Stone Song (4 page)

Bear-Scattering’s male relatives answered that Bear-Scattering had been trying to make peace. That was why he was out in front, why he got shot.

But the women knew they were going to be kicked out of their own circle of lodges now.

Some people wanted to go back to Fort Laramie. Curly had heard the conversation a dozen times in a dozen forms:

“We’ve been around there for twenty winters.”

“Sure, and it was trouble from the start.”

“We need to trade.”

“Blankets, pots.”

“Guns, powder, and ball.”

“Cloth and awls.” No one said so, but some women would hardly be able to sew with bone awls anymore.

“Whiskey,” said the opposition.

“Bull Bear.” The head of all the Oglala had been killed in a drunken fight. Oglala killing each other, a terrible business. Most said that the one who shot him was Red Cloud, Mahpiya Luta, and that the old Bad Face chief Smoke was behind it. Regardless, Oglala killing the Oglala leader—many people still resented and distrusted the Bad Faces because of it.

“Maybe now the
akicita
will come back.” The warrior societies.

“All the old ways.”

“And we can fight again against the Psatoka,” Crow enemies.

In the twenty winters the old ways had weakened. Ceremonies seemed half-hearted. Because the people had made an absurd bargain with the
wasicu
not to fight the Psatoka or the Susuni or anyone else, the
akicita
had lost members.

“
A-i-i-i
. How can a man make his way now?” Without combat as a field, a man would have no way to gain honors. A leader would have no way to harden and temper. The tribe would have no way to discover which men had strength of spirit.

The people who wanted to revive the old ways even said the bands should go far away from the Holy Road, to the old hunting grounds, and stay there. “Out of reach of the soldiers,” they added ominously.

Curly brought himself back to now. Here was grief. Weeping, the women of Bear-Scattering’s family packed their belongings in silence. When Bear-Scattering died, they would strike their lodges and go to the Oglala. It was terrible, the animosity of your neighbors in your time of heartache.

“Let’s go help Black Twin,” said Buffalo Hump.

Curly was sitting out along Snake Creek alone, worrying. He was pretending to straighten a shaft for an arrow. Work like that kept Hawk quiet and let Curly think. But actually he was worrying about Wakinyan Tanka, the fact that he’d dreamed of thunder and was too scared to say anything about it. He’d rubbed dust on his face and his clothes this morning, the way a
wakinyan
dreamer did to make himself look poor. Curly wondered if anyone would notice.

“Up!” said Hump. “Go!”

Hump was always full of enthusiasm. He also didn’t mind those Bad Face youths. For some reason that band had a group of ambitious young men—glory hunters, Tasunke Witko called them—youths in their mid- and late teens who considered themselves destined to be leaders. Curly avoided them, all except He Dog, whom he liked. He Dog lived with Curly’s band so much he seemed like a Hunkpatila anyway.

The truth was, Curly felt rivalry with the Bad Face youths. He thought they would compete with him for every honor, deprecate his achievements, and try to hold him back. Now that he’d seen Lakota hands hindering him in his vision, he suspected that the hands belonged to these Bad Face young men, Black Twin, White Twin, their brother No Water, and the brothers Pretty Fellow and Standing Bear, sons of Chief Bad Face.

Hump hoisted Curly up by the armpits and got him going. They walked from the circle of the Hunkpatila to the circle of the Bad Faces, stepping around and through the bustling life of the village, small children and dogs underfoot, women working and calling to each other and yelling at the children, a benign pandemonium. Here was a woman scraping a buffalo hide stretched on a pole frame. There Bad Heart Bull painting an elk hide. Here a grandmother forcing an awl through thick buffalo hide to make winter moccasins. There a man lashing a stone point to a spearhead with sinew and glue. Here a girl whipping a cur away from the stew pot. There two women building a low, smoky fire under a high rack loaded with raw meat to be jerked.

Curly liked the smells of a village, the odor of wood smoke and lodge covers of buffalo skin, the pungency of green hides being scraped, de-haired, or tanned, the aromas of food being butchered and prepared, the strong scent of blood being let. Even the excrement smells of the dogs
and horses and people were part of it, and as long as you didn’t camp too long in one place, not rank. He had never been more surprised than when a trader out of Laramie told him the worst thing about an Indian village was the stink. To Curly what stank was Laramie, with its outhouses.

