The Wild Girl (30 page)

“Look, there’s one of them right there in my Abercrombie & Fitch safari jacket,” he said, pointing. “And there’s another in my pith helmet. The brutes!” he added. “They don’t even know any better than not to break up the outfit.”

It was true that the Apaches wore bizarre combinations of clothing. The men sported all manner of headgear, everything from narrow-brimmed straw hats, to Mexican sombreros, to their most recent additions of pith helmet and Mr. Browning’s bowler hat. Others wore brightly colored cloths wrapped around their heads like Indian turbans. Some were dressed in variously styled vests and jackets, others had blankets tied around their waists almost like Scottish kilts. The women were equally colorful in their bright calico dresses and skirts and as much jewelry as they could fit on their persons.

More of the Apaches had begun dancing. It was unlike anything we’d ever seen before, a kind of stuttered prancing, a nearly spastic, out-of-sync movement that seemed nevertheless in perfect keeping with the strange, dissonant music, the blazing bonfires, the full orange moon . . . I knew then that when we had first crested that final tortuous pass in the rocks and dropped down into this valley, we had crossed a threshold into another world, a world with its own sun and moon, and its own separate race of man.

We were seated on blankets and hides spread on the ground in the place of honor in front of the central fire. The white Apache Charley had arrived with Joseph and they had taken their seats beside us. With them was a woman whom we took to be Charley’s wife, and another very old woman, who appeared to be blind. We were fed two different kinds of roasted meat, perhaps beef pilfered from the Mexican ranchers, or maybe horse, as well as venison. With this they served sweet mescal, the succulent crown of the agave plant, which had been steamed all day beneath the coals, and according to Albert is both an Apache staple as well as a delicacy. The women had also baked a flat unleavened bread for the feast that must have had its origins in Mexican tortillas. The food was delicious and we were ravenous; we ate with a strange abandon, the notion unspoken but palpable between us that this might, after all, be our last meal and we might as well enjoy it. Never has anything tasted better. Before she would eat herself, Margaret wrapped some food up in a cloth and sent the girl with it to Mr. Browning. But when she returned she said that he was still sleeping and so she had left the food in the cave beside him.

Now the dancers were each singing in turn as they danced, a kind of chanting. One of them suddenly made a chilling screaming sound that faded away like an echo and that raised gooseflesh on our arms . . . it was the exact sound of Tolley’s horse falling into the abyss.

“Good God,” Margaret whispered.

“They’re telling the story of our capture,” Albert explained, “. . . with some . . . elaboration.”

Each Apache who had participated in the event took their turn singing and dancing their exploits. When it came Indio Juan’s turn, his dancing was even wilder and more exaggerated than the others, his singing edged with a distinct madness. “This one is not right in the head,” Albert said. “Look at the others. You can see that even they fear him . . . Listen, now he is telling of claiming Margaret as his slave, and the fact that she is his rightful property, not Charley’s. It is a great breach of etiquette to make such a claim at a dance in front of the rest of the tribe.” I sneaked a look at Charley, who sat stone-faced and expressionless.

When Indio Juan was finished, it was
la niña bronca
’s turn, and she stood gracefully and walked to the center, and began to dance. I recognized in her stylized movements the act of falling onto my back, swooping down like a bird of prey, holding the knife to my throat, all performed with a strange, evocative grace. As much as she had blossomed when she was with us, now that she was back among her own people, she seemed restored to the full bloom of her young womanhood, full of confidence and joy. Gone is any trace of the terrified wild creature I first saw those weeks ago, squatting naked on the stone floor of the jail cell. Here is a dark, supple, lovely young woman, dancing in the flames, dancing under the moonlight; I could not take my eyes off her.

Several small groups of women sat by the fire, gossiping and watching the dancers, periodically looking over at us and giggling.

“Oh God, here they come,” Tolley said as several of the women stood and made their way toward us. “Our executioners. Never have I wanted to be a wallflower more than I do at this moment.”

