Seasons of Harvest: A Novel of the Rio Grande Valley

By James M. Vesely

Seasons of Harvest begins a great, sweeping epic of the early Southwest. The story introduces young Neska, and the spirited captive girl, Walking Moon, as the ancient Anasazi begin the long trek from their distant cliff house dwellings to the timeless Rio Grande Valley of New Mexico.

Neska becomes a leader. As generations pass, the Pueblo people are forced to defend themselves against raiding Plains Indians, encroaching Navajo and Apache, as well as the merciless Comanche while across an ocean, a strange, new threat looms. In Spain, a dark, forbidden love forces young Primitivo Apodaca to leave his home and seek his fortune as a conquistador in the New World. Awed by the horses and fearsome weapons of the Spanish, Pueblo warriors soon meet Francisco Coronados army and the bloody, tragic results change the river world forever.

Years later, young Miguel Apodaca follows his grandfathers footsteps as a soldier in the army of Don Juan Oate, but is ultimately disillusioned and repelled by the cruelty of Spanish conquest. Miguel finally deserts, fleeing a charge of treason and the hangmans noose, to begin a new life in the vast New Mexico wilderness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 4, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469764597

James M. Vesely

James M. Vesely has written "Seasons of Harvest," "The Awakening Land," "Shadows on the Land," (THE CORRALES VALLEY TRILOGY) "Journey," "Unlike Any Land You Know," (NON-FICTION) "Coon Creek," "Lonesome Whistle Blow," "Cadet Gray," and "Creature." Jim was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois. He and his wife now live in the small, rural village of Corrales, New Mexico, just outside Albuquerque. Jim is a member of the Western Writers of America.

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All Rights Reserved © 2001 by James M. Vesely

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Seasons of Harvest is a work of fiction based on fact. Aside from actual historic figures and historically factual events, all other names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-17766-2

ISBN: 978-1-4697-6459-7 (eBook)

Printed in the United States of America

This book is for Mary—who makes it all worthwhile.

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgements

Prologue The Longtooth Totem

PART ONE An Old Man’s Story

1

2

3

4

Part Two The Wanderers

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

Part Three People of the River

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

Part Four The Leaders

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

Part Five The Warriors

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

Part Six The Conquerors

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

Preface

Seasons of Harvest is first and foremost a novel.

Book I of the Corrales Valley Trilogy, a multi-generational story of historic fiction relating the origins and history of the small New Mexican village of Corrales over seven hundred years.

The Apodaca family, as well as others whose fortunes the story follows are fictitious, as are their individual parts in the historical events described.

Much of the book is fact and some is fiction. In following the history of the settlement’s people through the centuries, I have tried to set them among individuals and events that either did exist, or reasonably might have. Occasionally it was necessary to invent historical detail, or even whole occurrences, to further the narrative.

With a wide range of characters, and with historical events and timelines as a broad canvas, Seasons of Harvest, along with Book II, The Awakening Land, and Book III, Shadows on the Land, dramatizes not only Spanish and Indian, but later immigrations of French, Italian, and Anglo families into the small farming community along the Rio Grande.

In general, the records of Spanish conquest and everyday life on the frontier of New Mexico are plentiful—but in particular, any written history of the Village of Corrales is virtually non-existent.

Prior to the early 1820s, there is little recorded of the village, except for the original grant of land to Spanish Corporal Francisco Montes Vigil.

Montes Vigil came up the Rio del Norte in 1692, a soldier in the army of re-conquest—led by Captain General Don Diego de Vargas—and later conveyed the grant to Captain Juan Gonzales, whom both history and Spanish records recognize as the founder of Corrales.

Aside from the meticulous recording of the land grant and an interesting census taken in 1870, little is really known about day-to-day life in the settlement’s very early history. Much of the knowledge of what occurred in the Corrales of the 1800s lies buried with the viejos—the old ones—beneath the soil of the camposanto near the old historic Church of San Ysidro.

Of the fictional Spanish family in Book I, the Apodacas carry a quite common name related to their origins. In the case of the Apodacas, the specific hereditary trait of clubfoot has been entirely invented for the purpose of the story.

Every place on earth, no matter its size or significance, is captive to the turn and tide of history. Corrales is no exception, and the story often ranges far from the small farming village nestled in the valley of the Rio Grande River to follow those critical events which ultimately affected the community, as they played out in the larger world.

Finally, if portions of this novel are not as history actually occurred—they are how it may have easily happened.

James M. Vesely Corrales, New Mexico February, 1999

Acknowledgements

The author wishes to acknowledge the following for their assistance in the research of this novel: The Corrales Library for its wonderful section on Southwest history. Barbara Pijoan, Martha Trainer and Marvin Schmaltz for their help, as well as the Corrales Historical Society for access to their archives, and finally my good friend and lunch companion, Larry Kaliher, for all his input over the years.

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Prologue

The Longtooth Totem

On a morning in early spring, almost twelve thousand years ago, a great hunting cat crouched—waiting and alert on the edge of a thick, tangled cottonwood forest. Watching the herds move in and out to drink, her massive neck and shoulder muscles were tightly bunched but not yet set to pounce, and only the short, dark-tipped tail moved in rhythm to her nervous energy. The cat’s tawny body was still, blending with the river thicket that surrounded it.

Her mouth hung open, tongue already lolling in the growing heat of early morning. Curving downward from either side of her massive upper jaw were two seven-inch canines—long, dagger-like spikes, combined with massive and powerful neck muscles with which to stab and slash.

