That night, though I had fallen asleep quickly, I slept fitfully. I dreamed of all that the raven told me, now playing out in my mind, in the early hours of that morning. Though many would call it merely a dream, I personally call it a vision of events long past. That night as I slept in the floral high backed chair I dreamt of the man who had built the hotel and town it resided in, the ancient peoples of that land and the events that transpired between the two. The story that unfolded had brought great clarity to my mind and great insight, just as the raven had said it would. You see long ago before the Spanish settled and colonized much of the southwest, there lived many different tribes and nations of people who took care of the land every bit as much as it took care of them. I had heard of many of the tribes from various museums I had visited as a child; one of the great perks of living “out west”, though I never understood fully their experience and way of life. As an outsider looking in I know I never truly will, but after that night I tried.
In the olden days, back somewhere around the 15th century, the Spanish came to North America and began to settle there, colonizing much of the land as well as the peoples that lived there, particularly the Pueblo people. They drove many of them from their homes, destroyed their dwellings and lands, and severed their connections to the sacred religious system they had upheld for centuries. After years of censorship and oppression, the Pueblo were able to drive the Spanish away, retaking their lands and homes, and finally being able to return to their cultural beliefs and way of life. For a time all seemed well, but the Spanish then returned only to once again drive them away or oppress the peoples of that land to the point they had to choose between genocide and extinction or adapting to the new way of life the Spanish provided for survivals sake. By the time 1802 arrived and the man who built the hotel came from the East, the Pueblo peoples had experienced over 300 years of oppression, genocide, dislocation, and many variations of physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual violence at the hands of the colonizers. The impact of the many long years of violence caused the Pueblo tribes to lose many things of cultural and spiritual significance to them such as their sacred lands, burial grounds, songs and dances, tribal languages, the wisdom of their elders, and their traditional ways of life. When the man who built the hotel came in they were already a decimated people, scattered and marred by the senseless violence of the past, but some remained.
In my dream that night, I stood barefoot on the land, as I watched the lives and traditions of a once mighty people, my feet etching footprints in the earth as it pulsed beneath me, almost as if it had a life of its own and a heartbeat. As I stood there, I saw a village before me, the homes and dwellings constructed from adobe and limestone bricks. Some had more than one story to them, others simply stood at ground level, but they melded with the land, resembling the mountains and cliffs that stood around them, instead of merely erecting crude and harsh structures that took away from the beauty of that place. The people in the village went about their lives, baking and cooking their traditional foods, hunting in the forests and flatlands for mule deer and other creatures. I also looked on as they tended their flocks of various animals and their ever growing farmlands. They planted many things, maize and corn for their breads, pumpkins in multiple colors, squash of many varieties, and beans of many varieties. I saw many women old and young, even some children and teens, create beautiful pottery. The older women made pots that were colored tan or cream with splashes of red or yellow coloring in geometric shapes, some even depicted their folklore and stories that had been passed from generation to generation; the younger ones often made pots that were colored black on black with swirling, gorgeous designs and shapes. The elders, mainly the older men of the village, were making dolls for the little girls or bows and arrows for the boys. The dolls were not made from the same type of porcelain or bisque dolls that lived in the doll room, nor simple dolls made from twigs, twine, and other readily usable substances, these dolls were so much more special and unique than that. Made with care from wood carvings, decorated with feathers, pieces of leather, and scraps of hand woven cloth; they were often painted. They were designed to teach the children of the village of the stories of their religion, their spirituality, and their culture. Each doll represented the natural things of the earth, depicting the sun, moon, and other heavenly bodies, animals, ancestors and much more. Once they were complete, the people of the village believed they took on lives of their own.
The land of the Pueblo people was beautiful beyond words. I had never truly had the opportunity to see the unmarred and spacious, wide open plains due to the buildings and towns that had been erected in my time, but here in my dream there was nothing, just wide open space. The weather was warm like it tends to be in late spring, the shadow of the mountains providing the perfect amount of shade to keep the sun’s direct light from burning your eyes. The hills rose and fell in some places, allowing the calming, gentle wind to flow through your hair as it made a slight whisper through the air. Bushes and hardy grasses grew in the flatlands as well as the scraggly, water thirsty trees that spread their branches wide to drink in the sun’s rays, and some areas had nothing but sandy dirt patches. The land gave off a steady and peaceful calm. Everything felt as though it was alive, with spirits of their own as well as stories that they could tell. I think in that place, I actually felt pride for the first time over a place that I had the privilege of walking, talking, and living in. I watched as many years began go by, slowly and yet fast, as if time didn’t exist and was relative. Many days and nights passed, as did the seasons, and all I could do was merely look on as the sun and moon wheeled overhead.