“The ceremonial dancing is over,” Albert said. “This is the beginning of the social dancing.”

“Just don’t let anyone know that you’re a
poufter,
Tolley,” I said. “It might go even worse for you. Remember what Albert said.”

“Oh, thank you, Giles,” Tolley said sarcastically. “I’ll try to avoid asking the boys to dance.”

Now the women urged us to our feet and led us out among the dancers. We felt enormous and ungainly beside them. The Apaches are a small, compact people, the men with broad shoulders, deep chests and lithe, athletic limbs, the women, equally well formed, hardy and strong, with fine features, clear dark eyes and skin and small hands and feet. We felt like pale clumsy giants among them.

Everyone made great fun of Tolley and my first tentative steps, a general hilarity that had some of the spectators and dancers alike literally rolling on the ground in laughter. However, they were all suitably impressed with Albert’s dancing skills. Although the ceremonial dances had been outlawed for many years on the reservation and in the white-run boarding school which he had attended as a boy, Albert, like many Apache youths, had surreptitiously learned the forbidden steps.

Margaret, too, was led into the dance circle now. She was tall, slender, and far more graceful than we, and her own efforts less slavishly imitative. Perhaps as a child among the South American tribes, she had learned something about native dances, for she seemed not to care particularly whether she performed the steps with exact correctness, imposing instead her own sense of rhythm on the music, so smooth and sinewy, that it was hard for all not to watch and admire her.

Now a curious thing began to happen. As exhausted as we were by the ordeals of the day, the strangeness of this new land, the terrifying uncertainty of our predicament, we all became caught up in the hypnotic music, the arrhythmic dancing, the otherworldly atmosphere of the place. And we gave ourselves up to it, letting the beat of the drums reach into that primal part of our beings that knows instinctively how to dance, that remembers the steps. Margaret says that dance was the first form of human communication, the first art form, the first entertainment, that from the beginning of the species,
Homo sapiens
danced to celebrate love and war, and everything in between; it is the one activity universal to every culture on earth. And now caught up in the music and the dance, we forgot all else; we even managed to forget in this brief respite of mad pulsing gaiety that our lives were in jeopardy. It seemed impossible to believe that these same smiling, laughing people with whom we whirled and pranced and cavorted by the flickering light of the fires intended to murder us in the morning, to chase us about the camp and beat us to death with rocks and sticks, to run us through with knives and lances. This was the Apache way, Joseph said; the killing of male captives was business left to the women and children, for it was not fitting occupation for a warrior.

And so we danced under the full moon, the flames of the fires blazing high. And now we knew the steps to each of the different dances, one in a line, one in a circle, one with partners dancing back and forth, another with changing partners . . . within this trance state we lost all track of time and all of life in that moment became simply the dance; all else was forgotten, past and future, nothing mattered but the immediacy of the dance, the dance absorbed us into its being . . . and within the sanctuary of the dance we were no longer afraid.

Hours passed; the moon rose high and white, moving across the sky in a splendid arc. Joseph had told us that sometimes these dances went on for three or four days, that some people danced the entire time. There was more cooking and feasting and the drinking of a mild homemade beerlike beverage called
tiswin,
made from fermented corn. One was able to drink a great deal of it before becoming drunk.

Earlier in the evening I had caught a brief glimpse of Jesus with his new “family.” He gave me a small, tentative wave and looked so sad, but also somehow resigned to his fate. I think that they were keeping him intentionally separated from us in order to hasten the process of assimilation and I was not allowed to go to him. A bit later I saw another Mexican boy, a slender, fair-skinned child, whom I knew must be little Geraldo Huerta. He played with some other boys, completely at ease, clearly fully assimilated into the tribe after three years of captivity.

