Chapter Nineteen

It was then that James led the way into the giant cave where we watched the pyrotechnics of Uzzen's waterfall. The sun was straight overhead as we watched the splendorous show in that chamber of glory.

It seemed as if everyone moved with a light step and a smile. A connection had grown between us, in the horror of our passage, that could only have come from the mutual respect and admiration created by shared trauma. I looked at the tiny faces around me and marveled at the courage and resilience that must have drawn them through the long, dark journey. They beamed with a new strength and power that had transformed their features from those of worn and hollow victims into things of beauty. They had truly been born anew. My respect for them had also undergone a rebirth.

The rest of that day, James explained what was expected of us as novitiate N'de. We were all outfitted in clothes that, as close as was possible, simulated traditional clothing. We were told, that what they could not supply, we would make. Several other Apaches, women and men, appeared we were broken into groups and put to work. It was interesting but exhausting. There were no modern conveniences in the cave. Everything was done the way it had been done by the N'de one hundred and fifty years before. As the week wore on, we ground agave and corn into cakes. We tanned and chewed buckskin. We learned hunting lore and the manufacture of weapons, both traditional and modern. Sam, John Sr., Ricky Esquivel and several of the other children were assigned to be trained by James, the little chief Victorio and Johnny Loco in warfare. Sam's experience in self defense and weaponry was prized. Soon he became an instructor as well as a student. As warriors, the N'de were not stuck in the past. If it killed enemies, it was a good weapon.

Dusty and I were the most reluctant about the training for war. I had been a confirmed pacifist since the late sixties. I was more into Mahatma Ghandi, Martin Luther King and Jesus Christ than Alexander, Napoleon and Patton. Even though I understood the dangerous situation we were in intellectually, I just didn't want to kill anybody. It seemed like such a fruitless action. The N'de thought I was crazy, or a coward. They were warriors, hardened by hundreds of years of inhospitable elements and ferocious neighbors. They were relentless in their demands that I learn the art of the killer. I hated it, but every time I wanted to quit, I would hear Officer Wisenhunt's warning "...Mr. Bowie, these people are bad. They'll hurt the kids...you promised me you'd protect my girl." My heart wasn't in it, but I learned to fight.

Dusty was a little more determined. She refused to participate in any training that involved taking human life. She would hunt, but even then she would only take life that was given. She would talk to the animals and explain her need. Only those that consented to dying for her would she kill, or allow to be killed, in her presence. It infuriated the adult Apaches, for she would alarm the prey if it was not `ready' to die, and send it scurrying away from their arrows and slings.

All of us, men, women and children, learned to move quietly through the fractured landscape of the surrounding country, how to track, how to hunt silently and efficiently. With the children, this turned out to be easy. One of the little chiefs would `gift' them their life experience. After only a few minutes of this, the child would awake, greatly sobered, but carrying the hunting knowledge of an adult N'de chief.

With the adults, the process was much more difficult. We worked from dawn to dusk every day. Sam joked that it made boot camp in the Marines seem like a vacation. At first, I was so exhausted in the evenings, I was often asleep before I hit the ground. After two weeks, my mind and body hardened to the demands of our new life. I began to feel the physical confidence that comes from conditioning. It hurt, but it was a hurt that felt good.

In the third week, we were sent out on an expedition to gather and prepare Mescal. It was a long journey, since we could not find a field of the agave plants, with their long, fleshy leaves and murderous spikes near the cave. Two of the Apache women led us. After walking almost a full day, we found a group of the plants not too far from water and some ragged timber. The women handed each of us a hatchet and a four-foot pinon stick which we had cleaned and sharpened on one end the day before. We attacked the plants with abandon. After I cried out for the third time, having stuck myself on one of the barbs, Amy Wisenhunt showed me how to use the pinon stick like a chisel to cut the roots, hammering on the end with my hatchet. It was the gifting. They always knew more than me.

We worked all day and into the night cutting out the white bulbs about two or three feet in circumference and digging a big pit in the rocky soil deep enough to hold what must have been close to a ton of them. We covered the bottom of the pit with stones, then crawled off to our bedrolls and sleep.

The next morning, we covered the rocks with brush and built a fire. All morning, we kept bringing brush and wood to keep the fire going, until the Apache women determined it was hot enough. Then, we put the raw mescal into the pit and covered it with a thick layer of grass. On top of the grass, we piled dirt and rocks to keep in the steam. Some of the leaves were left protruding. Amy said the leaves were for testing the mess to see if it was done. The rest of that day, and all night long, we sat by this four foot by twelve foot pressure cooker and talked. Even the stone faced Apache women lightened up and joined in. Amy, the twins Tricia and Felicity, Dusty, Variety and Tulli, Mary and Sarah Glennon were along for this task that the N'de considered women's work. Zebediah had joined our party at the last minute, which meant we had to put up with his mischievous gibbon. The boy said he and Arthur had been sent by El Calvo to protect the women. The ladies groaned good-naturedly at the old chief's sexism but didn't make an issue of it. I wondered to myself, if the fact that I was the only adult male they had sent was intended as an insult. Victorio and the little chiefs were not happy about my lack of commitment to the warrior way.

