Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction) (23 page)

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Authors: James Welch

BOOK: Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)
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“That is a good sign, but we must not hope too much.” Mik-api entered the lodge. “There is poison in him yet.”
“Do you think he can drink? I’ll bring some broth—”
“Not this one. We had better starve him today.” Mik-api smiled wearily. “But you can bring me some.”
As Fools Crow walked away from the lodge he heard the rattle begin. He was halfway to his own lodge before he realized that he was walking through snow up to his ankles. He looked up to the sky and saw that the clouds had white edges to them with jagged patches of blue between. He breathed sharply through his mouth and a puff of steam curled out. He was very hungry.
On the third morning after his return to camp, Fast Horse woke up and saw his father looking down at him. The lodge was bright and warm, and Fast Horse knew he had been here before. He smelled smoke and robes and broth and they were familiar, like the face. He recognized the firm chin, the wide cheekbones, the thin mouth. He knew the brass and feather earring, the braids wrapped in weasel skins. He even knew the way his father sometimes cleared his much-broken nose by puffing bursts of air through it. It was when he looked into the eyes that he grew uncertain of himself. Had he ever seen those eyes before?

 

“You have been gone a long time,” said Boss Ribs.
Fast Horse didn’t know if he meant his spirit or his body. He had been gone a long time in both.
“I have prayed for you.”
Since his return or since he left? Or before both? Had his father always known he would turn out like this?
“Last night I brought in the Beaver Medicine. When you are well, I hope you will assist me.”
But why? Didn’t his father know he no longer believed in the Beaver Medicine or in anything Pikuni? He had been to the whiskey forts and he had lain with a girl with yellow hair, with skin as white as snow. He had killed three Napikwans and stolen their yellow dust.
“Mik-api healed you with his magic. He drove the evil spirit from your body and made you whole again. Your friend, Fools Crow—you knew him as White Man’s Dog—helped Mik-api.”
Now Fast Horse recognized those eyes, the pain in them. He had seen it when his mother died and when his near-mother died, then that winter when three of Fast Horse’s brothers and sisters died of the coughing sickness. It was a young, almost frightened look in the eyes that contrasted sharply with the tough wrinkled face.
“I know you have been sick in the spirit for some time, my son. I noticed it but I said nothing, hoping I was wrong. This sickness came out on your raid on the Crow horses. It has persisted since then. It has made you choose bad companions and do bad things with them. And now it has almost cost you your life.”
Fools Crow must have told him it was a Napikwan that shot me, thought Fast Horse. Did he tell him how it happened? Did I tell Fools Crow how it happened?
“But I think this sickness was in you before, much before the raid. I saw a change in you and, although I didn’t care for it, I thought it was natural. Boys change when they are on the edge of manhood. I thought your loud boastfulness was a way of declaring yourself. I thought your cruelty to the other youths was a way of establishing your place among them. I thought when you had seen a little more of life you would outgrow these bad traits, you would become a man among his brothers. This is how we Pikunis live. We help each other, we depend on each other, we fight and die beside each other. There is no room for the man who despises his fellows.”
Fast Horse turned away. He could not look any longer into those eyes.
“I am afraid you have become such a one. The sickness has made you look down on your own people. You no longer follow their ways. You ignore their most sacred traditions. And yet, Mik-api, through his Pikuni medicine, has healed your body. The medicine, whether you believe in it or not, still works on you.”
Fast Horse remembered nothing of the healing ceremony—only waking up in the morning and seeing Mik-api, head bent, pounding monotonously on his small drum. Later, he saw Fools Crow looking down at him.
“Mik-api healed your body but not your spirit. The sickness is too deep within you for such a simple ceremony.” Boss Ribs smiled, and it was a sad but hopeful smile. The young, frightened look had gone out of his eyes. “That is why I want you to assist me in opening the Beaver bundle. There is great power in that bundle. We will open it, and I will teach you its ways. There are four hundred songs that you will have to learn. There are stories and proper ways of acting them out. I do not expect you to learn it all at once, but the power of the bundle will heal your spirit. Once again, you will join your people. Ok-yi, son, welcome.”
Fast Horse closed his eyes and thought of that time, when he was five or six winters, that the real-bear killed his mother. She was picking berries with some other women. He stood at the edge of the thicket and watched the almost serpentine slide of speed as the real-bear came out of nowhere to knock his mother down, shake her until her body was as limp as her skin dress, then drag her off. It happened so fast that for years all he could remember was his mother’s slender neck in those slavering jaws. But now the whole scene came to him, and if he could have cried, if he had any tears left in him, he would have. He was too tired. He wanted nothing more than to roll over and sleep in peace. The sound of his father praying kept him in the lodge.

