A Pueblo Story by Western

A Pueblo Story
by
� Western_Drifter

Page 2

There are different types of dreams. There are the dreams which one brings upon himself through worrying or deep thought, and are merely reflections of the same concious thoughts had while awake. There are dreams which are complete nonsense -- scraps of memories, and bits of foolishness, jumbled together meaninglessly. And then, there are those dreams which are messages from the Spirit World. Few people have this last sort of dream very often, and fewer still are able to recognize them for what they are. But that night, my dream was unmistakably a message.

I saw down the Path of Time, to where it split into two seperate trails. Both branches led
to the pueblo.... But so different they were. One path was rocky and dry, strewn with the
bones of lambs and the withered stalks of dead crops; the crying of hungry children was
borne on the wind. The other path was lush and green, and the sounds around it were happy ones -- laughter, and singing, and the grinding of corn. But the two paths twined together again and again, making it impossible for me to tell which fork in the road I should take. In the dream I stood for a very long time at the splitting of the Path, waiting for -- for what? I wasn�t sure. Then I saw the turtles. Living water turtles, their shells as wet and shiny as the the sacred shell rattles of the pueblo must once have been. They circled around me -- either they were swimming through the air or I was standing beneath the water; I don�t know which. Then the turtles became insects -- dragonflies, wasps,
butterflies of every color. Then I awoke. The campfire had died down to embers, and Peter was snoring soundly. I lay in my blankets for a few minutes more, replaying the dream in my mind, then drifted back to sleep. There were no more visions that night -- apparently I had been given all that I was going to get.

Peter rode beside me in the wagon during the last few miles of our return to Santa Sofia; I suppose he had collected all the insects he needed. We talked but little; I was busy trying to unlock the mystery of the dream message and Peter was writing in one of the many little books he always carried. Finally I broke the silence with a question that had been nagging at my mind -- and may have been an important part of the dream�s riddle.

�The large building you spoke of -- there are many people who collect the things to
display there?�. Peter looked up from his little book. One of the things I liked most about him was that he always answered any question put to him without inquiring why I had asked. �Well, there are about ten of us who collect most of the items, and maybe another twenty who prepare and sort them, and many more who study the items and make reports about them.�

�Are all of these people well paid for doing this?�

�Well, actually, most of us are paid very little -- some not at all. We do this because it is what we like to do.�

I had to think about this statement. When we had been buying the supplies for our trip, I had seen Peter giving many pieces of paper money to the shopkeepers without even trying to bargain over the prices of what he purchased -- odd behavior for someone who was paid �very little or not at all.� Up until that moment I had never doubted his honesty, but I found the situation very confusing now. He must have sensed my thoughts,
for he began to speak again.

�My father was a prosperous man, � he said. �He owned a great many ships -- very large boats -- which traveled the waters of the world.� I remembered hearing of such things in school. One of the teachers had shown us what she said was a picture of the entire Earth -- the parts representing dry ground were colored brown and green, and the parts representing water were blue. There had been a great amount of blue in the picture, and I had marveled at the idea of so much water. �Some of the ships traveled to places where certain items could be obtained at low cost, then brought these items to other places
where they sold for high prices. Some of the ships would find and kill huge water animals
called whales. The flesh of the whales is boiled down for oil, and the oil is very valuable.�
I had also heard of whales at the school -- one such creature had swallowed a man named Joe Nah and later spat him out upon the shore. �When my father died, all of these ships and goods became mine -- but I didn�t want them. I sold it all. The money I received has been more than enough to meet my needs for the rest of my life.� He paused a moment, and when he spoke again he seemed to be speaking to himself as much as he was to me. �Some men can make money their servant -- send it out to work for them and turn itself into more money. My father was such a man. Other men are not like this, and if they
tried to do the same thing --� he sighed -- �they would become the servant to the money, and waste their lives attempting to do its bidding. I am one of those men. �

I�ll repeat it once again -- a very strange White man indeed. All of them which I had met up until that time had thought more of money than of anything else imaginable.