The big cat’s distant kin first prowled the land millions of years before, in an ice-covered, cooling world of rising mountains, uplifts, and volcanic eruptions. Hers was an ancient line that had watched the prairie grasslands spread as they stalked the sick and slow of the growing herds that grazed upon it. Her species lived and bred over eons, as the great mass of ice sheets advanced and retreated ten times across the continent.

The saber-tooth was stocky and big-boned, heavy and powerful, but relatively slow. Like most cats, she had a limited reserve of energy and if she expended it in a great burst of chase, she was finished. Missing the kill, she needed a long rest to recoup the energy she’d used.

Relying instead on stealth and ambush, she preferred slow moving prey like the giant ground sloth or the massive, long-horned bison. Once the cat broke cover and attacked, digging in astride an arched or bucking back, she’d stab downward, through hide, muscle, and tendons. Her attack would crush vertebrae and tear blood vessels—while at the same time, she’d strike her prey’s head upward and sideways with a slashing paw to instantly break its neck.

The big female’s senses were excellent. Her large, yellow eyes missed little of what went on around her. She watched the hawks and other raptors as they soared, circling, on updrafts of warm air. She often eyed the buzzards, too, for if hungry enough, she was not above the role of scavenger and would easily drive the carrion birds from their carcass.

Her next most acute sense was hearing. She could hear the animals she hunted, as well as the breathy woof or the low, soft uurrrr made by others of her kind at distances of three hundred yards or more.

Smell was her final hunting sense. Not as acute as the others, but honed fine enough to scent fear or weakness in the animals she stalked.

Usually the cat hunted alone, but occasionally she might team with one or two others who shared the same territory. Although the river was near, the saber-tooth’s need for fresh water was not great. She could get all the liquid sustenance needed from the juices of the animals she killed, and go without food for seven or eight days before hunger would drive her to kill again. If successful, she’d drag her prey into thick cover and feast on it till she was finished—going for the brisket first, and continuing up the ribs into the chest cavity. If no companions shared the kill, she’d feed alone, pestered by flies, circling coyotes, and the patient, waiting buzzards.

The cat had been sexually mature for almost eight seasons, giving birth to four litters of cubs in her time. When born, her cubs were vulnerable to many dangers. Fearsome when grown, the tiny things were helpless when young. Yet, she had to leave them to hunt, and in that time they could be easily snatched by a fox or a coyote or wolves—perhaps even killed by a sick, irritable old male who might stumble upon them.

This day she hunts alone.

She’d earlier lain in heavy cover, intent on watching a skittish herd of pronghorns drink from the river. They were much too wary and quick, she knew, and none were sick or hurt, to offer an easy kill. Coming to the river in the night, she’d moved into position while it was still dark, driving off a small pack of dire wolves that reluctantly retreated, snarling and whining at her unexpected intrusion.

Now her ears catch the sound of tearing leaves and her nostrils quiver with the musky scent of a browsing tapir.

She tenses, hind claws digging in, her searching yellow eyes fix on the unsuspecting prey—a large male slowly moving closer. Like a moment frozen, all is still, except for the big cat’s tail—jerking uncontrollably in suppressed excitement. She desires a morning kill, for as the warm sun rises in the afternoon, she’ll want to be on her way to sanctuary, belly full and dragging, afflicted with a heavy lethargy and a need for sleep that she’ll not be able to resist.

The tapir moves slowly, browsing its way towards a quick and violent death. Then, a sudden, unfamiliar sound startles it into a surprised snort and sends it squealing off in fright. The cat hears the sound, too. Frustrated and enraged that the moment and the kill are lost, her nose strains for scent of the intruding presence.

Suddenly she sees them, a small group of creatures different than her usual prey, moving toward the river from the east. The sounds they make are strange, their scent is strong and pungent.

The cat observes their movements to be clumsy, lacking in either stealth or grace. She tenses once more, sensing their route through the thicket will bring them close to within easy striking distance of where she lay.

The ragged band of humans had left their ancestral cave in the mountains to the east. They’d spent a bitter winter in which the snows were deep and mountain game was difficult to hunt.

Again, as in years past, winter sickness and lack of food had taken more than a few of them. Now the warming weather, with its promise of summer just ahead, drew some of the survivors out of the mountain foothills, across the rolling plain and down to the river’s edge to spear the fat yellow carp that swam in the shallows.

While the men fished, the children collected fresh-water clams and small, tasty crawfish. Groups of women spread out and scoured the ground for edibles, hoping to find the brown, succulent morels that grew in the spring.

Their band was small and sickly, shrinking with each new generation. They called themselves Hunda, which simply meant—The People.

Their ancestors had come from far to the north, the storytellers told them. While some chose to stay behind in those barren lands where the winter night was long—still others had not even been content with this place by the river and mountains, choosing instead to push themselves and their bands even farther south to places still unknown.

Fact mixed with myth made up accounts of their beginnings. In time beyond memory, the first of them to cross the narrow spit of land that spanned the freezing sea of the Bering Strait and reached to touch a new continent had come unsure of the unknown. Yet, they were confident in their skill and ability to deal with the dangers of the world they knew. Men, women, and children bundled themselves in skins and furs and left ancestral Asia, hunched and moving slowly into the driving sleet and howling winds of the arctic wastes.

The Hunda, as well as others, had no realization that in leaving they were embarking on an epic journey that would some day people half the earth.

They had moved as slowly as the slowest thing. Small, loosely scattered groups, often centuries apart, began the eastward crawl—groups of four or five closely-knit families that would eventually become clans. Any number of half-feral dogs went with them—hardy animals that had long ago formed a bond and an easy trust of men.