 

Red Paint had fleshed and scraped the blackhorn hide and now sat waiting for the stones to heat up. In a pot beside her, she had mixed the grease and brains with which she would begin her tanning. She looked at her hands and was surprised to see how red and rough they had become. They were no longer the hands of a girl. Her knuckles seemed larger and the fingernails had dark crescents of grease beneath them.

 

She sat back and watched Fools Crow and Fast Horse walk down by the river. Fast Horse was healing, but he was gaunt and his walk was fragile. The bulky buffalo coat covered his body from neck to midway down his calves. His head looked small, and his hands pale and narrow. Beside him, in his white red-trimmed capote, Fools Crow gave the appearance of burly health, of color and strength. Although half a head shorter than his companion, his width and low gravity made one think of the real-bear. Even his gait furthered that impression.
Red Paint watched the two friends. As a girl she had had a crush on Fast Horse, as did most of the other girls. He was tall, handsome, haughty and seemingly indifferent to their attentions. For a year she had dreamed of making love with him. And she dreamed of carrying his child, serene amid the jealous stares of her friends. In her dreams their lodge was made of the whitest skins and her dress was covered with elk teeth and ermine tails. He was a great warrior and hunter, and he sighed with pleasure when she braided his hair in the morning. Then they would make more love and have more babies and he would never take another wife. Sometimes, in her dreams, he would die a tragic but good death, and people would point to her, her hair cut off and legs slashed in mourning, and say what a noble woman she was. And every night his spirit would return from the Sand Hills and they would make love and have still more babies.

 

Now Red Paint felt her tummy and thought that the baby was that of Fools Crow, one that none of the girls dreamed about. He was always just the one with Fast Horse. Red Paint remembered being jealous of him.
It was all changed. She was married to Fools Crow and loved him and sought only to be a good wife to him. About Fast Horse, she felt a kind of pity. Since his return, the camp of the Lone Eaters had become divided. Some wanted him turned out as soon as he was well. A few even wanted him killed for his betrayal of Yellow Kidney. But there were many who remained loyal to Boss Ribs and wanted to forgive his son, to welcome him back as they would welcome back one who had been to the whiskey forts and associated with the loose girls and bad Napikwans.

 

Red Paint didn’t know what to think. Her pitiful father still stayed apart from the others of the band. He ate, he slept, he sat in his lodge or wandered by himself on the prairie. Red Paint had been in his lodge, beading with her mother, when they received the news that Fast Horse had returned. She had watched Yellow Kidney’s face, half afraid that he would grab his gun and kill the young man. But he simply sat there as though the words did not enter his ears. He had looked at his mutilated hands as though they did not belong to him. The camp crier had said Fast Horse was wounded and would die before Sun came up. Perhaps that was the only revenge her father needed.
But Fast Horse didn’t die and Red Paint didn’t know what to think. As she watched the two friends down by the river, she couldn’t help feeling that perhaps he should have died to give everyone peace of mind.

