A Pueblo Story by Western_Drifter by Page 1

A Pueblo Story
by
� Western_Drifter

Page 1

Not even the eldest of the elders in our pueblo could remember such a drought. The cornfields, normally lush and green by this time, were a patchwork of brittle brown stumps and bare sand; even the bean vines were stunted. Day following day, the sky was like a solid piece of unveined turquoise.... Not the faintest hint of a cloud to be seen.

The cacique of the pueblo had organized and directed the traditional ceremonies. Those selected had purified themselves and performed the Dance to Bring the Rains -- but for the first time in anyone�s memory, it had failed. In desperation, several villagers had appealed to the Gods of the Spanish. They had borrowed the statues from the church -- Baby Hey Soos, his mother Maria, and a few of the other Santos whose names I cannot recall -- and had carried them through the dry fields in supplication. But the Gods of the Spanish had also turned their backs on us. The rains did not come.

The general belief among most people of the pueblo was that we needed new turtle shells. One of the most important parts of our Dance to Bring the Rains, you see, was the turtle shell rattles worn by the dancers. Many, many years ago, our people had lived in a pueblo by the Great River, and turtles were collected from the waters. The shells of these turtles were filled with small round stones and tied to the legs of the dancers; the rattling of the stones conveyed the message to the spirit world that we needed rain. But now most of the turtle shells had grown old and fallen apart. This, the elders said -- and everyone accepted it, for lack of other explanations -- was why there was no rain.

Unfortunately, there were no more turtles to be had. When our ancestors had cast off the yoke of slavery to the Spanish and fled from our ancient pueblo, they had wandered far from the Great River. The only turtles in our new homeland were the desert turtles, which, as any fool knew, were totally unsuitable for bringing rain. We needed the shells of water turtles -- but no one knew where to obtain any. It was essential that we somehow acquire some before the next planting season; another rainless summer would mean the death of the community.

It was another hot, dry day. A dusty whirlwind had blown up the main street of the pueblo and across the plaza, so all the people had closed their doors and windows. Sometimes witches ride, invisibly, on the backs of such whirlwinds, and of course no one wanted a witch to step off of its mount and into their home. After a prudent period of waiting for the whirlwind to dissipate, the villagers returned to the plaza -- to sit aimlessly around in the heat, and try to think of what to do. Our crops had failed miserably that year; there was barely enough corn and beans in the larders to survive the coming winter. The peach trees had produced only a miniscule amount of dry, pithy fruit, and more than half of the spring lambs had died -- their mothers could not produce enough milk to nourish them. Another year such as this one would mean the death of the pueblo.

That was when I noticed the White man approaching. I had wandered off from the plaza and was gazing out over the barren surroundings -- not looking for anything, really, simply looking. When I saw him, I first thought it was a trick of my imagination. I had seen Whites before, of course -- I had been sent to the Government School in Farmington for a couple of years. They also had a village of their own not too many miles distant, and some of them wandered into the pueblo from time to time. The odd thing about this one was that he was walking, with a pack on his back. It was common knowledge that White people never walked if they could help it -- they rode in trains, or in wagons, or on the backs of horses, and they NEVER carried packs on their OWN backs. I watched him approach through the shimmering haze of the desert heat, his form looming larger with each step he took in my direction. I rubbed the back of my hand across my eyes, and looked again. He was still there, so he must be real.

As the others noticed his approach, the young women were shooed indoors -- a standard precaution when strangers arrived. Many of the men and boys, and a few of the elder grandmothers, remained in the plaza, acting as though unaware of the man�s entrance into the pueblo, waiting for him to give some clue as to his reason for visiting.

The stranger�s entire demeanor was unlike that of any White man I had previously known. Some of them had been mean and demanding, acting as though we were their slaves as we had been to the Spanish years ago; some of them had been fearful as though they expected us to spring upon them and devour them alive; most had treated us as though we were simple-minded children to be humored for their own entertainment. This man seemed to regard us simply as people. A very odd White man indeed.

�Hello�, he said to everyone in the group and to no one in particular. He was smiling, but, as with everything else about this man, it was an unusual smile for a White. His smile did not say �what can I trick them out of?� or �aren�t they charming little savages?�.... It was actually friendly.

�Hello�, I answered back. I knew I should have waited for one of the older men to speak first, but it seemed I couldn�t help but answer him -- he intrigued me. At once he turned to me as though accepting me as the spokesman for the group. The other villagers also turned to me, apparently expecting me to finish what I had started -- I suppose the situation was now in my hands alone.

