In loving memory of my Penatuka sister, Juanita Pahdopony
The prairie on the southern plains was a boundless, treacherous sea. The great rivers of Tejas eased and tumbled through it, buffalo and other beasts consumed it, and the peoples of many lands—drawn to all its untamed bounty—made bold crossings.
PROLOGUE
Deep Roots Beneath the Walls
When they arrived, I watched them park along the fence line near the gate. Young and old, wearing their Sunday best, stretched as they climbed out of their cars and squinted into the dappled Texas sunlight. After nearly 200 years of hatred and distrust, this day had been a long time coming. The adults quickly found comfort among their own but the children were curious … more social. For some, the racial compass barely moves even after centuries. For the young, there is no compass.
This is a historically segregated cemetery: slave graves are outside the back fence, Hispanic graves are crowded in their own area, and the Anglo graves are in the largest section shaded by big oaks. The fourth group of visitors this morning are Comanche, most traveling from Lawton. Their ancestors hadn’t marked graves in this fertile river bend, not like the others, yet they’re around us—unseen but represented.
I’d arrived early. As the dew rose with the sun, before anyone would see my homage or judge my actions, I set a shiny hand-forged horseshoe on the ground against Malcolm’s headstone and scattered Blackfoot daisies over the fence for Wukubuu. Now it was time to give my speech. The cemetery was quiet. That just made me more nervous…
“I’ve practiced this speech about a million times. My wife says I give it in my sleep. All that practice and I’m still not sure I will make it through the whole thing. I guess that’s because it’s not really my speech; it’s yours.
“For me, this all started with a few photos, a settler boy’s journal and the tape-recorded reminiscences of an old Comanche woman. They changed my life.
“This morning, here in this sacred place, each of you will have a decision to make as to how this day will end. Will it change your lives? Will we work and eat together or walk away on the same separate paths we’ve walked for centuries?
“Regardless of how we enter this life, regardless of the color of our skin, the language our ancestors spoke, the way we worship, or the way we view the land that we live on, we all share one certainty: our end. Therefore, it seems appropriate that we start here, here at the common end, the resting place of your ancestors. Death, you see, is the great equalizer. But do we have to wait for death to be tolerant of each other, to make peace? Do we have to wait for death to know that we share hopes, desires, and ambitions just as we share sorrow, grief, and heartbreak?
“Why do we wait? Why do we choose to let death rule our lives like this? Imagine the abundant richness of lives well shared. Imagine the power of common interests, concerted efforts, and a collage of creative endeavor. Aren’t we choosing to live less than a whole life when we insist on exclusion, when we cut ourselves off by choosing hatred or disdain?
“After so many years, in this sacred place, can we break through past choices that have limited our lives? In this sacred place, can we choose to be more inclusive, to break down walls that divide us, to listen to those who we have traditionally pushed away? In this sacred place, is it time to recognize the value inherent in every person, and in so doing, find more value in ourselves?
“Since humans first roamed the earth our motivations have driven our behavior. Despite culture, creed, or philosophy our motivations are the same: to live, love, and thrive. Our point-of-view colors our reality, not our inherent human qualities. One man’s farmland could be another’s favorite place to hunt; it is still soil. A woman’s child could be her investment in the tribe’s future or a legacy to carry a family name from across the sea; the child is still a son or daughter.
“We are more than branches in family trees. At the far end of our roots, we are distant cousins with every other human on the planet. Most of you have ancestors buried in this great bend in the river. Surely, that lessens the distance between you. Surely, your ancestral roots in this fertile soil bind you in a way that makes you stronger together than apart.
“I close with this thought from Reverend Martin Luther King Jr.: ‘He or she who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love. There is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. When we discover this, we are less prone to hate our enemies.’
“My friends, your next steps are entirely up to you. When you’re ready, our forewoman will have her team help us finish opening the spaces in the fence and build the new stiles over the walls. And when we are done, we can dine together here at this table as one family in honor of your ancestors and, most importantly, with hope for future generations and their power to love.”