 

She looked to the Backbone. The granite faces above the dark forests seemed to watch over the winter camp of the Lone Eaters. Red Paint had enjoyed the summer in the Sweet Grass Hills, but she always felt unprotected away from the Backbone. Now that the big Napikwan had been killed, she could once again think of the mountains as sanctuary. It was good to be back at the winter camp on the Two Medicine River.
Red Paint spread the greasy mixture on the stiffened hide. Then she took one of the warm stones from the edge of the fire and began to scrub the hide with it, working the grease in. The stone felt good to her cold red hands. She was glad that Fast Horse hadn’t died.
17
THE SNOW LAY BLUE AND DEEP on the land in the dark before dawn, and in those places where the Two Medicine slowed and eddied the ice groaned and cracked beneath its weight. The twenty-six lodges of the Lone Eaters stood among the big-leaf trees and willows, quiet as the world around them. Only the smoke arising from each lodge betrayed the life of the people sleeping inside. A sudden hard wind during the night had piled drifts behind the lodges and trees.
One set of tracks blemished the perfect cover. It led away from a large lodge near the center of the camp. On almost any other day the women would have been up, building up the fires, carrying water and wood, moving quietly to and from the river. The men and children would be asleep or awake, reluctant to leave their sleeping robes until the smell of cooking meat became too strong to resist. Then they would dress and walk out beyond the perimeter of the camp to piss, to look about, to think of the day’s activity. Then they would return to the lodges, where the meat and broth would be ladled out and consumed with great appetite, men first. Afterward, a smoke, and then the ceaseless round of visiting. Some of the men would go off hunting, or just exploring, always with their weapons. The women would prepare hides or continue with bead-or quillwork and gossip. The children would throw stones into the river or play with dolls or sleds.

 

But on this day, the day after the first big blizzard of the winter, even the women snuggled deeper into their robes and slept.
Fast Horse laid his saddle and provisions down in the knee-deep snow. He put the saddle blanket on top of the saddle and his gun on top of that.

 

With bridle in hand, he walked among the horses of the vast herd, speaking gently to the skittish ones. A few of the horses had dug away the snow and were feeding on the short grass beneath. Most of them stood, half asleep, rumps to the gentle but cold wind. Fast Horse moved among them, clucking and soothing, until he came to his bay. The horse was not as wary as he would become later in the day. Fast Horse slipped his arm around the bay’s neck, then eased the bit into his mouth. The horse was strong with a straight back, big shoulders and rump. Because the horse had once belonged to a Napikwan, he was used to the bit and did not fight the cold steel. Fast Horse led him through the herd to his possessions.
He felt a twinge of pain as he threw the saddle on the horse’s back, but the wound was almost healed. He had eaten a lot of meat in the past several sleeps since he had decided to live, and although he still walked stiffly, he felt strong enough to leave the camp of the Lone Eaters. This time for good.

 

He had heard from a Grease Melter that Mountain Chief’s people had come down from the country across the Medicine Line and were wintering on the Bear River. Owl Child and the others would probably be with them. Fast Horse missed his friends and the way they moved around the country, acquiring things. Once he had taken three pouches of the yellow dust from a miner on his way to the town at Many-sharp-points-ground. He knew the dust was valuable, but he felt best about making a fool of the digging-man. Owl Child had made him throw away the scalp. If they were ever caught, it could be used against them.
Fast Horse had learned much from Owl Child about the Napikwans and their laws, about the seizers and their movements. Owl Child seemed to have a knack for attacking in one part of the country while the seizers searched for him in another. He knew which settlement was well protected, which wagon train was alert and ready for them. He knew which ranches were vulnerable.

 

