A Change in the Wind: Un Cambio En El Viento

Mama.

NIÑO SIN NOMBRE

Child Without a Name

Date 1680…thirty-eight years later…Francisco de Anaya II.

he cricket was serenading its mate from inside the blue-gray and yellow chamisa bush, then stopped abruptly when a horseman galloped too near his private sanctuary. It was an early Saturday morning when Francisco arrived outside Santa Clara Pueblo. His horse’s hooves raised dust as it trekked along the ancient mesa floor. The soldier was remembering a Sunday years ago when, just a few leagues from Santa Clara, a giant of an Indian with a long whip had chased four young boys into the mission church of San Felipe Pueblo. A grin appeared across his face as he recalled how scared he had been, and how his brother Cristobal and their friend Domingo had saved his life when he tripped and fell in the cornfield.

He dismounted and walked up to the small, but cozy looking adobe house. A stalk of Bara de San Jose was blooming next to the front door greeting visitors with its gay pink blossoms. Francisco knocked and waited. Soon a beautiful Indian girl answered and smiled shyly at him. He bowed, removed his hat and walked in.

Bartolomé, who had been sitting on the little house’s dirt floor, stood up and rushed over to welcome his old friend. "Bien Venido, Amigo," he said in a deep voice. Francisco’s Indian friend spoke perfect Spanish. He had known Francisco since childhood, and Francisco had been his only real friend as a youth.

"Yá'át'ééh," Francisco responded. The Navajo term was used commonly as an intertribal greeting and brought a grin to his friend’s face. A grunt came from a different voice in the room. Another man, who had been sitting on a rug in the corner of the room’s dirt floor, got up. As he stood, Francisco could not help but be impressed by the gray-haired Goliath. The six-foot tall figure had frame and obvious features so unlike those of the Indians he professed himself to be.

As he walked over toward the two, the charcoal-complexioned man exuded an air of dominance which automatically put one on his guard…an aura that demanded fear and respect. And yet, Francisco knew the man before him preferred to work his will through devious ways.

Paco, the dark muscular man said with a reluctant nod.

Domingo, Francisco returned the half-greeting.

Domingo had also been a childhood friend, but he had become very cold and, unlike his brother Bartolomé, Domingo was proud and haughty. He had changed drastically from the boy who had been Cristobal's close friend. Cristobal had moved south, and then Domingo moved farther north to Taos Pueblo after he and Cristobal had had a parting of the ways. When Domingo’s personality began to change, their friendship dried up like the desert around them.

Domingo turned toward Bartolomé and said something in their native tongue. "Kumə?" he asked. Bartolomé looked back at his brother and gave him a disconcerted look, then answered him with what Francisco knew to be a definitely angry tone. Domingo glared austerely at him…and then at Francisco. Without saying another word, he stormed out.

Francisco had watched the boys grow up to be two distinctly different individuals, one who he would love as a brother and the other who he would never trust.

The woman who stood quietly watching everything, walked over to Francisco and Bartolomé with two cups of hot atole, a watery blue cornmeal mush. Francisco took one of the cups, bowed to her again and she smiled back. The simple courtesy of bowing was rarely bestowed by any Spaniard on an Indian and the young woman felt greatly honored.

I came as soon as I received your message, Francisco told his old friend. Where is he?

The girl walked over to the opposite corner of the room where bundles of rags and a sheepskin lay spread out on the floor. She knelt and picked up a tiny brown infant, cradled it in her arms, then walked back to a grinning Bartolomé and handed him the baby.

Congratulations, my friend! Francisco said with a great smile. He looks like a fine boy. The lad will be strong like his Papa and smart like his Mama, he teased, as he glanced at the young woman who blushed. What does Domingo think of the boy?

Bartolomé’s smile instantly vanished. He came to see if the boy had inherited our father’s ‘attributes,’ but he was very disappointed when he saw him, he said making a frown. I told him I did not have a child for his pleasure, nor did my son need his approval.

Francisco knew that by attributes, Bartolomé meant color. Their father had been coal black.

My brother, Bartolomé continued, …is a madman and he frightens my little flower, he said as he looked over to his young wife. The others of the pueblo seem to feel some sort of adulation for him. When we were small they had nothing to do with us, but now his ruthlessness and cunning are seen by them as signs of distinction. Some have even chosen to see him as a god…and the sad thing is he is beginning to think that of himself too. I do not know what happened to him to become so bitter and angry, but I have lost all respect for him. He believes the Spaniard is a tyrant, and yet, he has become one himself.

"Heem'e…Enough of that," he said no longer wanting to talk about his brother. He waved his hand as if brushing off a pesky fly from his face.

I am glad you came, for we have been talking about you, he said nodding toward his wife.

Oh? Francisco replied. And, what were you saying about me?

We would like you to be godfather to our boy, answered Bartolomé.

Francisco beamed with pride. Of course, he told the two. "Of course…it would be an honor, mi querido amigo!"

We have spoken to the priest, and he said on the feast of San Lorenzo, he will be having a special Mass and would like to use that service for baptisms. Can you come on that day? Bartolomé asked hopefully.

I do not see why I cannot, Francisco answered back. Quita will be happy to see you two again, and you will also get to see my little girl. You have not seen her since she was born…she is almost two, he said with pride.

While the young Indian woman sat quietly on the rock and adobe bench built as a part of the room’s wall and began grinding some corn in a small metáte, Francisco sat down with Bartolomé on the rug recently occupied by Domingo and talked the rest of the morning away.

The hours went quickly, and he realized he had to leave in order to make it back to Santa Fe before dark. He mounted his horse and headed south. Turning his head and waving back, he saw Bartolomé standing at their doorway smiling brightly, with one arm around his young wife, and the other holding the infant.

