Qaletaqa (12 page)

Pulling my hand up, Claire began tying the
bracelet around my wrist. “When I was looking for things to help me
remember you, this is what held me together the longest,” she
said.

I didn’t understand. “Do you know what this
is?”

“Yes, your father was supposed to give it to
you when he thought you became a man, and you’ll give it to your
son, our son, for the same reason. It connects your past to our
future. It will remind you of what we’ll have one day,” Claire
said. The conviction in her voice made her words a solid
declaration. She was so sure, I couldn’t help but believe her.

“You may not know whether the child you saw
in the vision was from me or Melody, but I know. I have imagined
what our children will look like for years. I can’t wait to meet
them, to teach them our traditions, and watch them grow up in their
father’s footsteps.”

The bracelet, securely fastened around my
wrist, truly was a beacon. Claire held it up with tears in her
eyes. “Every time you look at this, you’ll see that little girl and
know that she belongs to us, only us, and that one day we’ll hold
her in our arms and tell her how much we love her and everything we
went through to make sure she would be a part of our lives.”

Tears fell down Claire’s cheeks, splashing
down on my wrist, leaving three deep brown circles on the old
leather. Three. One for Claire. One for me. And one for the
daughter I hoped with all my heart would belong only to us.

11: Reality

Lying in Uriah’s arms was bliss. We had
collapsed back on the bed after I gave him the bracelet, neither
one of us quite ready to face the day. Exhausted, Uriah had fallen
back asleep within minutes. Sleep didn’t return to me, but peace
did. Even when the reality of where we were and what we were doing
crept back into my mind I was momentarily too lost in his embrace
to care.

I snuggled against his body even more and
closed my eyes. It didn’t take much to pretend we were back home,
lying together with no other cares in the world. Only the ever
present pulsing of the bond kept me from taking the fantasy any
further.

She was out there somewhere. Melody. A small
corner of my mind harbored a momentous dose of resentment for her.
It bordered on hate. Not so much toward Melody, exactly, but toward
the world or gods. Whoever it was that had taken our lives and
woven them into a hopeless mess. I hated the idea that anyone was
controlling my future. It rubbed at me until I exploded, usually in
the form of a tantrum. I had learned to deal with my fear more
since being with Uriah, but the familiar edge of losing control had
returned.

It wasn’t just the hunt for Melody. The
desperate need to find her was at the top of Uriah’s list of
worries. I didn’t blame him for being so single-minded. If he knew
what I knew it would tear his focus in two, put him at risk of
making a mistake. I couldn’t burden him with that. If he knew my
part in this twisted story he would never let me stay with him.

I lied to Uriah. When he asked about the
possibility of my being a shaman, about what I knew and the book, I
panicked and lied through my teeth to him. Guilt for my decision,
especially after being so upset with him for leaving me out of
everything just a few days ago, sank into my bones. It was almost
enough to make me wake Uriah and explain everything. Remembering my
last conversation with Quaile held me back.

“
What is it, Claire?” Quaile
asked.

“
I need the book.”

“
What book?”

“
The one you already know isn’t meant for
you,” I said.

Her head shook slowly. Her hands trembled,
but she tried to deny any knowledge of what I was referring to. “I
have no idea what you’re talking about, Claire.”

“
Yes, you do. You already know you aren’t
the one meant to help Uriah. If you were you would have taught him
what he needed to know a long time ago. You would have gone with
him. You know the book doesn’t belong to you.”

“
How can you know that,” she
whispered.

“
Bhawana wasn’t the only one to have a
vision about Uriah, but you already know that. It’s time to pass
the book on to someone else. It’s time to pass it on to the person
who was meant to use it,” I said.

“
Who?” she asked. “Are you going to take
it to the shaman in Hano?”

The answer should have been plain to her. I
shook my head. “No, I won’t take it to Hano.”

“
Then who?” she asked, her voice trailing
off at the end as her eyes widened. Her lips moved soundlessly.
Whatever words she wanted to speak not making past her mouth until
a hand came up to cover her mouth entirely. Finally, her body
sagged in defeat. “I thought you were just saying what you said
about a girl waiting for Daniel to persuade him to leave you. You
meant it, didn’t you? You knew he would find someone else.”