They followed the moving herds, killing, butchering and feasting, totally unaware that in so doing they had passed from one gigantic land mass to another. Untold generations lived and died as they slowly crawled along the northern coasts and down the Yukon River Valley.

The great ice sheet that spread westward from Hudson Bay was a barrier, but in the MacKenzie River Valley, as well as places farther west, the nomads and the game they followed could turn south, finding ice-free avenues that drew them ever further south. Eventually bands of people trickled down both sides of the Rocky Mountains, while behind them, new glaciers formed, sealing the timeless immigration routes, isolating the wanderers forever from those who’d stayed behind.

They kept in contact through solitary scouts and swift runners who also searched for game and water, warned of dangers, and passed news and gossip among the scattered bands. In this way, the people traveled at their own pace, unhindered by the complexities and logistics of large groups.

In numbers there might have been safety, but in these strange new lands where they found no others but their own, they had only weather, sickness, or accident as enemies, and these were far more easily dealt with on a smaller scale.

This seemingly endless journey of ancient humans eventually filled Alaska. Many moved on, continuing the southward and eastward crawl, fanning out over eons to inhabit the lakes and plains, the conifer forests of Canada. Others trekked into the deserts, prairies and woodlands farther south, while even more made their way down the gray, fog-shrouded Pacific coast, finally reaching desert country and pushing into the vast, wild mountains of the Sierra Madre.

Many would press even farther south, settling Mexico and the narrow isthmus of Central America, and then even farther yet, into the eerie jungles of the Mato Grosso and the endless wilderness of the Amazon Basin.

They would not stop until the land itself ended—on the barren, rocky, wind-scoured coasts of Tierra del Fuego. They populated the very tip of South America—thirty thousand years and over thirteen thousand miles from their genetic birthplace across the Arctic Sea in Asia.

Like those first ones, the Hunda were a short and wiry people, dark-skinned, their faces broad and flat. They looked old at twenty, deeply creased from desert heat, winter cold and wind. They saw the world through black, narrow-slitted eyes, and their existence as a people had endowed them with a single attribute, both common and unique.

The ability to endure.

Now, after the long nights and the dark, hungry time of snows, the few small children still healthy and sound were taken on this springtime trek. They squealed in joy to see the river again—free from the bonds of winter, the confines and stink of the canyon cave—free to run and play, before the chores of gathering food were thrust upon them. Yet, their anxious parents were insecure this far from home, and had little patience for children’s games.

The cat hunches closer to the ground, nervous and confused as she watches these goings-on. Her tail whipping back and forth, she flinches as a small child runs past. The little girl is laughing and turns to throw stones at others who are chasing from behind.

But as the child turns, she sees the cat hunched in the thicket.

As she screams in terror, her companions instinctively stop, alarmed by their little friend’s fear. The girl’s mother, unaware of what danger is present, races past the other children, hoping to gather her daughter up and carry her off to the safety of the group.

As the woman reaches for the child, her foot catches in one of the many tangled creepers that cover the forest floor. She falls with a grunt and sprawls on the ground.

Before she can realize what is happening, the big cat is on her, stabbing and tearing the already limp and lifeless body with its fearsome fangs.

The cat’s attack is savagely efficient, as fast as a striking snake. It acts more from reflex than plan, and by the time help arrives, the saber-tooth is dragging the dead woman by the head, back into the cover of the thicket.

Though she weighs more than four hundred pounds, the cat is no match for the twelve tense hunters who carefully advance on her. With a low, menacing snarl, she tenses again, determined to both keep her kill and break through the tightening circle of those who surround her.

The cat picks her spot and charges, still holding the limp victim in her jaws. Her lethal forepaws rake and pound two of the hunters, batting them aside as if they were merely a nuisance.

A third steps in and drives a long, flaked lance-head deep into her side, just behind her shoulder. Screaming out in pain, the cat drops the woman’s torn corpse and spins to face the lancer. As she does, another point is struck hard, just below her ribcage, driving upward to sever the large vessels of her heart.

As sudden loss of blood drains her strength, she sinks slowly to her hindquarters, resting her weight on one front leg while the other still lashes out at her tormentors.

Weakened from the wounds, she sags to her belly, roaring out in anger and pain. Certain of victory now, the hunters drive their points into her sides and back, again and again, until the big cat’s body can no longer rise.

She had almost lost consciousness when one of her attackers, a man called Kaal, raised his arms high and brought a huge, round river rock down upon her head, smashing the great skull and breaking one of the large, curved canines at its thickest point. The broken fang arched end over end, landing in a bed of cottonwood leaves. Kaal clumsily ran to it and picked it up. Short of breath, he held it high above his head.

Aaaayya— he cried. The tooth is mine—I claim it as totem.

Others might claim it as well, another man shouted. The cat has died from many wounds.

Kaal struck his chest. I claim it, he repeated. The others fell into a sullen silence and nothing more was said.

The Hunda let the great cat lay. It was a predator and not considered food unless starvation threatened. The children milled about the dead beast, gingerly poking and touching its tawny hide. A boy stepped up and kicked it to show how brave he’d be if someone would only give him a lance of his own.

The little girl was safe, but her mother lay dead—torn and bloody. The corpse would be buried close by the river at the end of the day. The dead woman’s husband, a dull-witted man who had beat her frequently, would not mourn long past the summer before seeking a new wife to share his sleep robes and raise his children. In all probability, it would be a close cousin or a niece.

