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The Queen of Crows Short Story
By Monica Valentinelli | February 13, 2008
Author’s Introduction
The short story that you are about to read happened completely by accident; I was catching up on my American history from the 1800s when I read about atrocities that were committed by a fort called “Bosque Redondo.” Inspired by the idea that desperate people do (and say) desperate things when they’re in trouble, I wrote “The Queen of Crows” as a horror story. This work of fiction does, in no way shape or form, resemble any persons, events or places involved, nor does it intentionally strive to make light of what happened in that dark moment of American history. I did, however, open this story with a diatribe by the goddess of this tale, an undead version of Queen Mab, in order to give this a fantastical feel. Some people liked it; others did not. As it was part of the original version, I decided to leave it in for your reading pleasure.
The Queen of Crows
Written by Monica Valentinelli
Hazy patches of memories stitched themselves together in her dusty mind; she caught up to one and pulled it close. She remembered one of her names—Mahochepi—and gasped, but her undead lungs could not find the air she needed, they were filled with dried blood. Instinctively, Maho tried to pull her skeletal arms closer to what was left of her body. Only then did she realize she was bound with leather and thread and bone; someone…some…thing imprisoned her. Maho’s moldy mind starved for the chirping of birds, butterflies, worms, weeds—anything that resembled life, even humans.
Maho opened her mouth—to let loose an array of ancient words that would heal her rotting form—but no sound passed through her shriveled lips. Surely she had followers that called her, the zombie queen, to bring vengeance down upon her believers’ enemies. Why else would she be awake?
Her voice failing her, she patiently searched her memories for anything magical that might help her. In the past, she would revive herself from earth’s pure life-force in times of dire need as long as she didn’t take too much from the soil. Stretching out her thoughts, the queen felt around for rich, brown earth but touched nothing but metal walls.
A slow anger blossomed in her black heart like a winter rose. Her icy anger gave herself one small comfort, for she didn’t really miss humans or their fear; the beliefs they had in one god or goddess never mattered to her as long as she had some of her own followers. Maho knew that she still had servants loyal to her; it was only a matter of time before they would call her name and restore her through the power of belief.
Power she would use to bring about her own black day.
Of course, her desire for all things living was her own, private torment—considering what she truly was—but that was between her and her priests that did well to amuse her from time to time. When she thrived (and oh! how did she thrive) she watched Nature’s touch take each and every human that worshipped her and throw their lifeless bodies to the ground. Plague, Famine and Death were kings; they weren’t evil or sinister like so many mortals believed, they were just part of the natural cycle. Maho grinned in pride; she recalled that she had used her power to take pity on those few mortals who tried, in vain, to conquer Life itself.
Oh, she helped them. She consumed them and brought them back in bony chains to serve her purpose for she wasn’t part of the natural order, she was above it.
Another memory forced its way into her sharpening mind. There was a great Journey, a piece of paper… A truce between a snake and a rabbit…her rabbit…
Mahochepi, Queen Mab, Sekhmet and all of her other immortal identities surrendered herself only thirty or forty years ago. Her body was in bad shape for such a short amount of time; by her calculations it was some time in the mid-nineteenth century. Part of her decay could be because she had been burnt; part of it could be because she was trapped in metal.
Unfortunately, there was only one thing that would be able to heal her now; she needed to hear the strong, clear call of someone who believed in Mahochepi’s version of justice.
In tune with the cycles of day and night, she patiently waited to hear something, anything resembling her name but instead of hearing chants and prayers, a loud silence beat at her ears. The Queen of Crows had been forgotten.
Although Mahochepi’s soul was as old as rainwater, her prison prevented her from tapping into the very thing that gave her life in the first place. In this part of the century, too many must have cast aside the old ways in favor of something new— something brighter and shinier. Over the ages, she’d seen many new ideals, philosophies, cults…but none more destructive than desperate mortals who wanted power over life and death.