The week before the feast of San Lorenzo, Governor Otermin was informed of some alarming news. There had been an uprising at Santa Clara. Upon hearing of the disturbance, Francisco immediately became concerned for his friend and family. He asked to be allowed to investigate the report. The governor agreed, and promptly sent Francisco and his troops to put an end to the problem at the pueblo.

When Francisco and his men arrived at Bartolomé’s house, which was just a short distance before reaching the pueblo, they found the house empty. The door was wide open and the house's contents were scattered about. Francisco's mind was racing…where were they? He feared for his friends’ safety and ordered his troops to continue on their way to the pueblo. Señores, keep your eyes open and your ears alert! he warned.

As they approached, everything was quiet…too quiet. Cautiously, Francisco and his men entered the stone and adobe plaza to find it empty. It looked completely deserted.

Suddenly, a volley of arrows started raining down on them from the surrounding rooftops. Francisco and his men found shelter behind a stone wall and ducked the barrage successfully, but with ash and vermilion paint on their faces, the Indian combatants emerged from the shadows and began their ambush.

After fighting the horde of vicious rebels around them for what seemed like hours, Francisco and his men were suddenly taken by surprise by another group of Indians who sneaked out from the rear of the stone building and assaulted the mounted soldiers. The startled horses reared at the appearance of the attackers and two men who had been struggling against the angry dissenters alongside Francisco were struck down. Francisco too, was suddenly knocked off his horse and stabbed by a knife-wielding Indian, but even as he felt the sharp obsidian blade enter his body, he continued to fight, refusing to give in to the pain.

The soldiers pushed forward with one last burst of strength, and the attackers began to take flight. Francisco’s men had gained that extra bit of force through his guidance and determination, and when it was over they all turned toward him and raised their swords in triumph. The men cheered in unison, for they had won the battle and their foes were at a run.

Francisco was staring sadly at the two dead soldiers at his feet, but then looking up at his jubilant men, he smiled proudly at them. The men’s triumphant cheers faded quickly when their leader suddenly collapsed. The injury had finally overtaken Francisco’s body and he joined his two dead comrades on the ground.

As the men hurriedly moved to carry him back to headquarters, Francisco lay half conscious worrying about his friends and their little baby. He sadly concluded he would not be able to give a name to the child in baptism…officially proclaiming him a Child of God.

Francisco’s love and respect for his men were returned that day as they took turns caring for their fallen leader. They had lost two of their fellow soldiers in the fight, but the men did their best to staunch the loss of blood and keep their commander alive as they made their way to Santa Fe. There, his stab wound could be properly cared for by Don Basilio, the town’s curandero (healer) who also happened to be the town barber. Upon reaching Santa Fe, the healer attended Francisco and nursed him through brief episodes of unconsciousness and fever.

Papa…Papa…, a distant voice reverberated inside Francisco’s head. He turned and focused his eyes on Juana, his daughter. Tears were streaming down her rosy cheeks. For a quick moment, Francisco thought he had died and gone to heaven as he pictured his deceased first wife, Geronima, the mother of the seventeen year-old who sat by his bedside.

I was so worried…Papacito, she cried. Don Basilio told me you might not make it.

Hijita, Francisco murmured as his eyes became accustomed to the noonday light. How long have I been asleep?

Three days, she answered. Ygnacio was here with me, but I told him to take Maria and Monita and go home…he was tired and also very concerned. His mother sent a message that she wanted to see us right away, but we could not leave while you were in your condition. We have been here since the soldados brought you back.

I am sorry to have worried you, Querida, Francisco said with a weak smile. "It will take more than this to get rid your old Papa. He sat up, then winced when he accidentally pulled on the bandaged wound.

Papa, are you all right? she asked worriedly. Of course, Hijita. Do not fret so. You must go and get some rest…you look exhausted. And, you must not put the child under any stress, he added gesturing to her pregnant condition. He reached out to her and she embraced him gingerly. She gave him one last worrisome look and a gentle smile, then she wiped her eyes and went on her way, relieved her father was conscious and responding to the curandero's care.

As he watched her walk away, Francisco's thoughts turned to his little brown grandchildren. While their father was fair and redhaired, the children’s Indian blood was very evident as he pictured little Maria’s and Monita’s smiling faces. His daughter was married to a mestizo…a half-blood from San Ildefonso Pueblo. Their juvenile mixed marriage caused quite a scandal three years ago, but today his daughter was a well respected member of society…as was her husband who joined His Majesty’s forces after the marriage. He gave up his place at the pueblo to live among Spaniards in Santa Fe.

Francisco suspected that when their twin daughters were born, the choice to leave was clear. It was said that Indians believed the birth of twins was an abomination because the two children would have to share one soul…therefore, one of the infants was usually killed. Of course, Ygnacio would never comment on whether this belief was true or just a fable conjured up to make the Indian look more savage.

With constant care and help from Don Basilio, Francisco slowly regained his strength. A few days later, he was able to walk again, but was still too weak to make his way farther south to the settlement of Galisteo, where his wife and family were…and who knew nothing of the rebellious encounter up north.

POHE-YEMO

Sun-Bringer

he eagle feathers of the warrior’s headdress ruffled in the breeze, and the dark figure on the white horse spotted with jagged splashes of black looked like some enormous bird getting ready to take flight. As they moved about by the light wind, white winter weasel pelts used to decorate either side of the ornate bonnet contrasted sharply on the wearer’s skin. Like the weasel who was skillful and cunning in evading pursuit and considered to have supernatural abilities, power from the animals used to make the bonnet had been transferred wondrously through the Great Spirit to the one who wore the elaborate headgear.

