Cibola 62

This entry is part 61 of 119 in the series Cibola

Esteban (3) (cont’d)

But why should he feel
so lost, so much more a wanderer
now, with the destination fixed?
As castaways, their goal had never been
any more certain than rescue.
Like Moses & Aaron returning
from the mountain for
the first time, before the exodus,
with a directive that seemed
so straightforward, so just.
The tribes all so tractable–even joyous.
The cane of power still slight enough
to fit comfortably in the hand.
No plagues in sight.

Toward the end of it they start hearing
about seven cities. By then
they’ve become almost acclimated to
the miraculous–the dead returning
to life, the chronically ill
rising from their mats, the possessed
regaining their wits–
so they’re hardly surprised that the No-
Place of the balladeers should lie
just over the next chain of mountains,
guarding the heart of La Florida,
the not-yet-deflowered land.

But they draw back, turn south
despite Esteban’s pleas.
Refusing to enter what sounds like
a new Canaan without reinforcements:
the same shrinking
that condemned the Hebrews to forty
years in the desert. Cursed
to follow their dwindling herds
until every last rebel was zeroed out
& the waters of rebirth
could once more part–but only
for those born in the wilderness.
Even though the majority probably
never wanted to revolt.
Like Esteban, perhaps,
they’d nowhere else to go,
no other prospect.
__________

La Florida: then applied vaguely to the entire mainland north of the Caribbean. Native and European notions of utopia (literally, “no-place”) cross-pollinated in the imaginations of many of the conquistadors. In the widespread Indian conception, the flower-strewn land that greeted the souls of the dead was always just over the next set of hills.

the waters of rebirth: Israel’s final exit from the wilderness required the miraculous parting of the Jordan, echoing the parting of Reed Sea in flight from the Egyptian army forty years earlier.

Cibola 63

This entry is part 62 of 119 in the series Cibola

Esteban (3) (conclusion)

He drifts, listening to himself go on
as if in an overheard conversation,
the voices slightly muffled
by a blanket draped
across the door.

I didn’t ask for this. How
can a slave volunteer?

How can he not?

Or am I still a slave, I wonder . . .

The paper in the locket
on my breast calls me
a ward of the crown: who isn’t?
The friar is at most
my trustee. By the terms of his vow,
he can’t hold alienable property . . .

I must’ve slept. The girl’s gone,
the room a vivid red. I thought
the fact of thinking meant I was
at least conscious . . .

So now I’m awake, I’ll spend
another night with drums & songs
& calabash, deep in trance.
Released from the tyranny of thought
to clamber up & down dream-creepers,
severing the artful
tendrils of disease: a pilgrimage
as looped & convoluted
as the entrails of a sheep.

Where no haruspection could find
anything but the pit,
this blank hole in
the center of the map,
one road
unraveling
through all the poor & hungry
quarters of the earth.

Cibola 64

This entry is part 63 of 119 in the series Cibola

Reader (9)

The wolf shall dwell with the lamb,
and the leopard shall lie down with the kid,
and the calf and the lion and the fatling together . . .
ISAIAH 11:6

[T]he animals, because alike mortal and endowed with similar physical
functions and organs, are considered [by Zunis] more nearly related to man than
are the gods; more nearly related to the gods than is man, because more
mysterious, and characterized by specific instincts and powers which man does
not of himself possess.
FRANK H. CUSHING
Zuñi Fetiches

The sacred is what repels our advance.
ALPHONSO LINGIS
Abuses

Cibola 65

This entry is part 64 of 119 in the series Cibola

Marcos (3)

Panting from the climb, eyes
on the trail, the friar
almost runs into
his guide, who stands
with an arm outstretched behind
to stop him short. Then

without turning
his head, hooks
a fold of Marcos’s habit
& tugs him forward like
a trout, breathes in his ear: Mirad.
Look.
Within arrow’s range down
the slope, beyond
the pines with
their filigreed shadows
a meadow traversed
by a winding creek, sunlight
playing on the water

& there on the far bank
two animals lying down together
in the vast & reverent stillness.
The smaller one glows a burnished
copper flecked with white–
un ciervito, a fawn–
cradled by the golden
longtailed form that just then

raises her bowed head
to intercept
their gaze. A glimpse
of dripping jaws & tongue,
whiskered face stained red, before
she rises

& with one liquid
motion leaps
& vanishes.

(To be continued.)

Cibola 66

This entry is part 65 of 119 in the series Cibola

Marcos (3) (conclusion)

The friar sighs. Coughs.
What dreamers, all those prophets!

How much more sensible
the Psalmist, eulogizing
the young lions
roaring for their prey,
seeking their food from God.

And the Seraphic Father, who wrote
in his homely way All praise
to you my Lord
for Sister Death . . .

Already three of his guides, knives out,
have reached the site.
He shouts them off it:
Déjalo, por piedad!
The lion too must eat.

He feels her eyes on him, breath
of coolness off some remnant
snow pack–he scans the peak
for a telltale glare among
the crags, the high meadows–
lingering like the words
of a favorite verse

long after the fire
that fixed them in memory
has paled, diminished
by far fiercer lights.
__________

the young lions roaring for their prey: Psalm 104.

the Seraphic Father: St. Francis. The quote is from his “Canticle to the Sun.”

the words of a favorite verse: I.e., Isaiah 11:6. See Reader (9).

