Tanayia

  Tanayia

  (Whisper upon the Water)

  Native American/ First People Series

  By Connie Vines

  Digital ISBNs

  EPUB 978-0-2286-0006-0

  Kindle 978-0-2286-0007-7

  PDF 978-0-2286-0008-4

  Print ISBN 978-0-2286-0009-1

  Amazon Print 978-0-2286-0010-7

  2nd Edition Copyright 2017 by Connie Vines

  Cover Art by Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Acknowledgements

  Mr. Larry Sellers (Cloud-Dancing, “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman), Lakota Sioux, who shared childhood memories and experiences when, at the age of five, speaking only Lakota, he was sent off-reservation to a Native American boarding school to be educated. His words of encouragement and of my duty, as a Storyteller, helped give this story life.

  The staff and students of Sherman Indian Boarding School, Riverside, California, USA.

  To Tribal Elders: Barbara Drake, Jacques (Maka-Tal-Meh) Condor, and Linda Baguley. Friends who generously gave the gift of their time to both encourage me and make certain my ‘native voice’ remained strong.

  To the co-members of “The Parent Advisory Council”, San Bernardino County, Title IX and Title X Indian Educations Programs dedicated to teaching our children and others about Native American heritage through public school programs.

  And, to the members of the Tribal Council, for honoring me with “A Lifetime Achievement Award” for my work on behalf of Native American Children.

  Prologue

  1868

  The Governor of New Mexico decreed that all Indian children over six to be educated in the ways of the white man.

  Indian Commissioner, Thomas Morgan, said: It was cheaper to educate the Indians than to kill them.

  1880, Apacheria, Season of Ripened Berries

  Isolated bands of colored clay on white limestone remained where the sagebrush was stripped from Mother Earth by sudden storms and surface waters. Desolate. Bleak. A land made of barren rocks and twisted paths that reached out into the silence.

  A world of hunger and hardship. This is my world. I am Tanayia. I was born thirteen winters ago. My people and I call ourselves “Nde” this means “The People”. The white man calls us Apache.

  Chapter 1

  Only a soft light from the east lit the dirt path when I rose from my blanket and dressed in my favorite buckskin outfit and moccasins. After combing my hair, I stepped from my lodge and walked to the center of camp. Women from neighboring Apache bands, dressed in their best clothing, squatted around their campfires, patting tortillas and fry bread. My relations traveled great distances to share my coming of age ceremony. I was proud. I smiled and called out greetings.

  “Many blessings, my child,” they replied, as I passed.

  The sharp scent of crisp dough and the bitter scent of acorn stew floated on the cool air. My stomach grumbled in hunger. Large feasts, such as the one my people prepared today, were no longer common. Grandmother, however, remembered the long-ago days when her band feasted at each change of season. She told me stories of times when food was plentiful. It was not so today.

  I had not tasted beef or deer since my friend Yellow-Bird’s ceremony. My stomach rumbled again and I quickened my steps. Hours would pass before the next meal and I tried not to think of the tender meat roasting on the open fire, or the sweet cakes baking under the ash covered pit.

  Suddenly, Yellow-Bird called out, “Tanayia.” As she ran, her long red dress flapped against her leggings. “Wait! I will walk with you.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “I welcome your company.”

  I forced my thoughts back to the Ceremony. Now the Medicine Man, the Singers, and the Drummers were gathered at the river. My hands trembled and my knees were uncertain as I neared the clearing. I stared at the beadwork on the shirt Yellow-Bird had given me. The glass beads winked yellow, blue, and red in the soft camp light and hot tears stung my eyes. The sage-brush fire burned and their sweet fragrance filled the air.

  It was time, I realized. It was this day I became a woman. As I looked around, my heart filled with joy.

  Most of the camp had moved up the river for the ceremony. The older apache sat upon their blankets. Little children peeped from rabbit-skin blankets, their soft laughter ringing through the air.

  The fringe on my buckskin dress brushed against the top of my moccasins. I felt soft earth under my feet and the heavy sound of drumming reached my ears.

  My aunt came to stand beside me, her heavily lined face a map of her many years. “Place the top Yellow-Bird made for you over your dress,” my aunt urged. “The Medicine Man is near. Hurry.”

  I felt the motion of the music flow over me, as she fitted the top over my head and brushed the soft skin over my dress. Three rows of bright beadwork were stitched along the yoke of the top under which narrow fringes were tied along the yoke. These fringes reached almost to my waist. At the bottom of each piece for fringe was fastened a small, thin cone shaped piece of tin. These pieces of tin brushed against one another as I moved, making a soft sound like a gentle spring breeze. My people know this will help ward off misfortune in times to come.

  “The Sunrise Ceremony is of great importance,” my aunt reminded me. She fastened an eagle feather on my head, its dark tip toward Mother Earth. “The dance promises that you will be strong and live to an old age. The feather of the eagle will help you live until your hair turns gray.”

  She fastened an abalone shell pendant upon my forehead, the sign of Changing Woman, mother of the Nde people.