The small band of Hunda were slowly dying, becoming an inbred, weakened people, each new generation seemingly more flawed than the one before. They’d once been proud and strong, long ago when the early ones had found the cave. In those days the Hunda roamed the valley, coming and going as they pleased, skilled hunters and gatherers whose tools and weapons were made from stone—their way of life inherited from unknown ancestors in a faraway, long-forgotten land of ice and snow.

They’d once been a people of strong tradition, with customs and rituals established to ensure the security and prosperity of their band through any circumstance or misfortune that might befall them. But to those now left in a sad, twilight struggle to survive, those rituals had failed long ago.

They had been thinned to almost nothing many years before, when fevers and a coughing sickness cut through their band like a knife. It had taken old and young alike that winter long ago and not even the strongest of their hunters had been spared.

Before the winter of that terrible sickness, the band had lived, for as long as any could remember, between the isolation of their mountain cave and the riverbanks of the sweet, green valley.

During the time of snows, the cave offered warmth and shelter from the winds. Spring and fall had been the river times, when the carp ran fat, and they could hunt the animals that grazed the bottomlands and valley. When the weather warmed and the spring winds rose from the west, they would temporarily abandon the cave and move down into the valley, building crude shelters of sticks, brush and river grass. In the heat of mid-summer they’d return again to the cave to enjoy the dry, cool air the mountains offered. Until the sickness, it had been a secure and simple existence, a routine regulated by weather and game—a way of living that had served them well for untold generations.

In the spring and fall, when the weather favored travel, the Hunda had often met others moving through the valley. Bands of new people who were making their slow way from one place to another.

Due to fear or often merely by nature, the wanderers were sometimes hostile. Quick and fearful fights had happened in the past—conflicts rarely planned in advance, but quick and deadly actions sparked by nervousness or the slightest threat of real or imagined attack.

But if the newcomers proved friendly, as they often did, there was great excitement and protocol was simple. The Hunda made it known that the valley was their own ancestral home—but it was a place in which the strangers were welcome to camp awhile, even hunt a little, before moving on.

In the days or weeks of socializing, the women of both groups would talk among themselves—of babies, unruly children, lazy husbands, and homemaking skills. The children would overcome their awkward shyness and begin to play together. Soon the men began to mingle, too, comparing tools and weapons, discussing weather and past hunts. Games and dances might be organized. The young, unmarried ones from each group would gaze upon each other with flirtatious glances. Relationships would form and courtships begin. Each group would lose young women to the other, and in such a way strong new blood was introduced, new ways and customs learned.

But when the winter death had come long years before, the Hunda had lost so many, had become so small and weakened in their numbers, that fear had come to dominate their lives. Summer or winter, since that time, they’d become afraid to venture from the safety of the cave for long.

They were no longer willing to confront new people, with an inherent risk of conflict and further damage to their number. Over many generations, their numbers continued to decrease. In their ignorance and isolation, blood kin began to lay together, a practice that produced a frightened, sullen, inbred people, unaware of the tragedy they were bringing down upon themselves.

The Hunda became more vulnerable to infection, illness and disease than they’d ever been—and eventually a thing unknown in the old days began to happen. Many of their offspring were born not quite right, stunted, weak in mind and body—some deformed, and quickly killed by parents frightened at what their coupling had produced.

The band became increasingly wretched—their traditions and genetic heritage in tatters, diminished in strength and capabilities, a reclusive, ragged band, long convinced that the winter sickness of the ancestors had surely placed a curse upon them.

When the day on the river was ended, the man called Kaal was certain that the cat’s broken canine might be a strong totem of good fortune. He’d speared well and taken many fish, while Chen, his wife and half-sister, had stumbled upon a crippled bison calf in her foraging for food. The helpless beast’s foreleg was broken, the sharp bone protruding from its skin. Unable to keep up with the herd, the youngster had been left behind and now was down and weak from pain, waiting for the wolves to come. Chen called some other women, and together they clubbed the calf to death and promptly butchered it.

The band made a cold camp that night and the next. Even a small fire in the black desert night would tell others they were there. They’d seen no one else since reaching the river two days before, but most suspected that other people were not far away. Venturing down into the foothills, they often saw the smoke of cook-fires to the west, near the old volcanoes, on the wide flat mesas across the river. Whether permanent residents or nomads, the river valley drew humans and animals alike. It was a rich source of food and a natural highway of migration.

The Hunda once thought the valley belonged to them, but no longer. Now they were satisfied with only an infrequent expedition there, usually followed by a hurried retreat back to the secure darkness of the ancient cave.

Some others want the longtooth, Chen mumbled on their last night by the river.

I have put my mark upon it, answered Kaal, grinning and holding it up in the reflected light of the moon. See here where I have carved.

Chen could see the base of the broken fang, now marked with cross-hatching and other crude designs carved by the point of her husband’s chert-flaked knife.

Some other men want it, she repeated dully.

It is mine, insisted Kaal, increasingly impatient with her.

Others want it, Chen said again. Some women told me.

The totem is mine! He growled, cuffing his wife across the side of her face. I killed the great cat with the rock and I will fight any who would try to take it from me.

Kaal’s boast was for his wife. He had no stomach to fight anyone for the fang. But wanting no one else to have it, he thought hard and convinced himself that whatever power lived in the tooth might still be his—whether he wore it or not.

The following day, when the foragers returned home, Kaal waited for nightfall before carefully wrapping the broken fang in a strip of tanned rabbit skin. When no one was watching, he slid it into a crevice in the rock, as far back as his arm could reach, deep in the part of the cave where he and Chen slept.

He never told his wife what he had done. From that time on, whenever he was asked about the longtooth, Kaal sadly shook his head and said it must have fallen from his carrying bag as he walked home that day—lost on the long trek back, somewhere between the river and the cave.

