Shaman Winter (16 page)

I've got to face Raven on my own?

Walk straight into the dream. Like this.

The old man walked up to the door.

You open the door, and you walk in. The dream must not be foreign to you, it must be part of your history. Something you create. Look closely at everything. Study every image. Don't let the dream be jumbled up. Pretend it is a story, or a good movie, and when you get back home, you have to tell the adventures in the dream.

Adventures, like Odysseus?

Sure, like that Griego. Or like Juan Chicaspatas, or Pedro de Ordimalas. Any pícaro will do. Remember, this is La Nueva México. It's your homeland, your stage, get it?

Yes.

Where are you going?

Taos. Sixteen eighty. Remember the book of families? The Anayas married the Vacas and became part of the family tree.

Don't allow Raven to fragment your dream! The dream is a story, a vision, and it must make sense to you!

Don Eliseo's final warning echoed as Sonny opened the door. Gracias, don Eliseo.

The wind whispered de nada.

Sonny stepped through the door and entered Taos Pueblo on foot. Instantly the images of the dream scrambled, but Sonny willed them into order. Like a good story.

He saw a pueblo man who cast no shadow sneak into a church and steal a crucifix.

Popé, Sonny said. This is the chief of the Taos Rebellion. I will follow him.

The man stole through the narrow streets of the Indian pueblo, muttering as he went, cursing the Spaniards, whom he blamed for so much misery. He, Popé, would bring destruction on the Españoles, their god, and all their santos.

He entered an underground chamber and Sonny followed. The walls of the kiva were smooth, hand-plastered. Half sunken into the earth, the kiva was accessible only by using the wood ladder that dropped from the small entrance on the roof.

In the middle of the earthen floor, a small fire burned in a pit, and the flickering flames cast dancing light on the designs that decorated the walls.

Around the fire sat other war captains from other pueblos. Sonny remembered the list he had made in his notebook. Now here they were! Luis Tupatu from Picuris; Antonio Malacate from La Cienega de Cochiti; Francisco El Ollita and Nicolas Jonva from San Ildefonso; Domingo Naranjo from Santa Clara; Domingo Romero from Tesuque; Antonio Bolsas, a Tano Indian; Cristóbal Yope from San Lazaro; Felipe de Ye from Pecos; Juan El Tano from Galisteo; Alonzo Catiti from Santo Domingo; and Luis Conizu from Jemez.

These war captains and others represented their pueblos, and tonight they met on a very important mission. Tonight they would decide whether war against Spanish rule should be declared.

Popé entered, sat quietly, and smoked the ceremonial tobacco. For a long time all were silent.

Finally Popé spoke. I vow to take the power from the Españoles.

The men in the room looked uneasily at each other.

One spoke. If we are to drive out the Españoles, then we will do it as brave warriors.

The others nodded. The decision before them was momentous. The Españoles had lived on their land since the Capitán Oñate came in 1598. Each man spoke his mind. Should they make war on the Españoles and drive them away?

The oldest of the war captains spoke. These men of iron who ride on horseback, and their medicine men—the ones they call padres—have become harsh rulers. We welcomed them and accepted their kachinas, those they call santos, into our ceremonies, into our kivas. We have accepted the man who dies on the cross, their Cristo, we treated La Virgen as our own mother. But they call our own kachinas devils. The padres do not allow us to pray to the spirits of our ancestors. They have burned our kachina masks, the prayer sticks, the amulets. They have come into our kivas and desecrated everything we hold sacred. It is time to throw off the yoke of the Spaniards.

Silence filled the kiva, the thin smoke from the fire rose and curled upward and out into the night sky. Again the men smoked the pipe. The men had many vecinos in the Spanish pueblo, farmers like them, many who respected their dances and ceremonies. But the rule of the civil authorities and the padres was harsh.

Another captain spoke. It is not good. We have farmed for them, raised their crops, taught them how to use our acequias to take the water from the streams to the fields. We have paid tribute in corn and blankets. They take our women and children to use as slaves. They quarrel among themselves. The governor and the soldiers tell us one thing, and the padres another. A drought has come over the land, and in every pueblo our people are dying. Surely our ancestors are angry that we are praying to these foreign gods. Our kachinas have guided us since we came to this earth. All this must end.

