was an affinity between men. And Shining Moon was proud, but also a little bewildered. Never again in his life would he feel not needed but would always know he was a part of the chain. A small link that was mankind. From that day forward he was no longer a child, but a man. A man strong and unafraid of the world. But he would never return to the rock. It would never be the same. He would still at times look at the spiral from a distance and be able to retrace the strange faces and images of the ancients and see the horse he had etched upon the stone.
As the sun set, Shining Moon dismounted from his horse. It was still warm but one could feel the touches of fall approaching. Shining Moon gathered enough wood for the evening and then started the fire. The fire flaming, he took out the spear point. Over the past five days the rough obsidian had now become a 6-inch point, the first cuts being taken to form the center line sloping to each side and the point. Now he could take small chips bringing the edge of the point to razor sharpness. With each day the point became more and more a thing of wonder. Even to Shining Moon, he did not understand how he could have created such a beautiful point, although he knew it was love that guided his hand.
When at times during the day he would stop his pony, he would take from his pouch the point and hold it up to the sun. With the sun rays the point seemed to come alive and dance in his fingers. He could see the flowing dress and hair of his love. Inside the point he could feel the beat of her heart and the warmth of her breast, naked against his chest. Inside the point lay the seed to their children and the desires of his passion. And always after he put the point back into his pouch, he did not yearn for Flying Bird but felt her around him, her eyes guiding him and watching over him in all things that he did.
Shining Moon looked closely at the point and smiled, and then he took it and began chipping carefully on the edge. Soon in a few days it would be finished, and then he would take his drill and drill a hole though the end of the point. Through this hole he could put a thong, and Flying Bird could hang the point from her waist. Around him the night grew dark and the stars emerged bright and shiny and timeless. And for Shining Moon there was no time, no darkness, just the earth and the night and the feeling of warmth that came upon is heart.
In the morning Shining Moon once again mounted his pony and started his zigzag pattern back towards the people. It was a glorious day. On the horizon two hawks rode the updrafts for hours, looking for the scurrying rabbits or ground squirrels, and all around Shining Moon was peace and contentment.
CHAPTER 4
THE FLEETING
After a full day’s traveling, the Chief Black Bison knew his people were tired, but he also knew they dare not stop. The enemy would have found the abandoned pueblo by now and would drive their ponies on trying to catch up with the slow moving people. Black Bison was a good man and had been a good leader.
But after many years, Black Bison was growing tired. There had been so many things he had missed in his life. There was never time to sit and enjoy his children or his wife. His life must be the people. There was always some dispute or danger, some decision, filling his mind. If it was not the medicine men with their dreams and incantations, it was some man wanting another man’s wife. If it was not passion or hate it was the weather or a bad harvest. It seemed there was always something. It was a curse to be the leader. A curse to have to make the decisions.
Over the past several years Black Bison had wanted deep in his heart to take his wife and ride out into the wilderness. Out, away from the people, and build himself a small home. A home he would never have to leave. A home on some mesa top where he could stand during the day and look out upon the earth in peace. There had truly never been peace in his life.
When he was a young boy, the Spaniards had come into the land. A cold, greedy people. A people who did not understand the people or their ways. A people who only wanted to take from the earth and never return anything. Life for them was to conquer and die. To die so they could go to some heaven in the sky. Life to Black Bison was to live to see the sun and smell the rain, to make love to his wife and play with his children. But there had been so many battles. So many raids on the Spanish, so much hatred and revenge and so much fear until the Spaniards were driven from the land.
Whenever it seemed there would be peace once again, there would be danger. Not danger from the Spaniards but danger from the southern Indians. Indians unlike his people — these were cold-hearted marauding people, people who took what they needed from weaker peoples. Man was such a strange creature. Unable to live and let live. Always desiring, always hating, always wanting. It seemed there was no end. It was almost a shame to bring people into the world now. It was not like his grandfather told him the world used to be like. It was not a good place.
Black Bison looked from his pony at the procession of his people. There were ninety women, thirty-two children, twenty-nine old people, and over 100 warriors. Out still scouting were over twenty other warriors. Looking at his people plodding through the dry crust of the earth, Black Bison could not help but feel what would another man want with these people? Cannot we just live in peace with the earth?
Black Bison knew the people wanted to rest. He knew the horses were tired and hungry, but they must push on. Soon they would be in the canyon and the people could rest while the warriors took shifts watching and preparing for the battle. They would build fortifications across the mouth of the canyon and hope the gods were with them. He knew even the women would have to fight and the young boys. They were no match against the 200 warriors in the open, but cornered they would fight, fight to the death every man, woman and child if necessary before they would be slaves to any man.
Black Bison’s father had been a great chief. A good chief. And when Black Bison was young, his father had never bothered him with what would be his destiny. He was shown no special treatment or care, but was allowed to play with the other boys of the tribe. It was only when he was twelve years old his father took him outside one day to the top of the gently sloping ridge above the tribe and pointing, he spoke.
“All you see will be yours. The heart and souls of all the men and women and children will weigh on your back. For them you must live and breathe. From the day that I die you will never be able to love only one woman, for you must love them all. All children will be yours. The future of our people will be your decision and your decisions will become great burdens on your heart.”
And from this day forward, Black Bison was taken from the other boys and kept with his father at all times. He sat in council meetings, he listened to the medicine men. He listened to his father make decisions, and he grew to learn the respect and power his father held, and he knew that one day it would also be his. But he also began to feel the segregation from the other people of the tribe. He was different. He was to be chief.
While Black Bison rode in his thoughts, six braves who had found each other in their search for danger caught up with the tribe. They had ridden around the invaders. It would be very close to see if the people would make the canyon. Black Bison chose fifteen warriors who would remain behind and try to slow up the enemy, hoping it would give the tribe just enough time to make the canyon. Each of the young men knew he would die, and Black Bison looking at them could not but feel a great sadness in his heart. They were so very young, so full of life and joy. Looking into their faces he saw strength and pride, and he thought to himself how many children would these brave men have brought into the world. How many great things could they have done. It was such a waste, such a deep sorrow. As the tribe moved on, the women began a low deep wail, knowing that blood from the people would spill onto the earth. And the wail would not stop until the tribe reached the box canyon.
As the tribe disappeared from the sight of the fifteen, one of the warriors began to dance and yelp a song: “I who am chosen to die, will die with the blood of many enemies.” Soon the others were dancing and each in his words and thoughts made peace with the world and prepared to face the enemy and die brave and proud.
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