After counting coups, the headdress (not common among the pueblo people) had been presented to him by one of the eastern tribe’s chieftains…an Apache. The greatest coup was that of touching a live enemy with a bare hand and leaving him unhurt. It took more courage to touch an enemy than to kill him. The Chief had recognized the genius of the wearer, and also happened to be the father of one of the men waiting down at the foot of the hill. The connotation in the presentation of the bonnet meant the wearer would be compelled to start a war trail at once!

Several carvings graced the black rocks around the figure as he stared up at the stony cliffs. He was particularly interested in one outline. It was an image he had placed there as a young man…a boy who once used to spend a lot of time in the valley below…back when things were different. This was before he knew better and before he had become a charismatic leader.

I…am the great one, he whispered to himself arrogantly puffing up his chest. The Indian reached behind him and pulled out two items from an old rawhide parfleche. One was a bundle of herbs, dry and tied together with a string of buckskin, and the other item was a small deerskin sack, his personal medicine bag. Although not unlike others used by his fellow Indians to store meaningful items they had collected during their life, this medicine bag held a secret…and a weakness.

He got off his sleek painted horse and walked toward some squared boulders. His hand carefully set aside the gray bundle of herbs and pouch.

From below the ridge, several warriors closely observed the figure at a distance as he put together a small pile of dried leaves and grass on a large boulder. One of his warriors, an Apachu, focused his good eye on his leader. His other eye was useless and bore a scar which traveled from his eyebrow to his cheek. The man stared in admiration of the figure who was like the Apache in fierceness and strength. His handsome face and tall muscular features were also like those of his own people.

Another of the man’s disciples also watched admiringly and thought back to his friend, the man standing at the top of the hill, as a youth…an occurrence many years ago…

Whack!

The teenaged boy looked up at the priest who had just slapped him, but there were no tears in his eyes. Instead, the boy’s yellow eyes glared defiantly at the man who suddenly became uneasy at the youth’s rebellious gaze.

Demonio…what kind of animal is this?…the priest thought as he stared back at the dark-skinned youth.

The boy had refused to cross himself when he entered the church and the padre had noticed. On the way to the altar where he was to give Mass, the priest had glanced toward the door where several good Indians had all knelt and crossed themselves as they entered…all except for this lad.

He had had problems with the boy before. Once, he caught the young man giggling during the service. The priest was consecrating the Host, the most solemn and important part of the Holy Mass, and the boy was mocking the scene to his companion.

After the slap across the face, the youth continued to glare back with unrelenting hatred in his eyes. He did not want to attend this farce…he had better things to do. But, he was forced to…and everyone around him was also. He felt they did not really believe the things the padre said. The boy knew each individual kept his or her own secret idol hidden deep in their hearts, as he did. Even as he was forced to attend Catechism classes, he would try to close his mind unsuccessfully to the tales the priest would drill into their souls.

Clearly, he remembered what the priest taught him about making the sign of the cross…The sign of the cross is a gesture of redemption and a statement of faith in the Blessed Trinity. One should use the right hand symbolizing Christ who is at the right hand of God…with five open fingers representing the five wounds of Christ.

Start at the forehead, symbolizing the Father and Creator, he had said. Then proceed to the stomach symbolizing Christ who became incarnate…then to the left shoulder which symbolizes death and darkness. You move your hand to the right shoulder which symbolizes a transition to Truth and Light…as Jesus passed from death into life. The shoulders represent the place of power, the priest had proselytized.

One day, the youth thought…things will be as they were…before these intruders came and changed everything.

His fellow Indians looked on anxiously. They were afraid of the priest’s wrath, and were surprised when he turned from the boy and walked back to the altar as if nothing had happened.

They saw a smirk, then a sneer appear on the boy’s face as he watched the priest walk away from him.

Hmmm…, one of the other young men in the church said to himself and began to wonder whether he may have misjudged the boy. Perhaps he is the means to regain our self-respect and get our dignity back…

The person observing his friend from the bottom of the hill had been that young man. As the group of Indians continued to watch intently, the man on the ridgeback struck two sacred stones together and started a small fire. The figure touched the dried bundle of sage to the flames, and soon a blue smoke began to appear at its end as it began to smolder. His followers stared hypnotically when, amid broken clouds, a single ray of sunshine beamed luminously on the figure. All of a sudden…thunder began to rumble in the distance.

Waving an eagle feather which he had borrowed from his headdress, the man faced toward the east and started to chant. He directed the smoke away from him with the feather and began his prayer, I welcome the sun that starts my day…I welcome the eagle who brings me my visions.

He turned and faced south.

I welcome the light of the sun that brings knowledge which my ancestors give to me on this sacred ground…. and the cunning of the coyote.

He turned west…

I welcome the spirit of the bear and his great strength.

He turned north and said, I welcome the great buffalo spirit and the knowledge of our elders.

He then looked upward at the sky and spread his arms wide. I welcome the Great Creator who gives me these powers.

He turned around, knelt on one knee and touched the ground.

Thank you also Mother Earth for your gifts…I welcome you.

Then standing up, he brought the smoldering bundle of sage up to his face, this time using the feather to direct the smoke toward himself and as he closed his eyes, put his hand over his heart. Thank you noble spirits for placing yourselves inside this body.

As the smoke engulfed his muscular torso, he moved his hand from his chest up and around as he spread the aromatic smoke over the surface of his dark skin.

Earlier that morning, before the sun had risen and by the light of the moon, he had bathed in the cold waters of the Rio Galisteo and used the root of the sacred yucca to cleanse his body and remove the stain of baptism. Now…he had just performed an ancient native purification ritual, and he was once again a child of the land. No longer would he allow himself to be ordered about by the god of the Spaniard.

