Desert Hearts (40 page)

Barboncito spoke first. “Your uncle has always held out the longest,” he said with an ironic smile. “He was one of the last to come to the Bosque. He is silent because there is no answer yet. But we made it clear to these men that we will agree to any conditions as long as we can return to Dinetah. And only Dinetah,” he added. “I think there was some idea of sending us to the territory in Oklahoma.”

Antonio looked at his uncle. Manuelito grudgingly admitted that it was premature to shake his head. “Perhaps,” he said sarcastically, “we will be the only people to keep our homeland.”

Antonio understood his uncle’s cynicism very well. He had had a long, hard experience of the
bilagaana’s
treachery. And he was right. Most nations had been moved from their own lands. Why should the Diné be any different? The most the headmen could accomplish would be to get them out of this death trap.

* * * *

“And yet….”

“And yet?” prodded Serena.

“For some reason, I believe that this time they will allow us to go home.” Antonio smiled. “You may laugh at me tomorrow, wife.”

“I am not laughing, nor will I be. Dodd has become a good friend to the people. He will add his word. Maybe we will see home again.” Serena’s voice trailed off and she and Antonio sat there, seeing red rock and clear water, and the clouds gathering over the holy mountains.

* * * *

The camp was alive with speculation and hope and when the headmen were summoned again two days later, the people knew that something had been decided and many of them crowded around the adobe building, waiting for the decision that would determine their destiny.

This time, Antonio stayed away. He couldn’t bear it if his uncle came out with the same expression on his face. He would wait with his wife and daughter. And so he sat next to Serena as she spun her wool and he repaired his bridle, which was falling apart in his hands. It seemed to take days, but it was only hours later that a shadow fell over them. Antonio looked up into his uncle’s face. There were tears in Manuelito’s cheeks and Antonio stood up, letting his awl and bridle fall in the dust.

“Uncle?”

“Nephew.”

There was a long silence and then Manuelito whispered, “We are alive. We are going home.”

For a moment it seemed to Antonio as though everything stopped, including his heart. So many years of suffering over, just like that. It was almost too much. And then the world started again; he could see the tears running down his uncle’s seamed face and they were the streams running down the canyons of Dinetah. He could hear the people all around him, talking again after so long a silence. They were alive, truly alive. Suddenly he was aware that Serena stood next to him and he turned to her and gathered her into his arms.

Elizabeth was making bread and Caitlin was next to her, kneading her own “loaf,” a small piece of dough her mother had given her. Elizabeth smiled as she looked down at her daughter’s chubby fingers working a rather dirty piece of dough. It had fallen on the floor twice and Caitlin had reached down to pet the cat, which had twined itself around her legs. It would not be the cleanest miniature loaf, thought her mother, but it was for Michael, and Elizabeth knew he would praise it and eat it eagerly, cat hairs and all, for he adored his daughter.

“Come now, Cait, it is time to let the bread rise and then we will bake it.”

Caitlin gave up her lump reluctantly and watched her mother slip it under the edge of the damp towel covering the rest of the dough.

“How does it get bigger, Mama?”

“The yeast makes it rise, and the heat of the kitchen. Yeast likes the warm weather.”

“What is yeast, Mama?”

What is yeast, thought Elizabeth. What is yeast? “Oh, it is something that makes little bubbles of air, like you do when you blow through your lips, and the bubbles make the dough stretch and grow.” Thank goodness her daughter accepted that explanation. Really, thought Elizabeth, being a mother called upon everything a woman knew!

She heard the sound of their wagon approaching. “Listen, Cait! That’s your da.”

Caitlin, who had been peeking under the towel waiting to see the bubbles form, turned and ran for the door.

“Just wait a minute, young lady,” said Elizabeth with mock sternness. “You have flour and dough all over you.”

“Da won’t care, Mama,” said Caitlin as she streaked out the door.

Your da wouldn’t care if you were covered in mud, thought Elizabeth as she pumped water over her hands. She dried them quickly on the bread towel and, untying her apron, went out to the porch.

