In Geronimo's Footsteps: A Journey Beyond Legend
312
In Geronimo's Footsteps: A Journey Beyond Legend
312Hardcover
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Overview
Told in the alternating voices of its authors, In Geronimo's Footsteps is the record of that journey. At its core is an account of Geronimo's life, from his earliest days in a Chiricahua Apache family and his path as a warrior and chief to his surrender and the years spent in exile until his death, at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. Recounted by his great-grandson, his story is steeped in family history and Apache lore to create a portrait of a leader intent on defending his people and their land and traditions—a mission that Harlyn continues, even as he campaigns to recover his ancestor's bones from the U.S. government. Completing Corine's circle, the book also explores the links, genetic and possibly cultural, between the Apache and the people of Mongolia.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781611458961 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Arcade |
| Publication date: | 11/11/2014 |
| Pages: | 312 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.10(h) x 1.20(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
In Geronimo's Footsteps
A Journey Beyond Legend
By Corine Sombrun, Harlyn Geronimo, E. C. Belli
Arcade Publishing
Copyright © 2014 Corine Sombrun and Harlyn GeronimoAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-61145-896-1
CHAPTER 1
The car's in drive. Accelerate and brake is all you have to do in these automatic-shift cars, unlike in France. I yawn. Not, as we say in French, aux corneilles—"at the crows." There are none here, only eagles scratching the sky with their beaks. One etches a furrow around the sun. I wish he'd take me in his claws so I could explore the sky with him. The landscape is far too dull in this place. Outside of El Paso, I passed through fields of houses that stretched for miles, planted in the middle of the desert and lining the roads in a perfect grid pattern. I felt like I was moving through an electronic circuit. Like I was nowhere. Nowhere. And the worst came right after that: the gray cube. First it was small, far off under the deep blue sky, lost between the rocks, the cacti with their long white feather dusters, and the ochre land, but then the cube slowly grew on the horizon, nestled comfortably in the loneliest place you could imagine. It turned into a huge building surrounded by multiple layers of barbed wire.
When I realized it was a high-security prison, I looked away and muttered a quick Shit as you would if your eye involuntarily caught sight of something shocking. I counted the cacti, the rocks, the shrubs, the busted tires scattered like black carcasses along the road that was utterly straight and monotonous, without a turn or curve, without anything soft about it. But I couldn't stop thinking about those hallways of death. The electric chair. The terror just before it. Humans are more barbaric than this so-called inhuman desert. I turn the AC to max. The freezing air strokes my face. I think about Harlyn, about the Apaches. They too had to suffer under the law of the strongest. I wonder, does the reservation where they were stuck look like this desert?
I didn't dare ask Harlyn what type of dwelling he lives in. Certainly not a tipi. I reached a home phone—perhaps a trailer? I saw a whole bunch of them outside El Paso. More boxes, but this time made out of cardboard and with wheels. Unsightly, and I bet without AC. Summer is probably scorching hot. And to think I brought sweaters and my down sleeping bag. Between minus forty Celsius in Mongolia and this BBQ pit here, I seem to have a knack for turning up shamans in the most extreme places. Anyway, you're a lot better off than the residents of the gray cube over there behind the barbed wire, just a few miles away. A road sign blinks to my right: SPEED LIMIT 70 MPH. What's the equivalent in kilometers per hour? No idea, and no intention of doing the conversion. A glance at the speedometer: 80 mph. You end up speeding without even realizing it on these infinitely straight roads. Instantly, I lift my right foot. I really have no desire for a run-in with the police in this country. The sun beats down on the red hood of the car. Not a cloud in the sky. And the water on the asphalt in the distance playfully disappears when I draw closer. A mirage. The only possible game in this enormous valley of quivering heat.