As time passed, the Hunda began to see more and more travelers moving through the valley each spring and summer. It increasingly seemed as if the migration from the north would never stop. Some of them moved on, to places further south, while others swung eastward in their journey, long before even coming to the mountains.

But many of the nomads found the valley good and stopped their wandering, making places for themselves that didn’t crowd or press on other bands, already settled.

These new people established rough camps and villages all up and down the river, the smoke of their fires becoming an everyday thing, easily seen as far away as the old volcanoes across the river. On cold winter nights, when the desert air was crisp and still, the music of their flutes might drift up, hauntingly, through the canyon to the Hunda’s hidden cave.

Kaal’s band survived as best they could, most of their tradition lost in a sad existence of fear, isolation and sickness. For many years afterward, as Hunda children continued to be born not right, as the mind sickness worsened, and their fear of the world beyond the cave grew even stronger, Kaal would often reach back in the rocks when none were watching. He would let his fingers work their way into the folded rabbit skin to feel the hard, smooth surface of the saber-tooth fang. It was always cool to touch and he would wonder why its power could not help The People.

More years passed, as Kaal grew old and weary. He finally came to be convinced there was no power in his prize—just a broken tooth, and nothing more. Old age robbed him of his mind and when he died alone, in a dark corner of the cave, the fang had already been long forgotten.

Many more generations of his band would live and die before Kaal’s broken longtooth would be touched once more, and found again.

PART ONE

An Old Man’s Story

1

In the forest between the river and the high mountains marking the western edge of the endless grasslands, a sick old man sat wrapped in skins, leaning against the rough trunk of an ancient cottonwood.

Any slight movement made him wince from the pain in his belly, but he stubbornly used the tree as a scratching post to relieve the itch across his bony, wasted shoulders.

In the west, the setting sun was a dull, yellow ball. There’d been little rain and the dry air was full with heavy dust kicked up by the moving herds. Night would come quickly, the old man knew, and if the hunters brought back no meat, he would go to sleep hungry.

His body was already wasted from lack of food and the sickness inside him, but he was grateful that his head and memory were clear. This was some comfort as he passed the time patiently—waiting to die.

The pain in his stomach was always with him, but now a cold, numb-feeling strangeness had begun in his feet, then spread slowly into his legs and upward. At first he’d been afraid to sleep, certain that death might come and take him then, but this weakened his ravaged body even more, and he finally resigned himself to any consequence brought about by the naps that gave him a temporary escape from pain.

The old man’s name was Crow.

He sat dying on the outskirts of a camp many generations old. It had been a relatively permanent home, established in the river valley only as long as the herds remained there. When the bison or the mammoths moved on, this season or the next, or a hundred seasons from then, the old man’s band would follow.

At forty-seven winters, Crow was the oldest of this group that called themselves the Nemma, a name which roughly meant the True People.

They lived on the fringes of the dwindling herds that took water from the river and grazed on the wild desert grasses. The Nemma killed when they could, but it was the dried meat of big game, along with luck and the spotty availability of other small animals that provided them food during the moons of cold and snow. The band often heard of much greater herds that moved over vast grassland prairies to the east, on the edges of the great ice, but no one had ever ventured into those far, unknown lands, resigning themselves instead to the life the valley offered.

As the sun sank slowly over the old volcanoes across the river, Crow saw the boy called Otter approaching, trudging up the slope to where the old man sat. He is a good boy, Crow thought, polite and respectful of all those older than himself.

Grandfather, I have brought meat, Otter said, as he sat and spread a tanned skin on the ground. Not much, but some.

Old men eat little, Crow said weakly, waving his hand to show the boy it was appreciated. Did your father and the others hunt today?

Only my father and Badger and the one-eyed man called Cutface. I stayed with the women.

And you hated it, Crow smiled thinly.

Yes, replied the boy, making a face.

But you obeyed without complaint?

Yes.

Good, young Otter will have all the hunting he wants in the seasons ahead of him.

But I wish to start now, the boy argued.

Yes, Crow said. I know that. What did they kill?

Nothing, even small game has been scarce.

Meat comes from something, said the old man.

It is dog meat, Otter admitted, avoiding the old man’s eyes. They killed and butchered one earlier. The third in six days—the yellow cur with the torn ear.

They must kill a large animal very soon, the old man said, shaking his head. The band cannot live for long on dog after the snows come. They must bring down a tusked one, or at least a bison.

Their luck will change, said the boy. Is your pain great?

Yes, it worsens.

The boy cursed and pinched the skin of his arm. I am stupid and forgetful. Tomorrow I will remember to bring the mushrooms. They will ease the pain.

And give me vision dreams, smiled the old man.

Crow remembered the times as a young man, and even into middle age, when he and others went out of their heads from the powerful medicine of the small, dried mushrooms. Among violent convulsions that sometimes led to injury, visions came to them—eerie glimpses of this world and of other worlds inhabited by spirits and strange beings—visions that often left them bruised, shaken and physically exhausted.

Usually found growing near the river’s edge, in the droppings of the herd animals that came to drink, the magic mushrooms bruised bluish when handled. They were prized by the shamans and carefully picked, dried, and stored. The curious medicine power of the little thin-stalked, dung mushrooms had often been a frightening thing—but now at the end of his life, Crow was eager to use them again. If nothing else, they would take away his pain.

Will you die, grandfather?

Yes.

When? Otter asked.

I think I am dying now.

Will it be soon?

Soon enough.