When we reached the town of Santa Sofia, Peter had me drive the wagon back to the large shop where we had bought most of our supplies. I assumed he was going to restock for his trip back to wherever he needed to bring his insects, and I thought perhaps I might do my own shopping there as well. I now had TEN silver dollars, for he had paid me another five upon our arrival. I had never even conceived of having so much money before, and the impulse to just go in and start buying whatever caught my eye was almost
overpowering. However, I held myself in check and calmly strolled through the store,
looking over the merchandise as though it were an everyday event for me to be there. Peter, meanwhile, had the storekeeper and his assistant loading the wagon to its full capacity. He bought sacks of flour and sugar and coffee; cases of tinned fruits; sides of bacon packed in barrels of salt. I was thinking that it must be a long journey home for him to require so much food, and then I began to worry that there would be nothing left for ME to buy. I could always go to the trading post closer to home, of course, but the old man who ran it would probably charge me higher prices.

I planned to respectfully wait until Peter had finished his buying before I did any of my own (besides, the storekeepers were busy). Finally, he was finished -- the wagon was so loaded down with supplies that the axles were groaning. When the last sack of flour had been piled into the wagonbed, I turned to go inside the store, but Peter�s hand on my shoulder stopped me.

�You have a long drive ahead of you, Avapiti. You had better get in your wagon and be headed for home.�

For a moment I didn�t comprehend the situation; even after I realized what was happening I found it hard to believe. Little more than a week ago, I hadn�t even been aware of this man�s existence -- now he seemed to be a major figure in my destiny. This was turning out to be like one of the stories which the elders tell. Often, in such stories, great fortune is bestowed upon a person -- or an entire people -- through a strange turn of events. Usually it turns out that some seemingly ordinary object or creature has actually been sent by the spirit world. I had heard tales of this spirit messenger taking the form of a coyote, an eagle, a spider, even a piece of turquoise. Now it seemed that such things could also take the form of an odd White man who cared more for insects than for money. A decidely strange variation on the tales.

�So much food....You knew that my pueblo was having hard times.� Peter seemed somewhat embarassed by the gratitude my face must have shown. This, again, was quite unlike any of the Whites I had had previous dealings with. �But the wagon and the mules? Where do I return them?�

�Well, I�m taking the train back East, so I don�t need them. Surely they can be of some use to your community? If not, sell them at the trading post. I�d do it myself, but haven�t the time.� He paused for a moment. �Consider this as fair payment to your people for allowing me to travel freely through their land. But I would also like to give you, yourself, something. Something special, in gratitude for your pleasant company this past week. Maybe there is something not available here, that I could send you from the city?�

Never before in my life had I been a greedy or selfish person -- of course, that was partly because I had never really been given the opportunity to do so. Now, it seemed, that opportunity had finally arrived. I was sure that this man would send me anything I asked for, and my mind swam with possibilities. I could ask for a riding horse -- a magnificent stallion that would run like the wind. And a fine silver-mounted saddle to go with it. Or I could request an expensive hunting rifle of the type that could drop an antelope from far across the plains. Or bolts of bright cloth and shiny ribbons to give to the pretty girls -- let�s see cousin Agopo compete with THAT! But, in the end, my dreams of personal glory took second place to the needs of the pueblo. �Could you possibly send me...� I
managed to choke back the requests for the horse and the rifle and the bolts of bright fabric. �....some turtle shells?�

�Turtle shells.� As was his manner, he did not seem surprised by anything I said; he simply accepted it. �Any particular sort of turtle shells?�

�Yes, they must be from water turtles. Not land turtles. This is very important.�

�Very well, my friend -- some turtle shells. Some WATER turtle shells. I�ll send them to you in care of the trading post.�

It was all clear to me now. Peter was, indeed, sent by the spirit world. This final conversation had been a test of sorts -- a trial of my own worthiness, with the very life of the pueblo at stake. I could have been greedy, and destroyed my own people for the sake of my childish vanity; or I could have made the right choice and become, in the long run, the hero I dreamed of being. At that moment, I realized all of this. I had never before felt so proud of myself (nor so relieved). We would eat for today, with the food in the wagon. AND we would eat for tomorrow, with the crops -- brought by the rains -- brought by the turtle shells -- sent by Peter -- because of Avapiti. My descendants would not need to hang their heads in shame after all.

As I had hopefully expected, I was the hero of the moment upon my return. There was feasting and laughter, as there had been in the old days before the drought. I had not yet mentioned to anyone that there would soon be turtle shells with which to make the sacred rattles. In a way, I suppose that this was somewhat selfish of me -- I wanted to enjoy being an unexpected hero a second time when the shells arrived. But also, it was because I still felt the smallest bit of concern that something may go wrong. I understood that anything sent through the mail must pass through many hands before it reaches those for
which it was intended, and there was always the chance of a problem somewhere along the line.