I turn my head to check that my blue water bottle is still next to me. It is. Without letting go of the steering wheel, I grab it and place it between my thighs to unscrew the lid. One gulp. This, water, is the only way to catch you here. I'm suddenly jolted by a honk. Quick glance at the rearview mirror. A huge truck is behind me. A red cabin with silver exhaust pipes, and my car is reflected in it because it's so polished. Why is he honking? I check my speedometer. 70 mph, exactly. Well, you can just pass me if you want to go faster! No way I'm accelerating. I move over a bit to the right and let him pass. He draws closer. His great shadow swallows a little bit of my car. The cabin is now at my level. I keep my eyes on the road ahead of me. I don't feel like staring into the driver's angry face. There. The monster has pulled past me. I get to stare at its rear end now. With a great big sticker in the shape of a ribbon with the colors of the American flag. I squint to read the words: SUPPORT OUR TROOPS. I remember this country is at war. You wouldn't know it, sitting here. No gunshots, no fighting. I was reminded of it briefly at the Atlanta airport when I heard some applause in a hall. Some people were holding up banners: WELCOME TO OUR HEROES. The heroes were coming off the plane in their camouflage uniforms and matching backpacks, with combat boots on their feet and big smiles. Two of them walked past me. I was able to notice that the patterns on their uniforms were pixilated. Thousands of little green and beige squares coming together to create that look. Probably to enhance its effect from a distance? I put my bottle of water back on the seat.
All good in the rearview mirror now? No. Maybe? A gray cylinder seems to have dropped from the sky back there, on the horizon. I turn my head to see. It looks like a dusty tornado. I slow down, pull onto the shoulder, and open the window. The heat tumbles in. Yep, it's a big dust devil. I see it move forward, turn, twist. Is it as far away as it looks? Hard to say in this great expanse. It looks small from here. I hope it doesn't land near me. What do you do in that case? First things first, avoid being in one.
I start the car again. Maybe that's why the truck was in a hurry? He was probably honking to warn me to get out of there. I accelerate. Surely you can break the speed limit in case of a dust storm. 80 mph, 85, 90. That's what I'll tell the cop who pulls me over. Is it coming this way or not? Quick glance in the rearview. Still just as small. Okay. I lift my foot off the gas pedal. 85, 80, 70 mph. The landscape slows down with me. Cacti, stones, brush, stones, ochre earth ...
The clock in the display shows 2:30 PM. If the dust devil stays where it is and my best guess is correct, the Mescalero Apache Indian Reservation shouldn't be more than two hours away. Harlyn told me the Apaches are spread out across different reservations throughout the Southwest. Two here in New Mexico, two in Arizona, and one in Oklahoma. There are apparently approximately fifty thousand Apaches. I don't know if I'll be staying with him, but he told me to call when I get there. Anyway, I have my camping gear with me. Tent, headlamp, electric flashlight, Swiss Army knife (the big multi-tool model), two survival blankets, dried apricots, vitamins. In Mongolia, at Enkhtuya's, there was only dried meat and flour to live on, so now I come prepared.
I also brought a bottle of wine for Harlyn from the Graves region of Bordeaux. He's probably never tasted wine before. Enkhtuya made a face the first time she tried it. The second and third times too. She prefers vodka. I hope I didn't forget my two plastic jerry cans. No, I remember putting them in. They're convenient, since they're collapsible. They can be completely flattened to fit into your suitcase and then unfold in the form of a water bag when you fill them. I use them a lot in Mongolia, since there's no water except for the river or lake where we make camp for the reindeer and yaks to graze nearby. They're sure to be useful on the reservation. I hope at least there's a watering place not too far from Harlyn's. It probably only rains once every three years in that desert, and you can bet I've picked a drought year. Enkhtuya taught me a ritual to find water underground but none to make it fall from the sky. That, she simply can't do. And she doesn't need to anyway, since it rains where she lives. I've noticed, after spending so many years in the company of shamans, that each people tends to develop the rituals most useful to them.
And, to a certain extent, that's what shamanism is. A collection of recipes for surviving in a hostile environment. A trick to reassure humans by giving them the illusion they control whatever might fall into their hands and on their heads. Psychologists call it the illusion of control mechanism. I'm guessing that the Apaches must have come up with a ritual that makes the rain come, since there is none. I mustn't forget to ask Harlyn about it.