Cibola 67

This entry is part 66 of 119 in the series Cibola

Reader (10)

[In Zuni] the most honored personality traits are a pleasing address, a yielding
disposition, and a generous heart. All the sterner virtues–initiative, ambition,
an uncompromising sense of honor and justice, intense personal loyalties–not
only are not admired but are heartily deplored. The woman who cleaves to her
husband through misfortune and family quarrels, the man who speaks his mind
where flattery would be much more comfortable, the man, above all, who thirsts
for power or knowledge, who wishes to be, as they scornfully phrase it, “a
leader of his people,” receives nothing but censure and will very likely be
persecuted for sorcery.
RUTH BUNZEL
Introduction to Zuñi Ceremonialism

Rare indeed is the execution for which no other than superstitious reasons may
be adduced. . . . [L]ike a vigilance committee, the priesthood of the Bow
secretly tries all cases of capital crime under the name of sorcery or witchcraft .
. . On account of this mysterious method of justice crime is rare in Zuñi.
FRANK CUSHING
“My Adventures in Zuñi”

Zunis of all ages are . . . fearful of the dark, when witches and the dead are
abroad; they accompany each other even on short nighttime trips to the
outhouse or the car.
BARBARA TEDLOCK
“Zuni and Quiché dream sharing and interpreting”

Cibola 68

This entry is part 67 of 119 in the series Cibola

Shiwanna (3)

Dusk.
By the path to the spring
in Kyakima the young
men are loitering, each
in the shadow of some
unprecedented desire.
Ah sweet dusk, thin tissue
between home & harm!
On the path to the spring
in Kyakima the young
women go laughing together,
virtuosi of the sidelong
glance, the ambiguous
word given shape
by half-mocking lips.
Over this current

the Word Priest’s nasal voice:
an instant hush.

–We have news of the Apacha,
or other enemies. Nothing is sure
except a new force gathers
in the south. We hear
of other nations struck
by powerful sorcerers, often
in secret alliance with some
of their own. Please be careful
tomorrow when you go
to your fields & gardens.
Beware of anyone who leaves
in the middle of the night
without a cause. Report
anything suspicious, but please
go about your business as before.
Sleep well.

(To be continued.)

Cibola 69

This entry is part 68 of 119 in the series Cibola

Shiwanna (3) (cont’d)

Slowly the town
returns to motion
on a lower key. The boys
have forgotten their vigils
& the girls have lowered
their jars to the ground to talk,
forming clusters big & small
throughout the town,
chewing over the news.

–A witch can be anyone,
anyone with a double heart,
muses one young woman
to her circle of companions.

–Someone prospers
in crops, in clothing,
in the knowledge of secrets,
gets bigger & bigger
until a neighbor notices
& without thinking starts to feed
an extra heart with envy . . .

–The same way the priests feed
their icons, another cuts in.

–It makes that second heart
with more and more malicious intent.
Wrapped in corn husks, daubed
with black mud from the Beginning,
tended lovingly in some bowl
in the back room . . .

–You can spot a witch
when it plants prayer sticks at
the wrong times, with
the wrong kinds of feathers–
or none at all.
The medicine societies must always
keep their guard up: how strange it seems,
that a witch should practice medicine!
But that’s just part of
their double-dealing.

Cibola 70

This entry is part 69 of 119 in the series Cibola

Shiwanna (3) (cont’d)

–It can be anyone, a member
of any priestly order.
Live long enough, they say, &
you’ll see the most upright elder
whom no one would ever suspect
become suddenly unbalanced
with hatred, try & take a life . . .

–Sometimes the very one
whose unaccountable luck threatens
to split the People with envy
is himself a witch. Even
a member of the clan of witches
that some say still survives,
still meets in secret.
Whose founder appeared at the Emergence,
so the storytellers recount . . .

–But that First Witch, they say–that thing
helped civilize us, back when
we still had tails & webbed toes,
webbed fingers, extra sets of genitals
on top of our heads . . .

–It gave us yellow corn
with one hand
& death with the other, taught
the trick of turning grain
into food, food into life,
life into other life, presto!

–Crossing back & forth
between beast & human . . .

–The chasm that divides
those holy persons
who devour their food raw
from those who need to cook it
like the refined creatures we have
now become.

Cibola 71

This entry is part 70 of 119 in the series Cibola

Shiwanna (3) (cont’d)

–Maybe witches can play
with death as they do
because it’s not real to them,
murmurs one young woman,
who until then had been content to listen.

–But for us Ashiwi, this present life
must remain precious.
For only here
can we all live together:
only here can we share
the feast, hold dances,
entertain the spirits.
Afterwards, everyone follows a different road.

Murmurs of agreement:
–May it always be so!

–Or at least (comes
one mournful voice, presumably
a young man whose longing looks
have missed their mark)
until that day, as far
from now as we are here
from the Emergence,
when the world becomes

so old & dry & hard
that nothing can grow, either
on its own or with the help
of human prayers.

When all tools & weapons,
egged on by the witches, stage
a bloody revolt against their owners,
& everyone–eaters of raw food
& eaters of cooked food,
the People & the witches
& the Apacha alike,
everything burns up
in a yellow rain.