“
Yes.”

“
How?”

“
The same way I hurt Uriah every time I
touch him. Did you even know I did that to him?” I asked. All the
wondering, the searching, and Quaile had the answer the whole
time.

“
You…” Her eyes widened even further. “No,
I didn’t know that. I had no idea. I waited and waited for some
sign of who was going to help him if it wasn’t me.”

“
The answer was right under your nose the
whole time, Quaile. You were just too busy ruining people’s lives
to see it,” I said.

She sank back into her chair, a withered
woman. Quaile shook her head in defeat. “It’s too late, now.
There’s no hope for him.”

“
Yes, there is, Quaile. There’s still
time,” I said with certainty. “Give me the book. It belongs to me.
I’m the only one who can use it. I’m the only one who can help
Uriah defeat the Matwau.”

I told Uriah that Quaile gave me the book,
made it sound like it was her idea. I was the one who asked for the
book. After what my dad told me, I knew I had to have it if I
planned on keeping Uriah alive. There was one thing I told Uriah
about the book that wasn’t a lie. I hadn’t been able to read it
yet. As much as being back with Uriah consumed my body and mind, I
had been itching to delve into whatever it was that was hidden
there.

Uriah was right about what I was. The blood
of many shamans ran through my body. Uriah’s reaction to me had
something to do with what I was. A shaman.

The problem, the reason I didn’t tell this to
Uriah, was that I didn’t know any more than that. I was a shaman. I
was meant to help Uriah defeat the Matwau. How? I was hoping that
information was somewhere in Quaile’s book. It had to be. On an
impulse, I slipped out of Uriah’s arms. Well, I tried to anyway. As
soon as I moved, his arms tightened around me. His face nuzzled
against my neck as he woke.

“I love waking up next to you,” Uriah
said.

“So do I.”

Propping himself up on his elbow let Uriah
look over me to see the clock radio on the night stand. He groaned
and held me even tighter. “We should really get up. He’s already
moving.”

“Do you mind if I shower first?” I asked.

“Sure, I’m going to check in with my
mom.”

My kiss goodbye lasted a little longer than I
meant it to, but I was in the shower soon after. My first impulse
was to rush through washing. I wanted to shower first so I could
get to the book while Uriah got ready. In this moment of solitude,
my mind was bathed in the first moment of peace and quiet since
drinking the poisoned tea my father gave me. I still needed to
hurry, but I also needed a minute to think.

Before I left San Juan my father spilled out
everything he knew about my place in Uriah’s destiny, and then I
ran to Quaile in search of Uriah and the book. I’d barely had time
to really process what my dad told me. Maybe I missed something.
Water streamed down my body as I closed my eyes and remembered the
second vision, the one Uriah knew nothing about.

My dad began with a name. Nampeyo.

Overshadowed by Bhawana, Nampeyo was
considered only a child. She was under the care of Bhawana, her
apprentice. Bhawana’s vision of the Qaletaqa filled the minds of
tribe. Her words brought excitement and hope, planning and
preparation. Even the children became wrapped up in the prophecy,
even though most of them had no idea of the danger the Matwau
presented and the agony he could cause. But they loved stories of
heroes, and the Qaletaqa would be the greatest hero in their
history.

So when a few days later, during a training
session, Nampeyo fell into her own vision of the Qaletaqa, Bhawana
first ignored the girl’s ethereal words as a mere reflection of her
own vision. Not until Nampeyo started speaking of another, one
meant to aid the Qaletaqa, did she begin listening in earnest.
Nampeyo spoke of a shaman. She said this shaman would be powerful,
a compliment to the Qaletaqa. Nampeyo warned that there would be
signs to distinguish her from other shaman. Their powers would
rebel against each other until the time came for them to be used
against the Matwau. Without her, the Qaletaqa would not be able to
defeat the dark gods’ creature.

