spirit.
When the sun was above the rim on the east, he was ready. His sandals were on his feet, the stiff texture of the decorated yucca fiber tickling his soles. His robe was arranged carefully, his headband tied with great care by his mother’s hands.
He thought, just for an instant, of his uncle, who would have been very pleased, if he had lived until this day. Then the thought slid away as they went out and down the path toward the promontory where he would accept his life’s work from the hands of Ki-shi-o-te.
Chapter Ten
When he moved out onto the narrow tooth of rock, extending over the depth of the canyon, he felt it quiver slightly beneath his sandals. With sudden clarity, it came to him that he would be the last One Who Smelled the Wind to take his place here, receiving his charge from the Shaman of the Ahye-tum-datsehe.
This stone would fall, in time, into the valley below, leaving a gash where it had been. The Old One had met his death in that way, and the rock would follow him, in time. The thought did not make Uhtatse’s feet unsteady as they paced the length of the projecting boulder.
At the very end, he stood looking into the eye of the sun, which now sat a hand’s breadth above the eastern rim of the canyon. It filled his eyes with pink dawn light, and he turned to face those waiting on the mesa behind him. Step by step, with great dignity, he returned along the span, the stone vibrating subtly at every step.
Ki-shi-o-te met him as he stepped onto the flat stone forming the base of the platform. His wrinkled face expressionless, he laid a long, polished staff on Uhtatse’s outstretched hand. It was of oak, straight and strong, well cured. It had been peeled when fresh, and long years of wear had rubbed it to a rich luster. It was the staff borne by every One Who Smelled the Wind for many generations.
Ihyannah came forward with a necklace in her slender hands. It was made of feathers and carved bone, claws of hawks and eagles, teeth of big cats. Strung on juniper cord, it bound its wearer to every part of the mesa.
She handed the thing to her father, and Uhtatse bent his neck to allow the old man to slip it over his head and arrange it on his shoulders. He would, he knew, never wear it again, but this once was enough to infuse into him all the accumulated wisdom of those who had worn it over the years. His skin warmed, where the sacred necklace touched him, and he felt an instant of union with everything alive.
When Ki-shi-o-te and his daughter drew back into the group, Uhtatse could see his shadow drawn in ochre and purple on the sandstone before him. He lifted the staff at arm’s length above his head. As it moved, a brisk wind swept down the canyon, riffling the necklace feathers at his neck and fluttering the tail of his headband across his ear. High above, a hawk shrilled twice.
Down in the still-shadowy depths of the canyon, the swallows were wheeling and dipping, burbling their morning cries. Even as he stepped from the rock onto the soil of the mesa, he had a sudden dizzy vision.
It was blurred and unfocused, but he seemed to see people moving up and down the steep cliffs, bearing stone and juniper posts. Building, down there in the deeps—what? There came a swirling vision of pueblos in the cliff sides—and then he shook his head and was steady again, seeing nothing but the sandstone cliffs, with their arched openings, before his eyes.
Sihala stepped forward, holding in her hand a basket filled with shelled corn. She handed it to him, turning her head politely so as not to meet his eyes. She beckoned to Ihyannah, who moved forward a single pace and stood looking up at Uhtatse.
To-ho-pe-pe gabbled importantly and bustled forward between the feet and legs of the onlookers to join his mistress. Uhtatse felt a terrible impulse to laugh, but he controlled it and avoided looking at Ihyannah. If they looked into each other’s eyes, they would both break into laughter, and that would not be fitting at such a solemn moment.
He reached to take her fingers into his own. The two of them went down the path toward Sihala’s home, where Ihyannah would stay for a while. When the harvest was in, they would hope to build a room onto the pueblo for themselves, or they might even make a pit-house. For now, they must remain with parents.
He knew that she would help him to remove his robe and necklace and lay them away in the basket where they were kept, along with the staff. The two of them would work silently, speaking no word but communicating with their hearts.
It had been a strange day, a breaking-away from all his life before this. It was frightening, exhilarating, and stimulating, all in one. He smiled at Ihyannah.
She glanced back to make certain that they were out of sight of the rest. Then she smiled back.
To-ho-pe-pe came after them, wings spread, chest expanded to its fullest roundness, wattles at their most astonishing shade of purple. As he caught up to them, he paused to dance in a circle, gobbling mightily all the while and trailing his wingtips in the dust of the path in an eccentric pattern.
Ihyannah began to shake. Uhtatse felt his own ribcage begin to quiver.
Laughing, they went down the path together, hands clasped. The turkey followed them, doing its war-dance and raising echoes across the canyon with its raucous comments.
* * * *
The old man sitting on the cliff felt a sympathetic chuckle rising within him. That had been a good day. Not the best of all, perhaps, that were to come, but a good day, filled with happiness. He and Ihyannah had shared something very rare and precious. It had ended, of course, as all things must end for those who walked in flesh, but the memory had warmed him for many seasons.
Yes, it had ended as the life on top of the mesa had ended, when the time came. He had been the one who caused that, to be sure, and he could not regret it. His own life, indeed, was about to end. He could not regret that, either. It was fitting, and that was a good thing.
Chapter Eleven
The mesa had not changed. The people and the dogs, the birds and beasts and plants seemed to be just as they had been all Uhtatse’s life. From his earliest memory, little had altered on the high mesas.
Yet something had changed. He had changed, permanently and drastically. The mantle of responsibility that had hung about his shoulders as he stood on the quivering rock of the promontory might have been laid away in its basket, but the reality of the task it had bestowed upon him was never absent from his mind.
He slept little. It was summer, and that was the time when the enemy would come, if the Kiyate came at all. The most worrying thing about those fierce people was their randomness. Years might pass without an incursion, and still they might hit the vulnerable pueblos at any time. He had to be watchful, day and night.
It would have helped to have the comfort of his own home and Ihyannah, but their true marriage would only take place when they moved into the part of the pueblo that would be Ihyannah’s. Until then, they could take pleasure in