I didn't really care. I figured every man stokes his pride the best way he can. I had worked out all that caveman stuff back when I was a jock in college. It didn't threaten me now. As we sat there and visited around the cooking pit, I relished one of the few times we had been allowed to resting the past weeks. I was enjoying being included in the girl talk. Men who don't hang out with women, often miss some of the dirtiest, and most merciless gossip. I had learned that long ago. Women aren't as crude as men when they talk but they're a hell of a lot more frank.

I was laughing along with the rest at Arthur's goofy pranks, when my friend fffoooped onto a rock about six feet to my left. "Oh," I said "Look who's come back from the dead." It had been so long since I had seen him, I was beginning to wonder if he had gone for good.

"It is not I that am coming back from the dead. It is you. If you had not killed off so much of your vitality growing up, I could visit more often." He hopped off the rock and sauntered over to me. "I see you are recovering your primitive past. That should not be hard. Like the mescal, it is not buried very deep."

"Always after the cheap shots." I complained "Why don't you pick on somebody your own size?" The truth is, I was happy to see him. When you've lived much of your life with someone who knows you inside out, someone who knows your innermost thoughts, it's kind of lonely when they're gone.

The little black boy wasn't Jesse, but he was better than nothing. He crawled up into my lap. "You still mad about Christmas Uncle Tom?" He gave me that innocent child look that always made me suspicious.

"What...what do you mean, mad about Christmas? What are you talking about?" His question had thrown me off balance.

"About the gift," he answered "...the one you didn't get...remember, the black racer, the bike that stole Christmas?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." I lied. Something turned sour in my stomach. The memory came rushing back to spoil my happy afternoon. I was nine...come to think of it, it was the Christmas after the summer when my imaginary friend had come. I came running down the stairs, knowing, just knowing I would see the beautiful black, three-speed racer. The one that had been my most hallowed dream since I had seen it at the Sears catalogue store in Sweetwater. I had written Santa Claus about it. I had told my parents at least a thousand times. I had covered all my bases. I came running down the stairs, before waking my parents and incredibly...It wasn't there.

I looked again, a knot of anxiety forming in my stomach. There were some new clothes, a B B gun, some plastic army men...good stuff...but no black racer. I couldn't imagine what had happened. I was old enough to have my suspicions about Santa but that didn't matter. I always, always got my most favorite Christmas present. Whether it came from Santa, or my parents, or the Easter Bunny didn't matter. It wasn't the means I counted on, it was the end. I always got the thing I wanted the most on Christmas morning!

It was the one thing in my quickly complicating young life that had never failed me, my most honored religious tradition. Then, the gods fell out of the sky. Everything collapsed. I sat down on the stairs and cried. It was just too much for me to deal with.

By the time my parents awoke, I had gotten it together. It was no good letting them know my heart was broken, so I hooted and hollered about the BB gun and the other gifts. I did my best to hide my disappointment, until my father, with that sadistic twinkle in his eyes all fathers come to know, pulled a card off the top of the tree. I opened it and read. "This card good for one black three-speed racing bike." Tears came to my eyes. My parents thought they were tears of joy, but they were wrong. They were tears for my lost childhood. The magic was gone. I faked exultation, but I'm sure they could tell something was wrong. It was. I had resigned myself, on that frosty morn, to the tortures of my coming adolescence even though I didn't know it.

It was the bike's fault. That devil bike that had ruined Christmas. When we went to pick it up at the catalogue store, I knew it was evil. I couldn't tell my Dad. He wouldn't understand, but as he proudly showed me how to shift gears and which way the brakes worked, I swore I would kill the bike. I knew if I didn't, it would kill me. A week later, I accidently left it behind my Dad's pickup. He backed over it and bent the frame. He was furious and frustrated, like father's are when their gift's of love are dishonored. He screamed at me, and swore that the loss of the bike would be the consequence for my carelessness. A week later he relented and offered to order me another. I told him I didn't think that was right, that I should have to earn the money to buy it, that I was getting to be a man and that I had to learn to be more responsible. He was impressed. I heard him tell my mother that night that he thought I was finally growing up. He was right...I was, and I hated it. It was all because of that devil black bike.

When I grew older, and had children of my own, I never bought anything from Sears for Christmas. I didn't know why. Their toys glistened less than others. Their bikes seemed vaguely unreliable. I never knew why. That's the way ol' Beelzebub works. He sends his satanic bicycles to steal Christmas from children and leaves the poor kids blaming some poor, innocent retailer the rest of their lives.