Until the last time. Fast Horse tied his bundle onto the back of the saddle, slung his rifle into the scabbard and clambered stiffly aboard the big bay. He skirted the village to the south, staying in the valley just below the swell of the plain. It was light enough to see the lodges clearly, the smoke rising from them. He heard a puppy bark, the sharp
yap
carrying in the wind that blew toward him. There was nothing in camp for him anymore, nothing about the life the Lone Eaters lived that appealed to him. The thought of hunting, of accumulating robes, of the constant search for meat seemed pointless to him. There were easier ways of gaining wealth. Raiding other tribes, stealing their horses, was a waste of time. Just a few Napikwan horses were worth more than whole herds of Snake or Cutthroat animals. As for women, there were enough who hung around the forts. And there was the Napikwan woman with the yellow hair. She had fought good for a while, but after that first night away from her people she had settled down. Fast Horse had never seen a body that white. Even the hair of her sex was light. She was fat and her face was covered with brown spots, but Fast Horse could not forget the yellow kinky hair of her center. He didn’t even mind much that Under Bull had gotten her man’s boots away from him. He had another pair. After the second day they had released the naked woman, but by then she didn’t seem to care where she was or what she was going to do. Fast Horse shifted in the saddle to accommodate his stiffening penis. He would get himself another Napikwan woman, this time one who wasn’t so fat.
The horse walked easily through the powdery snow, and Fast Horse thought again of the Napikwan who had shot him. He had a ranch south of Many Houses fort on the Big River, just above Rocks Ridge Across. Owl Child had scouted the ranch that afternoon, pretending to be lost. He counted sixteen horses. He said the man was alone with his wife and two daughters. That night they made their raid, riding into an ambush. Fast Horse was almost pulled from his horse by the rancher, a large redheaded man, but he managed to kick the man to his knees and ride away. No more than fifty paces from the corral, he heard the bark of a rifle and felt the sharp burn of the shooter in his back. He felt immediately hollow inside and gasped for air. He had cried out with pain and surprise, but after that, when he opened his mouth no sound came out. He rode hard and he heard the volley of shots and he didn’t know what had become of Owl Child and the others.

 

The wound had bled that first night as he rode north and west, but he had wrapped it with strips of torn-up shirt and by morning the bleeding had stopped. He rode for another day and night before he saw Fools Crow. The wound had become a painful tightening in his back, but the cold kept him in and out of consciousness. He knew that the Lone Eaters were hunting near the Sweet Grass Hills, for he had heard them planning during the Sun Dance ceremonies. He knew if he could make it to his father’s lodge, he would live. And he did live. And now he would rejoin Owl Child and go take his revenge on the big redheaded man. He would make the man die many times.
He pulled the collar up on the buffalo coat. Before rounding a bend he looked back. The village of the Lone Eaters looked small and insignificant in the blue snowfield.

 

Fools Crow sat in the warm tipi studying the Beaver Medicine bundle. It was large and bulky, the size of a sleeping blackhorn calf. Usually it would be resting on a platform behind Boss Ribs’ lodge so the people would be aware of its power. Once Fools Crow had watched Boss Ribs perform the ceremony. It was long and complicated. Fools Crow had sat from morning to dusk watching the holy man and his helpers perform the songs and prayers and dances. It had been opened during the new moon of the burnt grass. At one point, Boss Ribs had called to him and burned sweet grass and rubbed the smoke over his body. It was a blessing from Beaver Chief. It had been done to help Fools Crow, then White Man’s Dog, shake his bad luck. There had been other blessings bestowed on other members of the Lone Eaters, but White Man’s Dog had felt honored to be a small part of the ceremony.

 

“I see you are interested in the Beaver Medicine, Fools Crow,” said Boss Ribs.
“I was remembering that day I witnessed the ceremony three winters ago. It made my eyes go round.”
“Ah.” Boss Ribs laughed. “It was performed exactly as Beaver Chief instructed Akaiyan in the long-ago. Beaver Medicine is the oldest and holiest of our medicines. It is the power of our people, my young friend. Let us smoke.”
Both men filled their short-pipes and smoked for a while. Fools Crow was not comfortable. From time to time, he thought to speak, but the look in his host’s eyes told him to hold his tongue. He glanced around the lodge. After he had sat down with Boss Ribs, the women and children had disappeared. He thought it a curious thing. He had often visited the lodge because he was so close to Fast Horse, and the family had always treated him as one of them——except for Boss Ribs, who had always held himself away from the chattering and bickering that went on around him. Now the two men were alone and the lodge was quiet.

