Captive Spirit (2 page)

When Chenoa and I returned home, Gaho was kneeling before the hearth in the far end of the pit house. My stomach growled immediately at the comforting smells of her bubbling stew—squash and corn with bits of dried deer meat.

“What took you so long?” Gaho said as soon as we crossed through the door. She didn’t turn. I swear my mother had eyes on the back of her head.

Gaho’s body was delicate like Chenoa’s, although thicker in the middle. Her black hair had streaks of grey and was pulled back in a braid that stretched down the middle of her back.

“There’s still corn that needs grinding,” she said, nodding toward a small stone trough beside her.

Chenoa darted quickly across the room and knelt before it.

Before my eyes could adjust to the darkness inside our clay walls, Chenoa lifted the stone above the trough and began to grind the kernels. The
metate
in her hands began to scrape inside the trough.

My stomach still growled when Gaho snapped, “Aiyana, fetch me some more water. Must I tell you everything?”

I frowned at the back of Gaho’s head but I didn’t dare delay another second. I reached for the water jar next to the door and carried it to her side. It was unlike Gaho to snap at us. I figured that she was anxious about the Rain Ceremony preparations. It was hard enough to find time and energy for additional work on top of the usual tasks that filled our days. I immediately felt guilty for taking the swim. “We found plenty of berries today,” I said, trying to soften the edge in her voice. “More than we’ll need.”

“We can never find enough,” Gaho snapped. But then she drew back her shoulders and inhaled. As she exhaled, she turned to me and said, “I am sorry, Aiyana. But there is still much work that needs to be done. I have only two hands when I need six.”

“I understand,” I said. “Tell me what I must do.”

“Bring me the fruit,” she said.

I brought her the clay jar overflowing with fruit and she smiled at the size of the saguaro berries.

Together, we peeled their skins and then mashed them with our fists till our knuckles turned purple. “The wine will be good this harvest,” Gaho said finally, her first smile since we returned to the pit house. She wiped sweat from her wrinkled brow with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of berry juice across her forehead. “Our men will be pleased.”

“Where is Onawa?” I said, leaning back on my knees.

“He’s in the courtyard with Eyota.”

I lowered my chin to conceal my jealousy but it was not lost on Gaho.

“They’re busy carving figurines for your sister’s wedding ceremony,” she reminded me. One for fertility would be sewn inside a corner of Chenoa’s marriage blanket. And Eyota was one of the clan’s master carvers. He could carve anything out of wood and stone and he was teaching Onawa to do the same. Eyota said Onawa had Hunab Ku’s gift. “With his slender fingers, he’ll be better than me one day,” he told my parents, along with just about everyone else in our village.

Gaho shook her head and smirked at me while my eyelashes lowered even further. It was hard not to be envious of Onawa. He never had to help with cooking and he was still too small to help Ituha in the fields, at least not all day. How I wished sometimes that I had been born a boy. I hated being trapped inside the pit house. It was just as bad as being trapped by mountains and unanswered questions that filled my head.

Streaks of orange and purple painted the horizon when Ituha returned from the fields, his bare arms and legs scratched and coated with dust. He carried his sticks and baskets across his back. But whenever Ituha came home, the air inside our pit house felt lighter.

And cooler air always drew everyone into the adjoining courtyard along with renewed energy. Voices turned brighter; footsteps became lighter, even faster. Outside, mothers brought steaming stews and corn dumplings in large pots from their hearths for everyone to share. As the sun began to set, one of the boys played a flute carved from reeds that grew next to the river. The music floated above us, light as rain. For me, it was always the best part of a long day.

Honovi’s parents and younger sister, Luyu, always ate their meal with us outside, along with Sinopa’s parents, sister, and two younger brothers. We sat in a circle on cotton mats, balancing clay bowls in our laps. I sat between Honovi and Sinopa. They never stopped talking, even as they slurped rabbit stew. And I couldn’t blame them, especially when they discussed the ball court competition. I felt privileged that they let me listen. Sometimes, when we were by ourselves in the courtyard, they even let me kick the ball with them.