The next few minutes -- or were they hours? The years have dulled my memory -- seemed to be one of those dreams in which I was watching myself from a distance, unable to actually control what I was saying or doing, simply a passive observer of my own actions. Somehow the stranger and I walked away from the crowd in the plaza to talk privately; somehow it was agreed that he would hire me for a week of taking him around the countryside. Somehow it was also agreed that he would sleep that night in a vacant storeroom near the house of my mother and myself (vacant because the drought had left us, like other families, with very little to store). And in return for this, the strange man paid in dollars -- genuine silver dollars, real wealth, not the symbolic scraps of paper that so many other Whites seemed to use. When I had gotten him settled into the
storeroom which was to be his quarters, and returned to my own home, it seemed as though half the residents of the pueblo were awaiting me, questions flying at my head like buzzing bees. �Who is he?� �How much did he pay you?" �What does he want?� �How much did he pay you?� �How long will he stay?� �How much did he pay you?� �What is he looking for?� �How much did he pay you?� As a general rule, the people of
my pueblo are not greedy or jealous -- but remember, these were desperate times.

I suddenly felt vey important. To this day, I don�t know how it happened that I became the stranger�s main point of contact in the pueblo, but even then I realized that this was to
become an important event of some type. The silver dollars in my pocket were, perhaps,
some sort of substitute for the rains that hadn�t come -- they could mean the difference
between life and death for my mother, myself; maybe for the entire community.... But ONLY if I used them wisely. At that moment I realized that the sudden importance I had acquired was accompanied by dreadful responsibility, and I wasn�t entirely certain how I felt about that. I was, after all, only a boy.

The first question I attempted to answer was the one concerning the stranger�s purpose for visiting. �He is looking for....� I hesitated, as it sounded so foolish I was somewhat
embarassed to repeat it. �He is looking for insects. Butterflies, spiders, and other small
creatures.� Oddly, at the time he had explained that to me ,I had simply accepted it without question; perhaps the shine of the silver coins had made it sound more plausible. Now I was less sure.

There was a moment of silence. The wall of eager, questioning faces around me went blank and confused. Then old Grandfather Tahwa broke the serenity with a derisive snort. �Insects? He told you that? Nonsense! He must be looking for gold. Who would travel all the way out here to look for insects?�

I opened my mouth to say something, but this time no words came. The man had seemed so honest and friendly that any ulterior motives he may have had didn�t occur to me. Now I felt more ridiculous than important, and wanted to somehow recapture my fading prestige before it slipped away entirely. �But he paid me five silver dollars!� I blurted out. Once again the faces surrounding me changed expression.... And I wasn�t sure if I liked the change. As I said earlier, those were desperate times.

There were still many questions to be asked, and comments to be made, about the mysterious visitor who claimed to be looking for insects. However, it was growing close to the hour for the evening meal, so everyone courteously retired to their own homes. During more prosperous days at the pueblo, mealtimes had been a festive affair with
friends and neighbors freely sharing different dishes and sampling each other�s cooking.
Now it had become an unspoken law that each household ate its own meager rations in
private -- were there guests present, courtesy would demand that they be fed.... And there was no extra food with which to do this.

�My Son, this man that you will guide -- where does he wish you to guide him?� My mother�s face expressed her concern; I don�t think she believed his story any more than did Grandfather Tahwa. It hurt me to see the worry on her features -- her face, once so round and cheerful, had grown gaunt and saggy during the lean times, and the
apprehension she now felt made it look even more so. I don�t think my answers eased her mind at all, for the fact is, I had no idea where the man wished me to guide him. Looking back, it seemed that there were many questions I should have asked of him; many details to be clarified before I agreed to anything. But remember, I was only a boy -- a hungry boy, with a hungry mother, and the flash of silver coins had perhaps made me overly eager.

I slept but little that night, for my mind kept making up scenarios of what the near future
may hold for me. Sometimes they were pleasant ones -- I would be such an excellent
guide to the strange man that he would load me down with more silver coins. Sometimes
unpleasant ones -- he would say I was an incompetent guide and send me home in shame, then hire someone else. Maybe his new guide would be my annoying cousin Agopo, who had always bested me at everything throughout our lives. It would be Agopo who came back loaded down with silver, and laughing in my face -- what a horrible turn of events THAT would be! Or perhaps Grandfather Tahwa had been correct.... I would be unwittingly coerced into helping the White man locate a lost gold mine, then murdered to prevent me ever telling anyone else about it. But could this smiling, friendly man do such a thing? No, he would give me a share of the gold and send me home even richer than in the first dream.... And I would be the one to laugh in Agopo�s face. And so it continued, throughout the night -- good dream, bad dream, good dream, bad dream.