Michael had lifted Cait up onto the seat beside him and was allowing her to “drive” the team the few remaining yards to the hitching post by the corral.

“I’ll tie them and you sit right there, Cait,” he said after dropping a kiss on top of her dark brown curls before he climbed down.

After he tied the team he came back and lifted her down and, reaching into the back of the wagon, he pulled out a brown paper package and handed it to her. “Now run and give this to your ma.”

Caitlin jumped up and down. “What did you bring me, Da? What did you bring me?”

“Now, what was I telling you to do?”

Caitlin stopped jumping. “Bring this to my ma.”

“Well, then…are ye going to help me out?”

“Yes, Da,” she said and turned and walked to the porch with a sense of great pride as though she had relieved him of one of his heaviest packages.

Elizabeth thanked her for being such a helpful girl and took the package. “Tea, Michael! Oh, thank you.” She ran down and flung her arms around his neck. “You don’t know how I have been wanting a good cup of tea.”

“Sure and I do,
a ghra
. And so have I, truth be told. We had a little extra this month, so I thought I’d treat us both.”

Caitlin was standing quietly by and he handed her a small package. “And this is for you, Cait.”

She ripped the paper open and squealed when she saw the stick of candy. “Molasses candy, Mama. Look!”

“You can only have a small piece now, Cait, or it will spoil your supper. Now go see how the kittens in the barn are doing. Maybe their eyes are open today.”

Elizabeth had seen the folded newspaper on top of the other packages in Michael’s arms.

“Is there news, Michael? Has the Peace Commission made a decision? Can they go home?”

Michael dropped everything on the table and picking up the newspaper, read from the front page, “Treaty signed 6/1/68. The Navajo Indians who have suffered for four years at the hands of former governor Carleton are to be returned to their homeland.”

“Oh, Michael, is it really over?”

“It is over, Elizabeth. And the same newspaper that four years ago was calling them ‘vermix carletonious’ is now happy to be seeing them go home. They are on their way by now, Elizabeth, for the newspaper is two weeks old.”

Elizabeth was laughing and then crying all at once and Michael drew her close, bending his own tear-streaked face over her hair, and murmuring into her ear, “There, there.”

She clung to him and he guided her out of the kitchen and onto the sofa in the adjoining room. There they sat, her head resting on his arm, their fingers intertwined.

“Oh, Michael, it has been a long four years. We’ve struggled to make a living, but at least we have had a home and shelter. I’ve been so happy most of the time, but all along I’ve felt the price of my happiness has been Serena and Antonio’s exile.”

“I know, Elizabeth. I’ve felt the same. And helpless to change things. It has seemed such a pitiful gesture each time we have sent them anything.”

“I am sure your letters to Washington helped.”

“Perhaps, but it is more likely they were buried under all the paperwork,” he said with an ironic smile. “I think ‘tis that they were meant to return home. Of course, from what the article says of the treaty, Dinetah is considerably smaller than it was. And they will have to be supplied with sheep and goats, for their own herds were so reduced.”

“Can we go back, Michael?” Elizabeth asked. “I would so love to see the canyon again. To find Antonio and Serena and see how they have survived.”

“We will do that someday, Elizabeth.”

The sun was beating down on their heads as they approached the mouth of the canyon. Although they had tried to travel in the early morning and the late afternoon and rest during the heat of the day, they were all exhausted. Elizabeth looked back under the wagon’s canopy and smiled at the sight of their daughter curled up against Orion. The dog raised his head and thumped his tail when he saw Elizabeth’s eyes on him.

She touched Michael on his arm and he turned and looked back. “So the wee witch is asleep at last.”

“Michael!” said his wife with mock horror.

“Ye have to admit that she was driving ye mad today.”

Elizabeth sighed. “She did. But she has been so good the whole trip. And this is the last day.”

“Thanks be to God. This has been worse than any cavalry march,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

They had passed the fort half an hour ago. “Do you miss it, Michael?”

