Storyteller by Leslie Marmon Silko
They will follow your trail
into the narrow canyon
through the blue-gray mountain sage
to the clearing
where you stopped to look back
and saw only bear tracks
behind you.
When they call
faint memories
will writhe around your heart
and startle you with their distance.
But the others will listen
because bear priests sing
beautiful songs
They must
if they are ever to call you back.
They will try to bring you
step by step
back to the place you stopped
and found only bear prints in the sand
where your feet had been.
Whose voice is this?
You may wonder
hearing this story when
after all
you are alone
hiking in these canyons and hills
while your wife and sons are waiting
back at the car for you.
But you have been listening to me
for some time now
from the very beginning in fact
and you are alone in this canyon of stillness
not even cedar birds flutter.
See, the sun is going down now
the sandrock is washed in its colors
Don’t be afraid
we love you
we’ve been calling you
all this time
Go ahead
turn around
see the shape
of your footprints
in the sand.
He was a small child
learning to get around
by himself.
His family went by wagon
into the mountains near
Fluted Rock.
It was Fall and
they were picking piñons.
I guess he just wandered away
trying to follow his brothers and sisters
into the trees.
His aunt thought he was with his mother,
and she thought he was with his sister.
When they tracked him the next day
his tracks went into the canyon
near the place which belonged
to the bears. They went
as far as they could
to the place
where no human
could go beyond,
and his little footprints
were mixed in with bear tracks.
So they sent word for this medicine man
to come. He knew how
to call the child back again.
There wasn’t much time.
The medicine man was running, and his
assistants followed behind him.
They all wore bearweed
tied at their wrists and ankles
and around their necks.
He grunted loudly and scratched on the ground in front of him
he kept watching the entrance of the bear cave.
He grunted and made a low growling sound.
Pretty soon the little bears came out
because he was making mother bear sounds.
He grunted and growled a little more
and then the child came out.
He was already walking like his sisters
he was already crawling on the ground.
They couldn’t just grab the child.
They couldn’t simply take him back
because he would be in-between forever
and probably he would die.
They had to call him.
Step by step the medicine man
brought the child back.
So, long time ago
they got him back again
but he wasn’t quite the same
after that
not like the other children.
Grandma A’mooh used to tell me stories she remembered hearing when she was a girl. One time, she said, some Navajos came and ran off a big herd of Laguna sheep. The Laguna men all got together and went after them. The Navajos were headed north but they couldn’t travel very fast because they were driving all those sheep ahead of them. So finally, a little way past Paguate toward Moquino, they caught up with the Navajos. But the Lagunas didn’t harm them or take them captive. They just asked the Navajos why they had taken the sheep, and the Navajos said it was because they were very hungry and had nothing to eat. So the Lagunas told them that next time they needed food to come ask for it instead of stealing it and the Laguna people would be happy to give them something. Then the Lagunas gave them five or six sheep and let them go. Grandma was always proud of this story because her uncles and grandfather had been there.
At Laguna Feast time, on September 19, Navajo people are welcome at any Laguna home regardless of whether they are acquainted or not. When Navajo people knock, they are invited in to eat as much as they want. And no matter how much they eat, they are never refused another helping of bread or chili stew.
Grandma A’mooh
A Geronimo Story
Most of the scouts were at the corral catching their horses and saddling up. I saw them there, busy, getting ready to go; and the feeling of excitement hit me in the stomach. I walked faster. The dust in the first corral was so thick I couldn’t see clearly. The horses were running in crowded circles while the men tried to rope them. Whenever someone threw a rope, all the horses would bolt away from it, carrying their heads low. I didn’t see our horses. Maybe Mariano thought that me and my uncle weren’t going and he left our horses in the pasture.
For a while it had looked like my uncle couldn’t go this time because of his foot: he tripped over a big rock one night when he was coming back from the toilet and broke some little bones in his foot. The “sparrow bones” he called them, and he wrapped up his foot in a wide piece of buckskin and wore his moccasins instead of cavalry boots. But when Captain Pratt came to the house the night after they got the message about Geronimo, Siteye shook his head.
“Shit,” he said, “these Lagunas can’t track Geronimo without me.”
Captain said, “O.K.”
Siteye sat there staring out the screen door into the early evening light; then he looked at me. “I think I’ll bring my nephew along. To saddle my horse for me.”
Captain nodded.