My attention was now turned to a sound, one that had been present longer than I had perceived it. It came from behind me, a slow, rhythmic padding that came ever closer to where I stood. I was not afraid of it and I did not try to run from it, I simply stayed put at turned my head to the side. There walking up to my side, was a man. He was older than me though younger than an old man. He had long, raven black hair came to his waist; it flowed in the wind and shone in the light of the now in the moonlit night. His skin was many shades darker than mine, a beautiful olive tan complexion, one I had always admired and desperately wanted as a child instead of my own alabaster skin. His eyes were shade of brown I had never seen before, with flecks of amber and honey hues. He looked at me and spoke in a language I didn’t know, yet, somehow in this place I could understand.
“Tell me child, do you like what you see?”
“Yes, very much so, what is this place?” I answered.
“It is the land of the Pueblo, my children, though you would almost not recognize it to see it in your time.” He replied.
“These people, your people, what happened to them?” I asked
“They were scattered and torn by the many wars that stained this once sacred land with blood. Watch and you will see.” He said as he bowed his head in reverence and grief.
Then almost as he had said, the scene before my eyes began to change dramatically. The once peaceful village was now in chaos and ruin as the army of white settlers came to take their homes from them. Fire now lit up the sky as buildings and farmlands burned in the night, as the foreigners slaughtered the people that had lived there. I was unable to do anything, stuck in place and unable to move my feet or scream out to warn them, utterly powerless to stop what was happening. Some ran for the hills and were cut down in their efforts to flee. Death was dealt that day without bias or consideration to age or sex, young or old, male and female alike were now lying in the blood soaked fields. Some, however, were able to escape or allowed to live by the invading forces. I couldn’t tell; I merely wanted to run away.
“Please stop this!” I begged the man as I averted my eyes, no longer being able to bear what was happening before me.
“I cannot, for it has already happened, you are merely seeing what took place long ago. Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end and try as we might we cannot change the deeds of any once set in motion, you can only learn from the past to prevent them from ever happening again in the future.” The man replied. “Look now and see what became of my people.”
As much as I didn’t want to, I looked back, taking a deep breath before I did. The scene had changed once again. It was now daytime, the night raid now over. I watched as the white men now gathered the bodies of the slain, and threw then each, one after the other, into a great burning shallow grave. If my heart had broken at seeing the village people’s fate, it shattered now watching their corpses handled with such disrespect as the men laughed and sang songs, blissfully ignorant and oblivious to the pain and sorrow they had caused. I saw one man in particular, who hadn’t been at the slaying the night before, orchestrate the burning of the dead as he laughed the loudest among them. I watched as time once again sped up, how they marred that once perfect land by decimating the fields of plenty, as they slaughtered the animals just as they had done their masters, as they lay bare the land and flattened the fields and burial grounds, as they began to build alien structures over them, and as they built a town and hotel I knew the look of all too well, the same man responsible and in charge of it all. It made me sick. How dare they, how dare they take what was not rightfully theirs by force, how dare they kill those beautiful peoples, how dare they destroy all they had built and created, how dare they mock the dead, and how dare they erect a town where they buried their ancestors. Yet, there they were, going about life in a new hustling and bustling, profitable town. It was just too much.
I looked back at the man now, as he stood in reverence of those who had been lost. For a time we just stood there, neither of us speaking. I looked back once more at the now completed town. It was now once again night and in the distance, at the edge of the town, I saw a shadow move, then another and another. After a few more moments I could just make out the shadows as men and women, the remaining villagers that had survived, coming back quietly into the now sleepy little town. After some time, they all gathered at the town’s square, right in front of the hotel. The people, who considered witchcraft as a crime, punishable by death, now changed their minds and sought to curse the land and the man responsible for the deaths of their loved ones. How I knew this I didn’t know and watched on as they began to quietly, in the still and breathless night, begin a ritual where they danced and chanted in their native language. They called out to their gods and their ancestors, as well as those who had perished fighting and fleeing their lands. They gave curses to their once beloved land, seeking to desolate the fields of the white men just as they had set fire to and destroyed theirs, they called for the rain to disappear, drying up the manmade wells and the rivers surrounding the town, they begged the gods to allow the spirits of the dead to rise and kill all those who killed them, and lastly they placed a special curse on the man who took the land and his descendants for the generations that followed, to serve forever those whom they had wronged, and never find rest in life or in their death, placing them in a sort of limbo, for the rest of their days.
