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The Runner
By Justan Bounds, GSU Graduate Student
She saw twenty-seven of her people leave their homes that crescent-mooned night. Most walked out of their front door to be greeted by a blast of cold air, though her grandfather and grandmother climbed out of their age-old hovel to meet the same result. She had often wondered why they didn’t move into a house above ground like everyone else. After all, most found that the thick walls kept the homes just as warm as the natural earth. She envied her grandparents, though. She had often spent her days coiling pots with her anvil and stone and dreaming about growing old with a large family. She should be married, she thought, and was beginning to feel insecure. All of her other friends were married and constantly teased her. Tonight was a chance for her to forget her troubles and take in a site whose fame had spread quickly in the last four weeks.
Everyone was excited tonight, no matter the weather. The men cringed at the cool crisp air while the children huddled tightly together; clasping hands and watching their breaths fade into the frigid darkness. Not out of focus to her was the sight of the slithering satellite in the sky that prompted bitter memories in the minds of the men. It had only been one moon since a premature frost had descended upon the tiny village and their surrounding fields. There would be less corn this winter, but the village would survive, it always did she thought. The small community had stores enough for winter, as one of the ceremonies foresaw the short growing season. She wondered to herself if the ceremony was influenced more by spiritual persuasion or past experience; after all, each growing season had been shorter than the last now for about seven seasons. And if these ceremonies were of such import, how come they didn’t bring warm weather or better harvests? No matter, there were plenty of Pinyon nuts and the beans had survived the frost. She had fared worse in her sixteen years. Besides, tonight was not about food or worries. Tonight was about the Runner.
The men of the village were not foreign to late nights. The kiva provided plenty of sleep-deprived soirées into the after-hours. Nor did she have any problems finding chores to do to pass the time. Spinning cotton, grinding corn and wild foods and fashioning arrows kept her up late on many nights. Sometimes she wished she could go on the hunts with her brother-in-laws. No, her work was enough and kept her up late enough; she would have no trouble staying awake. Only the little ones were unused to the enveloping blanket of darkness. As they squeezed into an ever-closer space one of the smallest rubbed her eyes and yawned, quickly forcing each child in turn to open their mouths and gasp for air. There would be no sleep tonight, though, at least not until they saw him. They were determined not to. Not until they saw the Runner.
Rumor had it that he was half-god, that he could change into an eagle and glide across the night sky. Another account labeled him mostly human, attributing his stamina to a deal made with a giant rabbit. On a routine hunt, or so it was told, he saw a rabbit of immense stature. Flanking the rabbit from downwind, he cunningly crept upon the humongous hare and unleashed a flurry of arrows towards the unsuspecting prey. The rabbit, however, bore better stock in his veins and turned in time to meet the arrows. Dodging stealthily to then fro, the rabbit missed all but the last stone arrow, which buried itself between its coat and a yellow pine. Unable to move, the rabbit agreed to give up its stamina in return for mercy. Thus the Runner was born, at least that’s how most heard it. Tonight, though, she would see for herself. Tonight she would set eyes upon the Runner.
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Rage was his fuel. Sure, in the beginning he stopped to eat and drink, mostly at night when luring lullabies lay thick in the inviting air. But the anger inside him pushed him farther. It whispered to him as he tried to rest. It ached, "Run farther, run harder, run away from this place. You have lost too much, you must press on." By and by all he could manage was an expenditure of frustration through the methodical movement of legs. The internal ire of fifteen years sizzled inside him, feeding him false food. What was running accomplishing? He did not know himself, nor did he care. He had passed glorious houses that reached to the sky and magnificent villages carved right into rock, yet he never stopped. At that moment he was going, farther and harder he was leaving everything he knew.
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The fires inside the Runner were hot, and as he passed by the tiny village some of the children screamed at the approaching apparition. One of the men turned tail and ran, another man shrieked in silence at impending doom. She staunchly stood her ground, though; her heart was pure yet her knees were knocking. The sweat poured off the Runner’s head; the steam mimicking plumes of smoldering smoke. The more imaginative claimed to see flames flickering on his brow, and a demon’s glare deep in his eyes. The rest of the village may have agreed and fled the premises if not for what happened next.