It is time to cleanse the land, another war captain said. It is time to vote.

Popé did not speak. He was deep in meditation. Even though he was a San Juan man, he had been coming to this kiva in Taos Pueblo for many years. He was an old man now, his sons and daughters were married, and now was the time to be a grandfather and teach his grandchildren. But he could not rest or enjoy his old age when his people suffered so much.

A passage in the history book he had been reading flashed through Sonny's mind. Only five years before this fateful meeting, the former governor, Treviño, had led his soldiers against the kivas, prohibiting all the rituals. Forty-seven medicine men were arrested by the governor and taken to prison in Santa Fé. Four of the medicine men were hanged in the plaza, and the others, including Popé, received a public flogging. Popé still nursed the scars of that whipping.

Terror filled the land. The god of the Españoles had brought only war, pestilence, hunger, and drought. Even the Virgin Mother had appeared in a vision and foretold doom for the colony. Now was the time to join together and drive out the Spaniards. For five years Popé had been speaking to the other pueblos, and many of the men had listened and agreed.

I am for war, Popé said in anger. I will not rest until the Españoles are gone from our land, and their homes and churches burned to the ground.

One by one the other war captains nodded.

Set the date for our attack, the oldest captain said with heavy heart. Each had spoken. Now they would act together.

Popé set the date. August 10, 1680, according to the calendar of the Españoles. He tied knotted cords of yucca and sent them to all the pueblos.

Sonny turned and the time of the dream turned with him. The last knot on the yucca cord was untied and cries of war sounded in the juniper-covered hills and echoed across the ravines of northern New Mexico.

The Pueblo Indians swept down on the Spanish settlements, killing everyone in sight and desecrating the churches. Leaving a trail of death, they descended on Santa Fé. There they surrounded the thousand men, women, and children who were left alive. They cut off the water ditch that fed the city, and they fought off the feeble attempts of the Spanish soldiers to open it. They would starve the Spaniards into submission.

Sonny followed the images of his nightmare, ordering them as he went, and though all was clear, he realized he couldn't change the course of history.

From the other pueblos word came to Popé. The pueblos of Acoma, Zuni, and Hopi had joined the revolt. Everywhere the warriors of the pueblos burned churches, killed priests, and marched on Santa Fé.

Tossing and turning away from the carnage, Sonny let out a cry. He opened his eyes, and in the dim light, he saw Rita. She touched a cool cloth to his forehead.

“Murder, murder,” he gasped.

“No!” Lorenza pressed him down. “Stay in your dreams! Don't let Raven control it!”

“Have to,” Sonny replied. He knew he had lost it. Could he return and face the outcome of the violent nightmare?

“My notes,” he whispered. He knew that on Monday, August 12, after two days of siege, Governor Otermin had stepped out of the burning rubble and mud huts to parley with Popé.

Sonny closed his eyes and returned to his dream.

Are you mad? Otermin asked the Indian leader. We have brought the holy faith to you and your people. We have brought our civilization so you might progress. Is this how you thank us?

Since your Oñate came, we have been made to pay tribute and work your fields, Popé answered. You have desecrated our kivas and punished our priests. Now you must leave this land.

This is also our land, Otermin answered. The king himself has sent us to colonize and Christianize this region. This rebellion is against His Most Royal Majesty. If you desist, I will pardon you, but you must return quietly to your homes and be obedient to the law of His Majesty.

Popé laughed. We will no longer be obedient.

Obedience had brought too much suffering. He offered the governor two crosses. One red, one white.

If you choose the white, we will let you leave in peace, Popé said. If you choose the red, we will make war, and all your people will die.

Otermin chose the red, and for three days Popé made war on the beleaguered settlers who had taken refuge in the Palace of the Governors. A force of two thousand Pueblo men ringed the capital. It was only a matter of time before Santa Fé would fall.

“What can I do?” Sonny cried.

Where was Coyote? Where was the guide he needed to take hold of the dream?

There is only chaos and madness, a voice replied, and the Bringer of Curses appeared. Sonny saw the dark figure walking the alleys of the besieged capital.