  I knew the most important thing my grandmother would do during the ceremony would be to massage my body. During this time, she would give me all her knowledge. My eyes filled with tears as I looked at my aunt, for I knew her thoughts, felt her sorrow. My mother did not have this sacred ceremony and she had died long before her long black hair was woven with silver.

  I felt sad, but I drew strength in the knowledge, my mother would have rejoiced in this day.

  My aunt smiled, her mouth wide with pride. “Now you will dance. You will dance not as a child, but as a woman.”

  I swallowed. “Yes,” I replied softly.

  I flexed by knees and fitted my movement precisely to the beat of the drums. There were three hard beats, and I knew I must make a slight bow and take small, mincing steps to the center of the dance ground. I swayed from side-to-side in time to the singing and drumming and stared into the sun. This symbolized the impregnation of White Painted Woman by Sun Father. Currents of heat warmed my face from the orange sunrise. I heard the faint rustle of leaves and I smiled. Soon would come the true test. Now was the time I must run to greet the sun.

  One of the elders moved to the rise of the hill where he jabbed the base of a wooden staff firmly into Mother Earth. The staff stood sure, its bright wood a contrast against the hillside’s blue-gray sage and new green grass. This is my sacred cane. One that was carved and blessed before grandfather adorned the yellow wood with quail feathers and metal bells. This cane is one that I will keep with me my entire life. A strong staff used for walking while I’m in my youth, and a sturdy friend to support me in my old age.

  “Now!” my aunt said rushing to my side. “Now run as fast as you can around the sacred cane. Run so fast that evil will never catch you. Run, my child. Run!”

  I ran. My steps fast and sure as I ran toward the sun. My heart and my ears pounded to each dr
um beat. I climbed the hill and each breath I took burned my chest and my throat tasted of copper.

  My aunt, in a yellow calico trade-cloth dress, joined the run as I reached the last rise of the hill. She fell into step behind me. Soon my grandmother also ran behind me.

  Suddenly, the rain began, soft, uncertain drops at first. Then harder, until I heard the sound of rain drops hitting the earth. And my dress, which weighed ten pounds, got heavier and heavier. I lifted my skirt, and was surprised I didn’t fall. Still I ran. My feet beating lightly against the soft ground, the leather fringe of my dress slapping against my arms. I ran. I did not tire.

  When the run was complete, I noticed the rain had stopped and the heat of sunlight was once again upon my face.

  Painted hides were tossed on the ground and I lay down upon my stomach. My aunt sat down beside me.

  A singer raised his shaker gourd high in the air and brought the song to an end with a sound that was like rushing water.

  My aunt kneaded my skin. I felt the hardness of Mother Earth against my body. The sharp scent of pinon and dust filled my nostrils. My aunt’s hands rubbed my shoulders in firm strokes. The movements were repeated until she reached the bottoms of my feet. In this way I was molded into perfect womanhood.

  The music began again. The soft, even tempo of the gourds, the hard throb of the drum, and the sweet light whistle of my uncle’s wood flute filled the air.

  Grandmother sat down upon the hides. “It is time to mold your future life,” she said, touching my head and repeating a soft prayer. Then she, too, molded my flesh.

  To me it seemed as if only moments passed. But the sun was high overhead and I knew the ceremony was over for today.

  “It is time to rest and prepare for the afternoon feasting.” My aunt told me, as she helped me to stand. “Later you will help carry the food to the Medicine Man’s camp for blessing.”

  I nodded and followed her back to camp.

  “We have much to do before tomorrow,” she said.

  Tomorrow I would become as the first mother on earth, White Painted Woman. I was afraid to say the words out loud, fearful of offending the Mountain Spirits.

  Instead, I cleared my throat and said, “The medicine man arrived three days past and he is making the brush shelter.” I kept my fear from my voice and my aunt glanced at me. She did not say a word. We both knew this was the most dangerous part of the ceremony of becoming a woman.

  “Grandmother made my dress during the time of falling leaves,” I told my aunt. I was not permitted to see my dress but I knew it was made of the softest buckskin and dyed yellow, the color of pollen. Sacred symbols, symbols that the wise woman knew would protect me during life, were painted on my dress. And it was now four days that Old Woman had sang over my dress, praying for my safe passage.

  “It is a beautiful dress. For this is a sacred ceremony. Tomorrow you will have all the powers of White Painted Woman. Remember our people will come to you for blessings and good luck. This will be the most important day of your life.”

  I nodded. Grandmother had instructed me to be patient. I knew I would sit in the wickiup I had made. I must be wise and keep my own counsel. I bit my lower lip, suddenly uncertain of the task before me.

  “You will do well, Tanayia,” she said, a twinkle in her dark eyes. “White-Eagle completed his fourth raid, did he not? Your Grandfather talks of past hunts with White-Eagle. This is a good sign.”

  I nodded and glanced at the ground, a rush of heat moving up my neck to my face. My aunt knew I had eyes only for White-Eagle, but I had not seen him in two winters. I worried he would no longer want me for his bride.

  “Do not worry so, child,” she said, guessing my thoughts.

  I gazed at her heavily lined face. Her dark eyes were filled with pride and with love for me. My throat tightened with emotion and I wished I could tell my aunt how much she and Grandmother meant to me.