Mother had apparently had trouble sleeping as well, for she arose long before her normal
time. I was fully awakened from my troubled half-sleep by the smell of cooking -- and saw that the morning meal she had prepared for me was very large, by the current standards. �You must eat well today, My Son, for no doubt you will walk far. You must be strong to be a proper guide.� Then she smiled -- the first real smile I had seen on her face in what seemed a very long time. �Besides, if your belly is rumbling from hunger, it may scare off the insects the White man is hunting.� I laughed long and hard at
Mother�s jest -- not because it had been particularly funny (it wasn't), but because I was happy she could still jest during those lean times. �When you have finished guiding him, My Son, go to the trading post with your silver dollars and buy food. But don�t show the trader your silver right away -- the more money he knows you have, the higher his prices will rise.� I knew that, of course, but listened attentively anyway -- it is the nature of a mother to give advice, and the duty of a child to listen to it. I had already planned to try to end my guiding assignment somewhere near the trading post -- and I had already planned something else as well. I was going to try to get to a river.... A river with turtles in it.

There were still many questions to be asked, and comments to be made, about the mysterious visitor who claimed to be looking for insects. However, it was growing close to the hour for the evening meal, so everyone courteously retired to their own homes. During more prosperous days at the pueblo, mealtimes had been a festive affair with
friends and neighbors freely sharing different dishes and sampling each other�s cooking.
Now it had become an unspoken law that each household ate its own meager rations in
private -- were there guests present, courtesy would demand that they be fed.... And there was no extra food with which to do this.

�My Son, this man that you will guide -- where does he wish you to guide him?� My mother�s face expressed her concern; I don�t think she believed his story any more than did Grandfather Tahwa. It hurt me to see the worry on her features -- her face, once so round and cheerful, had grown gaunt and saggy during the lean times, and the
apprehension she now felt made it look even more so. I don�t think my answers eased her mind at all, for the fact is, I had no idea where the man wished me to guide him. Looking back, it seemed that there were many questions I should have asked of him; many details to be clarified before I agreed to anything. But remember, I was only a boy -- a hungry boy, with a hungry mother, and the flash of silver coins had perhaps made me overly eager.

I slept but little that night, for my mind kept making up scenarios of what the near future
may hold for me. Sometimes they were pleasant ones -- I would be such an excellent
guide to the strange man that he would load me down with more silver coins. Sometimes
unpleasant ones -- he would say I was an incompetent guide and send me home in shame, then hire someone else. Maybe his new guide would be my annoying cousin Agopo, who had always bested me at everything throughout our lives. It would be Agopo who came back loaded down with silver, and laughing in my face -- what a horrible turn of events THAT would be! Or perhaps Grandfather Tahwa had been correct.... I would be unwittingly coerced into helping the White man locate a lost gold mine, then murdered to prevent me ever telling anyone else about it. But could this smiling, friendly man do such a thing? No, he would give me a share of the gold and send me home even richer than in the first dream.... And I would be the one to laugh in Agopo�s face. And so it continued, throughout the night -- good dream, bad dream, good dream, bad dream.

Mother had apparently had trouble sleeping as well, for she arose long before her normal
time. I was fully awakened from my troubled half-sleep by the smell of cooking -- and saw that the morning meal she had prepared for me was very large, by the current standards. �You must eat well today, My Son, for no doubt you will walk far. You must be strong to be a proper guide.� Then she smiled -- the first real smile I had seen on her face in what seemed a very long time. �Besides, if your belly is rumbling from hunger, it may scare off the insects the White man is hunting.� I laughed long and hard at
Mother�s jest -- not because it had been particularly funny (it wasn't), but because I was happy she could still jest during those lean times. �When you have finished guiding him, My Son, go to the trading post with your silver dollars and buy food. But don�t show the trader your silver right away -- the more money he knows you have, the higher his prices will rise.� I knew that, of course, but listened attentively anyway -- it is the nature of a mother to give advice, and the duty of a child to listen to it. I had already planned to try to end my guiding assignment somewhere near the trading post -- and I had already planned something else as well. I was going to try to get to a river.... A river with turtles in it.

When we had first discussed the prospect of me being his guide, the stranger had asked if I knew how to drive a team and buckboard, which I did, but now I was wondering why he had cared about that -- apparently, we were going to travel on foot. We left the pueblo shortly before dawn, while the morning star was at its brightest. I had been waiting for him to ask me to guide him somewhere, but he seemed to have his destination already planned. I simply walked along beside him.

