Pohoi and Comanche Spirit Power

Copyright © 2013 by J. L. Chalfant

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-7336-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-7337-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-7338-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013901374

iUniverse rev. date: 12/13/2019

Contents

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

A Note to the Reader

About the Author

For

Makayla and Whitney, Mikeah and Breanna,

Tre and Shyla.

Discover your inner light, and like Pohoi, claim the power of your true self.

In memory of an outstanding young Comanche woman:

Penny Cable

1993–2011

Acknowledgments

My special thanks to my family for all the years I researched and dug deep into our heritage. Your patience, love, and encouragement kept me on track. And a huge thanks goes to good friends Barbara and Ken Goodin for spending much time assisting in my search to find my families’ Comanche name; for offering beds and great Comanche cooking; for your generosity and laughter; for the great jokes, Ken, and stories; and for introducing me to the elders, so many now gone, especially Lucille McClung. I love them all and miss them greatly. And at one of the Comanche Fairs, Barbara, when you coaxed me to walk with you around the dance circle, and there was Lucille, waiting on our arrival, smiling. You stood by my side when she placed her shawl over my shoulders, and the three of us danced. Well, you two did; I tried to dance. And to Delores Karty for suggesting to you I should buy that extra shawl from the Comanche Language and Cultural Preservation Committee. Of course, you had my name embroidered on it, and I need to do some more dancing with all of you. Equally, this acknowledgment wouldn’t be complete without mentioning my dear friends and mentors in writing: author Lois Averik; award-winning YA author Joyce Sweeny; former literary agent Alice Orr, who encouraged me to write a YA; YA author Marg McCalister; and author Lance Stockwell and his wife, author Gail Provost Stockwell, owner of Write It/Sell It, and widow of the late author Gary Provost, founder of Writers’ Retreat Workshops. For your invaluable knowledge, thank you. And a special thanks to Charlie and to Matthew for your critiquing expertise. This book might still be sitting in a box without your nudges and light.

Author’s Note

Pohoi and Comanche Spirit Power is a work of fiction set within the historical framework of the escalating conflict between Comanches and Texans in 1860 as the advent of the Civil War looms on the horizon. In another year, Texas will secede from the Union, and all federal troops will withdraw from Texas in preparation for war between the North and the South.

In 1860, both Indians and Texans continue to believe the other is the evil enemy, and as the year progresses, both cultures become vulnerable to more raids and attacks in an all-out struggle for survival. Soon Comanches and their allies will take advantage of the reprieve from attack by the military as a result of the departure of federal troops. The Indians’ hope to repel the Texan invaders from their homelands is refueled. By the fall of 1860, more renegade reservation Indians—moved from Texas in 1859 to reservations in Indian Territory, what is now the state of Oklahoma—join free Comanches and their Kiowa and Cheyenne allies in an all-out war with the remaining Texas Rangers, Texas Minute Men, and settlers turned vigilantes, many of whom remain committed to hunt down and exterminate Indians in and around Texas and southern Oklahoma. Atrocities will be committed on both sides. This practice continues throughout the era of the Civil War and even after the return of federal troops until the Indian people’s surrender.

For the purpose of this author’s note, Pohoi and Comanche Spirit Power takes place during the early spring of 1860, a calmer time historically, and before all-out war near the end of the year. So Pohoi and her isolated band of Kwahadi Comanches, or Antelopes, continue to remain isolated and free. The Kwahadi rule the Llano Estacado, the Staked Plains of Texas. They keep to themselves, living a more peaceful existence in the old ways of their ancestors. Pohoi and her people feel secure and safe within the idyllic canyon land of the dangerous Llano Estacado, at present protected from white settlement and from raids by Tejanos, or Texans, and from the few fighting federal troops still in Texas. Even now, the Kwahadi choose to avoid signing treaties and continue to keep free of the conflicts surrounding them.

Ultimately, the Kwahadi band will be drawn into the fray, a fray that will span into the late 1870s, and until Quanah Parker’s surrender in 1875—all fighting on the part of the Indian people’s continuation of the attempt to expel alien intruders from the ancient homelands of both Comanches and other Plains Indians. History shows that when federal troops returned to Indian territory and to Texas following the Civil War, events turned against the Indians in favor of the white man.