  My aunt brushed her calloused fingertips along my cheek. “There are no dark thoughts today—today is only to be filled with joy. We must hurry or we will miss the feast.”

  I smiled back. Both my aunt and I knew no man would call me a beauty. But I was pleasant looking and my voice sounded like a gentle bird’s morning song. And for White-Eagle, this was enough. Tomorrow, I realized, as my heart thrummed in excitement, I would be honored as White Painted Woman. I would claim my place among my people. The Gahn—Crown Dancers—would paint me with corn-and-water paste. This paste would dry in the sunlight and I would appear to be covered with clay. The Gahns would bless me with sacred corn pollen.

  I would be a woman.

  My mind focused on the next day as I went into my lodge to prepare for the feast. The fire had died down to only white-hot embers. Reaching for some twigs I stirred the coals and added a small branch to the fire. I glanced around my home, taking in the familiar objects. Grandmother’s cooking pots, neatly tied bundles of cooking herbs hung from a wooden ladder. I inhaled the sweet-heavy fragrance of sage and sweet grass. I reached for grandfather’s bow and quiver. Running my fingertips over the worn wood handle of the bow, I was filled with sadness. How many times had I sat before this fire and listened to grandfather’s stories as he oiled or retied his bow? Soon, I knew, my life would be very different.

  Tomorrow’s daylight would bring the Gahns—I knew their powers would protect me from evil. Yet, I still feared their presence.

  The Gahns traveled between the places of the Mountain Spirits where the Life Giver lived to where the Nde lived. The Mountain Spirits are protectors of the game animals, the horned animals. The Gahns, I knew, were holy men dressed in long buckskin shirts, high moccasins and black hoods under their carved headdresses. Their mortal legs and arms were covered with a white mixture and painted with sacred symbols. Sometimes deer antlers, a bear, or lightening were painted by the medicine man. They would howl and coo as they approached me, tipping their tall headdresses as they jumped, sidestepped, and turned in time to the singers and drummer.

  I thought I would rest a while. My body was tired from the long run and many hours in the hot sun made me sleepy.

  I snuggled into my blanket and closed my eyes. I would think of the Gahns later. Soon grandmother would wake me and I would join the feast.

  It was not grandmother’s voice that awakened me later that afternoon, but several loud, harsh sounds. It sounded like the cracking of tree limbs under the heavy weight of snow.

  Women were screaming. Babies were crying.

  I jumped from lodge and ran outside.

  People were running about, women holding babies to their breasts, trying to protect them from harm. Warriors gathered what weapons they could. Suddenly, the air was filled with dirt and dust and flying bullets. I clutched the side of my wickiup and stared, too shocked to move.

  “Get down!” Grandfather shouted at me.

  I dropped to my knees. What was happening, where was my aunt, my grandmother?

  I was terrified, more afraid that I’d ever been in my life. This is a time of celebration, my mind shouted, but I could not make a sound.

  Albuquerque Register

  At the close of battle 35 Indians lay on the ground with their bows and quivers still clutched in their hands.

  The Revolutionaries left no survivors in camp.

  Chapter 2

  Men in light clothing—uniforms grandfather called them, were inside our encampment. I watched as our camp was overrun by men riding large horses. Grey Bear, our bravest warrior, grabbed a large branch from the ground and swung at one of the riders. His aim was true and he unseated the rider. The man fell to the ground and Grey Bear was upon him, his hunting knife at the man’s throat. Soon three other warriors followed Grey Bear’s lead.

  I crept toward the center of our camp, where my grandfather gathered the young children together. I knew he intended to get the children to the water where they could hide under the cattails and breathe through hollow reeds. We had done this once many winters ago, when I was small, duri
ng the time the white soldiers came. I knew Grandfather needed my help, he could not move so many children unaided.

  Bending low, I hurried along the edge of the camp. Hidden by a thick covering of brush, I circled the area. Dry needles of cactus scratched my face and several needles lodged in my left leg, but I hardly noticed. I was within a stone’s throw from my grandfather. At that moment, I heard the heavy beat of horses’ hooves. Glancing over my shoulder I saw three riders race from the protection of a cluster of tall trees. Before I had time to run, they were upon me.

  I shouted at them to let me go.

  They yelled back, their voices filled with hate. They closed the circle around me. Their wild cries sent fear racing down my spine.

  Gathering my skirt to my legs, I readied myself. Gauging the point of weakness, a brief space between their horses, I made for my escape. Every time I tried to dodge away, a horse was there to nudge me back toward the center of the circle.

  Flashing hooves and leering faces filled my vision. My heart pounded in fear and the bitter taste of terror filled my throat.

  I whirled and darted between the horses, bumping against their lathered sides. The harsh, labored breathing of the animal filled my ears, and the smell of animal sweat and my own fear filled the air.

  Again, and again I tried to escape and was blocked. I ran and tried to break through the circle until I could only stand and gasp for breath.

  All at once stark stillness filled the air, and an icy weight of hopelessness fell upon me. Glancing toward camp, I watched Grey Bear fall to the ground; his head split open by a blow from a rifle butt. Then Rides-on-Thunder fell beside him.