The other corral was full of horses: they were standing quietly because nobody was in there trying to catch them. They saw me coming and backed away from me, snorting and crowding each other into the corner of the corral. I saw Rainbow right away. My uncle’s horse. A tall, strong horse that my uncle bought from a Mexican at Cubero; my uncle has to have a big horse to carry him. The horses that we raise at Laguna don’t get as powerful as Rainbow; but they eat less. Rainbow always ate twice as much. Like my uncle, Siteye is a big man—tall and really big—not fat though, big like an elk who is fast and strong—big like that. I got the lariat rope ready and stepped inside the corral; the horses crowded themselves into the corners and watched me, probably trying to figure out which one of them I was going to catch. Rainbow was easy to catch; he can’t duck his head down as low as the others. He was fat and looked good. I put the bridle on him and led him out the gate, watching, careful to see that one of the others didn’t try to sneak out the gate behind us. It was hard to swing the saddle onto his back; Siteye’s saddle is a heavy Mexican saddle—I still use it, and even now it seems heavy to me.
The cinch would hardly reach around his belly. “Goddamn it, horse,” I told him, “don’t swell up your belly for me.” I led him around a little to fool him, so he would let the air out, then I tightened the cinch some more. He sighed like horses do when you cinch them up good and they know you’ve got them. Then, when I was finished, all I had to do was drop the bridle reins, because this horse was specially trained to stand like he was tied up whenever you drop the reins in fron
My horse was a little horse; he wasn’t tall or stout—he was like the old-time Indian horses—that’s what my father told me. The kind of horse that can run all day long and not get tired or have to eat much. Best of all he was gold-colored—a dark red-gold color with a white mane and tail. The Navajos had asked twenty dollars for him when they were only asking twelve dollars for their other saddle horses. They wanted cash—gold or silver—no trade. But my mother had a sewing machine—one that some white lady had given her. My mother said it sewed too fast for her, almost ran over her fingers. So we offered them this new sewing machine with silver engraved trimming and a wooden case. They took the sewing machine, and that’s how I got my first horse. That day he was hard to catch. He could hide in between the bigger horses and escape my rope. By the time I managed to catch him I could hear Siteye yelling at me from the other corral.
“Andy!” he called, “Andy, where’s my horse? We’re ready to go.”
It was almost noon when we crossed the river below the pueblo and headed southwest. Captain Pratt was up ahead, and Siteye and Sousea were riding beside him. I stayed behind, because I didn’t want to get in anyone’s way or do anything wrong. We were moving at a steady fast walk. It was late April, and it wasn’t too cold or too hot—a good time of year when you can travel all day without any trouble. Siteye stayed up ahead for a long time with Captain, but finally he dropped back to ride with me for a while; maybe he saw that I was riding all by myself. He didn’t speak for a long time. We were riding past Crow Mesa when he finally said something.
“We’ll stop to eat pretty soon.”
“Good,” I said, “because I’m hungry.” I looked at Siteye. His long, thick hair was beginning to turn white; his thighs weren’t as big as they once had been, but he’s still strong, I said to myself, he’s not old.
“Where are we going?” I asked him again, to make sure.
“Pie Town, north of Datil. Captain says someone there saw Apaches or something.”
We rode for a while in silence.
“But I don’t think Geronimo is there. He’s still at White Mountain.”
“Did you tell Captain?”
“I told him, and he agrees with me. Geronimo isn’t down there. So we’re going down.”
“But if you already know that Geronimo isn’t there,” I said, “why do you go down there to look for him?” He just looked at me and smiled.
Siteye reached into his saddle pack and pulled out a sack full of gumdrops and licorice. He took two or three pieces of candy and handed me the bag. The paper sack rattled when I reached into it, and my horse shied away from the noise. I lost my balance and would have fallen off, but Siteye saw and he grabbed my left arm to steady me. I dismounted to pick up the bag of candy; only a few pieces had spilled when it fell. I put them in my mouth and held the quivering horse with one hand and rattled the paper bag with the other. After a while he got used to the sound and quit jumping.
“He better quit that,” I said to Siteye after we started again. “He can’t jump every time you give me a piece of candy.”
Siteye shook his head. “Navajo horses. Always shy away from things.” He paused. “It will be a beautiful journey for you. The mountains and the rivers. You’ve never seen them before.”
“Maybe next time I come we’ll find Geronimo,” I said.
“Umm.” That’s all Siteye said. Just sort of grunted like he didn’t agree with me but didn’t want to talk about it either.
We stopped below Owl’s Rock to eat; Captain had some of the scouts gather wood for a fire, and he pulled a little tin pot out of his big leather saddlebag. He always had tea, Siteye said. No matter where they were or what kind of weather. Siteye handed me a piece of dried deer meat; he motioned with his chin toward Captain.
“See that,” he said to me, “I admire him for that. Not like a white man at all; he has plenty of time for some tea.”
It was a few years later that I heard how some white people felt about Captain drinking Indian tea and being married to a Laguna woman. “Squaw man.” But back then I wondered what Siteye was talking about.