A small orb of soft, glowing light entered Maho’s mind, bringing with it the memory of her defeat. Wiping away pieces of flesh strung throughout her skull, her mind’s eye focused on it intently, drawing it ever closer to herself, flinging her fragile body into her past. This thing, Time, that humans measured into small pieces and tried to earn its favor as if Time itself were a god—meant very little to her. Maho thought she had all the Time that Nature had to offer her. In life, Nature had allowed her to assume the form of a crow, a wolf or even a lion from time to time. She was above Time; the Moon answered to her call, no one else’s.
In death, her mind retained the memories of a thousand lifetimes; her reanimated form kept intact by a powerful curse—the curse of those who believed in her. Maho had been dead longer than she had been alive; she couldn’t remember what it was like to breathe or enjoy a clear spring or even run free on four legs. The concept of freedom seemed like such a simple thing for simpler people. Even though she was neither simple nor…“people”…she knew that thoughts of escaping her prison would consume her mind—if she let them.
Pushing aside her unwanted desires, Maho remembered that even after her death she was once able to assume a feathered, black shape—like the crow. Mahochepi forced herself to concentrate and gathered whatever strength she had. Focusing it into the image of black, glossy wings with a matching beak, Maho waited for her brittle bones to shift and change—but couldn’t even conjure so much as a feathery tuft.
Ma-ah, ho-oh, che-pi.
Something called to her in the distance, something that was hungrier and more desperate than she was. Almost.
Ma-ah, ho-oh, che-pi.
A vision forcefully pushed its way back into her mind’s eye, cutting through her futile attempts to instinctively defend herself. One after another images flared up, branding themselves into the back of her mind: cross, river, paper, helmet, blood, buffalo, beads. She was there, in the form of a crow, perched on a buckskin-covered shoulder for a meeting at the end of a trail of blood and tears and death.
The vision forced her to search for that elusive detail she needed in order to free herself—but all she could picture was a group of blurry faces. One of the faces in the crowd tried to attack her, someone else released her. She flew high into the sky, circling above until a slew of arrows sought her out. Knives, spears, guns, arrows, all tried to find her in the blue, sunlight sky until at last, one succeeded.
Betrayal.
The thought hit Maho hard, sending her reeling back into the past to find who knew her well enough to take away her freedoms, but she couldn’t find the right one.
Revenge.
***
“Grandfather. Grandfather! Tell us the story again. What is her name?” The village’s group of young children, not old enough to carry a bow or join the hunt, was anxious to hear Grandfather Tse’s story about the one he called, “The Queen of Crows.”
“Mahochepi,” Grandfather Tse replied, as her name gathered power in the teepee’s firelight. “Now then, where do I begin?”
“Sicheii! Sicheii!” one of the tribe’s youngest warriors burst through the deerskin covering, breathless. “White man comes. They bring with them the-one-who-can-not-walk.”
The children were obviously disappointed at the news, though they quickly ran off, shooed away by the young warriors who closed the teepee’s flap behind them and stood guard on either side.
Grandfather Tse didn’t bother to move, he already knew what the men wanted. Still, it couldn’t hurt to let his enemy wait; Tse could not ignore broken promises that were filled with hollow words. In a few moons the White Man would grow impatient and they would use their bullets to talk to his people; moving them from their sacred ground to take them to a place called Bosque Redondo with the others.
If the journey did not kill the tribe’s spirit, taking them from their holy ground would. Tse had already heard the White Man brought other things to the Navajo, strange rashes and fevers that could not be broken. Many people — his people — would die well before the next harvest moon unless he did something to save them, a decision that did not come as easily as his people might have guessed.
“Mahochepi. You will rise soon.”
The wind stirred the ashes around the fire where he was seated, answering his unspoken promise. Grandfather waved his hand, gesturing for the strangers to come and warm themselves by the fire. Turning to the young warriors standing guard, he reminded them in Navajo of their plans to pack up the village while Grandfather and the soldiers were talking — Grandfather Tse must be the only Navajo left in the village that night. Not even the smallest child’s toys must be left behind; everyone else must leave except for him. The warriors did not ask him why, for he was the tribal elder. He was the only one left alive.
“Do you know why we’re here, old man?” one of the strangers asked as he entered his home. True to their ignorance, he picked out a spot beside him, a place normally reserved for an honorable man.