A first house, then a second. Ah! A lot filled with school buses to my left. There must be at least a hundred of them, all yellow and black, parked next to each other. Maybe a school bus cemetery. And here's a gas station. Quick look at the gas gauge. Half full. All good. Ah! An intersection. The first in three hours. I hope I don't have to go straight. Turning the steering wheel might finally wake up my arms. I look at the signs. Albuquerque, Alamogordo ... Tularosa, to the left! I make the turn. And see another endless straight line. Oh well. At least the landscape has changed. Gas stations alternate with lots of car carcasses, wooden houses without fences, and now a large sign advertising pistachios for sale. Another similar sign on my right. This time around I put on my blinker and give a quick glance in the rearview. Only out of instinct, since the only car I've encountered since the red truck was a pick-up with a guy sleeping in the back under his sombrero, arms crossed.
I pull onto a road leading to a parking lot with a building in the middle. The store, apparently. I park the car, open my door. The heat is oppressive. Breathing the scalding air, I feel like I'm some sort of frozen good being shoved into an oven. It's uncomfortable. I shake my numb legs, stretch my back. There are fields of trees behind the building. They look like fruit trees, of average height, with pretty green leaves. I'll take a look. The sun is beating down on my skull. I create some shade by holding a hand just above my head. The hand heats up immediately. I come to a white wooden fence. Here are the trees. Clusters seem to be hanging from the large oval leaves. I climb over the fence and go closer. These are indeed pistachios in their green velvet shells. I touch them. They're soft. But it's no time to linger; the sun is beating down too hard. Immediate return to my icebox. And to think I brought sweaters with me but not a single hat. I considered it, but they make me look like a turtle. Ludicrous. If I can find a store in this hole, I'll buy a cowboy hat.
The road has been climbing for about a half hour. Now it's winding through big hills covered in pine trees. I haven't found a single place to buy a hat, only some antique stores. I wonder what they could possibly sell in there, but the heat prevailed over my curiosity and I didn't stop. There's a bit more traffic here. I passed a few pick-ups and a white truck that said WAL-MART. And look, among the pines I see some firs! Or larches, I can never tell. If only Harlyn lived nearby. My gaze lingers on some paint along the road. Graffiti? I crack the window and stick my nose out. It's much cooler here. Yep, it's graffiti on a wall. I slow down when I come to it. There's a big Indian figure painted in black on a white background. Three feathers extend from his headdress. There's also a moon painted in a black sky and tipis, conifers. It looks like my wish is coming true. I'm entering Indian territory.
I turn off the AC and keep the window down. The smell of pines fills my nostrils. Deep breath in. Eyes closed. Eyes open again. Just in time to see the sign: Welcome to Mescalero.
A tingling feeling of joy fills me. I'm here! Harlyn told me to keep going until the RUIDOSO sign and then stop to call him. Where is my phone? Do I have his number? Yes. Okay. In my contacts. I was right about the sweaters, it turns out. A tipi! There, to the right, in a clearing in the middle of the forest. And horses grazing next to houses made of wood and painted almond green. So pretty. Maybe Harlyn doesn't live in a trailer after all? The four-lane road crosses a field of mauve thistles. Still no sign of Ruidoso. Maybe I missed an intersection? Some big 4 x 4s are passing me. I notice another sign, APACHE FRY BREAD, in front of a wooden cabin. Fried bread? I switch on my blinker and pull into the parking lot. Maybe someone will be able to give me directions. I enter the sky-blue building, a kind of grocery store with dream catchers and photos of Indians on the walls. An obese lady with long brown hair, wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt, appears behind the counter. She asks me with a smile if she can help me. I look at her, moved.
"Are you Apache?"
She laughs.
"Of course! You know, you're going to see a lot of us around here."
I apologize and explain that I live in France. She doesn't really seem to know where that country is but welcomes me anyway.
"Why have you come here?"
"I'm here to see Harlyn Geronimo. Do you know him?"
She thinks.
"No."
Her answer is a little disappointing. I'd imagined him to be some sort of celebrity here. Apparently not.
"Are you going to be staying with us for long?"
"A month."
She raises her eyebrows.
"A month? In Mescalero?"
She seems quite surprised. But I refrain from asking why. I don't really want to know. Anyway, she continues:
"Do you want to taste our specialty?"
