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or ten generations we have lived in the shadow of a falling mountain. All we have known since the beginning of memory will soon be dust, scattered in the winds of an endless storm.
You covet the secret knowledge of the Manitongva, the rogue shamans from behind the hills. How do they keep the Espanya out of their land while the rest of us are overrun? How do they resist the cruel soldados with their armas and vicious dogs? Why do no padres approach the Manitongva with biblias and rosarios, promising to save their souls from imprisonment in the underworld?
The answer is not something you can carry home with you. Of those who go behind the hills, few return. Of those who return, few speak of what they saw. Of those who speak, none are believed.
Time and legend cloud our knowledge of the Manitongva. Their ways are not understood, but they were once Tongva like the rest of us.
Ten generations ago, when the Espanya first spied our shores from their great galeones, they left us alone. We knew not that they were busy devouring other lands. At that time a mysterious shaman made himself known among the villages. He called himself Water Bear, and said he came from the north through Chumash land, but was not of the Chumash people. Some say he was not a man at all, but a messenger-child of Manit, father of dreams, and Pamit, mother of the sea.
Water Bear spoke of reviving a forgotten magic that was once known to our ancestors. He said our leaders had failed to preserve the people’s true heritage, ancient and grand beyond our imagination. His promise was to unite us anew with strength to stand against anything, but something went wrong and we were instead divided.
The passing Espanya had excited no great fears among the people. No threat was known to be coming. Only a small number of Tongva allied with the shaman, and all the rest continued to live as before. But in this great majority there grew a strange new fear, while years passed before it was known what became of Water Bear’s followers.
The fear was not to have a name until a clan of hunters, east valley people, went to search for answers behind the hills.
They climbed the first slope and beheld a still lake of fog that stopped them for a day and a night. The fog was unnatural. It held a color that did not belong. “Not a whole color,” it was said, “but almost a color.” These words have not been understood for many years.
All day long the scouting party sat in astonishment. The sun burned brightly overhead, yet the fog scarcely thinned. Its color at sunset was somehow more frightful in their eyes. Having seen enough, some of the clan turned back rather than stay the night, rather than enter the shrouded land at dawn, which the others bravely did.
After another day and another night, a pair of brothers returned. The elder had lost the power of speech. The younger was without sight. Even so, they managed to bring each other back, the only two.
Blind Brother kept his hand on Silent Brother’s shoulder as they slowly made their way home to the east valley. They stopped in a few villages to rest, and could not avoid the wide-eyed questions of people who had heard of the dreadful fog. Not to the brothers’ surprise, no one else had dared to approach the hills since the scouting party split atop the first ridge. The hills had already been cursed before Blind Brother spoke a single word.
Along their way, the brothers met a dying man. He lay under a walnut tree with a deep wound in his ribs. The brothers had water and were asked to share.
“It was a duel,” he told them. “My cousin was beaten by her husband, my oldest friend. I challenged him and we fought with spears. Both of us were full of anger, but beyond this he was crazed with unnatural strength. First he disarmed me, then rushed into me. Through the pain I looked into his eyes and saw that my old friend was no more. My hands found his throat and never let go until the thieving demon abandoned his body.”
The dying man’s voice weakened. Blind Brother drew closer and sat down. Silent Brother remained standing at the edge of the walnut tree’s shade.
“Though I die, it should be a long time before any hand will raise against a woman of my clan. And evil spirits, I think, will remember to keep their distance.” He closed his eyes and labored at breathing. A short time passed.
The brothers were less than a day’s walk from their home. They had already stopped to rest in other places, and one at a time Blind Brother had told small parts of his own story in trade for food and other kindnesses. These parts were like the beads of a necklace. One at a time, he said, for his mind was damaged and would not survive a stringing together of all at once.
“Blind Brother’s necklace” is what we once called the legend that was our knowledge of the Manitongva. If any of your grandparents still live, ask if they will remember a “bead” for you. These stories are not usually told unless requested.
Here is how Blind Brother spoke to the dying man.
“Brave stranger, we honor your deeds. My brother and I now return from a place where evil spirits walk among men. But we found no victory there, only confusion and fear. You are one who awaits death with a proud heart, even having strangled the throat of your oldest friend. Perhaps you are one who can make sense of such things as we remember.