Tse nodded, unwilling to speak to the insolent boy until he was ready. It was unfortunate that the White Man didn’t know how to treat their elders; if the young people did talk to them, they might know that some promises should never be broken.
“First, introductions,” he said. “It is our way of things. Call me Grandfather Tse.” He waited until the men were settled before he continued. “I am a shaman, what you call ‘medicine man.’ I am a holy man for my people.”
The four men in the room introduced themselves; three of them were soldiers, all part of the first group of men who brokered a fake peace with the Navajo many moons ago — one general, one captain, one “Wilkins,” and the same tracker who led these men to his Navajo tribe in the first place. Tse inhaled the teepee’s smoky air and let the fire’s warmth wash over him and his unclean thoughts. The one who called himself “Captain Maynard” spoke up first, distracting him from the comforting fire’s touch.
“Um…Gr-gr-f-fa-father Tse,” Maynard sputtered, shifting on the dirt floor. “We were told that you know s-s-something about this.” The Captain pulled a tin box out of his knapsack and pushed it forward, toward him.
Tse swallowed his anger, he knew that Mahochepi was in the White Man’s hands, but he had hoped she was treated better than this. This was a bad sign; angry spirits were unpredictable.
“You came to hear about Mahochepi, Queen to all tribes of the Great Earth Mother?”
The soldiers nodded in agreement. Tse started to tell his tale; he had rehearsed it so many times already, waiting for this day. Of course, his story was not real—these soldiers just needed to believe it was. It was the only way the sacrifice would work.
The palest soldier of them all, a yellow-haired boy named Wilkins, talked over his words. “Excuse me, Grandfather. But I kinda noticed that your people were packing up their tents when we came in. Seeing as how we have had dealings with your kind in the past of an un-for-choo-nate nature, you’re not trying to pull something on us, are you?”
“My tribe is moving the camp to prepare for an early winter. I stay behind to give thanks and erase our path here; it is our way as guardians of this earth.” It was one of many half-truths he would tell that day.
Wilkins laughed at his words, “Hasn’t anyone told you Grandpa? You’re in the US of A now. It’s been four years since we’ve forced the rest of you Navajo to march out of your lands.” Wilkins reached into his pocket and pulled out some chewing tobacco.
“We don’t care if you’re the last man standing; funny thing is that your tribe is the last one we have to take to Redondo. Hells bells, you should be happy we’re doing you this favor. You’ll still be alive by the time we gather up all your injun brothers, won’t you?” Wilkins spat in front of him, but Tse refused to be bothered by his rude words and actions.
“Not sure,” Grandfather whispered. “I am getting too old to argue with someone who cannot hunt bear on his own.”
One of the other soldiers laughed at Tse’s words. Wilkins jumped up, shoved the rifle’s nozzle in Tse’s face and cocked the trigger.
“And you’re the bear, Gran-pa?”
“Now, now W-w-wilkins,” Captain Maynard stammered. “You should do well to mind your m-m-manners.” Beads of sweat dripped down Maynard’s face; he took out his bandanna and dabbed his face dry. “You will s-s-sit down and remember yourself.”
Tse was slow to respond. “Is this the way you allow your young people to treat their wise elders, Captain?”
Maynard’s silence rolled through the air. One of the other men in the room, the tracker who introduced himself earlier as Raymond Day, leaned toward Tse and whispered flatly, “I am sorry, I’ll take care of it.”
A deep pang of guilt hit Tse deep below his intricately beaded belt. Day’s promise was strange to him; when he met Day four years ago during the treaty, Tse thought Day was a man who flew with eagles high above the trees, answering to no one but the wind. The man used to be fearless—he stole from the earth wherever he went and he could not control his words. Tse had heard stories about him from other tribes, too, tales that unsettled him. It seemed as if Raymond felt that the earth was his for the taking, and didn’t care whose lands he was traveling through or which sacred animal he was disturbing.