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He did not know where he was, and he did not know how long he had been gone. His eyes could barely see, and his memories had long since faded. Only a hole remained. Where once a promising young man had lived, their now stood a hollow man, filling his void with the first feeling he found, rage. Rage, though, only feeds a man for so long, and the distance he had traveled promised that his body hadn’t much left to give. He didn’t care. All he knew was to press on. His vision had faded, and his bloodied body burned from black night falls. It came then, as no shock to him that an unseen rock had found his feet, and he headed downward into the night, just outside a tiny village where he thought he heard children screaming. As he fell he noticed another rock set on a collision course with his cranium, and with a sigh of relief he saw the end of his arduous journey.
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She felt him fall. Without hesitation she ran to his side, placing her hand upon his brow and calling to him. The sweat pouring off him froze her hand, yet touching his head she felt the burning fire that had caused the steam. As blood mingled with perspiration he opened his eyes and beheld the young woman kneeling over him. In her eyes was comfort. There was love and care in those eyes. In those eyes he saw not just a sixteen-year-old woman, but also the darkened woods surrounding his hillside village. He looked through her eyes and saw himself at home, tending to the cotton field, eating the seeds, and basking in the warm sun near the field hut, chasing off rabbits and other pests, bringing water to the crops, and laughing with his cousins in the next field, chasing them with the stone hoe given to him by his father. As he recounted long forgotten memories she saw him cringe in pain from the wound in his head and reach for help. He reached up and touched her hair, dark and shiny; smooth and wavy like the small creek next to his pueblo. He would swim and bathe in the hot summers, sometimes sipping, often gulping the refreshing lifeblood of his village, the ambrosia that sustained his crops, his village, and himself. Often, after painful days he would sit between the shade between a tree and the brook and think. He often thought he thought too much there, twice for his two sisters who died in infancy, once for his father who succumbed to a fever, and many more times for being alone in a world where most of the boys he knew were already married.
She watched him as the rage returned to his eyes. Not knowing what to do she cradled his bloody body in her arms and rocked. His anger subsided. He had felt her touch before. Where? Ah, had it only been two moons? It seemed like years since his mother died. The crops had failed and the pinyons were scarce this year. He thought they had enough; after all, he wasn’t hungry. But his mother had been secretly giving him her food, eating less and saying she was full. Had it only been two moons? How could he not have known? He should have noticed the rabbit stews were barer. He should have noticed the metate was basically in disuse. He should have noticed that she was always out picking purslane and goosefoot. She hadn’t had time to make a pot in months. Damnit, he even ate amaranth! AHHHHHHH! Why didn’t he know? As the blood poured into his eyes he heard a song. The sweet and tender voice of the woman rocking him grasped his attention. It was a song his mother used to sing, about Coyote searching for her lost cub. The cub had lost its way when the howl of the mother lured him back to safety. With such sweet sounds she lured him back to peace. She was giving him the love and compassion he had missed for so many days. His pulse softened as hers heightened. In the ebb and flow of the young duo’s heartbeats they saw in each other something heretofore unbeknownst to them. His anger melted away and tears replaced the sweat. She broke her song and stared as intently as he, each searching and finding what they were looking for. She looked down and asked, "Why do you run?" Breathing softly he whispered to the woman cradling him, "I’m through running."
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Sinagua Story
By Flora Hesse, GSU Undergraduate Student
I always remembered my wife groaning when she awoke, grabbing her lower calves and predicting by the aches when it would rain. She was often in a terrible pain, whether it be by walking through the fields or by sitting down and molding clay with her tired palms. She had a hole in her mouth where pieces of corn meal were sometimes lodged and on occasion she chewed food while grimacing as if someone were holding an arrow to her skull. I know it’s horrible, but sometimes I wish someone would.