Although the overall mood of the pueblo was now one of general contentment, there were two notable exceptions. One was the cacique -- of necessity, he tended to think farther into the future than did the average person; he was still concerned about the drought. I had heard that, during my absence, he had been experimenting with alternate methods of contacting the spirit world. Our neighbors in the pueblo to the West used live rattlesnakes in their Dance to Bring the Rains; those to the East would raise a baby eagle and release it as a sacred messenger when planting time arrived. Our cacique was looking into these as possibilities.

The other who was not particularly happy with the situation was my cousin Agopo. Throughout our lives together, he had bested me at everything -- he was always the smarter, the stronger, the luckier. Now I had finally outshone him, and the change was not at all to his liking. At first he had tried to belittle the provisions I had brought back, saying that they must have been spoiled or tainted, and the Whites had thrown them out as garbage. When proven wrong about this, he sulked.

One day he tried to provoke me into a fight while we were in the company of some pretty girls. He had said that no White man would possibly be so generous to an Indian boy merely for guide services -- then he implied that I must have been used like a woman to earn such high wages. For a second the blood rushed to my face in violent anger, then, just as quickly, it subsided. Rather than anger, I felt only pity for him (but not so much pity that I didn�t laugh in his face).

Finally, the package came. One of the men who had gone to the trading post on business had brought it back with him. I think I was the last to learn of its arrival -- on his way to the home of my mother and myself, a crowd had gathered and fallen in beside him. This was understandable -- a package from an Eastern city was not a common occurance. I was somewhat surprised at the size of it. Even when all of the sacred rattles had been fully functional, there had been only sixteen of them; a package as large as this one could have held fifty turtle shells. Of course, no one else had any inkling as to what may be inside. Every eye in the pueblo was on me as I took possession of the box, and I knew they were anxiously waiting for me to open it.

�I must take this to the cacique�, I said with as solemn a tone as I could muster. My face was aching from supressing the grin it wanted to wear, but I felt that I should conduct this occasion with the proper dignified bearing. Everyone followed as I bore the huge package
to the cacique�s dwelling place, and I heard many whispers as guesses were made as to it contents.

The cacique of a pueblo is an important figure. Outsiders frequently refer to him as the
�medicine man�, but this is not exactly the role he fills -- he is not actually a shaman, nor a
prophet, nor a caster of spells and curses. I suppose the closest equivalent term for the
cacique would be �high priest�. He is the guardian of our traditional rites and ceremonies,
as well as the innovator who introduces new variations in them when he feels it necessary.
The recent drought had been an example of this, as he tried to find a way to bring the rains
without using turtle shells.

Our cacique had been alerted to something unusual going on by the noise of the crowd
approaching, and he was waiting outside his door when I arrived with the box. The
murmuring of my �followers� became a respectful silence. �Cacique,� I began (my voice
cracked just slightly with the excitement) �This package, though it bears my name on it,
belongs in your hands.� I could feel the excitement of the crowd behind me like the
warmth of the sun on my back. This was truly my finest hour, even better than the day I
had arrived with the wagon full of food.

�Indeed?� The cacique replied. �Very well, then, Avapiti, let me have it.� I laid the box
before him and stepped back, sensing the crowd behind me stepping back as well. There
was silence in the afternoon heat as the cacique began to carefully untie the strings around
the package. He opened the box, removed some crumpled papers that had been put in as
padding.... Then he paused, staring at the contents. From where I stood, I couldn�t see
inside, but the expression on the old man�s face was not quite as I had expected. It
reflected surprise, to be sure -- but rather than the joyful surprise I had been waiting to
see, it was more like puzzlement. Had something gone wrong after all?

�It is...turtle shells, Cacique?� This time my voice cracked even more than before, and my
throat was dry.

�Yes, My Son. It is turtle shells.� Still the note of bewilderment.

�Many turtle shells?� I heard myself asking.

�There are two.�

A box that size for only two turtle shells? For a moment I thought that perhaps I was
being the victim of some odd practical joke. Then the cacique reached inside the box and
withdrew a turtle shell -- a turtle shell the size of a small child. The crowd behind me
broke into gasps of astonishment, and I know that I must have done so as well. Again he
reached into the box, and withdrew the second of the shells; it was nearly identical in size
to the first. No one, myself included, knew what to say. I heard a cicada buzz in the
distance -- odd how one remembers small details such as that.