Maynard managed a troubled smile. “Day has been instrumental in our travels. He is a good tracker for this group—”
“—even though you refuse to tell the truth about what happened per our agreement, Captain. Nu na hi du na tlo hi lu i.” The tracker looked disgusted with the soldiers, as if he didn’t remember that he was a part of the bad spirits the white man brought with them the last time. Tse’s mind wandered far outside the teepee, looking for a safe place to hide while Day threw angry words at the other men. Day was never one to stand up for his people, why now? And what was that spicy-sweet smell?
“Our history books, Raymond, will record that the deaths on the so-called ‘Trail of Tears’ happened due to natural causes, and they’ll also record that the US government saved those Indians from a devastating plague.”
“I remember the stories from the other tribes when I was a young boy.” Tse was beginning to think telling his story about Mahochepi might not even be necessary. These were not the type of men who understood words—bullets and blood were the words of their language. “You are correct, the Trail is in the past—over thirty years ago—but my people, the Navajo, know what it is like to be removed from sacred lands.”
Wilkins giggled. “Look old man, just say your magic mumbo-jumbo and remove whatever curse you put on this here box. We regular men don’t believe in such curses, but there are plenty of folk out there who do and Bosque Redondo needs all the help it can get. Why it’s falling to pieces because even the injun can’t live together. Not like us civilized folk.”
Lighting a long pipe filled with tobacco and other herbs, Grandfather inhaled the smoke into his lungs and allowed himself a moment of peace before speaking to the child again. It wasn’t worth trying to explain why the Navajo wasn’t getting along with the Mescalero Apaches; small minds don’t understand things that are too obvious for them to see.
“What curse?”
Captain Maynard exchanged a worried glance with the General; Tse knew that this man, a seasoned warrior, had wisdom beyond his years. He knew enough not to give his full name—this General silently watched the last treaty on his horse—and he was careful with his words as if they were priceless treasures.
“Sir, the curse my men are referring to has something to do with this box. My men tell me it can’t be opened, it can’t be destroyed, and it always shows up somewhere in our stores, spoiling our food, water and medicine supply.”
“So General,” Tse whispered, “Do you believe in this curse?” If he didn’t, that was going to be a problem.
“If my men believe it, then I believe it.”
The shadows from the fire flickered in fear; the soldiers would trap themselves with their words and the Queen would rise from their ashes. Still, he wasn’t sure what to think about Raymond Day. As a tribal tracker he probably knew some words in Navajo; as a white man he probably didn’t value what he knew. Did any of that matter? Would Tse’s people forgive him, would they understand blood sacrifice?
“See? I was right, you dirty coot. You think you got us figured out? You’re coming with us,” Wilkins spat another ball of slimy tobacco at Grandfather Tse.
Tse bowed his head in disgust. “Is that true? Captain Maynard?”
“My ap-ap-apologies for his outburst. He will be r-r-r-reprimanded when we return to c-camp. The men and I w-w-would like you to re-re-remove the c-curse on this
b-b-ox; then come w-with us.”
“To…officially end this nonsense at Bosque Redondo, the first American Indian Reservation,” the General finished for him.
“You want to put me in your jail.” Grandfather Tse responded, his heart heavy as he continued to smoke the peace pipe. Peace, his dying dream.
“The United States Government doesn’t have an official policy against witchcraft, but there are a lot of folk who might sleep easier at night if you, who not only was a member of the ‘original’ treaty four years ago but is also a recognized priest among the Navajo, were accounted for.” The General continued, his dry speech sounded as if their plan was to throw him into the dirt all those moons ago, at the treaty. “You have to understand, Grandfather. We’ve tried like hell to get rid of this thing, but it just keeps on coming right back into the fort, and when it does? Someone dies in an unnatural way. We know it’s from you, it’s got your mark.” The General pointed to Mahochepi’s symbol etched in dried blood.
“I must have lived four lifetimes if you believe I have made that mark.”
It surprised Grandfather that the white man could be so stupid. He didn’t curse them; this symbol, drawn with the blood of a sacrifice, meant that someone else already tried to bring Mahochepi back.