“The leaves,” Blind Brother nearly whispered. Silent Brother turned away as if suddenly pained. We might guess that he felt regret, for as the elder brother it was he who had led their way among the hills.
“My brother and I were lost from the group, and I was secretly beginning to despair. But his courage was enough to carry what I could not carry of myself. In time, as he assured, we found a promising trail and followed it.
“We entered a clearing between wooded slopes. Out of season, fallen leaves covered the earth to our ankles. But stranger than that was the sound of walking through them, a sound like words spoken by ears to be heard by mouths.”
Again the legend bounds away from reason like rabbit from coyote. Almost colors. Ears to speak. Mouths to hear. It would more become a legend of the old kind, where things are not always meant as they are said.
Blind Brother continued. “Finally we found our cousins, all who had entered the hills with us. They were just beyond the trees on the far side of the clearing. We called to them but they showed no regard for our voices.
“And then we saw others who were not our cousins. Not people of any kind we know. They wore strange, wide hats, and masks of cloth covered three of their faces below the eyes. The foremost of them did not hide his face, pink-skinned, with hair grown around his mouth and chin, colored like dry sand.
“With leather they tied their legs over the backs of four strong, swift animals. These were perhaps cousins to elk or antelope, though without horns. Fierce and graceful creatures, they bore their riders and packs of supplies without strain.”
We know what the brothers did not. What else were the creatures but cabayos, like those brought by the Espanya? But the legend was told for generations before our land suffered the first Espanya to walk upon it. How can this be?
Blind Brother gave no pause for questions. “The beast-riders and our cousins looked at each other, and none of them seemed ready to move. My brother and I began to walk in their direction. Quietly we asked, could these strangers be followers of the shaman Water Bear? Could they be Tongva transformed? Or if not, then who were they?
“It was but the first of many questions never answered. Our journey was peaceful, meant to renew friendship between the severed tribes. Yes, we carried weapons, but only for hunting game. We were not a war party. Any Tongva, transformed or not, would have seen the truth of that.
“The leader turned to face my brother and me. Though shaded by the hat, his eyes were clear, bright blue and suddenly angry. He shouted something to his companions and then urged his beast to charge at us.
“We stood and felt its pounding hooves and furious breath, closing in too fast for us to escape. The rider showed his teeth, pointed one arm at us and spoke unknown words. And behind him there were loud claps as of trees breaking at their trunks, and there were cries of pain. Then the beast-rider was upon us. We could only dive away at the last moment.
“I got up and saw that my brother was lying still, his head and shoulders covered by leaves. The beast-rider had gone a short distance past us and stopped. The beast was dancing uneasily, not under the rider’s control. It looked at me and told me with mad eyes that everything was going wrong.
“I turned and saw that the other three had the same problem. The beasts were frightened, hopping and stumbling. Little clouds of smoke had appeared.
“And there our cousins were dropped low, crawling, writhing, or not moving at all. In shock I yelled across the clearing. ‘Cousins! Cousins, answer me!’
“I know not who answered, the voice was so changed with fear. ‘Run! Get out!’ he screamed. ‘These are not our people!’”
It has been guessed that these beast-riders were Espanya scouts. Even ten generations ago they had indeed come to our world from their dreadful homeland across the far sea. They entered the east and the south, and so did others with the same hunger. Ever since, they have taken and taken everything in their path, all the way to us.
The Espanya have weapons that clap like breaking trees, and even some that shake the air like thunder. They are masters of the cabayo, and cruel to the Tongva. Some have pink skin, blue eyes and sand-colored hair.
But wiser elders have warned against needless guessing. Today’s knowledge was not yet born when the brothers Blind and Silent lived, and much of their knowledge left the world when they did. For this reason our ancestors never added to the story as it was first told.
Blind Brother’s voice wavered as he told the dying man what happened next.
“Again I looked at my brother who was beginning to stir. He must have been struck by the beast-rider and stunned. He rolled over and the leaves held to him so I could not see his face. I last saw him on his side.
“The ground became cold and wet. Water was flowing, hidden under the leaves. The leaves were carried upon it and the whole earth seemed to slide around me. And the leaves became years, and in their motion I felt the end of our people, the end of all things.