Life for Pohoi is about to change forever. Her struggle to gain power over her crumbling life is an attempt to fill in the gaps that both time and history have forgotten, and for one reason or another, often leave out, that of the Comanche Spirit.

Chapter 1

1860

Early Spring

Llano Estacado

Staked Plains of West Texas

I t was said that on the first full moon of the year of the shivering spring, a great storm followed on the wake of the kidnapping of Pohoi’s mother and the killing of her father.

Prior to the arrival of the great storm, and two days before the first full moon of the shivering spring, a surprise snow littered the drought-ridden high plains of the Llano Estacado. Gradually, the snow filtered its way into the protected valley below where Pohoi’s village sat tucked between towering canyon walls.

While the snow continued to fall, stories continued to grow about Pohoi’s daring and how she must stop pestering her powerful aunt, Hunts Medicine, with questions about how to gain Comanche Spirit Power, a topic taboo for young Comanche women. But Pohoi sensed that the stories held deeper meanings—like why her Kiowa aunt and Uncle Fierce Club got married, and why young women couldn’t earn spirit power, and why she got her name.

Always, there was a bit of mystery shrouding her family and her. So why worry about continuing village talk? Why be afraid of pestering Aunt Hunts Medicine? Aunt Hunts Medicine was the one person who might, in time, give a straight answer to all of Pohoi’s questions.

There was no changing her mind and no turning back.

Silly superstitions and gossips!

All that followed happened as innocent as two young people in love.

First, Pohoi decided to locate her best friend, Yellow Bear. She hoped to find him alone and without his friends, if she arrived early in the morning, and if he was outside near the river that lazed close to the cottonwood grove in back of the village.

When she arrived, he was staring absentmindedly at the sky as snowflakes alighted on his lashes like butterflies.

She tightened her buffalo robe and marched toward him, her arms swinging. There you are. Have you heard? Everyone thinks my aunt has witched me. But I am fifteen now, and a woman. I can do what I want, right? She had no intention of allowing him a word this soon. She gulped a breath. My mind is made up; I’ll keep asking questions, Great Spirit Storms or not. Don’t you agree that I have to keep studying with my aunt and asking her questions? There—she’d confessed all her intentions. Then just as fast, she wanted to take back all she’d said.

Oh no, he might think I’m not wife-worthy now.

But he turned away, tossed a pebble. After what felt like forever, he turned to face her. I’ve thought about what you’ve said. Forget it, Pohoi. Admit the talk is about your aunt, not you. Your aunt, Hunts Medicine, is more of a witch than a medicine woman.

No. She’s more like a mother than my own mother. She kicked river dirt at his knee-high winter boots. How can you say such hurtful things? Now she didn’t care that she left him standing alone with his boots layered in dust.

Still others tried to persuade her to stop her questions, even Grandmother White Doe who usually kept to cleaning hides and making that fancy dress for Pohoi’s eventual wedding day. Granddaughter, she said to Pohoi. Why are you so brave? Your aunt is a woman who has dangerous medicine.

You worry she will turn me into a prairie dog or an owl? No, my aunt loves me, says I take after her. She bent near her grandmother and whispered, I have a secret. Will you keep it? Aunt is also teaching me, and of her own free will, about Power. So you can see why I ask the questions.

Her grandmother gasped. It is forbidden until you can no longer bear children. She clicked her tongue and then whispered, Dangerous business, Granddaughter.

But, Grandmother, no harm can come. Besides, I’ll stop seeking Power when I marry. She didn’t worry about such matters or that storms clouds were building heavier on the horizon of their lives, even though the ending of a drought the same age as her would be impressive to see—the light snow of little relief.

Neither was she concerned that today wasn’t her scheduled day of teaching with her aunt. From where she stood, she saw a perfect opportunity; the door flap to her aunt and uncle’s teepee was, after all, open. Something inside her heart warned, Do not do this. But she felt an overwhelming need to gain Comanche Spirit Power.

Aha. I will begin with the mystery of my name.

And so began the warning breeze. At first she noticed nothing more than a slight tickle along her cheek and wiped it away like nothing more than a flake of dry snow. But the snow had long since stopped falling.

She knelt in what remained of the two-day-old covering of snow and peeked inside. A much smaller fire than usual now burned in the fire pit at the center of the teepee, a similar scene throughout the village. Wood and food remained scarce.