She shows me a large platter filled with a kind of donut.
"Is that fry bread?"
"Yes. We fry the bread in a big pan. How many would you like?"
A quick glance to estimate. Each piece is the size of a plate.
"Um ... one will be fine, thanks."
She gives me the once-over from head to toe, kind of like, One of these donuts is not going to fill out those curves, Missy. But she doesn't put any words to her thoughts. She simply points at the walls of the store.
"I also sell dream catchers. The net in the center of the circle catches the bad dreams and lets only the good ones through. Do you have those in your country?"
"No, we have sleeping pills."
Shrug.
"We do too, but I prefer dream catchers. Do you want one?"
"I don't have nightmares."
"It's a nightmare here, you'll see."
How should I interpret that statement? As a threat? A warning?
Or simply a gloomy statement of fact? Again, I'm not going to dwell on it.
"Okay! I'll take one."
She asks me to take it down, since moving around is hard for her. I choose a purple one, about four inches in diameter and with three leather strips decorated with feathers and beads, and lay it out on the counter. A smile finally returns to her tanned face, and she points to a glass case on her right.
"I also sell Apache crafts. Necklaces, bracelets, and belts decorated with beads."
I go over to it, hoping she won't make me buy her entire stock before letting me leave, but what I see is very beautiful. I even spot a large belt with red and blue geometric motifs and two leather straps instead of a buckle. I love it. I ask the price. She takes the belt out of the glass case, turns over the price tag.
"Sixty-six dollars."
I grimace and apologize. A bit too expensive for me. She seems a little sad but doesn't insist. I take a last look at the belt, uncertain for a moment. Should I get it? No! my reason replies. Okay. I pay sixteen dollars for the rest.
"Am I on the road to Ruidoso?"
"Yes, straight ahead."
She wishes me good luck and a nice stay among the Apaches. I thank her and leave, holding my fry bread with my fingertips.
About a quarter of the fry bread later, I feel like I've swallowed a stone. How could you possibly eat more than one of these? I gently lay the bread back down on its wrapper and attempt to wipe off my greasy fingers. It was a good idea to bring the dried apricots. Still no Ruidoso. But more and more fir trees along the road. The air is actually cool now. It feels like the Vosges region in France with these pines among the fir trees. I've really been unfair to the Americans. This reservation seems pleasant, and my stay might even end up feeling like a fitness vacation. Ah! There's an enormous billboard in the shape of a lollipop up ahead. It's blinking. An ad? I get closer. My eyes widen as I come to a digital screen that's at least twenty feet high and reads: At Casino Apache ... Cash back for slots ... Table Games ... Play ..." I close my eyes and open them again. Big jackpot today! No, I'm not dreaming. All of the day's games and possible winnings are even listed.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from In Geronimo's Footsteps by Corine Sombrun, Harlyn Geronimo, E. C. Belli. Copyright © 2014 Corine Sombrun and Harlyn Geronimo. Excerpted by permission of Arcade Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Introduction xi
The Quarrel between the Wind and the Thunder: An Apache Tale 1
Prologue 3
In the beginning there lived the Creator 9
In the Beginning 11
1 13
A long time ago, long before white men existed 28
The Day You Were Born 29
2 36
In those days, a very long time ago, the Indians lived in poverty 54
The Good Days 55
3 60
Then Child of the Water and Giant quarreled 14
Apprentice Warrior 75
4 80
A long time ago, there was no fire 107
The Fourth Day 108
5 115
In those days, there were only arrows 130
The Path of War 132
6 143
"The only good Indians I ever saw were dead." 156
A Renegade 157
7 164
We Chiricahuas are not ashamed that you made slaves of us 171
The San Carlos Reservation 172
8 177
"Once I moved about like the wind. Now I surrender to you and that is all." 184
Your Last Day of Freedom 185
9 191
Long ago, we lacked even fire, so they say 198
The Hunt 200
10 203
Song for the Puberty Rite 214
The Puberty Rite 215
11 224
It is my land, my home 239
Your Last Journey 240
12 246
We must never consider ourselves apart 259
Epilogue 261
Afterword Ramsey Clark 279