Captive Spirit (7 page)

When we left, it was as if we were never there and that scared me most of all.

The three men loaded the horses, careful not to leave a thread or a footprint behind. The youngest one swept away our tracks with the ends of a tree branch.

How would my family find me? Did they know I’d been taken?

Yet inside I wept for the people in my village. I could never forget how their screams pierced the sky as the desert burned all around them. And when I closed my eyes, I only saw the terrified faces of people I had known my whole life. The images shook my entire body, with rage or fear I was not certain. But how did it happen? How did we let it happen? Why would anyone destroy my village? And why take me?

I stared over my shoulder toward Sleeping Mule Deer, still trying to piece together the fire, my capture, and everything in between. The taste of blood in my mouth was a reminder that my worst fears were still very real.

I wasn’t dreaming.

I wouldn’t wake up on my mat next to Chenoa in the pit house while Gaho stoked the hearth, a sliver of grey from the sky brightening the room. And with each step the horses took, I was one step deeper into the World Beyond, missing my family more than I ever thought possible.

Strange beasts, horses. They were broader than deer and more skittish than coyotes.

The thicker man, the one with whom I rode, motioned for me to climb on top of the tallest horse when they were ready to leave. I assumed we’d walk. Walking was all I did when I wasn’t running. So when he nodded toward the horse, I shook my head, confused, and dug my heels into the ground as if that would somehow change his mind.

But then the other man, the one with the scar, grabbed me by the waist and hoisted me atop the horse like one of his deerskin sacks before I had a chance to blink. The horse barely moved but my entire body wobbled as I clenched my thighs together to keep from falling sideways.

I’d never ridden a horse. Before the last moon’s rise, I’d never seen one. Riding a horse was like sitting atop a boulder at the river except this red boulder moved and made irritated snorting sounds, like mother javalinas herding their young.

After I was seated, the thicker man lifted his leg and mounted the horse so he sat in front of me. He held the long rope that thread around the horse’s head. As he held the ropes and clucked to the horse, my breathing slowed and I wasn’t so frightened, although my legs began to chafe against the horse’s fur. His fur wasn’t silky, not like the white strip between Lobo’s ears. The horse’s coat felt rough like sand and smelled of sweat.

As we rode, Lobo ran beside us, sometimes barking, other times running ahead in search of rabbits and birds, his long pink tongue hanging over the side of his mouth. Whenever he got too close to the horses, the horses whinnied and he’d run off till he was almost a grey dot on the horizon. But I worried whenever I didn’t hear his bark or see his wagging tail.

When the sun beamed directly over us in a cloudless sky, the man seated in front of me finally spoke. He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Name?” he said in strangely accented tones. “What is your name?” He pointed a finger at my chest.

I sucked back a breath at the question. I knew what he asked. But why would a man care about the name of his captive? Stunned, I stayed silent, in case it was a trick.

Then he pointed to his chest and said, “I am Diego.” I couldn’t help but focus on his lips when he spoke. His words were almost the same as mine except that his voice rose and fell in different places. His voice was like a song while mine was heavier, boxier. I wanted him to speak more. I wanted to hear more words. “Your name?” he asked me again, slowly.

I swallowed. Finally, I said, “Aiyana,” just as soon as his right eyebrow arched impatiently.

“Pretty name,” he said, surprising me again. He did understand me. How was that possible? “For a pretty girl.”

I spoke slowly, in case my words confused him. “Where is your village?” I asked.

“Spain,” he said simply.

I’d never heard of that village before. I had only heard of the White Ant and the Red Ant Clans. Ours was the only village I knew. “Where is Spain?” I said. It was difficult to say the name of his village at first. Like the word
horse
,
Spain
sounded odd as it rolled off my tongue, as if it had no place on my lips.

He sighed loudly, extending his arm. “Very far from here.” His face turned mournful, like he was thinking about something special. Or impossible.

“Is that where you’re taking me? Spain?”

He shook his head and chuckled.

At first I thought he didn’t understand me. But then he clucked at his horse when it tried to stop and graze on a patch of wispy grasses. “No,” he said, pursing his lips as his eyes scanned the strange landscape that stretched before us. He patted a deerskin sack that hung next to his leg just as the horses began to climb. I had to grip Diego’s belt to keep from flipping off the horse’s backside.