He Dog stood next to the others, a thick, chunky fellow smiling at Curly. Tall and imposing, Black Twin held a piece of rawhide shaped for a shield and waited with a glower. Hump wouldn’t mind. Hump kept himself genial toward everyone. He was tall, good-looking, somehow glorious—everyone liked Hump.

“Why did you bring him?” said Pretty Fellow teasingly, inclining his head at Curly. “He can’t make anything beautiful.”

The young men all chuckled, but Hump said gruffly, “Enough.”

Though Curly had not heard any report, what was happening was obvious. Black Twin had seen beyond. Now he had made a shield and wanted to paint it with a picture he’d seen in his vision. Hump was good with paints and would mix fine, bright colors easy to apply to the rawhide.

Curly felt a pang. The Bad Face youths who had seen beyond hadn’t sneaked away to do it and so could proclaim it. Black Twin would be honored now, an honor Curly deserved but couldn’t claim. The twins were a couple of winters older than Curly, but still…

Hawk was quiet.

Hump set a hide on the ground and unfolded it. Pretty Fellow crowded close to watch—he liked to wear good-looking clothes and make handsomely decorated weapons and ceremonial objects. The
wasicu
at Laramie were always telling him how handsome he looked all decked out. They also treated him as important, the son of a chief. Pretty Fellow was one who probably would not want to leave the fort permanently for the old hunting grounds.

In the bundle Hump had red, ocher, and white clay and bitterbrush, lichens, raspberries, and blueberries to make other shades. Plus fat to mix the pigments with, forming thick liquids you could brush on with the softened and pounded tip of a bird’s wing bone.

“There’s a trick to getting colors to take to rawhide right,” said Hump, and began to show them. All the young men watched keenly, except Curly. He was only half-interested. He had seen no shield in his vision. One day he would be painting black slashes of lightning and blue spots of hail on his face and body, but not yet. To do that would be to admit he was a
wakinyan
dreamer.

The young men were busy mixing paints under Hump’s instruction.

“Brother,” said Hump enthusiastically to Curly, “try it.”

Curly took some blueberries and fat and pretended to work. This would make the color of his hail spots one day. He didn’t want to think about it now. He was scared.

Lightning and thunder—called lightning-gives-birth-to-sound—were dangerous. If you dreamed of
wakinyan
, its power was in you. In ordinary life it was two-faced: It brought the rain, yes, but it struck people and killed them. In the life of a
wakinyan
dreamer, it could likewise be grandly benevolent and madly destructive. Dreaming of
wakinyan
was riding the whirlwind.

Curly remembered scrupulously what he saw:

Behind Rider a thunderstorm erupted. Dark clouds roiled, lightning flashed and gave birth to sound. A zigzag of lightning rose on Rider’s cheek like a wound. Hail spots welted his body.

Curly knew what a
wakinyan
dreamer had to do. He had to tame the terrible power a little. He had to make offerings to the Wakinyan, to win their benevolence.

That would require him to give a
heyoka
ceremony, at least. It might require something more. The Wakinyan could make a demand of you, and you had to carry it out. It could even be that you killed someone. It could even be that you were
heyoka
and did things backward your whole life.

Curly would hate that.

On the other hand, you got power. Sometimes a
wakinyan
dreamer could make an approaching storm split in half and go right around a village, leaving it dry and peaceful in the midst of a storm.

Black Twin said coolly, “Hey, friend, are you going to make that blue or not?”

Curly looked at him. Both the twins were quick to see insult in whatever Curly did. Sensitive about being shunned as Bad Faces, they took offense at everything.

“He doesn’t want to learn to mix paints,” said Pretty Fellow. The handsome youth sang lightly:

“
Our cousin is poor, terribly poor
.

He dresses so plain, the same as naked
.

He doesn’t love beauty
—

He has nothing, owns nothing
,

He makes nothing beautiful
.”