The ball court competition was scheduled the next morning, just after sunrise. The White Ant Clan would play the Red Ant Clan. The Rain Ceremony and all its pageantry were almost secondary. Ball court was always the highlight of any ceremony, especially for the boys. The last time, the Red Ant Clan won the honors, but not before a grueling match that produced too many purple bruises and black eyes to count. Honovi had to wear a sling for two weeks and could only work in the fields with one functioning arm. Sinopa lost a tooth when he got knocked in the mouth by a Red Ant’s stick. Despite the injuries, the boys from the Red Ant Clan kicked only one ball more past the goal line than the boys from my clan. And tomorrow, the boys of the White Ant Clan had no intention of losing again, no matter how many bruises or broken bones they had to suffer.

I barely allowed myself a breath while Honovi and Sinopa talked, for fear of missing a single word. Flames from the fire pit brightened their eyes as they discussed ball and stick strategies.

“Remember to dribble the ball with the insides of your feet,” Honovi cautioned Sinopa. “Only bring back your stick when you’re in front of the goal.”

Sinopa nodded solemnly. Honovi was the best player for the White Ant Clan. None of the other boys dared discount his wisdom, not even Sinopa.

I imagined playing alongside them, kicking the ball and poking it across the goal line with my stick. I imagined that I could; I knew I could if only given the chance. I was certainly quick enough and equally as clever. Honovi wouldn’t need to tell me to dribble the ball with the insides of my feet. I already knew that.

But then Ituha said something from across the fire that tightened my chest.

“Pakuna’s father met me in the fields today, Aiyana.”

I swallowed but said nothing. Suddenly, my appetite disappeared, along with my ability to speak.

Pakuna was a boy from the Red Ant Clan. His father was Miakoda, their tribal leader. Miakoda never smiled and his eyes and mouth were framed by skin folds as thick as Gaho’s corn dumplings. When he spoke, he grunted. It was always difficult to understand him, and I suddenly worried that he caught Chenoa and I sneaking a swim in the river when we should have been working, especially one sunrise before the Rain Ceremony.

I waited for Ituha to finish, expecting the worse, but I suspected that being with Chenoa would probably lessen the punishment.

Ituha saw how my brow furrowed and smiled. “Pakuna has been asking for you,” he said in his usual calm way, as if boys asked about me all of the time. They did not.

Even so, everyone seated around us in the courtyard grew silent. All talk of ball court halted. The only sound was the crackle of the fire. Each face around the circle looked from Ituha and then to me, waiting. It wasn’t often that any of us had conversations with one of the tribal leaders. To do so was considered a privilege.

Even so, I felt Honovi’s back stiffen beside me. “Yes, Ituha?” I said, my voice heavy with dread. Did Pakuna catch Chenoa and me at the river, too? Was he spying like Honovi? I didn’t know whether to be angry or afraid. I didn’t know Pakuna like the boys from my own Clan. And why, again, would he be asking about me?

But then Gaho beamed at me and nodded alongside Ituha while Ituha tilted his head as if he had a secret. “It is time for you to marry, Aiyana. Pakuna would make a fine husband…” His voice trailed off.

It was as if someone had kicked me in the stomach.
Husband?
I said to myself.
Is that what this nonsense is all about?

The word stuck like a dry pebble inside my throat. And it sounded all wrong inside my head. I could barely say it.

Husband
.

And who could picture me a wife? Certainly not me, not like I could Chenoa or the other girls in our village. Chenoa was born to marry. Me, on the other hand, I saw myself differently. I saw everything differently. That was my problem.

“But—” I stammered and Ituha raised his hand.

My mouth snapped shut.

“It is settled, Aiyana.” He said it so firmly that I had to draw back a breath. But then his eyes softened again when he smiled. With a lift of his chin, he said, “We will sit with Pakuna’s family tomorrow at the Rain Ceremony.”

I could tell by Ituha’s tone that he was proud to make this announcement in front of everyone in the courtyard. He was proud to accept Miakoda’s invitation. He was honored to have received it. If I were to complain, he would be embarrassed and shamed, and Ituha was the last person I wanted to disappoint. Ever.

Gaho glowed alongside him and that only made it worse. Now I understood why she had been so anxious after Chenoa and I returned home. She had wanted to tell me but knew she couldn’t. Ituha needed to be the one.