As the horses climbed, the air turned colder and thinner; the ground, darker and rockier. It became harder to breathe and not just because I was scared.

“Where, then?” I prodded, anxious to learn more about my captors.

Diego turned completely forward in the saddle and snapped the rope that threaded through his hands. The horse trotted faster and we bounced uncomfortably until we reached the other two men riding single-file in front of us.

“Where?” I asked again but Diego wouldn’t answer me. Frustrated, my eyes instinctively scanned for Lobo. I felt a relieved pang in my chest when I saw the back of his legs and his wagging tail even though a grey rabbit squirmed between his jaws. Sadly, I knew how his rabbit felt.

“Why have you taken me?” I whispered but Diego still wouldn’t answer. At least he let me ask the question so I tried again, even as tears built behind my eyes. “Why have you harmed my people? What happened to my village?”

Diego remained silent. Suddenly he behaved as if he didn’t understand me, as if my words were gibberish.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself not to whimper like a child as my chin lowered next to my chest. When my eyes finally opened, I was staring down the front of my deerskin at Gaho’s necklace and my tied wrists.

My heartbeat quickened. My eyes widened.

I had an idea.

Carefully, I raised my hands. I feared that I might touch Diego so I pulled my elbows back until my shoulder blades almost touched. We barely sat a thumb’s length apart and it seemed an eternity before my fingers found the thin cord that threaded through the shells and blue stone of my necklace. I raised my hands over my neck so that I could untie the knot in the back of my neck. At first, my fingers fumbled between strands of my hair but finally I was able to loosen the knot. Mercifully, the necklace slid slowly down my chest until my fingers could touch the shells.

Barely breathing, I released three shells from the string. When I was certain that Diego wasn’t looking, I let the shells fall from my fingers. So light, they floated to the ground like dried palo verde leaves.

I watched until the shells landed safely on the ground, white and unbroken. They lay in bright contrast against the dark brown dirt. Someone would have to be blind not to see them. Gaho’s white necklace shells were one way for someone to find me and I was certain that someone would.

They had to.

I refused to believe otherwise.

Swallowing, I drew in the tiniest of inhales before I tied the necklace back around my neck. Only seven shells remained. I would have to be careful where I dropped them, and I’d already decided that I would save the shiny blue stone for last. I pressed it against my chest and rolled it between my fingers as I prayed to Hunab Ku for strength.

The blue stone would need to bring me luck. I needed it.

Besides, I hoped that I wouldn’t need the blue stone. It was all that I had left of home.

***

We rode until my legs turned numb.

I dropped two more shells from my necklace as I sat behind Diego when I was certain he wasn’t looking. I had only five left.

The World Beyond stretched forever. Reaching an edge, a precipice like I once imagined, now seemed impossible. Instead, one world seamlessly joined with another. Then another.

Before us, mountains of every shape loomed higher and darker, much bigger than the jagged ones that surrounded my village. They were covered with odd-shaped trees that looked like arrowheads; in some places the branches were so thick that we couldn’t ride below them.

As we began an even steeper climb, I had to grip Diego’s belt with both hands. If he minded, he didn’t say.

A ridge of green arrowhead-shaped trees swept so long and wide in front of us that it looked like it was painted into the sky. I wondered if we’d ever climb to the top and reach the other side. And the deeper we rode into the trees, the more I feared I’d never see my family again. It felt as if the mountain was swallowing us whole.

When Diego helped me climb off the horse, I dropped numbly into his arms from fatigue and hunger. My legs tingled all the way down to the tips of my toes; I could barely walk. Thankfully, Diego untied my hands and then left me to help the others unload the deerskin sacks.

I rubbed the muscles in my feet and calves, waiting for some instruction. Lobo stayed by my side. It was good to have him close, especially with the strange way the men looked at me.

Lobo licked my hands with his warm pink tongue until I finally stroked the soft spot between his ears.

“I missed you, too,” I whispered close to his ear and his tail wagged so fast I wondered if it would fly off.