Her aunt roasted a skewer of meat over the low fire. Straight away, the savory odor of roasted meat tempted Pohoi’s stomach, and she felt it rumble. She inhaled deeply to keep her hunger at bay and for courage, confident her aunt had noted her uninvited presence.

Pia, I do not like my name, Pohoi said. Pia was an affectionate name used for mothers and for aunts. Sometimes Pohoi wished her aunt was her real mother. She was easier to talk to. And Pohoi spent more time studying with her aunt than with her mother or her grandmother. Next to her parents and grandparents, she trusted her aunt the most.

Still her aunt ignored her, and Pohoi shrugged. She had no concerns that any questions she asked, especially about her name, would sound disrespectful to her elder aunt.

She cleared her throat. My friends tease me. They say I am one who walks between. What does it mean to walk between? She stood shaking outside in the cold at the entrance to her aunt and uncle’s teepee—in her hurry to speak with her aunt, she’d forgotten her blanket.

A few moments more in silence, and again she cleared her throat.

At last her aunt nodded. Come, Skinny Niece. I need help eating this skewer of tasty buffalo kidney. Her aunt sat before the tiny fire, her back to the north side of the teepee.

So Pohoi knelt to enter and walked south around the fire pit to the west side of the teepee. At that point, she stopped and raised her chin while awaiting permission to be seated.

First, her aunt handed her the stick of cooked meat. Aunt Hunts Medicine’s cheerful eyes appeared sad this morning. Sit, Daughter Niece, she said.

Thank you for allowing me to join you, Pohoi answered. She sat cross-legged and eagerly pulled off a hunk of meat with her teeth. Oh, that’s chewy and good. I thought I’d never get another bite of fresh meat. She grinned. Is it true that most of the buffalo have gone?

Hunts Medicine lowered her gaze as she stirred the low embers with her fire stick. I must agree that the buffalo have gone.

I hope my presence and my questions have not upset you, Aunt.

I am fine. Then her aunt sighed. And I agree about your name. I’d have named you better. But Pohoi is a good name, was the name of a long-ago band of Comanches some say broke away from their cousins, the Shoshones. That is all.

Wild Sage band, Pohoi mused, even though she’d heard all this many times from Grandmother White Doe. To hear over and over how she got her name never bored her, but always she hoped for a new telling, like her father named her after a brave warrior or medicine woman. Or, maybe her mother chose a poetic name like Willow but was overruled. Why did the Comanches leave the Shoshones?

Why should I know that? I am Kiowa.

Pohoi lowered her head and returned the skewer of meat.

Aunt Hunts Medicine shooed off the skewer. You eat it or I will call you Skinny Bones.

Still Pohoi refused.

Fine then, you are stubborn … like me. Aunt grinned as she reclaimed the stick of roasted, tender, tasty kidney. I will tell you what your uncle told me. Many fights, little food, all such matters might have been the fault of the Spanish Conquistadores who others say named a long-ago band of Comanches the Pohoi band, believing they were Shoshones. The Spanish for sure brought bad killing. Then Aunt Hunts Medicine looked her straight in the eye.

At last, maybe some new insight about her name. Pohoi smiled and reclaimed the skewer.

Good. You will be Strong Bone, not Skinny Bone. Her aunt continued, The Spaniards also brought good traveling on horseback. Comanches decided to leave their cousins. After that long-ago time, no one ever heard from the Pohoi band. Too many winters now, long passed away, like our ancestors, and soon, like the buffalo. She sighed. And like us. Her aunt returned to poking at the fire. She seemed to be lost in her memories. Finally, she added, "As now, when these new white men raid my Kiowa families’ villages and other Comanches’ villages, both north and east … if they are not stopped, our way of life will soon be gone, Pohoi. These whites call themselves Texans and Americans. You know of them as Tejanos and Americanos. Then there are the New Mexicans to the west. Neither will stop until they kill us all."

"But why do you say these things? I have only seen one or two white men in all of my life, like the Indian and non-Indian traders, the comancheros. Have you seen more white men? Father said they do not bother to enter the Llano or the canyons. Besides, I do not want to know these things. I am hoping Yellow Bear will speak with Father soon. Don’t I deserve a husband and a family? Now you say our life is ending?" She felt a grinding in her stomach worse than hunger. How could their lives end? If only she could do something. If she had Power like her aunt, she’d end this danger.

