Desert People – Susan Feathers

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1540

From where I sat atop a hill, the river flowed over its banks. Reflecting the rising sun on its broad surface, the river was gold and yellow at its spreading edges. I imagined the gardens my people would tend after the waters returned to their bed. For now, the water ran deep among the trees and further onto dry land, soaking it. This rhythm signals the ways of the earth that guide us on our journey around the wheel of life. Each spring when the floods are high, the River People move to these low hills covered with thick oak groves. Here we find game and collect acorns that the women grind to make soft bread. The dried squash and beans from the late fall harvest add to our fare.

I usually enjoy the respite from my responsibilities when the river overflows its bed, but this morning I feel disturbing emotions. In the winter months, when my people tell stories, make music, and visit with each other, a flotilla of strange men sail into our village. No one has ever seen white men. They are worrisome, smell bad, are hairy, and wear strange garments. I worry about their shining weapons made from substances none of us have ever seen. These men, in river craft propelled by wind, speak in a strange tongue. Their movements are indecipherable. I do not trust them.

Their eyes make me wary. Others in my village do not see it the same way. They are intrigued, engage in trade, and laugh at these unlikely humans in their midst. They study their sailing craft and then talk among themselves. Some even tell the strange visitors tall tales to confuse them. I do not approve of this behavior.

I know the river but not the hearts of men like Good Man does, he who I intend to consult on this matter. Good Man stands solid on stout, strong legs. His braided hair forms a crown in which eagle feathers encircle his face. A thin sturgeon bone pierces his nostrils and he wears layers of shell necklaces from trade with tribes to the west. To me this man is an unshakable mountain of wisdom that stabilizes me. However, when I visit him, he tries to brush away my worry about the strangers. For the first time, I am not convinced. Perhaps Good Man has no experience with this kind of human being.

I wonder where they come from and if this means there are others coming behind that will threaten our people. Truly, as I sit down to counsel with Good Man, I do so as one whose world is irrevocably changed by the regular appearance of these human beings. What does it mean for us?

1604

Don Juan Ornate stood on the foredeck as his crew sailed to the riverbank near the villages of the native tribes. He still hungered to find a passage to New Spain that bypassed the Rio Grande. His objectives were to find a port on the ocean and a passage to New Spain that did not pass through the vicious tribes he’d encountered.

On board Ornate’s ship was Father Francisco Escobar, a Catholic priest who proved adept at communicating with the numerous settlements of Indians along the Rio de Buena Esperanza (the Colorado River), for he was adept at languages. He remembered them so well that on the expedition’s return up the river from the sea, the Indians in different villages could understand him.

Father Escobar kept a detailed record of his observations— in particular, of the Rancherias whose populations sometimes exceeded 5,000 people. By the time the expedition had navigated the whole of the river to the sea, Father Escobar estimated at least 30,000 Indians lived and thrived along its banks. He executed his duties with great effort for the glory of his King and for the glory of God. All along the way he realized that the friendly and generous River People could be improved by Christian principles, baptized, and integrated into New Spain as his country settled the new land.

The Account of Padre Fray Francisco de Escobar

For the Glory of Our Blessed King and Queen and the Sanctification of the Lord Jesus Christ

1605

On the Feast of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, in the Year of our Lord 1604, we traveled the river further south until we came to settlements of tribes speaking a variation of the same language of groups north of our location. I could communicate with them well enough. I estimate that from this point to the Port of Conversion there were 30,000 people of the same tribe, which is predominantly near the delta of the river.

These people live in stone and mud houses that spread out from each other with land and gardens in between. They clad themselves in bison hides for cold weather and are well adorned. Men braid their long hair in whirls and ringlets, which they plaster with mud from the river to tamp lice and mosquitoes. The River People are very friendly, neither surprised nor afraid, taking our arrival as just part of the day’s events.

They offered us food and continued to bring us more than we could prepare before spoilage. Maize, squash and beans of many varieties, and delicious fish, which I observed they speared or netted from the river. On one day, a young warrior brought us a basket of wild rice.

The river is lined with thick forests of bean-bearing trees that will be excellent sources of wood, and fewer scattered, taller trees of a kind not as suitable for firewood. There is a sweet, pleasant scent from the wood of the little forests that is winsome. I noticed it lingers in the meat and fish cooked over a wood fire. The River People are well nourished and are of large frame and muscular form quite pleasing to the eye, and the women are very pretty, wearing their hair cut straight across their forehead and hanging loosely beside their faces and down their backs.

One of the tribesmen agreed to accompany us further down the river to the Port of Conversion at the confluence with the sea. I am grateful to the Lord Jesus Christ that our navigator came along as a guide. Several of our small boats became mired in the shallows, one with a heavy load of artillery that made it sink lower. We removed some of the weapons, but we still had to abandon that boat.

