Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction) (24 page)
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Authors: James Welch
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“One day, when seven moons were up, Akaiyan heard the ice breaking on the lake. It would soon be time to leave the good beaver family. He began to gather up his things, but Beaver Chief told him to wait awhile, for he knew that the bad Nopatsis was returning to the island to search for his younger brother’s bones. Akaiyan hid behind a tree and watched his brother paddle the raft to the island. He had a big smile on his face, for he had become a cruel one. Akaiyan watched him jump off the raft, singing to himself. When his brother disappeared into the trees, Akaiyan paddled the raft to the other shore. Many moons later, when he returned to the island, Akaiyan found his older brother’s bones not far from the beaver lodge.
“Now the young beaver who had found Akaiyan and brought him into the lodge missed his new brother. One night he came to Akaiyan in a dream and told the young man that he would teach him even more wonderful things, so the next day Akaiyan returned to the big lake and, sure enough, there was the little beaver waiting for him. Together the two brothers made their way back to Akaiyan’s village, and when Akaiyan told the people who the little beaver was, they raised a great cry and were happy to see him. All that summer the little wood-biter taught the people the songs and dances and prayers of the beaver family. Akaiyan of course had already learned these things, so he assisted in the teaching. One day, the little beaver told Akaiyan that it was time for him to leave. He had taught the people and now he missed his family. Akaiyan was sad, but he knew how it is with families. Before he left, the young beaver gave the young man a sacred pipe. He said, ‘Whoever smokes this pipe will remain in good health. Put this in your bundle, Akaiyan, and let it be the first thing you lift out when you perform your ceremony.’
“That spring Akaiyan invited all the four-leggeds, the flyers, the underwater swimmers, the things that crawl along the ground, to add to the power of the bundle. Many of them offered their skins and the songs that went with them; some just their songs or dances. Every spring Akaiyan returned to the beaver family and Beaver Chief would give him something to add to the bundle—a headdress, an eagle-bone whistle, a sacred tobacco planting stick—until it became as large as you see it now. Akaiyan became a great Beaver Medicine man and raised his own family and lived for many years. Before he died he handed the bundle down to his son. It has been handed down ever since.”
Fools Crow drew a deep breath and sat back. He looked at the Beaver Medicine bundle, which lay not more than three paces away. His head almost hurt from his fierce listening. He had heard the story of the origin of the medicine when he was a child. It was one of his grandfather’s favorite stories. But this telling was different. It came from the lips of the man who was the keeper of the bundle, who had learned the ways of the medicine the same way Akaiyan had learned it in the long-ago. And there lay the bundle, filled with magic and power.
“Mik-api tells me you are becoming wise in the ways of medicine,” said Boss Ribs.
“I have helped Mik-api and he has taught me many things. There is so much to learn, sometimes I think my head is not capable of absorbing it all.”
“You are young. There was a time when I thought I would never learn the ceremony of the Beaver Medicine. Once you understand, it becomes easier.” Boss Ribs sat forward suddenly and looked down into Fools Crow’s eyes. “Once you commit yourself to such knowledge, there is no turning away.”
Fools Crow was surprised at the edge in Boss Ribs’ voice. It was as though the older man was warning him, but he hadn’t committed himself. He liked Mik-api and he liked the medicine, but he did not think of himself as the old man’s successor. Until now he hadn’t thought of himself as anything but a hunter. His warring and raiding were not unusual for a Pikuni. He had killed the Napikwan more out of fear than for honor. No, he was a blackhorn hunter, a provider of meat and skins, nothing more.
He looked at the fire and said, “What is it you wish of me, Boss Ribs?”
Some children ran by, leaving a trail of laughter in the shadowy lodge. Each man remembered that he had been a child once, had laughed the same way, at nothing but his own joy.
“What is it you wish?”
Boss Ribs rubbed his eyes and sighed. “I would like two things from you, young one. First, tell me what it was that changed my son so—that turned him away.”
Without hesitation, Fools Crow told the father of Fast Horse about the raid on the Crows. He left nothing out. He described Fast Horse’s dream in detail, the search for the ice spring, the anger of Cold Maker, the frustration of his friend. With some reluctance, he told Boss Ribs of his son’s careless treachery that led to Yellow Kidney’s discovery and mutilation. He knew Boss Ribs had heard that part, had probably lived with it in dreams, but he wanted to tell it right, perhaps to clarify it in his own mind.
“Fast Horse did not fulfill the vow he made to Cold Maker. He was afraid of what he had done to Yellow Kidney. He was afraid that Cold Maker would consider him unworthy—and harm him.” Fools Crow was guessing, but he had given it a lot of thought.
Even when he had recovered from his wounds, Fast Horse had never mentioned the Crow raid to Fools Crow. During their walks together, Fast Horse had spoken of things from their childhood, the places he had been, the things he had seen. Once, on the bank of the Two Medicine, as they were watching Sun Chief return to his home, Fools Crow told him about the Napikwan in the mountains, how afraid he had been of the giant man, how he thought he was going to die a shameful death. He had hoped such an admission would bring Fast Horse to open up about his own shameful behavior on the raid, but his friend just laughed and said there would be many more Napikwans to kill. Then, the night before Fast Horse left again, he came to Fools Crow’s lodge. Red Paint went off to gather wood in the snowy night, but Fools Crow knew she would go to her parents’ lodge. Fast Horse came close to thanking his friend for saving his life. The feelings were in the air like smoke, but the words would not come. There was a moment of silence and Fools Crow thought his friend would finally say something about the long-ago raid, perhaps as a favor to him. Fast Horse had looked keenly at him and there was pain in his eyes, but as he did so often, he laughed and talked of the women he had met on his war trail. Impulsively, Fools Crow had cut him off with the suggestion that Fast Horse should talk to Boss Ribs, that his father could help him; at the very least, go see Mik-api. Both were great medicine men and could cure a man of whatever it was deep inside that troubled him. Fast Horse had flared with anger and said their magic was no good for him. Then he left the lodge that night and left camp the next morning.
