Return of the Bones: Inspired by a True Native American Indian Story by Belinda Vasquez Garcia

Author:Belinda Vasquez Garcia [Garcia, Belinda Vasquez]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Belinda Vasquez Garcia
Published: 2014-05-16T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

By the time she swung the bathroom door open at Cherry Hill Camp, her skin had air-dried. She wiggled into her pajamas and carried her damp robe over her arm, shivering and hurrying to the camper.

In the distance, a woman danced on the sidewalk, twirling a dream catcher around her wrist, sweeping the net across her head. Images twirled from the hole in the middle of the dream catcher and at first she thought someone had broken into her camper after all but the woman was Native American, clothed in a buckskin dress and moccasins.

Suddenly, the sidewalk buckled; the concrete faded in and out.

Magic created a dynamic dream catcher indeed, sending her daydreams.

She spun around and vomited on a dirt road.

Ten men clothed in dark-blue hooded robes walked the dusty road with large wooden crucifixes bouncing against their knees. It seemed the earth parted as all jumped from the road to let them pass.

The Franciscan friars traveled so close to her, their robes brushed against her ankles. These men had the harshest faces. Lines of absolute power dug into their cheeks. Their eyes glowed with self-righteousness and their chins thrust out in defiance of all but their own cardinal law. Even their leather sandals pounded the road with the confidence of wild stallions. They behaved as men on a mission.

She kept her head down to avoid their piercing eyes and followed discreetly behind to San Miguel Chapel in old Santa Fe.

A tall, thin friar swaggered from the church, lifting his hand in blessing and greeting the other friars. This man wore a black hooded robe, his hands clasped in the wide arms. He appeared to float on the dusty road. The sun shone on his bald head that had a ring of blondish hair like a halo. There were deep marks on the sides of his pock-marked face, but the marks were fresh, like he indulged in self-flagellation as a religious fanatic and whipped his skin mercilessly with branches so sharp, the cuts looked like a razor blade sliced across his skin. Blood oozed from his face. Lavender-colored, spider-like veins protruded from his cheeks. A cross of ashes smudged his forehead. Specks of blood splattered across his chin and his robe, and dribbled down his neck. Teeth marks outlined his bottom lip which bled profusely. His chest rose up and down and something like a growl escaped his lips so that his spectacles vibrated on the bridge of his nose.

He jerked his hood up over his head so only a black hole was visible because he held his head back like a cobra about to strike.

With her head bowed she shuffled behind the friars to the back of the church where a group of Indians huddled, their wrists tied together. Armed soldiers guarded the prisoners.

A crowd of mainly Indians gathered at the fringes and looked down at the ground, avoiding the Franciscans’ eyes.

The faceless friar in the blood-stained robe pointed to one of the Indians.

A soldier shoved him and he landed on his knees.

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