He reverently set the bundle of herbs down and reached into his medicine bag, then pulled something out. Holding it up, he stared at the small wooden object…the strong beam of sunlight caused a dark silhouette on the rocks before him.

I must forget these things…I have to…I am the great one! he whispered again determinedly to himself putting the object back into its small purse. Then, he tossed it down on a pile of enchanted rocks where it immediately disappeared!

A great weight lifted from his body, and he felt the eagle soar inside him. He mounted his horse, and then with a hard wallop to its flanks, he sped back down the steep hillside to where his men were waiting for his return from his conversation with the spirits on the Hill of the Deities. As he joined them, Domingo felt a rush of power…for these men…these angry, brutal, fearless men were his to command. They would do anything he would tell them, because he was a god…he was Pohe-Yemo, the Sun Bringer!

EL ÉXODO

The Exodus

he young woman looked nervously over her shoulder. When she was certain she was alone, she focused her eyes on the niche to the right of the altar. She suddenly smelled smoke forcing its way through the wood and earthen ceiling…the roof was on fire!!! She quickly grabbed the governor's chair and climbed on it. Then, stretching as far as she could, she grabbed onto a small wooden figure. Do not worry, My Lady. I will protect you, she whispered in the dark. Carefully, she wrapped the statue in her long fringed shawl and cradled it against her breast.

"Àpurale Muchacho…Hurry Boy!" Otermin bellowed, then suddenly grimaced as he shouted to the Indian servant who was gathering papers from a wooden trunk in a corner of the large room. The Governor was rummaging frantically in the administrative office of the Palacio de los Gobernadores and quickly put his hand to his chest, clutching at the fabric of his shirt. His injury was hurting, but he could not let the arrow wound he received just two days ago slow him down. Weak because of blood loss, he nearly succumbed, but his determination would not let his body fail him. He had a job to do…and by Our Father in Heaven, he was going to do it!

The Governor fumbled through various papers and parchments as he searched the bottom of his desk drawer for any document which would be necessary on his trip southward to El Paso del Norte.

Antonio Otermin had become Governor of the province only three years earlier in 1677, with dreams of running a smooth government in this new and harsh land, never imagining he would one day be running for his life. His hopes of being a strong and benevolent governor were dashed by the incompetence he had shown when he appointed Francisco Javier Quintana as "Maese de Campo," Secretary of Government. Otermin was concentrating on his own political dreams and had unknowingly allowed the burly, gingerhaired man to undermine his leadership.

He had been fooled by the man’s facade of sophistication…and trusting Javier had been his downfall. The governor had once been impressed by a scar on the left side of the man’s face, which rumor had, was a result of a duel…a duel with the husband of one of Javier’s mistresses. Such was the idea of manhood in the Hispanic World of the 1600’s…a man who showed no fear and sexual prowess was a man to be admired. But, Francisco Javier, proved to be no friend…on the contrary. Right under Otermin’s nose, his man was, not only mistreating the Indians under his charge, but was secretly capturing many and had presented them as gifts to his friends for slave labor or sent them to Parral in Mexico for sale.

The Governor knew His Majesty made it clear the natives were to be treated humanely. This was one of the reasons he had been sent to replace the previous governors. Among them was Luis de Rosas, who had been murdered, a crooked dictator who also had been practicing the abominable deed of Indian slave trading and who stood out in the memory of the local people.

Through explicit order of the Crown, although many had been forced into servitude, the Indians were to be paid a salary and treated as children of God, not slaves! However, the definition of servant was very different in the minds of the various Dons as well as the Catholic missionaries…the Franciscan priests. The recent events at Pecos Pueblo, where Javier captured a group of Apaches to whom he earlier had given a promise of safe passage, then sold them into slavery had angered the Pecos.

Although the Faron Apache were a fierce group of nomadic Indians who made their way down from the eastern plains and sometimes given into raiding and acts of brutality, the people of Pecos depended on trade with them for their livelihood of dried meat and skins. Food and clothing were being taken away from the pueblo Indians who were predominately farmers not hunters.

After having been mistreated for years by both the government and the Franciscan priests, this was the breaking point, and the irate Pecos natives gathered together the pueblo warriors of Galisteo, San Cristobal, San Lazaro, San Marcos, and La Cienega to destroy the Governor and all the Spaniards who had too long intruded on their land.

Reports of skirmishes from around the province began to appear on the governor's desk, but he refused to believe them. In his eyes, he saw only harmony and goodwill between the Indians and the Spanish populace. How could it be otherwise? he asked himself.

Suddenly, a message came from Nicolas Bua the tuyo (the Indian governor) from San Juan, of an organized revolt being planned among several of the pueblos.

Even before this warning reached the Spanish Governor's desk and unknown to Otermin, a shaman by the name of Po'Pay had discovered Bua's betrayal and had already executed his once trusted son-in-law for his treachery! Worried about other traitors revealing their plans, Po'pay decided to leave certain pueblos in the dark about the rebellion. They would take on the task without the help of their southern neighbors. Also of those who were not to be included in the plans, were the pueblo women. Confiding in them could have a grievous result if the gossipy females accidentally divulged their secret. But…Po'pay did need as many men as he could muster for his plan to be successful. It was common knowledge, that in the past, many Apachu children had been abducted by Spaniards to be used as personal slaves and servants. Because of this, Po'pay felt the fierce tribe might side with the his own warriors in retaliation. And…he knew of one man who could sway them to his cause. The Apachu and other nomadic tribes had long learned how to use the harquebuses and muskets taken from their victims in past assaults and their horsemanship was even better than the Spaniard's…making them invaluable allies.

After conspiring with his secreted partner about this bold plan, his dreams were realized when the pueblo Indians' old enemies…the Apache, Navajo and Comanche agreed to join the revolt. For the first time in their history these enemies banded together for one common goal…to annihilate the Spaniard!