“Only one time when he couldn’t have tea for lunch. When Geronimo or some Apache hit that little white settlement near the Mexican border.” Siteye paused and reached for the army-issue canteen by my feet. “That was as close as the Apaches ever got. But by the time we got there the people had been dead at least three days. The Apaches were long gone, as people sometimes say.”
It was beautiful to hear Siteye talk; his words were careful and thoughtful, but they followed each other smoothly to tell a good story. He would pause to let you get a feeling for the words; and even silence was alive in his stories.
“Wiped out—all of them. Women and children. Left them laying all over the place like sheep when coyotes are finished with them.” He paused for a long time and carefully rewrapped the jerky in the cheesecloth and replaced it in the saddle pouch. Then he rolled himself a cigarette and licked the wheat paper slowly, using his lips and tongue.
“It smelled bad. That was the worst of it—the smell.”
“What was it like?” I asked him.
“Worse than a dead dog in August,” he said, “an oily smell that stuck to you like skunk odor. They even left a dead man in the well so I had to ride back four miles to Salado Creek to take a bath and wash my clothes.” He lit the cigarette he’d just rolled and took a little puff into his mouth. “The Ninth Cavalry was there. They wanted Captain to take us scouts and get going right away.”
Siteye offered me the Bull Durham pouch and the wheat papers. I took them and started making a cigarette; he watched me closely.
“Too much tobacco,” he said, “no wonder yours look like tamales.”
I lit the cigarette and Siteye continued.
“The smell was terrible. I went over to Captain and I said, ‘Goddamn it, Captain, I have to take a bath. This smell is on me.’ He was riding around with his handkerchief over his mouth and nose so he couldn’t talk—he just nodded his head.
Maybe he wanted to come with us, but he had to stay behind with the other officers who were watching their men dig graves. One of the officers saw us riding away and he yelled at us, but we just kept going because we don’t have to listen to white men.” There was a silence like Siteye had stopped to think about it again. “When we got back one of the officers came over to me; he was angry. ‘Why did you go?’ he yelled at me. I said to him, ‘That dirty smell was all over us. It was so bad we knew the coyotes would come down from the hills tonight to carry us away—mistaking us for rotten meat.’ The officer was very upset—maybe because I mentioned rotten meat, I don’t know. Finally he rode away and joined the other officers. By then the dead were all buried and the smell was already fading away. We started on the trail after the Apaches, and it is a good thing that scouts ride up ahead because they all smelled pretty bad—especially the soldiers who touched the dead. ‘Don’t get down wind from the army.’ That’s what we said to each other the rest of the week while we hunted Geronimo.”
We started to ride again. The sun had moved around past us, and in a few more hours it would be dark. Siteye rode up front to talk to the other scouts and smoke. I watched the country we were riding into: the rocky piñon foothills high above the Acoma mesas. The trail was steep now, and the trees and boulders were too close to the trail. If you didn’t watch where you were going, the branches would slap your face. I had never been this far south before. This was Acoma land, and nobody from Laguna would come to hunt here unless he was invited.
The sun disappeared
“Hobble the horses, Andy. We’re still close enough that they will try to go home tonight,” Siteye told me. “All four feet.”
I hobbled them, with each foot tied close to the other so that they could walk slowly or hop but couldn’t run. The clearing we camped in had plenty of grass but no water. In the morning there would be water when we reached the springs at Moss-Covered Rock. The horses could make it until then. We ate dried meat and flaky-dry sheets of thin corn-batter bread; we all had tea with Captain. Afterward everyone sat near the fire, because winter still lingered on this high mesa where no green leaves or new grass had appeared. Siteye told me to dig a trench for us, and before we lay down, I buried hot coals under the dirt in the bottom of the trench. I rolled up in my blanket and could feel the warmth beneath me. I lay there and watched the stars for a long time. Siteye was singing a spring song to the stars; it was an old song with words about rivers and oceans in the sky. As I was falling asleep I remember the Milky Way—it was an icy snow river across the sky.
The lava flow stretches for miles north to south; and the distance from east to west is difficult to see. Small pines and piñons live in places where soil has settled on the black rock; in these places there are grasses and shrubs; rabbits and a few deer live there. It is a dark stone ocean with waves and ripples and deep holes. The Navajos believe that the lava is a great pool of blood from a dangerous giant whom the Twin Brothers killed a long time ago. We rode down the edge of the lava on a trail below the sandrock cliffs which rise above the lava; in some places there is barely room for two horses to pass side by side. The black rock holds the warmth of the sun, and the grass and leaves were turning green faster than the plants and bushes of the surrounding country.