The boy was silent, staring into the distance over and beyond the horizon, watching the setting sun turn the western sky into a wash of red and orange. He’d seen animals die, but never a human being.

Are you afraid? Otter asked.

No, not anymore, the old man smiled, chewing a piece of dog meat as best he could, with his old, worn teeth.

The boy sat cross-legged, intently watching his grandfather eat—staring into the old man’s lightly bearded face. It had the look of tanned hide, Otter thought. The creases around the eyes and mouth were long and deep, and the leathery skin was covered with dark brown patches. Among the many wrinkles were a few old scars that showed pale white.

I am not afraid to die, either. The boy stated firmly.

Young boys never are, Crow said with a smile. They are still too far away from death to fear it.

But you are close and do not fear it.

Often old men become as boys again, Crow said, licking his fingers and finishing the last of his supper. It is one of the strange, magic things of the world. In any case, grandson, with the pain this illness brings, death can only be easier. Perhaps he will come to me as a friend in the night.

Tomorrow I will bring the blue mushrooms, Otter promised. In his eye, a tear was forming and he turned his head away so the old man could not see it.

The pain grew worse and Crow spent a restless, uncomfortable night. He slept fitfully, often jerked awake by the fire that surged through his bowels and into his chest.

Strangely, I am thankful for so little to eat, he thought, afraid a full belly might cause him to foul himself and be embarrassed in front of the boy. Even after the stabs of pain were gone, he was left with a dull, constant ache that held his entire body in its grip.

Dawn was still far off and daylight would only bring one more day of suffering. It would be much easier to simply die, but if he could live another day he would see the boy again and that was his single comfort now.

Only Otter had been allowed to see the old man and take him food. The others shunned him as if he were already dead. The decision had been made, the farewells spoken. There was no need for further contact between Crow and the Nemma people. He was gone from them—already a spirit one.

He sat through the night awake, staring into the darkness and attempting to ignore his discomfort. There was little to do but keep his mind clear and play with the memories of his life. He feared being asleep—or even worse, being out of his head when death came. Crow had always been a curious man and despite his pain he wished to remain lucid and aware, to know what the end of life would be like.

An old man’s curiosity, he told himself as he drew his robe up to touch his chin, was often little different than a young boy’s.

He still remembered many of the stories told to him when he was young. Stories of the long ago, when the Nemma people first came to the banks of this river. He himself had lived every day of his life within a thirty-mile radius of it.

It was said that before they settled at the river’s edge, hunting groups of the early ones set off into the eastern mountains to find game. They climbed through a narrow canyon that offered both cover and a little stream of clear, cold water. They proceeded cautiously, for these mountains were unknown to them, but at a height where ponderosa pine and white-barked aspen covered the slopes, they found deer spoor in abundance, and the mountains proved rich in game.

Elk and mule deer, black bear and wild turkey thrived in the lower valleys, while higher up, mountain sheep shared the granite cliffs and crags with soaring eagles. All looked down on a wide, brown valley split in the summer by a green ribbon of cottonwood forest and divided east and west by the gently flowing river.

Thinking about it, the old man recalled the most terrifying story he’d ever heard—a tale of his people that his own father had once told him, one which had survived intact from his great, great, great grandfather’s time, and maybe even before that.

It had been a long story and it had made the skin of all who heard it crawl. Crow still remembered that as a boy, it had left him shivering in the night before even the warmest fire and under the heaviest of robes.

His father had told of a cold autumn morning long ago. At the start of a hunt, a strange and terrible thing had happened which made all future generations of the Nemma shun the mountains, sentencing them instead to a hard subsistence life close by the river—forever dependent on what it and the valley could provide.

Now, waiting for the night to pass, Crow closed his eyes and remembered the story once more.

2

In a gray dawn of long before, two men waited for a deer.

They sat hidden, breath steaming mist-like in the early chill. No words passed between them and each felt strong and certain of the hunt. Tracks and rubs were found the day before, as well as fresh droppings on the well-worn game trail. It was now a simple thing, a matter of time and patience.

The deer’s tracks were deeply pressed and close-spaced, indicating a heavy animal traveling slowly. Most likely an aging buck in rut, his neck thick and swollen, his good sense gone, and his eyes glazed with the urge to mate.

This was a strange time for them, the hunters knew. The bucks were usually ghostlike in these forests, moving with speed and silence through the canyons, alert always to the slightest danger. But during the autumn rut, both bucks and the smaller does became careless, forgetful of danger, and easy prey to the lances of men.

The taller of the two hunters hunched his shoulders and drew his furs close against the morning cold, absentmindedly chewing the hairs of his sparse mustache. Overhead they heard the honking of geese winging south ahead of the snows, but it was still too dark to see the birds.

The shorter man shifted slightly, lifting his weight off a small stone that had become an irritant. He suffered a clubbed foot and the bones in his twisted leg would ache until the sun rose high to burn away the morning cold.

Off to their left, two squirrels played, chasing each other through the dried leaves of the forest floor. Their noisy game imitated the sound of a larger animal moving through the darkness, and as young boys the hunters had been often fooled by this, but they’d long ago learned which sounds were meaningful and which could be ignored.

They suspected the buck they sought would come slowly and unafraid, with little noise. Perhaps a muffled snort or a snapped twig might signal his approach, but little else.

We will have meat today, the tall hunter whispered.

Aii, said the other. Perhaps before the daylight comes, but can you not be still now? You are as a woman who cannot wait to talk.

I spoke softly.

Not softly enough, the shorter man said.

I am cold and the talking helps.