“Just think, Aiyana,” Gaho said. “That will mean you can move closer to the center of the village.” Her voice trailed off like Ituha’s, as if she already had the details mapped out in her mind. Marrying her daughter to the son of a Tribal Leader had its privileges, but I wanted to scream that we hadn’t married yet. There was still time for Pakuna to change his mind and I was certain he would. He must have made a mistake, or he had me confused with someone else in the White Ant Clan.

And Pakuna needed only to get to know me better before he’d realize that there were plenty of other girls more worthy of a Tribal Leader’s son. In fact, I wondered why he even noticed me. He never did before.

I stared wordlessly over the fire into my parents’ faces. Their eyes sparkled, making it that much more difficult to breathe. Finally, I sighed inwardly and turned to Honovi. Honovi knew Pakuna better than I did. They competed in ball court and they worked together in the fields. Perhaps Honovi could enlighten me about Pakuna’s sudden interest.

Mercifully, the conversation around us returned to normal. Boys talked ball strategies, girls and mothers discussed wedding ceremonies and babies, and the men talked about the heat.

“Honovi?” I said. The spot beside me was empty and cold. “Honovi?” I turned all around. “Where’d he go?”

Sinopa shrugged his shoulders.

“Humph,” I sighed, squinting into the growing darkness around us.

I hadn’t seen him leave. He could have at least said something before he disappeared.

And I so desperately wanted to tell him that the closer to the center of anything was the last place I wanted to be. Honovi would understand. He always did. But then I reminded myself that he already felt the same way.

It was a small consolation.

***

After the sun rose on the next day, Gaho became obsessed with my dress and hair more than ever before. It was infuriating.

She circled me warily, sighing and clucking, till I wanted to leap out of a window. I wasn’t accustomed to so much attention from her. Normally she was critiquing my household skills, not the condition of my deerskins or the tangles in my hair.

“Wear this,” she said. “It’s our best one.” She pressed a dress against my chest. The skin was brushed and softened by the sun to perfection. Tiny braided tassels the length of my smallest finger hung delicately from the bottom hem. They both shimmered and tickled against my legs at the same time.

“But there’s nothing wrong with the one I always wear,” I said, unable to stand still. I was anxious to be at ball court, especially after hearing sticks clacking together in the distance. I was late. The game had already started and Gaho was fussing about a silly dress.

“Aiyana, do as you’re told.” Gaho’s lips pressed together in a thin line.

I took the dress. “Yes, mother,” I said as I fingered the deerskin. It was softer than mine and covered my knees. If I did get a chance to play on the ball court, this dress would not make it easy. And Gaho would not be pleased if I returned her dress dirty and ripped—precisely the reason for insisting that I wear it.

“And these,” Gaho said, threading her best necklace over my head.

“But—” I broke off helplessly as I stared down at the blue stone that hung below my chin. White shells as big as my palm hung on either side of it. The necklace had belonged to my grandmother, and her mother before her. It was the most precious jewelry my family owned. “I couldn’t. You should be wearing it, not me.” I began to untie the knot behind my neck but Gaho’s hands reached for my wrists, stopping me

“Not today, Aiyana. Today it belongs to you. Let your future husband see that Ituha does not allow his family to go without.”

I swallowed. There was that word again,
husband
, the one that had no place next to mine.

I stared across the room at Chenoa. She ignored me. With her fingertip, she drew dots and circles on her arms and face with yellow paint we made from palo verde flowers. The bright paint glowed on her coppery skin. I was expected to do the same and I frowned when I realized that it would be one more task that would keep me from watching the ball court competition. How I loathed all of the activities associated with being a girl.

“Don’t tie your hair back.” Gaho still fussed behind me. “Wear it long and loose like Chenoa.”

“Yes,” I said, unable to hide the slight grumble in my voice. Mercifully, Gaho ignored my tone as she helped slip the deerskin over my head. Today, she would also wear her hair loose, like all of the other women in the White Ant Clan. Long hair was a sign of beauty and Gaho could certainly be counted as such. Still, I couldn’t help but feel guilty wearing her best deerskin and finest jewelry.

Finally dressed, painted, and combed, I begged, “May I go now, Gaho?” I fidgeted from one foot to the other, waiting for her permission. But Gaho would not release me easily. Carefully, she cinched a braided cotton rope around my waist to tighten the dress, holding me in place again.