�These must be the Great Mother and Great Father of all turtles,� the cacique announced.
�We cannot tie them to the legs of the dancers as we had done in the past with the children of these Great Turtles, but surely they will serve to bring the rains. Avapiti, you have done well to obtain these; now it is my responsibility to find out how to use them.�

Once again, I was the hero of the pueblo -- but once again, there had been an interesting
variation on what I had expected.

As the time for Spring planting grew near, the cacique began testing out the use of the huge turtle shells. The first attempt was carried out just as our traditional Dance to Bring the Rains had always been held; the only exception was the placement of the rattles. As these shells were much too large to be strapped to anyone�s legs, they were worn on the chests of two of the strongest dancers, much as a breastplate would be positioned. This did not seem to work, however. After more pondering on the situation, the cacique
decorated the shells with sacred eagle feathers and placed them on poles in the cornfields.

�One must be very careful when appealing to the Spirit World,� he had explained to me. �It is much like addressing one�s elders, you see. Speak too softly and they may not hear you; speak too loudly and they may take it as a sign of disrespect and punish you. It is a delicate situation.�

As the days went on, there seemed no relief in sight from the heat and the blazing sun; it was like a reenactment of the previous year. The cacique regularly attended to the shells in the fields; blessing them with sacred cornmeal and dampening them now and then so they wouldn�t dry out and split in the sun. It seemed to me that this was having no effect; but of course I held my tongue in deference to the cacique.

The answer came to me in yet another dream, and this time I had little difficulty in interpreting the meaning. This particular vision took the form of a sort of history of our people, played out in scenes of the past. I saw our distant ancestors in Mexico, when we were a part of the great Empire of Montezuma: at that time, the Spirit World was appeased by blood -- the ritual sacrifice of human beings on the Altar of the Sun. In later years, the sacrifice was one of wealth; finely-crafted objects of gold and jade were tossed into sacred wells. I saw our people migrating northwards, to a land where gold and jade were in short supply; we then used other things for sacrificial goods -- corn, venison, the
tanned pelts of fur-bearing animals. Then, one year, the cacique of that time had experienced a vision in which he was told to collect turtle shells from the river, and given the instructions for conducting the Dance to Bring the Rains. This had been our ceremony from that time on.

The important aspect of the situation was this: that past cacique had, at the time of making those first shell rattles, held a personal sacrifice of his own. After harvesting the turtles, he had given back to the river everything he had -- all of his possessions were tossed into the waters in supplication. This was the key, I realised. When whoever had harvested the shells of our Great Mother and Father Turtles had done so, there had been no sacrifice to activate their power.

The following night I wandered off from the pueblo, to the canyon which the elders called The Edge of the World. I knew that somewhere beyond this huge cleft in the Earth lay the Great Waters I had heard of -- and I also knew, somehow, that that was where the giant turtles must have come from. This was as close as I could get to their homeland.

I was ready to make the sacrifice. I had fasted that day, and washed my hair and body with the purifying amole root. Now I reached into my carrying pouch and withdrew the ten silver dollars I had been given by Peter -- the silver dollars I had saved all of these months, the silver dollars I had fondled and recounted many a quiet night, dreaming of what they might buy me in the future....

One at a time, I tossed them into the canyon with all of my strength. With each throw I offered a small prayer to the Spirit World, asking that my sacrifice be accepted. Like all boys, I had thrown many rocks in my lifetime, sometimes to bag a rabbit or ground squirrel; sometimes just for practice. But none of those stones, no matter how large, had seemed as heavy or as difficult to toss as were my silver dollars. Yet I managed to throw them, all ten, into the dark void before me. I wondered what would become of them. Would they vanish into the Spirit World? Would they hit the bottom of the canyon and roll into crevices in the rocks? Perhaps they would be found by pack rats, which loved to gather shiny objects, and be carried off into their dens. Or just maybe, days or years or centuries from now, someone else would find them and marvel at how they came to be there.

Parting with my silver coins had seemed to drain me of my strength. It had been a hard thing for me to do -- but, then, had it been easy, it wouldn�t have been a sacrifice. I offered one last prayer into the darkness, then turned to walk back to the pueblo. In the distance, I heard the sound of thunder.