With eyes downturned, her pia aunt continued. Long ago, it is said that when Power first became corrupted, those who walked upright turned into the two-legged humans. Those ones were the first to sense the change within the center of the great sun’s energy. Frightening storms followed. Now, the Power becomes corrupted once more, here … on the Llano. She raised her arms and spread them wide. The Great Spirit Storms come even as you and I speak.

Yes, Aunt, she answered. But Aunt’s large words are filled with much melancholy. Why? Then she noticed how her pia’s eyes had filled with tears. Now Pohoi’s eyes filled with tears. She bowed her head. Never had she seen her brave aunt, her pia, so despondent.

If only I could help.

In time, she would believe corruption tempted the hearts of all people. And she would call those people who were stricken with greed and hatred the misshapen ones. For the inner light in their eyes had turned off, leaving their minds and hearts darkened. These misshapen people appeared normal to look at, and some learned to shape-shift, mostly as a disguise so as to hide. Always a few abused Power. But that knowing would come almost too late for Pohoi. What she understood at present was that in the beginning of human beings, shape-shifting was granted to the people by Earth Mother and was used for good. Even the sun power that flowed from the Great Father Who Knows All smiled on such a feat as shape-shifting. Stories were still told of hunters who might take the form of a deer or of a wolf, and sometimes of a bear. But never had Pohoi heard of anyone choosing dangerous power, except for her father, Big Elk, who also claimed the stealth and strength of Cougar Power. He feared none of the scary creatures like spiders, scorpions, and snakes. He told her once that all power must be used for good. Pohoi never told him she witnessed Aunt Hunts Medicine transform herself into a skunk.

For fun, Pohoi, her aunt had said. But Pohoi knew skunk medicine was powerful and made one fearless, especially of one’s enemy.

Does Power call to everyone? Pohoi asked. She focused on the eagle feathers and the one large hawk feather braided into her teacher-aunt’s long, black hair.

Only to the heart that listens and is brave enough to follow. Aunt Hunts Medicine pointed at Pohoi. Remember, this life is not what it seems.

Pohoi sighed. Yes, but how will I know if my heart hears true? It isn’t that simple to listen, and I do want to be like you, Aunt. Is there not a simpler way to know if I’m called to walk the path of Power?

Her aunt smiled. No, Power isn’t simple, but you will know, Pohoi. Let’s plan for your next lesson when this new springtime has matured into summer. Go now. She busied herself with fire tending, dropped wild sage into the flames.

The pungent smoke enlivened Pohoi as thoughts of Comanche Spirit Power tumbled through her mind. What if she listened today? Would Power speak to her? She knew exactly where to go, and instead of returning home to her parents’ teepee to help with chores, she hurried through the thin dusting of snow toward the trail that would take her to Eagles’ Perch, a place of Power where eagle’s flew.

As she ran to the trail, the memory of her aunt’s words warmed her heart on this frigid, twelfth day of spring. For most of her fifteen years, and most recently, for the past winter around campfires, she had truly listened to the elders, mostly her aunt and her grandfather, who recanted stories often disguised as teachings. It was no wonder that the younger children fidgeted when the silly stories took on a more serious tone. However, that was when the older youths like her began to sit with straighter backs, legs crossed with their hands folded upon their laps. Most of the tales she enjoyed usually began with Long ago, it is said. Her favorite: Great Spirit Storms that flooded all of Earth Mother, destroying most living things. She especially approved that Comanches were saved by turning into birds. Equally as wonderful to her was how the Great Spirit and Earth Mother sat at council and chose to call back the waters, creating lakes and rivers, wide green pastures, and carved out valleys within deep canyons, much like the one where, at present, her family and the Antelope Eater band of Comanches lived. They had camped here the greater part of the winter for protection from wind and cold, and because of more available food for her people—dried berries, roots, and grazing animals like deer and turkey and buffalo. She often hunted and gathered with her parents and had looked forward to wintering in this particular canyon, as well as future canyon campsites throughout the remaining year, all locations with lush valleys, streams, and the special canyons with caves and waterfalls.

But for her, there was a bigger, secret reason to return to this wide canyon—Eagles’ Perch, a perilous place, Father Big Elk always reminded her. Long seasons ago, I earned Eagle Power upon that perch. But it’s not a place for young girls, Pohoi. He had winked at her as if he knew she wouldn’t mind him. And don’t beg to go there. Soon you will be a woman. You will marry, and you will have children.