Then the man with the scar dumped one of the sacks at my feet, startling me. It landed with a loud
thump
, and I jumped out of the way just before it landed on my toes.

“Cook,” he said as he towered over me. “You cook. We’re hungry.” It was not a request.

Cook? But, cook what?

Lobo began to inspect the sack but the man kicked him in the rump with his pointy black shoe causing him to yelp before he darted wildly into the darkening sky.

“Cook!” he said again and I immediately began to fumble with the sack fearing the back of his hand.

Diego frowned at the man with the scar as he stood next to the horses. “Don’t mind Alfonso,” he called out to me. “He just gets grumpy when he’s hungry.” There was a smile in his voice and I gathered that Alfonso’s behavior was not unusual.

I nodded at Diego but did not return his smile.

Alfonso
, I thought to myself. So that’s what they call the man with the scar across his mouth. Thin and white, the scar crossed over his lower lip like a lightning streak.

I opened the sack, not knowing what to look for, not knowing what I’d find. Fortunately, I found more dried meat, two pouches filled with water, dried black beans, and a pot with a thin handle made of a hard material I did not recognize. It was as tough as a river rock and made a hollow noise when I rapped it with my knuckles. I lifted the heavy thing from the sack, inspecting it. Gaho only cooked with red clay pots that we molded from river sand; clay pots were all anyone needed in my village.

I lifted the pot closer to my face, tilting it from side to side. It was scratched and mostly black from fire. It was heavier than a clay pot but not as deep. There was only one thing left to do with it.

I rose from my spot and began searching for dried branches and leaves. If I was to cook, we needed a fire, if nothing else, for warmth. It grew frighteningly colder with every moment the sun dipped behind the mountains. I rubbed my shoulders through my deerskin and tried desperately not think about my bare feet. My toes had become red and chapped. I moved faster to keep warm.

While I gathered small branches and handfuls of leaves, I squinted into the growing darkness and whistled softly for Lobo. He didn’t come when I called and my throat tightened.
He’ll come back
, I told myself.
He won’t abandon me.

Next to the deerskin sacks, I dug a hole with a thick branch and my fingers. I dug until my fingernails turned black. The ground was harder and less fine than desert dirt. It did not open easily but after a while, I finally had my hole. Then I sharpened the tip of a thinner stick with the edge of rock that fit between my fingers. It wasn’t perfect but it worked. I balanced my sharpened stick on top of another thicker stick, an even greyer one, and began to rub it between my hands. Finally, the stick began to glow. The glow spread to the dried grass near the base of my stick and then quickly to my dried leaves and twigs. I sat back, pleased, as fire filled the hole. I set the sharpened stick away from the hole for next time.
Gaho would be proud
, I thought oddly. Usually I wasn’t so lucky, even with the fire-starting sticks that Onawa carved.

But then my smile faded.
Gaho
. My throat tightened again. I pictured her face in my mind. I missed my mother. I missed her voice and gentle hands that would comb my hair. I missed everything about her.

As soon as the fire filled the width of the hole, I poured water into the heavy pot and waited for it to bubble. I tested it with the tip of my finger. It didn’t take long before I poured a handful of the dried beans into the pot, stirring it with the end of a thin branch. Once the beans turned soft, I stirred in some bits of dried meat, tucking away a piece inside my belt for Lobo when no one was looking.

As the meat cooked with the beans, my stomach growled at the tiny mixture. I wondered if there was enough for two people to eat, much less four. Surely they wouldn’t have me starve. What kind of a people didn’t share their food?

Diego and Alfonso smelled the stew and approached the fire. The third man followed behind and I heard Diego call him
Jorge
. It would be another difficult name to pronounce but I practiced the strange sounds inside my head.
Jorge. Jorge.
I’d never heard anything like it before. Even their names were strange, like everything else about them.

Alfonso reached the fire first and grabbed the pot’s handle with his beefy hand like it wasn’t even hot. He poured part of the bean stew into a cup that was scratched and dark black like the pot. Then he thrust the pot to Diego who did the same. Jorge was next and I was last. By the time it reached me, there was barely enough left to coat the center of my palm. And there was no cup.