I too, am cold, argued the short one, rubbing his hurtful leg. But I also hunger for meat, so be quiet and keep your mind on this business.

They huddled in a stand of aspen, bordering a wide meadow of golden grass. It was a good spot and had been chosen with care, close by the game trail with the empty meadow in front of them. In the trees, the hunters were hidden, but when the buck approached, he would stand out against the open clearing, even in the faintest light of dawn.

The clubfooted hunter was a Nemma man named CrookLeg, and his companion was known as Grass. Their camp was a half-day’s downhill trek from where they sat shivering in the morning chill.

The sun rose slowly, shimmering on the meadow’s dew. The two men stretched, welcoming its warmth upon their necks and backs. The throbbing ache in Crookleg’s leg was slowly leaving, replaced by a simple stiffness that carried no great pain.

Now birds began to sing, welcoming the morning. As the men grew sleepy, CrookLeg briefly wondered if the buck might have slipped past them in the dark. If the animal was coming, the hunter reasoned, he should have come by now—for even in the rut, the wiser, older bucks moved very little in bright daylight.

We may have missed him, CrookLeg whispered, breaking his own rule of silence. If he has not come by now—

He still may come, Grass answered, staring into the trees. Perhaps he has found his doe and is coaxing her to follow.

Or perhaps he went another way.

What do you want to do?

Nothing yet, CrookLeg said. We’ll wait until the sun is high and then backtrack the trail. It is the same direction as the camp.

Aii –Grass groaned. I promised my woman that we would return with meat. She will be angry, I think.

CrookLeg grinned. Bring her that meat which hangs between your legs, old friend. Her anger will quickly vanish.

They both laughed quietly. The tension of the wait was gone and both men were more relaxed. Soon it would be too light for the buck to come. He might have found either his doe or his bed by now, and the hunters would return with nothing, to be chided by hungry old women or teased by those children clever enough to stay out of range of a thrown rock. Grass yawned and both men fought the urge to sleep.

Moments later the sound of antlers rubbing against a sapling’s soft bark brought them back alert. He comes, Grass whispered, straining to measure distance and direction.

Be ready, CrookLeg said softly.

They were well hidden—their throwing sticks honed sharp. Hearing the buck so far into daylight had been luck—but that good fortune was used up now, and both hunters would be afraid to hope for more.

Suddenly, they heard a frightened bleat and a crash. As they turned toward the sound, the mule deer lurched, half-stumbling into the clearing from a thicket to their left. Grass tripped getting to his feet, but CrookLeg was already standing—his weight balanced on his good leg. Even as he loosed his throwing stick he saw the terror and confusion in the buck’s large eyes, as well as a dark red, ropy string of blood streaming from the animal’s open mouth.

CrookLeg’s throwing stick struck high in the buck’s neck and severed the animal’s spine. The deer hunched in mid-stride and collapsed at their feet. It was then that the hunters saw a second lance, crudely made, buried deep in the buck’s side.

Grass was confused. It isn’t mine, he whispered, backing away and staring at the strange weapon. I fell and had no chance to even stand, much less throw.

CrookLeg pulled his throwing stick from the steaming carcass and moved back among the trees. Get down and be still, he hissed, his black eyes searching the thick forest. We are not alone here.

Even as he said it, a hunched figure stepped from the line of trees that rimmed the clearing. The Nemma people were not tall, but compared to them, this stranger was even shorter. Somewhat bow-legged, he looked to be the height of a young boy except for his head, which was large and strangely out of proportion to the rest of his body. The man’s chest and shoulders were broad and powerful, his arms long. Beneath the tattered skins of his clothing, the Nemma hunters could see dark curls of matted hair.

This big-headed one seems to be a man, CrookLeg thought, but somehow different than a man. The Bighead’s brow was heavy and his nose was flat. He was dish-faced and his mouth hung open, revealing a row of large, broken teeth that were stained almost black. In addition to an elk horn dagger, he carried a short piece of tree limb as a club.

Unlike the Nemma hunter’s own graceful throwing sticks, the Bighead hunted only with a lance. When he bent to pull it from the fallen buck, CrookLeg saw its spearhead was of chipped obsidian like his own, but far more crude. Then, he noticed the pendant around the Bighead’s neck—an odd, curving crescent that called to mind the tooth of a bear or a cougar, but many times larger.

When the strange hunter saw them, he quickly straightened and stared dumbly at the two Nemma men, his nostrils flaring to catch their scent. He then threw back his head to shout what Crookleg and Grass thought to be a warning.

Although this one made no hostile move, if there were others of his kind about, Crookleg reasoned, he and Grass might have to fight their way out of this clearing and back to the Nemma camp. Suddenly the dead buck was of trifling concern.

Three more Bigheads emerged from the trees, all armed with similar weapons, two of them clutching large stones. CrookLeg and Grass were now outnumbered.

But these strange ones seemed frightened, hopping up and down, muttering excitedly among themselves in a guttural tongue that was unknown to the Nemma men.

Suddenly the four squatted in the clearing and fear seemed to leave them. With grunts and odd noises one man quickly gutted the downed buck, ripping the large liver from the steaming body cavity and casually tossing it across the clearing to the Nemmas, where it landed with a wet, heavy slap.

Grinning foolishly, the Bighead motioned for CrookLeg and Grass to come out of the trees.

He wishes us to sit with them, CrookLeg said.

Who are these ones? Grass whispered.

I do not know, CrookLeg answered softly, never taking his eyes from the four in the clearing. I have never known men such as these before—do you have your knife and club?

Yes, I can fight if we must.

Then let us sit with them, CrookLeg said, moving cautiously out into the sunlight of the meadow.