No one is to be spared. Everyone must die! Po'pay declared. He felt that putting to death all Spaniards outside the city walls would show the Governor the Indians were sincere in their threats. The killing of hundreds of Spaniards would prove the Indians had no misgivings about using any plan of action needed to gain their freedom from the yoke of enslavement. Nor did it matter that some of the blood spilled would be that of innocent children.

Hah…! A black god you say…, the Governor smirked and shook his head. Back in Santa Fe, Otermin suppressed his laughter when a man had been brought before him painting a fantastical tale. The Indian was seen sneaking around the various pueblos and some soldiers suspected he was up to no good. The man carried with him long strings of leather which were tied with several knots. Fearful of punishment, the captive told the story of a great black god who had been sent to deliver the Indians from their enslavement.

When a second loyal pueblo official (Indian Governor Juan de Ye of Pecos Pueblo) also sent a warning of impending revolt from his own pueblo which had evolved beyond his control…Otermin's eyes were opened. Adding to his shock was a report stating several of his subjects, including Doña Petronila, a widow lady and her ten children had been murdered and thirty-eight persons had been killed at the estancia of the prominent Dominguez de Mendoza family.

As if doused with icy water…he was forced to accept the fact there was indeed truth in the reports of widespread unrest. Governor Otermin immediately ordered all Spanish families be gathered at his Palacio with its thick walls of stone and adobe. He hoped his soldiers would be able to fend off the infidels. But, as the rebel forces gathered around the walls of Santa Fe, he stood in shock looking out into the horizon…there were hundreds of them! Ssssst…whack! the cords snapped with an ear-piercing bang. Again…Ssssst…whack! The long braided leather whip began to make deep incisions into the wood, removing the paint and pine tar varnish from the large crucifix. The Sandia Pueblo native raised his arm again angrily and repeatedly rendered more blows to the religious statue of Christ. His men were given orders to destroy all religious items which once belonged to the Spaniards. And…he was doing just that. He had already severed the hands and feet off the once-revered statue of Saint Francis in hopes it would make the saint lame and unable to impart any sort of retaliation on him. When he suddenly imagined new blood pouring from the wooden statue he was striking, he quickly tossed the whip on the ground and ran.

Similarly at a nearby pueblo, the people of Senecú were in the process of scalping the figure of the crucified Christ and dumping it together with the huge cross (which once stood in the middle of the plaza) hastily into the cemetery.

Some twenty-five hundred warriors encircled the walled city of Beadwater (Santa Fe), while the Governor's meager garrison force of one hundred and fifty men looked on in terror. The rebels greatly outnumbered the defense, and although he quickly began to sense it as hopeless, he was determined to fight to the death.

Smoke began to appear all around…the whole town outside the walls was on fire. To the panic-stricken spectators’ astonishment, a young Indian jeered and mockingly yelled out "Accípite, et manducáte ex hoc omnes…a Latin phrase from the Catholic liturgy…Take and eat ye all of this!"

Otermin glanced at a priest who was also staring over the walls. The terrified man in blue robes was looking toward the Misión de San Miguel, and the tears trailing down his cheeks glistened in the light of the horrific bonfires. This had been his church…this had been the place where he said Mass to the Indians who now joined the rebels…including one young figure who was shouting obscenities and parroting words from the Holy Mass in disdain and sarcasm. The heartbroken priest had recently been training the Indian youth as an altar boy.

Soon after the arrival of the invaders, a great battle ensued in which the Governor had been injured. Otermin foolishly displayed his arrogant Spanish pride when the rebellious Indians offered to give the colonists their liberty in exchange for the evil Javier. Despite the fact the governor now loathed Javier, he would not give into their demands because Francisco Javier was, after all, a Spaniard and would not be used as ransom!

Somehow, the Indians must have known the Spaniard's munition and supplies were low. New provisions were not scheduled to arrive for another month. Following a full week of fierce fighting from the small but brave garrison, Otermin knew their fate had been sealed when the Indians suddenly cut off their water supply from the Acequia de la Muralla.

Providence would, however, have things differently. During a lapse on the part of the overly confident rebels while celebrating their near victory, one last effort from the Metal People caught the warriors off guard. Spanish soldiers mounted an attack which killed more than three hundred rebels, many of which were trapped inside a large government building just outside the city walls. Blocking all exits, Otermin ordered the building full of Indian rebels to be set on fire. More Indians were captured and the remaining invaders were driven off. After questioning and then executing the prisoners, Otermin decided flight was their only option. He knew many more Indians would be on their way for another attack!

Otermin wiped the sweat from his face as he hurried to gather his belongings. Pulling back his handkerchief, he saw it was stained with blood and he quickly placed it back into his waistcoat pocket. Ironically, Otermin now also had his own facial scar, one which started to bleed again, but this disfigurement was a recent wound. Unlike a trophy of honor received in a machismo gentleman's sport or challenge, this scar was a gift from the rebel Indians.

"Àndale rapido…Vamos!" he shouted again to the servant.

After gathering the meager supplies from his personal stronghold, the determined Governor led an exodus of over a thousand refugees from the Villa de Santa Fe. This included not only Spaniards, but many servants and other Christianized natives who were loyal to him. Among the group of subjects, was another injured man…Francisco de Anaya Almazan, a well-respected soldier and community leader. Francisco had recently been hurt during an attack at Santa Clara where he was knocked off his horse and stabbed by one of the rebels. Two men fighting at his side, had been killed, Marcos Ramos and Felipe de Lopez, but the brave Francisco continued fighting even as he slowly lost use of his right side and led his men to victory.