Even though that knowledge didn’t ease his troubled mind, it was strangely comforting to know that there was another kindred spirit watching the dark faces of the moon with him. It was a place with no light where he knew he shouldn’t go, but Grandfather had no other choice. He knew what Maho was—a rejected goddess, above creation and death. She wasn’t evil in the way the White Man thinks about her; she was like the wolf that needed to harm sheep in order to fill its belly.
“So, are you going to do this?” Captain Maynard took something round and metal and rusty from behind his back.
It was time. No more questions, no more doubts. No more threats. If Grandfather was going to save his people by asking the help of something so unnatural flowers withered in her wake, then that is what he had to do.
Reaching for his pipe, Tse patiently stuffed it with more tobacco and salvia, his shaman’s herb, and this time he offered it to the rest of the group, but Day waved a covered hand (a glove?) and refused. Tse caught Day’s glassy-eyed stare and realized that he couldn’t smoke because he couldn’t breathe. The truth about what Day was forced Tse to smile, bitterly. Now he understood why the White Men here, in his home, were blind.
Closing his eyes, Tse let the world pass through him and traveled to a place of peace, ignoring everything around him. He began to drone small syllables, chaining them together until they formed a word.
Ma-ah, ho-oh, che-pi.
Without hesitation, Raymond Day joined Tse’s chant and together they focused their will into the metal prison that held the goddess of the dead, when Wilkins started to scream. “I say we take him now. This curse is nothing but a pile of—”
Ma-ah, ho-oh, che-pi.
Tse strengthened his voice, bringing more power to their prayer. He beckoned for the others to share the pipe with him as part of their ritual. Once again, the scout who went by the name of Raymond Day apologetically refused to the others, mumbling that he was sick. It didn’t matter what he did; it didn’t matter what any of them did.
Ma-ah, ho-oh, che-pi.
Grandfather uncrossed his legs, stood up and stomped his feet. He had never danced for the Queen of Crows before, yet somehow he knew every step he needed to take. Behind him, the scout opened the tin box and placed its wrapped contents on top of the fire’s center.
Ma-ah, ho-oh, che-pi.
The fire turned blue—then yellow—then green. The scout laughed, grabbed Wilkins by the throat, and pulled a long hunting knife out of the boy’s back pocket. “Who are you trying to kill today, boy? I did not lead you here so you could save your own skin.”
Ma-ah, ho-oh, che-pi.
Brilliant green embers sizzled as the fire started to fade into a single, blue-black flame. Grandfather motioned for the rest of the group to follow him, chanting loudly in the darkness to awaken Mother Death. Raymond pushed Wilkins in front of him; the others got up and joined them in the circle. Maho’s named echoed through the top of the teepee into the night sky, nothing would stop her from rising. Nothing.
Grandfather broke the chanting circle and stepped toward the colorful flames. The fire’s deadly blue tongues were darker, almost black toward the bottom yet somehow the tips were pale blue with flecks of bright, sunny yellow. It was almost as if water, fire and ice were all fighting to be the one element responsible for Mahochepi’s rebirth, and no one was sure who would win. As the fire continued to swell, threatening to burn everything in its path, the rest of the group continued to dance, drunk on magic’s own kind of reality.
Ma-ah, ho-oh, che-pi.
Hypnotized by the licking flames, the men danced and chanted while Tse walked slowly into the heart of the fire carrying all of his anger with him, and lit up like a vengeful, red sun.
Crrrrrrraaaccckk! BOOM!
A small explosion blew the teepee apart, knocking all of the men flat on their backs. Wilkins was the first to raise his head from the hard ground.
“What in God’s green earth just happened?” Wilkins peered into the evening’s dim light and saw was a girl—probably about 14 or 15—standing in front of him. “And who might you be, little lady?”
“Death,” she responded, then punched her thin fists through his chest.
***
A few days later, Raymond traveled to the nearest trader’s outpost with a small girl; his mission fulfilled, Day needed to send a telegram to Washington.
MAY 4, 1868
INDIAN PEACE COMMISSIONER W.H. ANDREWS,
NEGOTIATION IN PROGRESS. SEND TREATY SIGNERS.