For the next hour, sitting cross-legged with their weapons at the ready, the two Nemma hunters faced four humans the likes of which they’d never seen.

Speech proved impossible. Whatever language the Bigheads spoke was unknown to CrookLeg and Grass—and their own words fell on ears equally ignorant of understanding.

Communication improved when CrookLeg began to speak the simple signs—his hands open and palms up, empty of weapons to show that he and Grass meant no harm.

The sign was understood and the Bigheads laughed among themselves, reaching over the carcass to touch the hands of the two Nemma hunters. The one man they’d seen first grunted curiously, pointing at CrookLeg’s atlatl—his throwing stick. It was held up and given over for the Bighead to carefully examine before he passed it around to the others. When it came back to him he held it out and thumped his chest with a fist.

He wants it, CrookLeg thought, and why not? He does not know how to use it and the throwing stick is not much good this close in. I still have my lance and club if we need to make a fight.

CrookLeg nodded yes, while pointing to the pendant around the Bighead’s neck. But I wish to trade for that, he signed.

The bargain made, CrookLeg carefully examined the long, curving canine tooth. The Bighead poked at him with the throwing stick and suddenly jumped to all fours, balancing on his palms and the balls of his feet. With a low growl, he began to imitate a four-legged creature stalking its prey. Then, kneeling back, he lifted closed hands to his face with only the index fingers protruding downwards like curved fangs from each corner of his mouth. His companions began to laugh.

He shows you the great cat, Grass said.

This thing is very old, CrookLeg said, turning the pendant in his hand. None of our people have ever seen the animal that carried teeth such as this, but only heard of it in story.

He pointed the ornament toward the Bighead, making the sign of throwing a spear. The gesture asked: You kill?

The large-headed hunter laughed and signed No, shaking his shaggy head. The limitations of the sign talk could never tell the whole story of how the fang came into his possession. He’d found it one day long ago, hidden deep in a crevice within their cave. To him it was a only a found object of little value—easily given away or traded for something as curious as a throwing stick. How and when the ornament came to be in the cave was a mystery, and who originally hid it, no one knew.

Finally, two of the Bigheads grasped the tines on each side of the buck’s antlers and began to drag the animal off, motioning CrookLeg and Grass to follow. Grass picked up the still-warm liver, now sticky with the buck’s blood. They wish us to follow.

CrookLeg nodded. Then let us do it. I want to see the place of these large-headed men and to count their numbers.

They followed the Bigheads silently, making their way down into the lower levels of the narrow canyon. With some effort, CrookLeg was able to keep up, although his walk had an awkward rolling gait due to the shortness of his leg and the deformity of his foot. Only the good fortune of being born a male had saved his life. A girl baby born to the Nemma with an affliction as serious as his would have been smothered at birth.

When the Bigheads stopped to drink from the small flowing stream, the two Nemma hunters, trailing a short distance behind, stopped and drank as well. The Bigheads led the way, speaking among themselves in their strange tongue, arguing from time to time. Their pace was slow and unhurried, and finally the trail led off and away from the little creek, and up the gentle slope of the canyon wall. In the middle of the climb, the Bigheads made their presence known to those above, shouting up toward the mouth of a wide limestone cave high on the canyon wall.

Looking up, CrookLeg and Grass saw a short, bandy-legged band of people slowly emerge from the cave’s mouth. They were excited, pointing at the climbers and shouting in answer. The two Nemma hunters continued to be amazed at how different these people appeared from their own.

How often we’ve passed this place and never saw it, Grass said, nodding toward the cave. Our eyes were on the game trails at our feet and we never thought to look above us.

Among strange cries from above, and with gestures from the four hunters they followed, CrookLeg and Grass climbed up the canyon wall to the cave entrance. They were quickly surrounded by the dirty women and naked children of these peculiar people, being poked and touched by them.

There were other men in the cave, CrookLeg quickly saw, but they hung back in the shadows, whispering among themselves. He counted the band to be twenty-five—women and children, and six more men, plus the four hunters they’d followed here—ten men of fighting age, CrookLeg calculated. Ten men to watch at all times.

Many of the Bigheads showed odd deformities. Some drooled and spoke gibberish even further removed from the language of the others. All the women were ugly and frightened, and the children—some with one or two fingers missing, harelips, or vacant stares in their eyes—were oddly sullen and quiet.

Then Grass and CrookLeg witnessed a thing that seized them with fear. Unbelievably, the mule deer was dragged inside the cave and crudely butchered without benefit of prayer or ceremony—an unholy and repulsive act.

The Nemma believed the slaying of an animal must always be accompanied with reverence. Any creature killed for food would leave a void in the world—a dark emptiness that would upset the balance of the universe, a void that could be easily filled by frightful spirits and evil entities. All this might happen if the proper thanks were not given, and the correct prayers not said on behalf of the dead animal’s spirit.

In addition to rituals honoring killed game, fresh meat was never hoarded. Among the Nemma, regardless of who made the kill, everyone was entitled to share. Even the most skilled hunters often returned empty-handed and the practice of sharing protected everyone from temporary setback and failure. Honor fell equally on hunters who were most able, as well as on those who shared most generously. The hoarding of food was a public disgrace, and the penalty was temporary or even permanent banishment, a harsh punishment that often resulted in death.

Without drawing attention to his actions, Grass lightly touched the deer liver in his woven tote bag. He made his own silent prayer on behalf of the mule deer that had died to feed this ragged band of degenerates—a people too ignorant to offer thanks on their own.

Repulsed by what they’d seen,