Tanayia

By Connie Vines

Tanayia is alone in the world. Her village destroyed and her people murdered by a group of revolutionaries who now hold her hostage. A daring escape on the edge of Cochise’s stronghold saves Tanayia’s life, but she discovers her ordeal is only beginning.

Forced to live in a government run boarding school, Tanayia is stripped of her identity. The headmistress is bent on destroying Tay, but Jacob Five-Wounds stands in her way. Jacob urges Tay to run away with him—but diphtheria strikes the school. Now, Tanayia must make a choice, a choice she knows may cost her both, Jacob and his love.

“This well-researched novel is taunt with all the tensions and passions of any tale in which the characters are trapped. That Sister Enid eventually gets her comeuppance (and from a native doctor, too) is only just and satisfying, and an epilogue tells of both the compromises and the triumphs of Tay’s marriage to Jacob Five-
Wounds (once a fellow inmate of the school.” A-! ~ The McQuark Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Jan 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9780228600060

Connie Vines

Married with two grown sons, Connie Vines resides deep in the quirky suburbs of southern California. She has published over one hundred short stories and non-fiction articles, six novels, and has ghost-written two literary novels and one screenplay. The vice-president of GothRom (Gothic Chapter of Romance Writers), Connie participates in local literary events and judges national and international writing contests.Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/novelsbyconniev/pinsEasy links to all things Connie: http://about.me/ConnieVines

Book preview

Tanayia

Whisper Upon the Water

First People Series

By Connie Vines

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-0-2286-0006-0

Kindle 978-0-2286-0007-7

PDF 978-0-2286-0008-4

Print ISBN 978-0-2286-0009-1

Amazon Print 978-0-2286-0010-7

2nd Edition Copyright 2017 by Connie Vines

Cover Art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Acknowledgements

Speaking only Lakota, five-year-old Lakota Sioux, Mr. Larry Sellers (Cloud Dancing), was sent off-reservation to a Native American boarding school to be educated. His shared childhood memories and experiences of those times contributes realism to this story. His words of encouragement instilled my duty, as a storyteller, to bring this story to life.

The staff and students of Sherman Indian Boarding School, Riverside, California, USA.

To Tribal Elders Barbara Drake, Jacques (Maka-Tal-Meh) Condor, and Linda Baguley. Friends who generously gave the gift of their time to both encourage me and make certain my ‘native voice’ remained strong.

To the co-members of The Parent Advisory Council, San Bernardino County, Title IX and Title X Indian Educations Programs dedicated to teaching our children and others about Native American heritage through public school programs.

And, to the members of the Tribal Council, for honoring me with A Lifetime Achievement Award for my work on behalf of Native American Children.

Prologue

1868

The Governor of New Mexico decreed that all Indian children over six to be educated in the ways of the white man.

Indian Commissioner, Thomas Morgan, said, It is cheaper to educate the Indians than to kill them.

1880, Apacheria, Season of Ripened Berries

Isolated bands of colored clay on white limestone remains where the sagebrush is stripped from Mother Earth by sudden storms and surface waters. Desolate. Bleak. A land made of barren rocks and twisted paths that reach out into the silence.

A world of hunger and hardship. This is my world. I am Tanayia. I was born thirteen winters ago. We call ourselves N’dee, The People. The white man calls us Apache.

Chapter 1

Only a soft light from the east lit the dirt path I soon would walk. I rose from my blanket and dressed in my favorite buckskins and moccasins. After combing my hair, I stepped from my wickiup and walked toward the center of camp. Women from neighboring Apache bands, dressed in their best clothing, squatted around their campfires, patting tortillas and fry bread. My relations traveled great distances to share my coming of age ceremony. I am proud and happy. I smile and call out my morning greeting, ya'ateh."

Many blessings, my child, several replied, as I passed.

The sharp scent of crisp dough and the bitter scent of acorn stew floated on the cool air. My stomach grumbled in hunger. Large feasts, such as the one my people prepare today, are no longer common. Grandmother, Ligai Tł'é'na'áí - White Moon, however, remembers the long-ago days when her band feasted at each change of season. She told me stories of times when food was plentiful. It is not so today.

I have not tasted beef or deer since my friend Doe Skin’s Sunrise Ceremony. My stomach rumbles again and I quicken my steps. Hours will pass before the next meal and I tried not to think of the tender meat roasting on the open fires, or the sweet cakes baking under the ash covered pit.

Tanayia, Doe Skin called out. As she ran, her long red dress flapped against her leggings. Wait. I will walk with you.

Thank you, I replied. I welcome your company.

I forced my thoughts back to the upcoming ceremony. Now the medicine man, the singers, and the drummers are gathering at the river. My hands tremble and my knees are uncertain as I near the clearing.

My aunt, Łitsog Ya'áí -Yellow Sun, came to stand beside me, her heavily lined face a map of her many years. Place this top over your dress, she instructed. Your grandmother, Ligai Tł'é'na'áí - White Moon, made it for you. Our medicine man, Łizhį Chúúné - Black Dog, is near. Hurry.