Otermin was already aware of Francisco’s stamina, bravery and leadership, and those qualities were why he had been appointed Sargento Mayor in the first place. The Anaya name was definitely not unknown to the Governor. Francisco’s deceased father, who was also named Francisco, was a high ranking officer, a captain in His Majesty’s service, but had been arrested for the murder of one of Otermin’s predecessors, Governor Rosas. All charges, however, had been dropped for some unknown reason. Otermin heard stories of sexual intrigue involving the younger Francisco’s mother and Governor Rosas, but for the most part, Otermin could get no more information on the matter.

The Governor who replaced Rosas before Otermin came into power, executed certain individuals he suspected were involved in the murder. He put to death eight men whose signatures were found in a pact he believed to be an assassination plot. The records were so full of rumors, innuendos, and contradictions Otermin realized the case was a huge cover-up.

All he knew was, regardless of whatever his parents had been up to, Francisco was a valiant soldier and leader. The devotion shown by his men were proof of Francisco’s good character.

Starving and thirsty, the large group of fleeing exiles headed south finding destruction everywhere they went. The rebellious natives had destroyed homes and murdered any man, woman and child in their path.

Santo Domingo Pueblo showed no signs of life, but they discovered five bodies outside the convento. One of the bodies, a male, was decapitated and its missing head was discovered later among some sage brush. Badly torn up, the bloodied body segment was covered with dirt…it had been used to play kickball!

Inside the church were the remains of three priests who had been hurriedly buried in a common grave. Among them was Fray Juan de Talaban. Although the Franciscan friars vowed nonviolence as proclaimed by their founder, the gentle Saint Francis of Assisi, Father Talaban acquisitioned food and horses for a campaign against some rebels a few months ago. He reasoned to the other priests that loaning the horses and giving the soldiers grain, was not in hope of seeking bloodshed, but for protection of the Holy Church in the New World. Father Talaban had now paid with his life.

Sweat trailed down Pohe-Yemo's strong obsidian chest as he sat on his painted horse and watched a great bonfire burn in the middle of the Plaza de Santa Fe. His men…who he collected from the various rebelling tribes and who felt a bond with him, were carrying books including Bibles and missals out from the Palace of the Spaniard and joyously tossing them into the fiery heap.

Some of his men had ransacked the military chapel and were wearing flamboyant robes of gold and silver embroidery once worn by the evil Catholic priests. Damask and silk stoles were used as sashes tying the chasubles at the waist like dresses.

One warrior walked out jubilantly carrying a golden cup which Pohe-Yemo recognized as a chalice, and he shouted to the Navajo…"Haa’ísha’ ná nísh’í!" Then, jumping off his horse, he walked over to the man.

He took the cup from him and set it on the ground. Releasing the flap of his breech-clout, he proceeded to urinate into the sacred object. After he relieved himself, he reached down and picked up the cup, he raised it high above his head and mimicked the priest in Spanish. "Ésta es la copa de mi sangre…this is the cup of my blood!" he chided as the Indians laughed and cheered. He poured his bodily fluids onto the fire which hissed back angrily and then tossed the chalice into the bonfire as well. His men continued to shout approval and some began to dance around the flames of the enormous blaze.

Sitting on a chair on the Palacios’s porch, another figure was also watching…but was not laughing. El Po'Pay studied Domingo with much interest…the man his followers called Pohe-Yemo, to Po'Pay’s amusement.

Po'Pay was the conspicuous one, while Domingo stayed in the shadows…and Po'Pay preferred it that way. Today, however, it was not so and he carefully watched the black Indian’s arrogant actions.

His gaze moved from Domingo to Jaca of Taos, Tacu of Picuris and Catiti of Santo Domingo Pueblo, who were overlooking the scene quietly and with decorum from atop their horses. These four were his men at arms…his organizers, but the one who troubled him was his second in command, the one pissing into the golden cup. He made a mental note to himself, Domingo Naranjo is too prevailing, I will keep a watch on him. His eyes followed the dark Indian as he strode over to his men who quickly pushed everyone out of the way to make room for him among the crowd. Domingo’s inter tribal group was much too worshipful of their leader and Po'Pay made up his mind then and there, he would have to go.

On the treacherous road back to El Paso Del Norte the colonists could see the Indians watching them quietly from a distance with no sign of advance toward them, but fear of danger lurking behind every shadow on the journey kept them tense and on their guard.

Upon reaching Rio Abajo, Otermin learned another group of survivors, this time numbering approximately fifteen hundred souls, evidently thinking Otermin and his pack perished, had already headed south. When he heard this, the Governor was furious at having been left behind. He sent riders ahead to tell them to wait for him and vowed to himself to execute their leader for deserting him.

Your Excellency, a soldier said to the exhausted governor who had just dismounted and was looking over the partially charred ruins of a once grand Spanish hacienda just south of the pueblo. "We have captured two Indians who were hiding among the sabinas."

"Both of them claim to be Cristianos," the soldier added skeptically.

Bring them to me immediately, Otermin ordered. "Espera…Wait, on second thought, bring them to me…one at a time."

Francisco, who was sticking close to the Governor in order to catch any word on the rebellion, found out about the questioning and quietly placed himself where he could listen in on the conversation. He was hoping to hear something about the people in the settlement of Galisteo, where his family was, praying they had been able to escape with the help of the soldiers stationed there and reach safety.

Slipping between a rock wall and a beam which had collapsed from its adjoining roof, he accidentally bumped the poultice of Yerba Mansa the curandero had placed on his wound. He recoiled again with pain, but stayed silent, hoping for some good news. Carefully he leaned his ear toward the direction of the interrogation and learned the plot for rebellion had been in planning for a long time. The resentment toward the Spanish had increased because of their constant tyrannical treatment, the forbidding of the old religious ways of the natives and the taking away of their idols and ancient customs.

