The Language of Truth

In 1769, the arrival of two Spanish ships in Alta California coincided with a total eclipse of the sun, in conjunction with the shock of a powerful earthquake. "So it seemed," wrote Junipero Serra in his diary, "that the insensible things of earth and heaven had in this way manifested themselves in the new conquests as heralds and advents to the benighted gentiles, to incline their hearts to receive the truths of the gospel, proclaimed by the ministers of the living God."

The giant snakes stirred inside earth, struck

a few hours after dawn.  Thrown down

on our faces, we cried out – rocks thrust

upward, a fearsome roar rattled our ears –

how our Mother writhes! Then Sun, source

of life, disappeared mid-day, covered

by Moon’s broad face; star-beings shown

like abalone shell in sudden night.

Our star-mapmaker offered fervent prayer

to each sovereign direction, brought light

creeping back, though it felt a lifetime

till we breathed balance again.

We were wary, therefore, when a ship –

bigger than a whale – came over the horizon,

and men, more corpses than living bodies,

crawled from floating grave to shore.  Pale

skins, hairy faces, blue-eyed, green-eyed,

brown-eyed, they died and died. The sands

where their white tents stood stank of death.

Did they not know how to catch fish?

Did they not know to seek out berries,

heavy on the bush?  Did they offend

their gods, or travel beyond the reach

of their gods?

Another ship arrived, pale but abler men

who buried and buried; then men on foot,

strange gray deer bearing burdens of food

and hard heavy tools smooth as stone, sharp

as our best obsidian. When the beasts lay down,

too exhausted to carry any more, the pale men

beat them. It did not make the animals rise. 

In the morning, some men raised up barren

prayer trees; others in long skirts chanted

ugly foreign words, hands waving bowls

of smoke, meaningless gestures in the air. 

Was it the end of the world?  Now,

I wonder we did not hear these warnings

more clearly. Some of us broke traditions

of welcome; the law of sharing food, shelter,

story. Where once we would have brought

baskets of meat and sweet dried cherries,

now we drove off the pale men, their strange

stupid animals not-deer, not-elk.  Vacas.

We drove them all to the north. Some of us

said that was not far enough. Now,

I do not think any distance could spare us

the evil that followed. Earth spoke to us!

Sun and moon warned us!  We did not heed.

Now, we die of disease in their missions,

our blistered bodies weeping pus; women

and children mere vessels of rape and rage.

Perhaps the pale men killed their all wives;

none came with them.  Perhaps their women

revolted, exiled the pale men here,

and somewhere, on an island across the sea,

those wise women live peaceful, free.

We cannot see the sun of our next

generation. We cannot feel the earth

of our Ancestors beneath our bloody bodies.

We did not listen well enough. At night,

or behind trees in daytime, in fields

of strange crops, beneath blows from leather

cat o’ nine tails, we pray: let enough of us

live to tell this story. We will memorize it

in our hearts, trembling in awe. Let us live;

we will teach it to our children forever.

If we live, we will heed our Mother's

thunderous voice: Her dark language never lies.

- Deborah A. Miranda