by Tommy Cheis
Six AM. Winter Solstice. The summit of Burro Peak. In the valley a pronghorn herd assembles to receive the day’s orders. So charged they march through mesquite and cholla, hunting water and fodder. Tazhi gobble love songs to their hens. I, the fireman with elk horns, fork the fourth and final glowing stone through the east gate into the pit. This done, I enter the lodge, close the deerskin flap, and sit cross-legged with my brothers in the sacred atmosphere.
It’s a tight fit inside the dome. I’m in the east gate. Vic’s in the south. Eddie, the west. Phil and Chuck, the north. We’re naked except for gym shorts and headbands, silent and solemn as befits the occasion. When our diyin, to whom we’ve gifted tobacco, ladles water over the glowing rocks, steam billows. Visibility shrinks. Heat takes breath away, then higher forms of consciousness.
The drum sings. Hearts adjust to its rhythm. Eddie flicks a pinch of juniper on the stones. It dazzles like constellations in an indigo sky. Then he sings songs from time’s origin. To the sound of eagle’s wings and the deer-hoof rattles, I close my eyes and fly.
Round One. Earth.
The Four Great Ones—Mangas, Cochise, Victorio, Geronimo—rise from a hole in the desert. Each at the peak of his powers and acclaim, but horseless. They walk up and wordlessly point into the future where another hole opens. An unending river of pitiless soldiers of all races flows from the earth, followed by wheeled vehicles, tanks, helicopters. When the river stops, the Great Ones each gift me a bundle and vanish.
Round Two. Sky.
After an indeterminable interval, an eagle swoops and lands upon the carrion of a javelina who died from eating campers’ trash at Geronimo’s birth site. Eagle tears into the decaying meat, then, beak bloody, addresses me. “You saw a warning from Yusen. Unless you make peace, the enemy will use numbers and weapons to exterminate all Chiricahua.”
“I don’t believe in superstitions or witchcraft, bird. This is a dream.”
“Dreams are more real than reality. To dream of the dead in human form, and recognize their features, is great misfortune. But you had the worst possible dream: accepting something from the deceased. Normally, it means you’re dead within a year.”
“But not in my case? Why, Eagle? You have special power to keep me alive?”
“No, unfortunately.”
“What happens now? Pull no punches.”
“Loss of strength, loss of consciousness, then death.”
Drumbeats. Blood scent. Burning heat. Eagle takes a last bite and flies away.
Round Three. Water.
Coyote resumes where Eagle quit, tearing hunks of javelina flesh, gorging himself. Sated, he picks his teeth with a cactus needle. “Want to hear a story?”
“Why not?”
“Old people say when the end of the world is coming the rain will stop. Only three springs will have water. But those three springs will be dammed. The people will fight for hydration.”
“Some kind of prophecy?”
“Many old Chiricahua said water will be why people kill each other off. I believe it.”
“Will anyone survive?”
“Maybe a few of the good ones. If you’re willing, you’ll have your say.”
Drumbeats. Rattling. Songs my grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather sang.
Round Four. Spirits.
Reconnaissance. Dawn. Miners tearing earth. Chasing metal. Soldiers garrisoned in the town. Citizens sleep in their beds.
“Invaders of Nde benah,” says Horse, chomping his bit. “Wicked deeds demand vengeance.”
Mangas is mounted too. “Although we will lose men, we’ll honor them after we rid our land of White Eyes. We have surprise and two hundred warriors. Yusen commands. You and I are his capitans. Your Tsoka-ne-nde will ride behind town, cut communications and retreat, and pin them for my Tci-he-nde to smash to pieces. Your forces await your signals. The burden of leadership is heavy, but you were born to carry it.”
“Sicoye,” I address my father-in-law, upon whom I’ve placed a pollen shield. “My rifle, bow, lance, and knife are yours.”
Mangas scans the field before him, then lip-points toward the enemy. I issue hand signals, then ride. My lieutenants fall in behind me at the head of their warriors, and so on down to the dikohe who will draw their first blood today. Silently, we encircle the town. Arrows whiz. Rifles rattle. Cries of alarm. War to the lance. War to the knife. Hand-to-hand. Death. Death. Death. Death.
Blackness. Silence. Numbness. Calm. Peace. Cool wind. Homecoming. A face-slap.
“Give him some fucking air!”
Eddie, Vic, Phil, and Chuck look down on me.
Vic admonishes Eddie. “Heat stroke. Told you he was hurtin. Shoulda stopped, hey.”
“You shut the fuck up!” Eddie screams. “None of you know a fucking thing about ceremony. Phil, you fat fuck, quit hogging the fucking water. You’re like a Las Vegas golf course.”
I take the bottle sit, and drink. My river runs again. I sweat. Tension breaks.
Vic pulls me outside the lodge. The rest follow. We sit on saddle blankets, steam rolling off our bodies, saying nothing.
The sun rises. Everything should be new and pure like at the beginning, but it isn’t.
Eddie leans in. “Forty years’ experience says you were dealing with heavy shit in there.”
“Fears. And visions.”
“Of the upcoming battle?”
“I saw us all dying. I’m scared to fail you.”
“You won’t have to carry the whole fucking burden, Will. We’ll be right behind you. Listen, kid. I make the lodge hot to remind us to persevere through suffering. Like our ancestors did. That’s why I didn’t stop it.”
“Don’t sweat it. Get it? What about purification?”
“You were born pure. A White-Eye Wannabe will detoxify you, whatever the fuck that means, for five grand. All I can do is remind you you’re Chiricahua for a pack of Marlboro.” He hangs a deerskin bag of pollen around my neck, climbs into his white Ford pickup, and disappears.
Tommy Cheis is a Chiricahua Apache (Native American) writer, medicine leader, and descendant of Cochise and Naiche. After traveling extensively through distant lands and meeting interesting people, he now resides in southeastern Arizona with his wife and horses. His short stories appear in The Rumen, Carpe Noctem, Red Paint Review, and other publications. While his first novel, RARE EARTH, is under submission, he is at work on his second.