The anger seethed from his dusky skin like invisible heat. It was difficult for Walking Ghost to put these memories into words and relive the pain of them. There are those among the Spanish who believe the native peoples of this land do not share the same emotions as Europeans, but I have seen that they are every bit as human as the whites who steal their land and make them slaves. They feel as we feel, they know love and pain, joy and sorrow. They love their children no less than any Spanish mother or father does, and they know too often the horrible agony of losing them. I have counseled many Quechan whose children died of fever or acts of violence.
“I am sorry for your loss, my son.” The words seemed hollow, even in my own ears.
Walking Ghost looked into my face again. “War is our tradition,” he said, without a trace of pride. “We raid the villages of our enemies as they raid ours, and we steal their women and children when we can. Since the time of my father’s fathers it has been so. When I was younger, Father Gonzalez told me this was an evil practice, and I believed him. Yet how does one stop the waters of a river that has been flowing for ages?”
I had no answer to this wise query.
“Often a ransom is paid, and the children are returned to their own tribe,” said Walking Ghost.
“And when there is no ransom?”
“The children are adopted by the new tribe. The one that stole them. Yet such children are little more than slaves until they grow old enough to fight as men or give birth as women. It is not a good life for those raised in this way. Some choose death for themselves. Sometimes they earn death through defiance.”
I began to understand the presence of the eager braves outside the chapel.
“We have no ransom to pay,” said Walking Ghost. “So we walk the war path to take back our stolen children. We have fasted for two days, eaten the sacred herbs, and prepared ourselves for the spilling of blood.”
“And you come now to ask the church’s blessing?” I frowned at Walking Ghost’s hopeful face. “I am sorry, my son, but I cannot—”
“Magic,” said Walking Ghost. “The Maricopa’s numbers are great, and they would rather kill the children than let us recapture them. We need a strong magic. I ask for the magic of the Christ. Give me this magic, Father. I will use it to bring back our children. If you do this, I will dedicate myself to the service of your Jesus, and my children will also serve him. We will … convert.”
This last word was difficult for him to speak. I balked at the pitiful irony of his request. What magic had I to give? I shook my head and dared to lay my hand on his brawny shoulder.
“I am sorry. I can give you no magic to help your war. The Glory of Christ is a doctrine of peace. He teaches us to turn the other cheek, to love our enemies, to spurn the ways of violence.”
Walking Ghost stood up and his anger erupted. “Your Spanish soldiers have slaughtered our people for generations! Made slaves of them! Turned their minds from the Old Ways and made them tillers of the soil. Your guns and your spears have pierced our hearts and driven us away from the river. You speak of peace, but you practice war like us. You are no better.”
I stood silent for a moment, wondering if he would split my skull with his hatchet. “Walking Ghost,” I said, “do you see guns or spears in this place? We are not soldiers here, but simple men of Christ. All I can give you are my prayers and my blessing.”
To my surprise Walking Ghost kneeled again, bowing his head.
I performed a simple blessing, speaking the appropriate phrases in Latin, which he must have taken as some kind of mystical spell. Perhaps this was what he wanted all along.
“Go with God, my son,” I said.
Like a spark blown on a current of wind, Walking Ghost fled the chapel. A chorus of hooting, howling braves greeted his return to the war party. Then came the thunder of horses’ hooves as the warriors raced away from the mission to seek the village of the Maricopa.
In the hot, dry days that followed I heard nothing of Walking Ghost and his war party. Yet I kept them in my prayers as I had promised, even when a new crisis arose to command my attention. Father Juan Espinoza had failed to return to the mission for eight weeks.
Ignoring the warnings of the local natives, Father Espinoza had determined to carry the Word of Christ to a distant and shunned tribe known as the Azothi. Their remote village, according to the few Quechan who would speak of it, lay deep inside a vast territory of sand dunes. No water or game was to be found in that hellish swathe of desert that resembled the great Sahara more than any of the North American territories.
The Quechan called the Azothi the “Lost Tribe,” an appellation that I misunderstand as referring to their physical separation from the other tribes. From time to time bands of these dune-dwellers would venture into the more populous realms to trade silver nuggets for corn, melons, and iron implements. Such a contingent of Azothi had visited the mission a week previous to Father Espinoza’s departure, although they would not set foot inside the chapel.
Each of the Azothi tribesmen bore a singular deformity of some kind. The first was a one-armed, emaciated wretch whose lank hair was greased with animal fat and heavy with mangy feathers. The bones of his ribs protruded from his chest at revolting angles, stretching his skin to the point where it seemed ready to burst at any moment. His eyes were rimmed with red as if he had been crying tears of blood, and his spear was thickly hung with dried scalps.
The second of the Azothi was a hunchback. His head was bald, a condition I had never before seen among the natives, and his face was an unwholesome ruin. There were no lips at all covering his misshapen teeth, which protruded in several directions from inflamed gums. One of his eyes had been torn out, leaving a raw wound adrip with pus. This hideous fellow carried a Spanish musket, obviously stolen from some murdered soldier.
The third strange one bore the useless stumps of three extra limbs jutting from his back, and he walked with a sideways gait akin to the locomotion of a crab. Half of his otherwise normal face was mangled, the piteous remains of a terrible burning, perhaps done intentionally to increase his fearsomeness. A necklace of ears hung about his neck, along with several talismans crafted of human bones. He carried axe and spear, both heavy with scalps.
These three pilgrims stood outside the mission gate, observing our humble adobe structure with bizarre amusement. Father Espinoza went out to welcome them inside, but still they refused to enter. Instead, the hunchback handed to Father Espinoza a curious green stone marked with an unidentified sigil. I watched from the courtyard through the open gate as the three Azothi shambled away. They seemed to be laughing, though I could not see any possible source for their humor.
Father Espinoza stood for a long time at the threshold, staring at the egg-sized stone and its obscure glyph. Eventually one of our brother-priests stirred him from his reverie, and he came dazedly inside to take his evening meal with us. However, the green stone continued to fascinate Father Espinoza throughout the next week. He carried it with him incessantly, even during our morning and afternoon services. One of the brothers told me that he had even taken to sleeping with the stone on his pillow. I decided to speak with him about this obsession, but Espinoza himself distracted me from such a course with the announcement that he would seek out the Azothi in the land of dunes.
“I must convert these poor wretches,” he said. “It is my duty under Heaven.”
We applauded the bravery of his intentions, and I approved his request against my better judgment. I knew he would defy me if I forbade him to travel among the dunes. The Azothi had cast some kind of glamour over his soul, and he felt bound to them by a morbid fascination. He would not be able to rest until he made the effort of saving them from a heathen fate.