The river spans out for many leagues in every direction, creating blind corners, labyrinths, and hidden coves among the thickly growing trees and shrubs, reeds, and marsh grasses. Then, one turn and it opens into a deep bay. Our guide indicated that it was near the time a high tide commences near the mouth of the river when boats can easily be overcome by strong tides, overturned, and men lost to quicksand or undercurrents. This is a difficult navigation that will need careful planning for a route by ships up the river. Due to its shallows, it will need to be a boat with a short broad draft.

Present Day ….

In his recurring dream the river spirit appeared to Albert as the sleek, shimmering salmon, a giant that challenged even the best fisherman. The creature’s powerful tail and penetrating eyes spoke to him from a watery kingdom emanating from the sky beings.

The river spirit connected the old man to earth spirits that converged in the tumult of spring floods, and lingered over the quiet eddies where life began. It was there, along the banks downstream, where the waters slowed beside his people’s fields and gardens. It was there that the young of many river denizens were birthed and nurtured. The river spirit reminded Albert of his duty to protect and defend the river. Its nightly visitations energized the elder during the dream so that upon waking, the old man had leapt from his bed with renewed will—the secret to his perpetual vigor he had told his friends.

But, on this night in his dream he found himself sweating as he climbed onto a steel walkway where he had strapped enough dynamite to blast a hole in the dam. He was singing an ancient song at the top of his lungs, barely discernible where he stood at the causeway as water plunged from the edges of the main wall that imprisoned the river’s body. Behind the wall the river formed a huge, blue lake that pressed hard on the concrete after the recent heavy rains. Giant turbines roared as electricity poured across the lines that extended into the desert and canyonlands as far as Albert could see in any direction. He felt it there, so near to the river spirit— he felt the lifeblood being drained away.

And then, he lit the fuse and felt the thunderous forces tear him and the dam into smithereens and watched from high above as the river coursed through the jagged hole, pulling building-sized chunks of concrete with it, plunging down its old bed, dragging everything with it to the sea. Albert moved without any restriction from his heavenly vantage point to where he saw his people gathering near the river as it made it way south over the desert toward the mother of all life. They were jumping and cheering, greeting the river spirit in exultation, even as the wild river caused destruction everywhere it flowed. Towns, railroads, marinas, bridges, and roads disappeared in its tumult. Likely people died too. Albert awoke in terror, realizing he’d been the agent of all that destruction and death. He staggered outside the trailer into the still dawn morning and vomited the contents of his stomach into the sand. Spent from the dream, he drank directly from a cistern of rainwater, pulling handfuls to his mouth to wash away the dream’s toxic message. The river spirit had shown him that blowing up the dam was a pipe dream. It was not the way, the spirit had said, and the dream showed him. As a reasonable man he knew that was true, but his desire to blow up the structures that restrained the natural river’s flow came from his heart and soul.

He pulled himself up the stoop of his trailer and returned to his bed to rest and to think. How could he help restore the river, the land and his people to health without destroying others? There must be a way, but its complexities were beyond Albert’s reason on that early morning. He drifted then into a quiet slumber well beyond his normal waking time. The quiet of the desert and gentle sounds of creatures stirred; the dove fluttered, the coyote yawned, and the desert beetle rumbled over the sand and rock and little damp places where water condensed from a rock face beaming in the bright morning sun. The desert spirit rocked the old man sleeping in his little trailer as a mother rocks a babe in her arms. The land ministered to Albert and to all whose fervent wish included life itself in their prayers. The wisdom that Albert needed was there in every living creature and all the land, waters and sky – waiting for the human being to rediscover it.

Chapter 4

Child of the River Spirit

1500 – 1535

The water was refreshing though warm from the late summer’s heat. It was the Moon of the Early Harvest, and I was full of baby, ready to give birth any moment. This would be my third birth. I knew what to do. My mother and sisters would be by my side to help me. I was not as fearful as I had once been.

My friends were bobbing with me above the middle of the riverbed when the first sharp pain struck; I felt my whole body quicken and go into action. I shouted to my friends and we rushed to shore as fast as we could swim, but I felt the baby slipping from between my legs! I screamed, and we all frantically dived to find the little one below the green water.