�My name is Peter,� He said. �What is yours?� This was a strange coincidence. My own name was Avapiti, but I had been called Peter at the Government School (all the students who did not already have �Christian� names were given them by the teachers). I gave him my name as Avapiti and he did not seem to have any problem accepting it as such. Apparently only Government teachers disliked Indian names.

Now that the newness of the experience had subsided somewhat, I began to notice more
details about my unusual companion. To begin with, he spoke differently than other
Whites I had known -- later on, he explained to me that he was a No Wee Jun, and came from a land far away. Also, he was not quite so old as I had first thought -- his hair was not actually white with time as I had assumed it to be; it was instead very pale yellow. Apparently people in the land of the No Wee Juns spoke a language all their own -- and many of them, he also told me later, had very pale hair as did he.

Many times during our walk, Peter would stop to turn over stones and capture whatever small creatures were there. After carefully looking them over, some he would return to the ground and some he would put into small containers he withdrew from his pack. Once we came upon the carcass of a coyote. The strange man shooed the buzzards away from it and began to pluck maggots from the stinking flesh with a pair of silver tweezers. These maggots he also put into small containers. It seemed as though his story of collecting insects was true -- I could not begin to imagine what he wanted with them, but kept my questions in check for the time being.

After we made camp that night, my curiousity got the better of me. The first thing I inquired was why he had hired me as a guide, as he didn�t seem to need one at all. I admit that I was somewhat fearful to ask this, thinking that perhaps he might take offense at the question and send me home. If he did take offense, it didn�t show. Peter explained that he traveled widely, collecting insects of all types, and that wherever he went he would pay one of the local inhabitants to accompany him. �It is a matter of courtesy,� he said. �Sometimes there are places a stranger should not go, or things which he should not do, out of respect to those who live there. I journey to too many places to learn all such rules of behavior, so I need someone from the area to let me know if I am about to do something wrong or disrespectful. Besides, I feel that as an uninvited guest in another�s land, I should show my gratitude to my hosts by helping them earn some money.�

As I said before -- a very unusual White man.

It turned out that we were heading towards the town of Santa Sofia -- about three days walk -- where Peter had a wagon and supplies waiting for the actual expedition. My primary capacity, it seemed, would be to drive the wagon while he walked ahead. Only on foot, he explained, was he able to pay enough attention to the insects he was hunting.

As things worked out, this position as �guide� was easy work. I would drive the wagon along at a slow pace while Peter poked about beside the road on his strange quest. Sometimes he would sweep a bag of fine, thin cloth through the dry weeds and sort out any insects that were scooped up in it; at other times he would poke about in the sand or gravel. His small containers filled up with more insects daily, so I assume he was having good hunting.

One night, Peter hung a white sheet from a gnarled mesquite bush and set up a lantern in
front of it. The night-flying insects, drawn to the light, would collect on the sheet and he
would pick out the ones he wanted. There were many of what he called tumblebugs -- the small brown beetles who always crawl around with their heads down. I explained to him why they did this -- long ago, Creator had given this beetle the task of arranging the stars in the night sky, but it had stumbled and dropped them halfway through the task. Ever since, the beetle�s children had hung their heads in shame. I pointed out the spot where he had spilled the stars -- Peter said that the Whites called it the Milky Way.

As we became better acquainted and more friendly, we learned much about each other. Peter explained that there was a large building in a big city where people such as himself displayed the things they collected. There were rooms full of the skins and bones of strange animals, rooms full of colorful rocks, rooms filled with the tools and grave goods of the Ancient Ones. The whole idea seemed a little foolish to me, but apparently he was well-paid for this foolishness -- we ate very well throughout the trip.

I had casually suggested the idea of journeying to the Great River (perhaps he would be
interested in collecting some water insects). Unfortunately, the distance was too far, which meant I had to figure out some other means of obtaining turtle shells. For the moment, I was eating well; when I returned to the pueblo with the food my silver dollars bought, we would eat well for a time longer. But one more year without bringing the rains and it wouldn�t matter -- no one in the pueblo would be eating at all. Somehow I knew that I had been chosen to solve this problem, and somehow I knew that the solution lay in this unusual journey I was on. Sometimes I pondered the situation so deeply that my head began to hurt, but still the answer eluded me.

The days passed. Peter�s containers filled with insects, and our supplies of food and water grew smaller. I knew that we were circling back to town and that I would soon be returning to the pueblo -- a hero for the moment, but a failure for the future. I knew how the tumblebug must have felt; perhaps my own children would someday hang their heads in reflection of my shame.