My friend was squeezing my face into various contortions. It was nothing new. Kids had been deforming my face for years. I pushed him off my lap and walked over by the pit. One of the Apache women had pulled one of the testing leaves, primitive oven thermometers, out of the dirt and was checking the status of our brew.

The little black boy walked over beside me and took my hand in his own. "When the children gift each other, you think of the black bike. They are given gifts that you are not and you are jealous." he said.

"That's ridiculous." I spat, but once again I knew he was right. "It just doesn't seem fair. Why do they get the powers? Why do they get to know all these things?" I turned towards him. "When do I get to be a kid?" I yelled.

"Is that what you think gifting is about," he looked up at me with disdain. "some toy for your pagan holiday, some power like those of super heroes in comic books." He looked at me sadly. "Sometimes you are a selfish fool, Thomas Bowie." He got up and walked back to the rock where he had first appeared. I felt vaguely humiliated and walked over to join him.

"So why am I so stupid this time?" I asked bitterly. "You think it's so easy for me around here being everybody's mule. Hey, I could use a break too. I could use some smart pills. The kids don't have to work for what they know. I just don't understand how come I can't get what I want too."

"They do not get what they want Tom. They give of what they have. They give up the chance to have a life of their own, a luxury you have always had." His eyes were hard. It made me feel uneasy. "When a child is gifted, the experience he receives is total. The child does not just remember how to hunt. He remembers all of the failures, all of the losses, all of the pain that the person who gives the gift associates with hunting, just a clearly as if they were his own. Each person's private victories live in the shadow of their losses. Each person's mastery is forged from failure and pain. There is no free lunch, Tom Bowie. Worst of all, these children give up their youth. They will never get the chance to be a carefree and irresponsible child. They have too many adult memories. They accept these gifts not because they seek power or prestige as you do, but because they can see in some way their destiny. They know they must be prepared for it, not so that their lives will work out, but so that they may support the birth of the child, the birth of the world. They sacrifice their childhood for the good of all. Given the pain you felt at such a loss, would you make the same choice?"

I thought back to that Christmas morning when I had felt my childhood torn away. I had been nine years old. Some of these children were three. Once again I was shamed.

"Do not indulge yourself in guilt, you do not have time. There is still much to do." He looked at me patiently.

His voice got softer. "You truly do the best you can, Tom Bowie. You are a good man. Be nice to yourself." He smiled."I will tell you when you are being a fool. You don't know enough to criticize yourself. Let me handle it."

I could tell he was enjoying the arrangement. I took a deep breath "Okay Mr. Gadfly. I'll line 'em up and you knock 'em down." With that, he reached towards me. I surrendered to his hug. He climbed higher in my grip until his head was above mine, licked my eye socket and fffooopped off. I was left with an air embrace and an eye socket full of imaginary slobber.

In some ways, I still regretted my inability to receive the gifts. It seemed so much easier for the children. In other ways, I was happy to have a mind that contained only my own memories. With each gifting, the children would change, both freed and burdened by the memories of another. Their lives were colored by experiences that they had never lived. I had watched them over the past few days, I knew he was right. The kids paid a big price for their gifts.

One of the Apache women called us to the pit. "It is ready." she said. "We must finish the work." We pulled the warm dirt and rock away from the pit, pulled off the steaming grass, and found a ditch full of goo. It tasted a little like warm molasses, not too bad considering the way it looked. After we gorged on the sticky mess,we finished the day spreading the remainder on flat rocks to let it dry. By morning we had several bushels of dried mescal. It looked like stringy cloth with hard reddish pulp stuck on it. I knew the Mescaleros used it like hardtack or jerky. I guessed it would serve that purpose well. It was impossible to chew.

I could not have stood this education, this force-feeding of culture, if my own world had been staying together, but it was not. Every few days, we would get messages from the outside. Somewhere in the surrounding country, the N'de had set up a modern communications center, complete with satellite relays, global positioning, secure Internet access, fax, and other up-to-date telecommunications features. James was the conduit. He took my messages to Jesse every few days and brought hers back to me. Her notes, and the other bits of information we could get from Houston, didn't sound good. I could tell from her letters that she was feeling the strain. I had sent her three notes, demanding that she leave and join us, but her return communications ignored them.

James suggested by innuendo that she was planning to spirit another load of children out of the city. He wouldn't talk about it. I told him that if he didn't make sure I was there to help her, I would personally remove his manhood. I meant it. He knew I meant it. I just hoped that was enough. I felt like half a man without her, for sure a new and improved half a man, but still half a man. I could feel myself getting desperate.

James saw it too. I caught him watching me, from time to time, with a worried expression on his face. I think he was afraid I was going to leave in the night. I wasn't so sure he was wrong.