Curly turned his back to the teasing, but he still heard the snickers. Hump always said they were just chuckles, but Curly heard snickers.

It was worse now. He had dreamed of Wakinyan. He had to dress shabbily, he had to diminish his body, play down his appearance.

Hawk was kneading Curly’s heart with her claws.

Curly backed off and watched. His mind was far away. His watchfulness was on Hawk, who was calming down.

He asked himself,
So why don’t you set down your burden? Tell your father about your vision. Then tell the dream interpreters he sends you to. Then you’ll be ragged-looking, but people will respect it
.

Because I wouldn’t throw my vision in the dirt before these idiots
, Curly told himself.

The youths burst into laughter at something Hump said.

No, that wasn’t right. Curly wasn’t mad enough to lie to himself.

Because my father gave me a tongue-lashing I didn’t deserve
.

You can do better than that
.

Because I was an idiot and went unprepared
.

Closer, but only half-true
.

Because I’ve never felt close to my father
.

That’s part of it
.

Because I am ashamed
.

You’re stalling
.

Because the dream is too big for me. It will overwhelm me
.

That’s pretty close. You know, since you won’t hold a
heyoka
ceremony, the Wakinyan may kill you
.

Hawk prodded at his heart with her claws.

Cries, women’s cries. All the young men looked toward the far end of the Sicangu lodge circle, their work limp in their hands. Women were running around like foolish prairie hens. Their wails intensified. Bear-Scattering’s women.

So the chief was gone. The smell of his dying came back to Curly’s nose. Rottenness, foulness. He felt himself quiver a little.

All the young men stood there, helpless, foolish.

Now they would put the one who was a chief on a scaffold for his journey to the northern land beyond the pines. Women would chop off their hair. His wives might hack off fingers or slash their arms in grief. They would keep his spirit in a special lodge for a year and then release it.

Yes, Curly would rather die than tell his dream.

His own death stank in his nostrils.

“Unci,” he began.

He sat on her robes in front of his grandmother and looked into her eyes, blank and indifferent. Then he launched forth, pushing a canoe into an unknown river, the roar of rapids audible.

“I have seen beyond.” He waited, he didn’t know why. “I have seen beyond.” Maybe the lightning would strike him dead. Hadn’t he seen the lightning power? He felt his stomach lurch. Forward into the rapids now.

“Unci, I saw and heard
wakinyan
.” He let the memory come and the terror of these awful powers of the west. “Lightning and thunder. But I am not to be a contrary, Unci. No, a warrior.” He held this thought still for a moment. He was afraid. Lightning and thunder—what did it mean? He didn’t want to spend his life as a clown made sacred by a
wakinyan
vision.

He fumbled his way forward. “I saw myself as a warrior riding into battle. I appeared to be at the height of my powers. What was strange, Unci,” and the word “strange” chilled him, “was that I, he, wore almost no adornment. One eagle feather, a few beads, nothing more. No scalps. No paint to show my deeds. Like a man who had done nothing. Or never revealed what he’d done.”

He hesitated and then blurted it out. “Except hail spots on my face.” The fearful powers of the west again.

He had decided before he started not to mention the two Inyan creatures. You always kept something back for yourself alone.

“I had a great power, Unci,” he said in a whisper. “Bullets and arrows couldn’t hurt me. I rode in front, and they didn’t touch me.” He was awed by this. “But my own people’s hands grabbed at me from behind, and I was afraid of them.”

Suddenly panic hit him. He looked hard into his grandmother’s eyes in the half-light of the tipi. Did she understand? Maybe she would walk around the village telling everyone at the top of her voice. Maybe she would say for everyone to stay away from the one who might bring
wakinyan
down on the village.

Her face was unmoving, stonelike.

But this was a botched job, a bad idea. He couldn’t tell what he had seen beyond, not really, not yet, not… He wanted to be finished, done, outside, out in the sunlight. He jumped to his feet.

He made himself stop. He touched his grandmother’s arm. “Thank you, Unci,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

He took a tone that set aside the bantering, the comradeship, the fun. He needed Hump to take him completely seriously. “
Kola
,” he said, “listen to me. I want you to teach me to be a warrior.”