As their now loud singing, chants and dancing continued I watched as the charred remains of the dead rose from their shallow graves and walked the earth a second time. Entering into the town, they came, to slaughter and destroy all they could before the sun rose once again in the morning. They could only walk in darkness, under the safety of the moon for the sun would burn them further and cause them great pain. I saw them begin to enter homes and buildings; that was when the blood curdling screams began and people tried to flee their homes just as the native people had tried to flee theirs. The chanting of the Pueblo people grew ever louder in the night as buildings began to catch fire from the lightning strikes that had begun to descend from the skies, lighting up the night in thunderous applause. Their gods and ancestors had heard their cries, giving them all they had asked for. The screams died down as the townspeople perished in the flames and at the hands of the risen dead. Now many of the buildings were destroyed save for the ones at the center of town. The last buildings would make it through the night, though badly damaged, yet The Hotel Bella Muerte stood tall and defiant, weathering the storm. No flames touched the building and the dead were not permitted inside though they swarmed the building. Why I didn’t know at the time, but would one day come to find out. The night began to come to a close and the sun rose in the sky. The native people returned to their places of hiding after completing their ritual and their dead laid back down in the shallow graves at the edge of town. Then all went dark and I was left in a void place with nothing and no one but me and the man who had shown me the vision. We stood there silent for some time, until we began to once again speak.
“What happened to the Pueblo tribe that lived in on this land and what became of the man who was responsible for the loss of their land and the death of their people?” I asked after the length of time had passed.
“They were never the same. Some went to the north, some to the south, some to the east and some to the west. They met up with different tribes and communities and became a scattered people. Their traditions were forgotten and their religious power faded till after generations it was lost.” The man replied. “As for the man who took the land from them, he himself paid a heavy price, and until the world ends, his descendants for every other generation will be forced to serve my people, the generation before learning the meaning of the loss of their loved ones.
“Why did you show me all this,” I gestured to the now emptiness in front of me.
“So you would understand why you are here. These lands have always had guardians to look after them and uphold their peace. It is your turn now; it has been passed on to you, Autumn.” He said pointing at me.
“What if I don’t want this? What if I don’t want this responsibility?” I asked him.
“It is not your choice to make, it was written in the stars highest in the heavens and in the roots of mountains deepest in all the earth. From the beginning of time and until time comes to an end. This is your burden to bear. Bear it with honor for the people who were lost and for the people who belonged to the land.” He said to me turning then from me and beginning to walk away.
“Wait!” I shouted after he began to fade into the dark. “I don’t even know your name. What is your name?”
“Awonawilona.” He replied as disappeared into a fine mist.
My eyes shot open. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was. I stared at the ceiling not moving as a minute or two passed. I was back at the hotel. I sat up cracking my neck as I did so in effort to ease the tension in my neck and shoulders from the night of sleeping upright in the chair and I took a look around the room. I saw nothing. No Jesus, no creepy ass dolls, just me the room and the furniture within. I breathed a sigh of relief and halfway hoped the day and night before had all been a dream as well, but I knew in my gut it wasn’t. I rose from the chair and walked down the hall. Just outside my door was another picture frame. An old picture lay within the frame. It was a picture of the man in my dream; the man who had taken the land and built the town. He stood proudly in front of the hotel with what I assumed to be his family. The placard under the photo read, Mr. John Benett, Mrs. Rosa Benett, and twins Miss Mary and Martha Bennet our town’s founder and family. I froze in my tracks. Mary and Martha? Surely they weren’t the same Mary and Martha who owned the hotel right? They had to be someone else or simply named after the towns founding family. I must have stared at that picture for an eternity and a half. I had never before seen Mary and Martha but I was almost certain it couldn’t possibly be the same two people. How could they be, this picture must have been taken in or around 1802 and it was currently 2013. I shook off the thought and tried to convince myself that it was completely ridiculous when I heard a loud ding, it was once again the bell downstairs.
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