Feeling a small form brush against my leg I dove under to see my baby turn toward the river’s flow and move his tiny arms and legs just like a frog! I snatched him up and he gasped as he rose into the air! He wailed loudly like a fish might if it could when pulled from its water world. We were all amazed as we swam slowly to shore with my friends surrounding me and my baby so he would never slip from us again! From that day forward, we understood he belonged to the river spirit. And today, look at him. He is our tribe’s Navigator.

~~~

This is how my mother related my birth story, repeated from when I was young even until now, twenty summers later. I confess, I never tire of hearing it because it reminds me of my purpose. After I became old enough to accompany my brothers and father on river trips down to the Big Waters, I found that I understood the river better than anyone, but I do not know how or why. It is a gift from the creators I believe.

This is the red river of our origin. It can rage and then calm; it can be red, black, grey, green, or golden. In the Moon of the Melting Snow the river carries red swirling silt down into the valleys and low desert and outward to forested riverbanks, depositing it as water receded.

Below us the river meanders, twists and turns back on itself like a coiled snake. On it goes, breaking into many streams and bayous that spread out as far as we can see. Within its form are shallows and deeps, and places men disappear in soft mud. Near the big waters, the rice grows along the way. We dig up clams and abalone, net crabs and shrimp, and marvel again at the abundance of the world around us. We harvest with respect for the spirits who guard the land and water and fill all things with life. We net turtles from the Big Waters and roast their meat on the beaches. The multicolored sparks from driftwood gathered by children fill the sky above our fires, and we study the black sky and shimmering stars, long into the quiet night. We read the heavens and tell ancient stories from elders who passed them down from time immemorial. We sleep in deep restful bundles, our feet to the fire, until the morning sun awakens us, and the screech of the shorebirds picking through the remains of our evening meal makes us rise to chase them away.

We remain on the ocean and lower delta of the river for weeks, watching the river run itself out to sea. When we return upriver to our ancestral fields, our work begins to plant the seeds we have stored and to tend them to harvest.

I pole and probe the river bottom to determine the best routes for my people. Like a game, it changes with each season, challenging me to observe its moods in currents, speed, and colors. As we pole on rafts to the sea, I watch for deer people, the otter tribe, and clans of feathered ducks in every shape and color. I collect the feathers dropped in my path, and I give thanks for the swimmers, crawlers, and stalkers that are also my family. We watch for the mountain lion and jaguar that come into these wooded paths along the river to hunt the same game we seek. We are stalkers all.

My days are spent in this way, but when the cold season comes, and the river is resting, I find quiet rest inside our hut with the fire reaching toward the smoke-hole, and all of us making something with our hands and telling stories to entertain us.

Until my mother joined her family on the other side, I always heard the story of my birth. I am the Navigator of my tribe.

In a far distant time …

Albert Pope was already on the river in the cool of the morning having launched his small fishing boat in the gray dawn. He allowed the slow current to carry him south, past the RV park with its trailer city. The gauzy traces of last night’s moon lingered above the horizon. Albert had spent the night outside of his own trailer on the rez. He’d told stories to his family and neighbors about the old times until one by one they each disappeared to lay their heads upon a pillow and dream. Albert had stayed up all night, watching the golden moon’s light illuminate the sky while he listened to the desert’s nocturnal creatures flit and scurry about. Going fishing was a natural extension of night to day.

Albert sat in quiet contemplation watching where his fishing line cut into the green water. He focused on the wedge-shaped pattern on the surface where his line plunged down. A quiet man in his late sixties, Albert had outlived most of his peers. The average lifespan of tribal men was only forty-eight years. Diabetes, alcoholism, and heart problems took them before their time. Albert had quietly watched as generations of Yuman men gave in to depression and anger—turning to alcohol or drugs— to dampen the pain of living in two worlds.

Suddenly his concentration was broken by a strong tug on the line. He pulled back reflexively. The fish went wild beneath the boat. Leaning forward, he peered into the opaque water where he glimpsed a brief movement—a pinkish-gray flank illuminated by the soft light of the rising sun. He held the line taut, reeling it in slow and steady. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead from where his broad Stetson hat met his dark skin. Finally, he lifted a large tilapia out of its watery world. It twisted and turned in protest, eyeing him as it flapped its tail hard on the boat’s aluminum shell. Albert removed the hook from the fish’s thick lower jaw. For a trash feeder, the tilapia was a beautiful creature, he thought. It briefly glimmered in rainbow colors before the air dimmed its radiance. He thanked the fish and tossed it into a five-gallon bucket to join its ill-fated cousins. Then, he prepared another line to set out.

Albert felt a great deal of satisfaction that he could still feed himself and his neighbors. Drifting downriver, he thought about the stories his elders had told about the river, how it once ran red and wild, chockful of six-foot salmon “so numerous you could walk across the river on their backs.” He had long imagined the wildlife, thick forests and gardens that once lined the riverbanks. He felt a pang of sadness that long ago hardened into a permanent knot in his center, a steely resistance to a lifetime of mourning the demise of his people and a once-great river. Yet both persisted, outcome uncertain.