“The army or Fort Defiance?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“I have fond memories of the old fort, Elizabeth. After all, ‘tis where I met a certain snobbish Boston lady,” he added. “But no, I am glad to be out of the army. It seems that raising horses is what I was meant to do.”

“What about raising sheep,” she inquired with a smile.

“ ‘Tis the wooly brainless buggers that pay for the horses, me darlin’.”

“What’s a bugger, Da?” said a tired voice from the back. “Is it like a beetle?”

Michael laughed as Elizabeth exclaimed, “Caitlin!”

“ ‘Tis not a polite word, Cait. Someday when you are older I’ll explain it to ye.”

“
Like
gob-shite?”

Michael heroically suppressed his laughter and said as seriously as he could, “Yes, Cait, I’ll tell you about that one too.”

“Michael Burke!”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Whatever are you teaching our daughter?”

“I’ll watch me mouth better, I promise you, Elizabeth.”

“Till next time! Now, lie down, Cait. When you have finished your nap, we’ll be there.”

* * * *

Now, here they were, almost to the mouth of the small canyon.

“Do you think they will be there, Michael? Would they have gotten our letters?”

“The letters never came back to us, Elizabeth. And if they have not, well, then, we’ll spend some of our time looking for them.”

As they entered the canyon, Elizabeth kept her eye out for the shrine at the spring.

“There it is, Michael. And look, there are so many prayer sticks and offerings!”

Michael pulled the horses up. “Hold the reins, Elizabeth,” he asked and jumped down. He approached the little pool reverently and watched the feathers fluttering in the breeze. He saw the sun winking off a small metal disk. His medal was still there. He bowed his head and said a silent thank you. For the return of the people and for his own blessings. “Thanks be to you, blessed Mother of us all,” for surely Mary and Changing Woman were one and the same, Mother to
bilagaana
and Diné alike. “Thanks to you for bringing the people home and thanks to you for bringing me home at last.” For this was his home now, this land of red and yellow sandstone, redolent with green sage. This land which had given birth to many peoples over the years. This land where he had found his soul’s home. And his heart’s, he thought, turning back to Elizabeth.

She was pointing downstream, excitement in her voice. “There they are, Michael, there they are.”

He climbed back up and, arm around his wife, drove slowly toward the figures waiting for them. The stream flowed toward them from the heart of the canyon, purling joyfully over the rocks and sparkling in the sunlight, leading Michael and Elizabeth to the people of the red rock whose home it had been for centuries.

Transforming historical fact into fiction is never easy. This time, my additional challenge was presenting another people’s history and culture accurately and with respect.

Each Navajo is given several names. The “war name,” thought of as the person’s real name, was never used directly and was known only to her family. Another name, a descriptive one, (like “Blue Mule”) was used when talking about others but never in direct address. In introducing oneself one would do so by relationship and clan name.

I wanted to be accurate and respectful, yet not confuse my readers, so I chose a compromise. The Diné were given names by the Mexicans. Barboncito, Manuelito, and Delgadito are all historical figures. Later on, Anglo names like John or Mary were given. These names would be used in direct address in the non-Navajo world. Since I was writing at the time of Spanish usage, I decided to give my main Navajo characters Spanish names that Anglos could use in addressing them. Serena and Antonio and the other Diné in my story only address each other relationally. I am thankful to Barre Toelken’s essay “The Demands of Harmony” for guidance. Any inaccuracies are my own.

I have read several versions of the Navajo Creation Myth. This book would never have been written, however, had I not read Paul Zolbrod’s
Diné Bahane
ten years ago. It is his version that I heavily depended upon in telling the story of
Asdzaa nadleehe
, or Changing Woman.

The
kinaalda
ceremony is detailed in Charlotte Frisbie’s book
Kinaalda
, I hope the “presence” of many
bilagaana
readers at the parts I describe will not offend.

Almost all of the incidents in the book, including the story of the horse race, are true and in historical sequence. I am greatly indebted to
Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee
,
The Long Walk
, and
The Book of the Navajo
. I took some liberties; for instance, Michael is stationed at a fictional composite of Fort Defiance and Fort Wingate.