Joseph was still seated in front of the fire with Charley and his wife, and the old blind woman Siki. We had barely been able to speak to the old man and had not yet learned what fate had been decided for him. I wondered how it was for him to come back to this world all these years later, wondered if he found everything altered from what it had once been in his long-ago days of freedom, or if he felt that he himself was altered by the time he had spent among the White Eyes and on the reservation. To look at him now, he seemed, as always, inscrutable, unflappable, fearless; he watched the dancers and spoke from time to time to the old woman.

At some point the girl claimed me as her dancing partner. She was taller than the other women and danced so lightly that her feet seemed barely to touch the ground. And then she began to dance a different step with me, one that was somehow more intimate than the others, a step that was specifically ours, and which clearly interested the people, as there was suddenly much attention paid to us by all who watched. Now the high clear tones of the flute rose above the other instruments and the other dancers began to drop out of the dance circle. As he went, Albert came past me and said: “Congratulations, White Eyes. You’ve been saved.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“The girl is doing the marriage dance,” he said. “They cannot kill you if she chooses you as her husband.”

The drums and other instruments fell silent one by one until only the flute still played, clear and haunting, its rich, vibrant tones rising on the flames into the cool mountain air. The girl did not look directly at me as she danced; in fact it struck me in that moment that she had never looked me directly in the eye but always seemed to be gazing at a point just beyond me. She danced as if floating off the ground, her thick dark hair glossy in the moonlight, the flames of the fire glittering in her dark eyes, her tawny skin glowing. She made a gesture with her hands as she danced, a kind of offering, her small slender fingers drawing to her hips and then opening out to me like a flower. And I was flooded in that moment with such a feeling of tenderness and gratitude . . . and something else . . . desire.

But the spell was broken in the next instant. Indio Juan staggered into the dance circle, clearly drunk. He spoke harshly to the girl, took hold of her wrist, and tried to lead her away. Sounds of disapproval rose from the spectators, a kind of half-hissing, half-hooting noise against this terrible breach of dance etiquette. The girl spoke angrily and shook loose from him, but he grabbed her again. Without even thinking about it, I stepped forward and jabbed him twice sharply in the temple. Indio Juan dropped to his knees and shook his head, dazed for a moment. Then he struggled back to his feet.

There is no boxing tradition among the Apaches. Indeed, Joseph told us that they do not use their fists in such a way, although they enjoy competitive wrestling. Stupidly, I was still in my boxing posture, turned slightly sideways, my hands raised to protect my face. But Indio Juan simply smiled and pulled his knife, and said:
“Vas a morir ahora, ojos blancos.
You will die now, White Eyes.”

I saw no point in matching my fists against a man armed with a knife, and I opened my hands in a supplicating gesture, as if to say that maybe we could discuss this like gentlemen. I have to admit, I was afraid of Indio Juan.

But from the sidelines, Albert called: “You must fight him, Ned. If you back down now, they will all turn on you. Better to die like a man than to be beaten to death like a dog.”

And so I assumed my boxing position again, hands held high, feeling both powerless as well as ridiculous, not to mentioned terrified.

“Protect your body, old sport,” Tolley called out. “Think of Tunney versus Dempsey in ’27. The thinking man over the brute. You can do it.”

If there was any equalizer at all, it was simply that Indio Juan was drunk and perhaps slightly dazed from my jabs. But he did not seem much intimidated by my boxing stance and he advanced upon me, if a bit unsteadily, his knife carving the air, glinting in the firelight. He was smiling on one side of his face, the other, disfigured side locked in its grotesque perpetual grimace of dead flesh, muscle, and nerve like a half-melted mask.

“Jab and move, Giles,” Tolley said. “Stay out of his way.”

“Tolley, please shut up,” I said.

“No, I will not,” Tolley said. “I can help you, Giles. Did I tell you that I was lightweight boxing champion at Princeton?”

“You’re so full of shit, Tolley.” Flat-footed and terrified, I shuffled backward from Indio Juan’s approach. I noticed that, unlike the noisy hooting crowd at a white man’s fight, not a sound issued from the spectators, who seemed to watch impassively, as if they didn’t particularly care who prevailed.