I do as she instructed, then stare at the beautiful beadwork on the shirt. The glass beads gleam yellow, blue, and red in the soft camp light. Hot tears sting my eyes. The sage-brush fires burn and their sweet fragrance fills the air.

It is time, I realized. This is the day I became a woman. As I looked around, my heart fills with joy.

Most of the camp has moved up the river for the Sunrise Ceremony. The older apaches sit upon their blankets. Little children peep from rabbit-skin blankets, their soft laughter rings through the air.

The fringe on my buckskin dress brushed against the top of my moccasins. I feel soft earth under my feet and the heavy sound of drumming reaches my ears.

I feel the motion of the music flow over me, as Yellow Sun adjusts the fit and brushes the soft skin top over my dress. Three rows of bright beadwork are stitched along the yoke of the top under which narrow fringes are tied along the yoke. These fringes reached almost to my waist. At the bottom of each piece of fringe is fastened a small, thin cone shaped piece of tin. These pieces of tin brush against one another as I move, making a soft sound like a gentle spring breeze. My people know this will help ward off misfortune in times to come.

The Sunrise Ceremony is of great importance, Yellow Sun reminded me. She fastened an eagle feather on my head, its dark tip toward Mother Earth. The dance promises that you will be strong and will live to an old age. The feather of the eagle will help you live until your hair turns gray.

She fastened an abalone shell pendant upon my forehead, the sign of Changing Woman, mother of the N’dee people.

I know the most important thing Grandmother White Moon will do during the ceremony will be to massage my body. During this time, she will give me all her knowledge. My eyes filled with tears as I looked at Yellow Sun, for I know her thoughts, feel her sorrow. My mother did not have this sacred ceremony and she had died long before her long black hair was woven with silver.

I feel sad, but I draw strength in the knowledge, my mother will rejoice this day.

Yellow Sun smiled, her mouth wide with pride. Now you will dance. You will dance not as a child, but as a woman.

I swallowed. Yes, I replied softly.

I flexed by knees and fit my movement precisely to the beat of the drums. There are three hard beats, and I know I must make a slight bow and take small, mincing steps to the center of the dance ground. I sway from side-to-side in time to the singing and drumming and I stare into the sun. This symbolizes the impregnation of White Painted Woman by Sun Father. Currents of heat warm my face from the orange sunrise. I heard the faint rustle of leaves and I smiled. Soon will come the true test. Now is the time I must run to greet the sun.

One of the elders moved to the rise of the hill where he jabbed the base of a wooden staff firmly into Mother Earth. The staff stands sure, its bright wood a contrast against the hillside’s blue-gray sage and new green grass. This will be my sacred cane. One that is carved and blessed before my Grandfather Nchaa Chaa - Big Beaver, adorned the yellow wood with quail feathers and metal bells. This cane is one that I will keep with me my entire life. A strong staff used for walking while I’m in my youth, and a sturdy friend to support me in my old age.

Now! Yellow Sun shouted while rushing to my side. Now run as fast as you can around the sacred cane. Run so fast that evil will never catch you. Run, my child. Run!

I ran without thinking. My steps fast and sure as I run toward the sun. My heart and my ears pound to each drum beat. I climbed the hill and each breath I take burns my chest and my throat tastes of copper.

Yellow Sun, in a yellow calico trade-cloth dress, joins the run as I reach the last rise of the hill. She fell into step behind me. A short distance more Grandmother White Moon also runs behind me.

Suddenly, the rain falls, soft, uncertain drops at first, then harder, until I hear the sound of rain drops hitting the earth. And my dress, which weighs ten pounds, gets heavier and heavier. I lift my skirt, and am surprised I didn’t fall. Still I run and run. My feet beating lightly against the soft ground, the leather fringes of my dress slapping against my arms. I run. I do not tire.

When the run is complete, I notice the rain has stopped and the heat of sunlight is once again upon my face.

Painted hides are tossed on the ground and I lay upon my stomach. Yellow Sun sat down beside me.

A singer raised his shaker gourd high in the air and brought the song to an end with a sound that was like rushing water.

Yellow Sun kneaded my skin. I feel the hardness of Mother Earth against my body. The sharp scent of pinon and dust filled my nostrils. She rubed my shoulders in firm knowing hand strokes. The movements are repeated until she reached the bottoms of my feet. In this way I am molded into perfect womanhood.

The music begins again. The soft, even tempo of the gourds, the hard throbs of the drum, and the sweet light whistle of my uncle’s wood flute fills the air.

Grandmother sat down upon the hides. It is time to mold your future life, she said, touching my head and repeating a soft prayer. Then she, too, molded my flesh.

To me it seemed as if only moments have passed. But the sun was high overhead and I know the ceremony is over for today.

It is time to rest and prepare for the afternoon feasting. Yellow Sun told me, as she helped me to stand. Later you will help carry the food to Black Dog’s camp for blessing.

I nodded and followed her back to camp.