She bore me but one child that survived into adulthood, a male at that. He ran throughout the cornfields attempting to frighten the girls his age in the village by popping out from behind their homes. He was old enough to be wed, but due to his horrific gambling habits and the occasional stealing of other family’s crops to support his habit, he was deemed too immature for the responsibility. My wife cared not, for she enjoyed the company, I however, had quite a difficult time supporting the three of us. I often suggested that he attend the ball games to find a wife from over the hills who did not know of his reputation, for this was how it was arranged for my wife and I to be wed about 15 years ago.
When we met she was not nearly a prize, nor has she become one in the years we have spent together. Her head was quite flat and gave the appearance of a mano wore well past its prime. Her eyes were set far apart (as if she were skeptically scanning the area on all of her surrounding sides) and she was admittedly too thin to bear healthy children. My uncle suggested the arrangement in part to get me out of the trouble I had had in my own village regarding the drinking and carousing of women. I took his advice for I had trusted the man and moved in with her family a few weeks after the fateful ballgame.
I came to find that the land her family owned was in poor quality because they had been one of the last groups to arrive. I set up a house with a small room and storage pit for what little maize, squash or beans we would have to save before the next season and went out to build the field house. All day when I first was married I would walk outside with my digging stick and plant all sorts of seeds I imagined would flourish and feed us in times of need. We were severely disappointed at harvest time and my wife had become pregnant, only to lose the child when she became very weak and ill. I think this is around the time that I took to gambling and she took to resenting me. In fact I am convinced that her entire family was urging her to find another husband who could be more successful in supporting her. I know she daydreamed about stealing the medicine man away from his wife, she made no effort to cover up her emotions for him. She would be sitting upon the roof grinding corn with her callused hands and he would walk by with his bright woven shirt and shell tinklers chiming at every step. She would practically swoon at the site of him and stare straight through his wife when she passed by with him.
She mentioned to me a few times about how much better off she’d be if she had a husband with access to exotic shell jewelry from the west who was favored by the gods and given productive fields. I mentioned that her family was forsaken by any such mystical beings in the first place, because the land was theirs and she had been plagued with poor health and an incompetent son. She would let out a type of growl at comments like these and show what few teeth left in her scowling mouth. At that time I had decided that it might be a good idea for me to start spending a little more time in the field house.
The next day my son accompanied me and carried a few bowls filled with food for the day. They were crafted by my wife and with such an uneven manner that all the beans had shifted to one side of the pottery on the journey. With the grace of a doe, my son trips over a large stone only to shatter the two bowls and scrape his arm a bit. We hurry to gather the food and attempt to transport it as best we can in our shirts. Pieces of corn fall through the material I had once weaved, shirts that had once been bright and brilliant in design worn down with age and abuse. We bring the pot that has but one break in it to repair once we arrive at the field house, and my son lifts a flat piece of broken pottery to make beads for a necklace of it as a form of apologizing on my behalf. It’s a decent gesture.
We spend the majority of the day shoeing off crows and attempting to catch the rodents. We had little success and decided we might attempt to create more arrow dynamic projectile points. I spent the entire day on two small points while my son attempted to find pinion nuts not already eaten by ground squirrels. If he found any, he did not bring them back, but ate them on the spot instead. We then begin the walk home and in route view the colorful costumes of the medicine man and numerous other influential men of the village dancing and chanting, with smoke billowing and causing the crowd’s eyes to water.
I cannot see her, but I know she is there staring at his shell jewelry imagining vicious death’s for his wife and myself. Hoping one day to rid me for a better husband, one who will fatten her and her son with plentiful food and numerous healthy children. I will let her dream knowing full well that my own dream is to live without her as well. After she is gone, I will return to my village, being one of the eldest survivors. I will hoard resources and steal what I need to impress my family back home. I will return to my family’s land, claiming that the gods had carried away my family so that I could return to the village of my childhood. They will deem themselves blessed to be in my presence and will forget my youthful indiscretions. If only I had not to worry about my unwanted responsibilities. How I wish to be as carefree as my son.
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