RAYMOND DAY, JR
Outside of the trading post, the two spoke in her native tongue. Passersby believed the girl was lost and the tracker was returning her to her tribe.
“The shaman’s sacrifice made him worthy. Bring me another, slave,” she cawed.
Raymond sighed wearily, a gesture of what he once was, but his cold lungs were unable to breathe the air around him. Maho was a merciless queen—she didn’t care about politics or language or commanders.
Mahochepi granted him the honor of looking into her flat, black eyes. “Remember human, no one else knows the truth. When you found out your own people abandoned your family on the crying trail—your anguish was so great you called upon my name.”
Day winced—in Mahochepi’s mind every human was part of the same ‘family.’ He didn’t bother to correct her that it was his father that called upon her all those years ago. Father, brother, cousin, friend—family titles were something Maho could never understand.
“Come, there is much to do. I need more and you will help me.”
He didn’t expect her to use his name—or his Sioux name for that matter—but Raymond guessed it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t a tracker anymore; Day was more on his own now than ever before, he never really felt tied to either side of his family – Navajo or otherwise. Shoot, the only reason why he even bothered calling out to Mahochepi was because he didn’t want to die.
Things were always complicated for him; even though he was half-white, the people that hired him to act as a guide for Bosque Redondo didn’t know that, nor did they care. No matter how much money the US government had, they still needed someone to do their dirty work for them. Before him, they hired his father. Before his father, Raymond Day, Sr., they had hired someone else.
Already, his body began to show signs of decay, even though it had only been two years since his body was infected with something he could not fight on his own. Like a wounded bear, he had hiked deep into the forest to perform the rites.
When he called her, Mahochepi came to him through a dream, and told him that she needed to work more magic to restore his flesh. If he served her well, his body would be restored—as much as it could be, for he was going to die…eventually.
Time fought against them both, so he partially resurrected her from the tin “keepsake” his father had given him. Mahochepi gave him the illusion of life, blinding others to the truth, yet even the Queen had some limitations. Eventually, Day’s mind would go, and he’d join the mindless servants scraping against their dirt tombs, calling out for Mahochepi in places no human has traveled to for hundreds of years or more.
Maho jutted her chin forward and opened her thin lips, breaking his silence. “I still can’t…remember.”
Day allowed himself a smile; he knew his teeth were rotting, his eyes were turning yellow, and his hair lacked the luster it used to have—-but he didn’t care. No sacrifice was too great to right the wrongs and angry hearts of a hundred thousand voices, just like his father wanted. Day was extremely fortunate the goddess couldn’t piece together her own memories; he knew who betrayed her all those years ago. He knew all too well.
“I am at your command, my Queen.”
Maho turned slowly to him, her raven-black hair floating around her like feathers on the wind. “And if I commanded you to get down on your knees? What then, slave?”
“You need me to…exist.” he whispered, careful not to betray his true feelings. “Don’t you?”
Smiling, the wisdom of a thousand years betrayed Mahochepi’s innocence. “Yes, you’re right. I do need you.”
Day shrugged his shoulders with relief, a decidedly human gesture leftover from when he could breathe and smell and sleep.
“I remember.”
Visit Monica Valentinelli’s website www.mlvwrites.com for information on her writing and other projects.
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Topics: Fiction |
February 13th, 2008 at 9:09 pm
A great short story.
Thanks for sharing it.
February 17th, 2008 at 7:09 pm
Nice. Any possibility of a story featuring Day?
February 18th, 2008 at 6:31 am
Hmmm…potentially. Would have to figure out the best “time” to write a story about him; too long after this and he’s reduced to brrrrrrraaaaaaiiiiinnnnnnssssss.
February 18th, 2008 at 1:34 pm
[…] human history to explore “real-life” events, (like this short story I wrote, a “Queen of Crows” zombie fiction piece inspired by the tragic events of Bosque Redondo in the 1800s. For some of us, it may not be […]
February 22nd, 2008 at 2:44 pm
Great story! I love the Native American slant, being part myself. Your writing style is really awesome. Keep them coming!