One
Dark Dreams
DECEMBER 26, 1829 – COVINGTON COUNTY, Mississippi. Ma gave me this book-o’-pages for Christmas. I don’t know how I’ll ever fill it. There ain’t that much in my head.
Ma says I need the writing practice. Maybe. She says when a man writes, his soul is in the ink. There ain’t a lick of sense to that, but I don’t cross her on it. She says the Lord guides my hand. I don’t see that neither. They’re my hands—cuts, callouses, dirt and all. Mostly they just hurt from farming every day. Why would the Lord want that?
Had one heck of a dream last night.
I was down in a box-shaped hole. Dirt piled up around me, smelling black and moist. I hate dirt. I ain’t touched, I swear it, but my dreams come on strong and this one was bumfuzzling, to be sure. I raised out of that dark place and found myself walking in a village. No sign of a living thing, ‘cept for a light coming from the blacksmith shop. My name was on the wall of the shop in big white letters, all straight like they’s on the cover of a book saying, “Malcolm M. Hornsby.”
I was born for smithing. Crave doin’ it most every day I work this darn farm. A blacksmith don’t feed the stock, don’t shovel manure all day, don’t mend fences, and ain’t got a thing to do with no farm dirt. If I was looking for my soul, I’d more likely find it bending a red-hot rod of iron to my will than in writing words, but in my dream everything was muddled. My hammers, tongs, the anvil—them things was all there, but I couldn’t touch ‘em. My hands wouldn’t move. I was cold, stiff, and floating above it all, lonelier than I ever been.
Then, for a minute, there was a young girl in the shop with me. I couldn’t see her face, but I could hear her crying, quiet, like when they’re burying folk. She sounded a lot like Ottilee Jameson, a girl I fancy from down the road. Can’t swear by it, though. Then the lamps dimmed and, sure enough, I was back in that hole in the ground pushing black dirt out of my face as fast as I could.
My pa woke me. Though I dreaded his words, it was good to hear his voice, good to know I wasn’t really, well, you know, passed on or something. Pa whispered, “Malcolm, get yourself out of that bed and tend to the hogs, boy. Can’t sell ‘em hungry. Then get back in here for your breakfast. We’ve a full day before us. Won’t be long now, you going to wake up in another country.” I sat up in the bed I share with my little brothers and wondered which is worse: slopping hogs or bad dreams.
Tarnation! How’s a man gonna make a choice like that?
I DON’T KNOW MY AGE FOR SURE IN YOUR years. The way of Taiboo to write everything on paper was not the way for us. We walked on the land in flesh, but we lived in memories. I do know this. I am older now than anything or anyone I have ever loved. I am still a healer among the People, but behind my back they laugh at the old ways. Today, here in Lawton, they call me the Winter Woman, but before I had a name given by my father.
You say that others here remember little of the long-ago days. I remember much. My visions have always been strong. My stories come easy. I remember often as a young woman I would not sleep well because of my dreams. One morning after such a night, the pink sky held me. The smoke, fog, and smells comforted me. Father said it was a seer’s dream. He stomped his foot and nodded as if to say, “Daughter, this is a sign.”
In the dream, I rode hard, at first among all the Penatuka, the elders, warriors, and children. Older horses pulled supplies. Dogs ran beside us. Our dust was thick. People and animals faded in and out of the pink darkness, but soon they disappeared and I rode with the dying sun to my shoulder in the cool night air, alone, away from our Great Clear River.
“My little brave bird,” said Father, “yours was a dream of a kaheeka, one who would tell stories … perhaps a healer of the people … and a good wife.” I shook my head, but just a little so Father wouldn’t see. The dream frightened me. Being a wife frightened me more.
I pulled the buffalo robe tighter around my shoulders and watched our morning fire, let its warmth and light cover me, let the dusty dream swirl and dance like the smoke until it vanished into the red sky. Only then did I speak. “Father, little birds do not tell stories.”
“Perhaps, Wukubuu … you have not listened. When you listen, you will hear what others cannot and you will be a kaheeka.”
So since you have asked, I will tell you these stories. I will paint with the cedar smoke and the memories it brings. So you know who I am. So you know the People.