“The leaves made a mound in the center of the clearing. All the beasts were overcome, kicking wildly, singing their fright into my heart. Their terrific voices haunt me even now, worse to remember than the sight of what they did.
“One after another the beasts fell and rolled on their backs until the riders broke loose, and all at once the beasts were on their hind legs, smashing down with their front hooves, and each rider’s body was trampled, each head laid open among the leaves.
“Then, just as suddenly, the four beasts fled from the clearing. I am thankful that they did not turn upon our cousins. In the end, I believe they acted justly. It was a wretched place where their proud kind could not belong. I am fortunate to have seen them just once. For me, there would be no further beauty to behold.
“A man rose up from the mound of leaves. His body was covered with a mud that crawled even as he stood still. Like a moon of omen, one yellow eye gazed at me from the darkness of his grimy face. I feared him as I fear no man. Given the chance, he would bash and claw his way into the house of the High Ones and make rain of their blood. Such was the wrath in that one eye.
“He spoke our language. It was a whisper, but so loud that it reached twenty paces. I felt hot breath in my ears. The leaves moved with his words like a rippling pond. My mind abandoned me and in its place there was his voice.
“‘Blindly you entered,’ he said, ‘and so shall you leave.’
“And there in his hand was the very sun plucked from the sky. My memory repeats this moment again and again, for it was the last witnessed by my eyes. He tossed the shining light up in the air over his head. It left his hand and then he fell in upon himself, nothing but water and mud and leaves. He was gone.
“The light came down where he had stood. It touched the ground and everything vanished into pure white emptiness.”
And Blind Brother thought of death, and came back to the dying man and the walnut tree. Silent Brother had moved closer to keep out of the sun. The dying man lay so quietly that he might have been dead, until he spoke again.
“I would not have believed you yesterday,” he said. “I would have called you a dreaming fool. But today I saw evil in my old friend’s eyes. Today I killed him with my bare hands.
“Do you not wonder why I came here to die alone? Why I would not be in the care of those I fought to protect? I am outcast! Not one of my clan believes what I said! They believe it was I who brought evil among us! Even my cousin condemned me as a liar and a murderer!”
He choked and sputtered, ever nearing the end, and tears from his eyes told of suffering separate from his mortal wound. His final hours emptied of all certainty, the dying man feared losing himself to nothingness, or worse.
He grasped Blind Brother’s arm in desperation. “How can I be sure of anything I have done?”
Of the meeting under the walnut tree, there is no more to tell. Blind Brother’s necklace is made of more questions than answers. But do not feel cheated, for questions are what you will need to travel the path you have chosen. Answers will not help.
If you are to return from those hills with your senses intact, you must make yourself shapeless. You must flow with the forces around you, give what is required and take what is given. Believe and disbelieve everything equally, for there will be no truth and no lies. Only legend.
This is the power of the Manitongva. In their hands, all creation becomes a dream, like a toloache rite that never ends. This is why we have named them the “dream people.”
Why have the Espanya left them alone? Here is one simple answer in a sea of riddles. They do not believe. They brought their own legends with them and have no use for ours. They would see all of our stories forgotten.
This is how they will finish us, how our people will end. For what makes a people if not the stories they remember? One morning, not far from here, a Tongva will wake to the metal song of a mission bell, and our last memory will go the way of dreams upon waking.
Do you truly hope to find a future in the mysteries of Water Bear and his followers? Would you cut yourself away from our people like they did, and vanish into half-colored fog?
In these harsh days full of lies and misery, with the Espanya pulling the horizon close behind them, surely we cannot be blamed for desperate feelings.
But while there is time, let us not abandon trust in the old ways, nor in ourselves. Our lives are what they are. Let us alone remember that we were worthy of this land, and let the coming winds bear our echoes as they will. |
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T H E E N D
| Notes |
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The Tongva were a pre-Columbian tribe inhabiting what is today southern California. The people were reclassified Gabrieleño and Fernandeño for the Spanish missions that assimilated them.
Toloache is an ancient religion using the hallucinogenic properties of Datura wrightii, also known as Sacred Datura, sometimes called jimsonweed or locoweed. The related rites are comparable to “vision quests” of other native American tribes. Manit and Pamit are deific figures of Tongva mythology.
The existence of an esoteric Tongva faction as described in the story is not indicated by any known evidence.
Much of the original history is lost forever. |
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