Francisco overheard the seditious warriors wasted no time in slashing and destroying hundreds of statues and any other item of religious significance to the Spaniard. Sacred chalices which once held the Holy Eucharist, now held human excrement and the largest and most impressive structure, the Pecos Mission, had been burned and toppled. Any priests not able to reach the other survivors had been killed and dragged along the once bustling courtyards of the pueblos. The most beautiful Spanish women were taken alive and turned over to Pueblo leaders for their pleasure. According to the Indian’s statement, together with Otermin’s own records, some four hundred colonists lost their lives and over twenty holy Franciscans were dead.

Straining to hear more, he overheard the raiding groups were led by two men. The name of the main leader of the rebellion was known to Francisco, although he had not had personal contact with him…a man they called Ripe Squash…El Po'Pay. Francisco remembered the man had once been held in custody and whipped by Otermin’s predecessor for practicing what was termed as witchcraft together with several other shamans. The governor released the group after an army of Indians appeared at Santa Fe demanding their release. The Governor’s forces numbered only one hundred and thirty-five of which only thirty-five were trained soldiers and he was worried they might not be able to defend against an attack. The most daring of the two architects of death had been let go and it was this moment when the Indians realized the Spaniards were indeed fallible.

As the captive continued his testimony, the story of Fray Juan de Jesus unfolded. The man spoke of how the priest had been stripped naked and tied to a pig’s back, then paraded around the plaza. After untying the padre, the rebels had him crawl around on his knees while they took turns riding the naked priest like a horse. Some Indians who were loyal to the priest tried to stop the inhumane treatment and a scuffle began. Father Juan had told them, My children…please do not fight among yourselves. The priest begged to be martyred and the rebels obliged him…several of the Indians brutally clubbed the priest before another stabbed him through the heart and ended his suffering.

The captive then began telling the Governor about the second leader named Naranjo, a half-blood with piercing yellow eyes like those of a wild cat, a man who conspired and orchestrated killing raids while keeping to the shadows. He assumed the guise of Pohe-Yemo, the ancient one…the sun bringer. His hatred for the Spaniards because of their treatment of the natives drove him to engineer their destruction. His features were those of a great leader and spiritual guide to the backward natives. He was intelligent, muscular, black-skinned and up in years, which the Indians always considered a sign of wisdom…his yellow-green eyes could pierce through a person’s very being as Francisco was especially aware of.

Leaning his head back up against the stone wall, Francisco remembered a time many years ago…

Although the morning had been cold, the day had turned warm one Sunday in January and Cristobal and Francisco were with two other young boys helping gather some corn left on the stalks for winter harvest. They had been visiting their friends near San Felipe Pueblo when the boys heard someone trampling through the cornfield and coming their way.

An Indian on horseback came out of the tall corn stalks brandishing a menacing whip at them. The long whip snapped in the air and the man yelled words which neither Cristobal nor young Francisco understood, but both followed the two Indian youths as they ran in the direction of the pueblo church toward safety.

Cristobal looked back to see little Francisco get tangled up in some stalks and fall. He and Domingo, the older of the Indian boys, each quickly grabbed an arm and picked Francisco up, dragging him as fast as they could up the church steps and through the large wooden doors. Confused and dazed, Francisco turned around to see the big Indian had stopped at the church gate…and was laughing.

Cristobal gave Domingo a puzzled look. Their dark-skinned friend explained to him, with an angry scowl and his yellow eyes blazing, the man had been sent by the priest to gather all non-church goers and bring them to the Sunday service.

Still trying to catch their breaths, Domingo and his brother, Bartolomé, held stitches in their sides. A large grin came to Cristobal’s face, and he put his arm around Francisco then pulled him by the nape of the neck to join the back row of worshipers.

Yes, Francisco knew Naranjo…Domingo Naranjo was part Indian…a friend from childhood. Domingo always seemed upset and impatient with the rules set up by the Spanish intruders, even as a child.

Suddenly, Otermin remembered the story of the black god another captive had told him days before…a story which he had scoffed at. The governor ordered the man taken away, then asked for the second prisoner to be brought to him. The story the next captive told made Francisco’s blood chill.

The man said his name was Pedro and a devout Catholic. He told of how, while he was pulling weeds in a field near Galisteo, a fellow Indian who had appeared out of breath told him of the rebellion unfolding up North.

Pedro shakily began his tale…He told me all the Catholic priests in the northern pueblos had been killed. My wife has family in San Ildefonso, so I asked if he knew of any incidents at the pueblo. He told me Fray Luis de Morales and Fray Antonio Sanchez de Pro had been killed along with all the Spaniards there.

Francisco’s heart began to pound in his chest. Juana! he moaned and began to stare blankly at the stone wall. The last time he saw his pregnant daughter, she said that she would be leaving with her husband and children to visit her mother-in-law at the pueblo.

Why have you come here…are they after you? Pedro had asked the exhausted stranger. He replied, ‘I came to warn a friend…but, when I reached his house, I found his wife in their cornfield with their child. They both appeared to have been stabbed to death.’"

Pedro said they suddenly heard screams and began to see fires burning all around them, and quickly realized they had to flee. Together with the other Indian, he took flight through the thickening smoke and toward Santo Domingo Pueblo where they hoped to find refuge. Once there, he hoped to secure shelter with some relatives and his companion could make his way back north to join his own family who was in hiding.

"As we surveyed the distant scene from atop the Crestón, we could see the whole settlement ablaze and even from afar we could smell death in the air…I fear no one survived the carnage but us," Pedro said.

And…did this man tell you his name? Otermin asked.

Pedro answered, He said his name was Bartolomé. Francisco gasped as a cold sweat suddenly hit him and his heart seemed to stop beating!