My dad admitted then that he had married an
Anglo outsider with the hope that non-Tewa blood would dilute the
power in his bloodline, make his children unworthy of holding the
tribe’s power. He hoped to protect his descendants from becoming
involved in the prophecy.

It hadn’t worked.

I pressured my dad to tell me more about
Nampeyo’s prophecy, but he couldn’t. He said he knew there was more
to it, but Bhawana had refused to share it with the chief during
her life, and that secrecy had continued all the way to Quaile. All
he knew was that there was a book Quaile carried with her. The only
time he had ever seen her open it was when the Qaletaqa was
referenced. He told me to get the book if I planned on following
Uriah.

I had tried to peek at what the book held
when I left San Juan, but driving and reading didn’t mix very well.
I put the book away reluctantly, forgotten when I finally reached
Uriah again. I knew only a fraction of what I needed to know, and
had so little time to figure everything out. That thought spurred
me to finish up.

I gave up the quiet of the bathroom to Uriah
in exchange for the book hidden in my backpack. I knew Uriah would
be out quickly, so I skimmed over Bhawana’s original prophecy
written on the first few pages. I knew that one by heart now after
hearing my dad, Quaile, and Uriah retell it. That prophecy was the
one thing I did manage to read from the book before giving up on
the idea for the sake of safety. My fingers turned the last page of
Bhawana’s prophecy hoping to find the details of Nampeyo’s
prophecy. Instead I found something unexpected.

A folded, worn piece of paper fell out.
Opening it was a slow process because I was afraid it would crumble
to bits if I was too rough with the ancient letter. As the words
were revealed I could tell this was not the same handwriting as in
the book. The book was written by Quaile, transcribed from the
words of her teacher. Quaile was the first to write down the oral
traditions of the shaman. She had faced ridicule and rejection
several times for even asking permission to write everything down,
but eventually the previous shaman relented, knowing the tradition
of oral storytelling was slowly disappearing from her tribe.

This letter, though, was not written in
Quaile’s angular hand. It was flowing and graceful, penmanship from
another time. It was also written in Spanish. I took two years of
Spanish in school, but I pulled out my phone to help me translate
what I didn’t understand. The first few words were easy, but very
formal. Scanning the top of the letter, I saw why. It was dated
1698. The name in the first sentence piqued my interest
immediately. The letter was written by a Tewa.

“I am Yungé, but the name given to me by the
Spanish when I was selected to be taught is Estela Cortez. I was
given the name in honor of one of the soldiers who died during the
revolt. I do not wish to speak of the revolt. I learned to write
because I have need to pass down information that may otherwise be
lost.

“I am a descendant of Nampeyo, the great
shaman who prophesied of the Qaletaqa’s need for help when she was
only a child. Many, even Bhawana, counted her vision as an
aberration. Bhawana never saw the same vision for herself, and
because of that felt there was very little validity to her
apprentice’s vision. Nampeyo, though, knew that the vision came to
her for a specific reason. One of her descendants would be the one
to aid the Qaletaqa.

“Bhawana did not believe this claim, so it
was not added to shaman lore along with the prophecy, but Nampeyo
made sure her children took up the cause in her stead.

“I have become ill. I do not know whether I
will survive this sickness. I am the last of Nampeyo’s descendants.
I am carrying my first child. I am positive my child will survive
to carry on Nampeyo’s line, but I do not know if the same can be
said for me.

“If I do not survive this disease, I fear the
knowledge will be lost and the shaman to come will not be prepared.
The prophecy was memorized and handed down to each new shaman, but
knowing the one to be called would come from her own line Nampeyo
called on the gods many times to ask of their knowledge. She
learned from the elders and the wise ones of our tribe how to help
her descendant.”

I stopped reading the letter when my eye
caught a handwritten note scrawled in the margins. Quaile’s
addition to the letter answered the question which had burst into
my mind as soon as Yungé said Nampeyo’s descendant would be the
chosen shaman. Why wasn’t her lineage kept then? Why didn’t Quaile
know it was me? I read the note eagerly.