 

Boss Ribs was a tall, loose-jointed man with a sad face. Although he was a rich man and the keeper of the Beaver Medicine, many in the camp pitied him, for he had lost two wives and three children. Some even questioned his role as keeper of the sacred medicine since he had encountered so much misfortune himself. Fools Crow had heard Young Bird Chief say, “How can he help the Lone Eaters if he can’t help himself?” The other young men agreed that it was a curious thing. But Boss Ribs performed the ceremony correctly and well, and the power did help the sick ones, the poor ones, and Fools Crow knew that he was highly respected among the elders.
Finally Boss Ribs set his pipe down next to his tobacco pouch. He leaned back against his willow backrest and pulled a robe over his legs. He closed his eyes for a long time. Fools Crow thought the man was tired, so he packed his own pipe away. Just as he started to rise, Boss Ribs said, “I will tell you the story of the Beaver Medicine.”
Fools Crow noticed that there were fire shadows dancing on the walls of the lodge. It had gotten dark outside.
“In the long-ago, before the coming of the elk-dogs, there lived two brothers: orphans, they were. The younger was named Akaiyan. He lived with his brother, Nopatsis, and his wife. Now this wife was a cruel one and she didn’t like Akaiyan in their lodge. Many times she told her husband to cast him out, but he always refused. He knew what it was like to be young and alone, and he said there would always be a place for Akaiyan in his lodge.

 

“One day Nopatsis went out hunting, for they were low on meat and had been living for some time on gophers and mice. When he returned he found his wife with her clothes torn and her legs bleeding. She told him that Akaiyan had attacked her and roughed her up. This was a lie, of course, for Akaiyan was a gentle young man. But Nopatsis, perhaps because he was tired of his wife’s constant badgering, became very angry, and in a few days he devised a plan to rid himself and his wife of his younger brother. It was during that time of summer when the ducks and geese lose their feathers. Nopatsis said to Akaiyan, ‘Let us go to the island in the big lake and collect feathers for our arrows.’ So off they went, and when they came to the big lake, they built a raft and floated on it to the island. Now, Akaiyan, being unaware of his brother’s treachery, walked around the island, picking up feathers until he had quite a bundle, as many as he could carry. When he returned to the raft it was gone and he saw his brother paddling to the far shore. He cried out and begged his brother to come back for him, but the brother merely laughed at him. ‘You can spend the winter on your island, and in the spring when the ice melts I will come back for your bones,’ said Nopatsis.
“Akaiyan thought he was going to die, so he sat down and wept and beat the ground with his hand. He called to Sun Chief, to Night Red Light, to Morning Star to help him. He prayed to the Underwater People to save him. Oh, he was sad. He didn’t want to die alone on that island without even a wife to mourn him. He pitied himself and cried all the more. Soon, though, he gathered up his courage and decided to make the best of it. He collected more feathers for a bed, cut down tree limbs for a shelter and killed ducks and geese for his meals. He skinned these birds and made himself a warm robe of their pelts.

 

“One day he came to a small pond where he saw a beaver lodge. He lay down and wept, for it was approaching the moon of the first snow and he had no home of his own. Soon a little beaver came out of the lodge and said, ‘Come in, you wretched one, my father would talk to you.’ With that the beaver jumped in the water and Akaiyan followed him. They swam into a long dark tunnel, and the only way Akaiyan could see was from the little bubbles the beaver made with his tail. Just when he thought his lungs were about to burst, his head popped up and he was in a big dark lodge. When his eyes became adjusted, he looked around and saw many beaver children and a mother and father. This father was as white as the snow goose and bigger than any wood-biter Akaiyan had ever seen. He knew this must be Beaver Chief. He began to shiver in fear, but Beaver Chief told him to settle down and tell him why he had been crying. When Akaiyan told his sad story, Beaver Chief took pity on him and said he could live with them all winter. With that, his wife closed up the lodge.
“Akaiyan stayed with the beaver family. They slept all around him and put their tails over him to keep him warm. All winter Beaver Chief taught him things, many great things. He taught the young man the roots and herbs, the leaves and bark that our people still use for healing. He taught him paints and rituals that could be used for healing the sick. He gave Akaiyan tobacco seeds, which our people later made grow and now use in ceremonials. Above all, Beaver Chief taught him the songs and dances, the acting, that would accompany the magic of these wonderful things. It was a good winter for Akaiyan. He learned much and he grew to love the beaver family and think of himself as one of them, for he had never had a family of his own.

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