The captive continued, When we reached Santo Domingo, we discovered many men of the pueblo had joined the rebels and killed the priests there also. I was able to hide in time, but they spotted Bartolomé and seized him. A group of men forced him toward a tall black man dressed like a great chief. I watched quietly in the shadows from behind one of the houses as the angry giant yelled at my companion who he seemed to have recognized. Suddenly grabbing him by the hair, he slashed open Bartolomé’s throat from ear to ear then raised the bloodied head and swung it around like a slingshot.

I feared for my own life, so cautiously…I ran as far as I could from them and was able to escape without their notice.

I hid in the hills until you came along, Señor. Then, I came out of hiding and made myself known to you, he added and made a low bow to the Governor. The Indian wanted to make sure Otermin knew he had come out of his own free will.

Francisco felt dizzy, his legs started giving way. The friend he visited just a few days ago had been killed. The unrecognizable, bloodied head they had found away from its body at Santo Domingo Pueblo had belonged to his close friend, Bartolomé…Domingo Naranjo had murdered his own brother!

Francisco slowly staggered away from his hiding place. If what the Indian just said was true, his beloved Quita and baby daughter had been killed along with everyone else in Galisteo which included Francisco’s son from an earlier marriage. His lovely daughter Juana and Francisco’s beloved granddaughters had been at San Ildefonso with Ignacio visiting his family during the massacre. Are they also dead…? he asked himself, but sadly suspected what the answer to his question was.

Making his way to a corner of the ruined building, Francisco fell on his knees and his stomach heaved up what little food he had earlier been able to consume. His head felt ready to explode and, as his body lost its last ounce of strength, he fell onto his own vomit.

Otermin’s exiles finally caught up with the other survivors who had sought shelter on the grounds of an abandoned hacienda.

The distraught Francisco was journeying in a daze and had lost all hope. Everything was gone. His beautiful wife and children were all dead, and he too felt dead, with no sense of what was around him…or what was real or unreal.

Suddenly someone came running up to him. Don Francisco, Señor…Don Francisco! the person repeated. Francisco turned slowly to see the silhouette of a short and stocky figure.

Please Señor…I come with an urgent plea, the man cried. Señor, can you hear me? he said as Francisco tried to focus on the figure. As his senses slowly returned, he was able to make out the young priest, Father Santos.

It is Padre José, the distant voice said in an echo inside Francisco’s head, …he wishes to see you. Padre José wants to speak to you and there is no time to waste, for he is taking his last breaths…he is dying.

Francisco straightened himself up and groggily pulled himself together, then forced his body to get up enough strength to go see his old mentor.

He slowly walked toward the building which must have been a storage house for the hacienda. The priests and children had taken refuge in it during the night and when he pushed open the rickety door, he saw the figure of the aged priest lying on a bed of straw.

Francisco quietly sat beside his friend, eighty-three year old Padre José. A shaky hand motioned Francisco to lean closer to him. The priest’s gnarled arthritic fingers suddenly grabbed the weakened soldier by the shirt collar and as he stared into his eyes, said in a forced voice, almost a whisper, "Mi Francisquito, there is something I must tell you…but I do not know how."

I made a vow, I cannot break, he murmured. Your Mama and Papa were good people and good Catholics…they were very proud of their sons…both of them. When people presumed the cause of your father's death…they were wrong. Your Papa…did not die from a broken heart with disappointment when Cristobal was sent to prison…he was stabbed…, he softly lamented as his speech broke off into a rattle.

Francisco wondered at the strange words spoken by the old padre. His father had not been stabbed…there were no wounds on his body at the time of his death. Old wounds he received as a soldier were but scars when his soul left the earth. Staring sadly at the dying man, Francisco thought perhaps the priest’s senses were fading as he gasped for his last breaths.

I made a vow, the old priest repeated, once again becoming discernible, but, how can I rest without telling you…the truth? Tears were streaming down the weathered old face. The tormented priest’s voice was getting weaker and weaker and Francisco found it hard to understand his old friend. The dying man’s eyes had lost their color, and they looked clouded and strangely opaque. "You must…Pa…re Alvar…," the priest wheezed.

I could not hear, good padre, what was it you said? asked Francisco putting his ear to the priest’s mouth.

Padre…Alvarez, his old mentor repeated with a harsh rasp in his voice, then with a soft, "Perdona me, Hijito…Forgive me, My Son," the old friar fell silent. His lips ceased movement, and as his soul left his mortal shell, his forceful grip on Francisco’s collar weakened and his wrinkled hand fell unto the bed of straw.

Francisco gently closed the priest’s eyes and looked sadly upon the muted figure, a man who used his last ounce of strength as a final act to confess something of which he had been ashamed. But, Francisco was not really sure what that something was. What about Padre Alvarez? Francisco remembered Father Alvarez had been instrumental in the arrest of his brother Cristobal many years ago, but what did he have to do with his father’s death?

His parents avoided any contact with this priest, showing little regard for the man and Francisco earlier concluded the arrest of his brother caused them to view the priest with contempt. Their oldest son had been stripped of his dignity at the hands of the Spanish Inquisition…all due to this priest claiming authority of the Holy Church.

Francisco, still weak and in a daze, sat gazing at the body of the old priest, his teacher and friend, who had now gone to a better place…a much better place…a place which he himself wished he was in. Suddenly, he realized a little boy about ten years old had come up and placed a small hand on his shoulder.

Is Padre José asleep? he asked.

Yes, Hijo, Francisco answered softly, not telling him the old friar would never wake up.

Padre José is a good priest, the boy whispered. "He is not like the other priests. Padre José taught me to stand up to the bullies who used to pick on me. He told me God sends trials for us to overcome to make