Many of her girlfriends were married, some pregnant. And she, Daughter of Big Elk, hadn’t had her Day of Celebration to honor her becoming an eligible woman. She felt half child. Only a handful of warriors who had proven themselves in battle had chosen to speak with her father. We can help bring on her time of bleeding.

No, her father said. There is no hurry. And she privately rejoiced.

Her looks had to be pleasing enough, for many young warriors glanced her way. Even her best friend, Yellow Bear, reassured her she was nice looking. But would he want her if she couldn’t have children? What would be taboo about her seeking Power then? Like those women who could no longer have babies, women like her favorite aunt, Hunts Medicine?

But not wanting to disobey her father, Pohoi turned toward his teepee, feeling happier—that was until she found herself thinking of the sadness she’d seen in Aunt Hunts Medicine’s eyes. At that moment, Pohoi’s whole body took to shivering. She wrung her hands to warm herself. How could she have ignored her aunt’s warning? A time of terrible change was coming. And, not knowing how she believed, just that she did, that her way of life was vanishing day by day, sunset by sunset, the answer raced through her mind: Gain Eagle Power.

But to do so, she might have to risk everything, even her life—if doing so might save her people, and her family. No, she must disobey Father Big Elk. After all, for the past six full moons, she had already sneaked off alone to attempt the steep climb to Eagles’ Perch, only to turn back, dizzy from the height. He hadn’t known then, so why should he find out this morning?

If she left now before her family knew what she was up to, or before her best friend, Yellow Bear, knew, she might succeed in making the climb, all the way this time, not halfway. Then if they discovered her secret, and her goal achieved, what harm could follow? But the morning was slipping by with her standing idle trying to make a decision. She had to scurry faster than a lizard to the head of the narrow trail before anyone in camp saw her, so she slipped off unnoticed, she hoped.

Once Pohoi reached the trailhead, she looked back to see if anyone had followed. From her view of her village home, a home the New Mexican traders called a ranchería, all remained calm. The trail appeared vacant of people except for her. She stretched her arms in relief and then jogged along the trail, happy she’d worn her most flexible moccasins that could provide her with enough traction to aid her climb. Before long, she passed the midway point where she usually turned back. This time, she kept going. At last the canyon wall loomed upward and seemed to disappear into the sky. Not difficult at all to go this far. At that moment, the dizziness returned like it had before. She leaned against the cliff side of the trail and steadied herself, even while studying the breathtaking height of the cliff dotted with junipers.

No, she must release her worries of what might happen if she went farther, like her foot jarring loose a rock, or slipping down onto a knee, or worse, falling and rolling to her death. Go now, and do not look down. She took a deep breath and then her first step, then another, and before long, she was again picking her way over the rugged path. She grinned—she hadn’t thought to turn back, until now, when she thought about not turning back. She stopped and stared over the cliff to her right. A large shadow the shape of a giant knife blade loomed over the valley. She glanced up. Of course: Eagles’ Perch.

The shadow resembled a monster-sized bird of prey, not the blade of a knife as all the warriors described. She shivered. Maybe she didn’t want to admit she was afraid, so she waved off her fear, and within several more grueling footsteps over rock, loose gravel, and sand, she reached the point on the trail where the perch jutted off. But could she conjure enough courage to climb onto the perch and then all the way to its tip where she hoped to fly with eagles?

Now her father’s warnings teased her: Even one or two medicine men and women have fallen to their deaths; you are a child, still a little girl, Pohoi.

But her father didn’t understand. She wasn’t them.

Pohoi placed one foot on the perch, and then another. Already, the power of the wind circled her body, pushing at her like a lighthearted child. Her yearning for Spirit Power grew stronger and increased the beating of her heart. She knelt, bowed her head. At last she would sing the song of her own creation, a Power song she’d rehearsed all these months.

Eagle, this one comes to you. She tossed a pinch of her namesake plant, wild sage, into the strong current of wind. Teach this friend to fly, to feel the power of the wind, to be one with you, Eagle. She crawled through the frolicking winds at the pace of a turtle until finally reaching the treacherous sliver of cliff. Once at its farthest tip, she flattened her body on the rock, lizard-style. Then she extended her arms outward like wings. She