Two soldiers guarding the back gate of the Palace of the Governors challenged him.

Quién pasa?

Un soldado de Su Majestad, Raven replied.

I don't recognize you, said the suspicious sentry, drawing close to Raven.

I came with the new group of soldiers to serve Governor Otermin and defend the Villa de la Santa Fé.

What is your name? the second sentry asked.

Antonio de Cuervo.

No! Sonny heard himself shouting, trying to warn the guards. Don't let him in! But struggle as he would, Sonny could not influence the events of his dream, Raven was controlling the dream.

What are you doing out in the streets? the sentry asked.

I have been scouting, Raven said, drawing closer and lifting his weapon, a curved sword so sharp that when it came down across the first guard, it sliced off his head. Blood spurted and he crumpled to the ground.

Raven struck again, and the second startled guard was disemboweled. Dios mío, he cried as he fell.

Raven walked quickly through the wooden door, leaving it open for the Pueblo warriors.

The smell of death was in the air. Outside the walls of the Palace of the Governors lay the carcasses of dead cows and horses, smoldering in the flames that had spread around the villa. Shrieks of animals and wounded men echoed in the night. The Pueblo men came in the dark and picked up their wounded, and when they found a wounded Spaniard, they took him. Then the cries of the tortured man could be heard far into the night.

Raven moved quickly to the women's quarters, and all Sonny could do was to follow. In this area of the Governors' Palace the women of the city and the vicinity were bunched like chickens in a coop. One small room, a cell, had been reserved for Caridad de Anaya, the young sixteen-year-old daughter of don Cristóbal de Anaya from Alburquerque. She had come to marry Hernán Vaca, a young soldier, but the plans had been interrupted by the rebellion. Now the young bride-to-be huddled in the small room that had been set aside by the governor.

Rest and do not trouble yourself, Governor Otermin had told her. This uprising will be quelled in a matter of hours. Then, as I have promised your father, the marriage plans will continue. I will be the padrino, and your father and mother will be here at your side. This madness of the natives is only a momentary thing.

Sonny knew that in Alburquerque the entire family of don Cristóbal, and many other families in the haciendas south of Santa Fé, had been wiped out. One son survived, the young Cristóbal, and documents would later reveal that he would live with the Indians until de Vargas returned thirteen years later.

Sonny groaned. His nightmare had become a whirlwind of destruction, tame mares became the trampling horses of the Apocalypse, and there was nothing he could do. He had entered the correct time, but he could not twist the events.

Coyote! he cried. Where are you?

He saw other colonists from Río Abajo, fleeing to Isleta Pueblo, where they gathered in terror, thinking Santa Fé had surely fallen, with all inhabitants killed.

He saw Raven flinging a door open and entering Caridad's room. Caridad de Anaya, he called her name. I come to claim you!

No, Sonny shouted again, struggling. But he realized that he was bound by the rules of the dream. If he struggled too much, he would awaken, and there would be nothing he could do to help the girl. Again he looked for Coyote, but he was not to be found.

If he was to stop Raven, he had to be the actor in the dream, not the mere witness. He had to participate
within
the dream, but he didn't know how.

He could only watch as Raven lifted the young girl from her bed and carried her away, past the confusion of the new attack on the palace. The natives, led by Popé and other war captains, had discovered the open back door and entered the Palace of the Governors, and the battle was joined within the last sanctuary of the Spaniards.

Raven, carrying a screaming Caridad, hurried past soldiers and natives locked in hand-to-hand combat. Their shouts and the thunder of cannons and harquebuses filled the air, and the cattle and horses that were locked in the palace patio bolted and howled, adding to the confusion as the battle swept around them.

At the same time Hernán, Caridad's fiancé, entered the cell. Finding her missing, he ran out of the room calling her name. Caridad! Caridad!

Like the Andres Vaca of the earlier dream, Hernán dashed off in search of his bride-to-be. He had come running to protect her when the onslaught began, but he found Caridad's room empty.

Caridad! he cried, running into the melee, drawing his sword to fight off the natives now filling the patio. He pressed into the battle, swinging his blade with rage, blaming the Indians for his loss.