The sound of Boss Ribs’ voice interrupted his thought. “I know my son has done wrong. He has shamed himself and he has shamed me. Worst of all, he is responsible for turning a brave into a pitiful thing. I can never look Yellow Kidney in the eye for shame. Perhaps Fast Horse deserves to carry this burden with him wherever he goes.”
A dog barked close by, followed by an angry curse and a thump.
“But he is my only son. You know of my losses, Fools Crow, you know how Fast Horse lost his mother when he was a young child. Sometimes, I think I am cursed with this Beaver Medicine. Sometimes, I think I do not perform the ceremony well enough, that I anger Beaver Chief. But the people come to me and I make them well! Yes, through Beaver Chief I cure their illnesses, heal their wounds, their spirits. I return sons to mothers, wives to husbands, brothers to sisters. I thank Beaver Chief for these blessings every day. I pray to him to carry the evil spirit from my son’s heart. But when I ask for myself, he does not listen. I think sometimes that the keeper of the bundle is the only one who does not benefit. Many times I have thought to sell it. Rich men from all the bands would wish to possess it, for it makes them powerful.” Boss Ribs smiled at Fools Crow. His eyes glistened.
“But always in my heart I knew that I would pass it to my only son, even if it meant misfortune for him too. Now it seems he has created his own. If he is not stopped in this course he has chosen, it will only be a matter of time before he is dead—and not honorably. I have become a foolish old man, but I think there is a chance that we can save him before this happens.”
Fools Crow had been stirring the fire. Now he looked up at Boss Ribs. Although he had heard every word, he found his mind drifting, his thoughts shifting from Fast Horse to his own brother. Running Fisher had become sullen in the same way that Fast Horse had after the raid. Something had happened to Running Fisher that day Sun Chief hid his face. Fools Crow remembered the fear in his brother’s face and tried to remember if he had seen him during the battle in the Crow village. The fighting had been so heated, and Fools Crow himself had been so scared—
“Go after him, Fools Crow. Find him and bring him back. Get him away from that treacherous gang. I will begin to instruct him in the ways of the Beaver Medicine. He will learn that it is his destiny as well as his duty. Tell him his father begs him, his people beg him. There can be no turning away!”
Fools Crow looked into the young, frightened eyes of his friend’s father, and the look alarmed him. He thought of the many times Boss Ribs had opened the Beaver Medicine, how the people came to him in despair and left with hope in their hearts, how the young ones learned the ways of the old rituals by observing him and his sacred helpers, how the unhealthy ones gained strength through the medicine. Fools Crow glanced at the medicine bundle. The outer covering was of stiff rawhide. The painted red designs were faded by weather, barely noticeable, much less intelligible. Inside was the power of the Pikunis. “This magic is no good for me”—that’s what Fast Horse had said. And Mik-api had said, “I can’t heal a man who doesn’t have the heart for it.” What good would it do to bring Fast Horse back?
“I will look for him,” said Fools Crow. The weakness in his voice irritated him. He had wished to be more positive. “I will find him and bring him home.”
PART THREE
18
THE WARM CHINOOK WIND had blown for two days and a night. While the snow was still heavy in the ravines, cutbanks and valleys, most of the hills of the plain were yellow with sparse grass. A small herd of blackhorns grazed on the slope of a ravine to the west. Most of them were old bulls, no longer important to the larger herds. Their coats were ragged and reddish in color. One bull lay in the sun, his eyes closed, his large head nodding in sleep. His withers were gaunt and his tail was crusted with shit. A single fly, hatched by the warm winds, crawled over the mucus in the corner of his eye. The bull did not know where he was anymore. His breath came in harsh gasps, but he did not care that he was dying. A black-and-white long-tail, perched on his rump, picked at the crusty scabs with great care.
Owl Child sat on his horse on the south side of a steep hill. The snow was slushy beneath the horse’s hooves. Wind ruffled the two hawk feathers tied in the mane between the horse’s ears. Owl Child had one leg up, crooked around the saddle horn. He was working on his rifle. A cartridge had jammed in the breech and he was trying to free it with his knife. He could just get the tip of the blade beneath the lip at the base of the greased shooter, but every time he twisted the blade it would slip off. “Sonofabitch,” he swore. He knew several of the Napikwan words, but this was the one he liked best.
“Sonofabitch,” said Crow Top.
Owl Child looked up from his work and grinned. Then he felt the knife blade catch again. This time he wedged the knife against the thick barrel and eased the cartridge out. It popped loose and fell into the slushy snow.
“Sonofabitch!” shouted Crow Top, and the other men laughed.
Owl Child jacked another cartridge into the chamber. It slid in easily. Owl Child beamed. “Fast Horse, how is it this Crow Top speaks like a Napikwan, yet he is the blackest of all the Pikunis?”
Red Horn, Star and Black Weasel laughed again. Their horses, awakened by the rough sound, shifted uneasily beneath them. Only The Cut Hand did not laugh. He was ill with the white man’s disease. He had drunk half a jug of whiskey two days ago and the poison was still in his guts.
Fast Horse lay on his buffalo coat on the side of the hill. The three-day ride down from Mountain Chiefs camp had exhausted him. He looked up at the small fleecy clouds scattered throughout the blue. “He must have learned it from that fat white woman.”
“Ah, she was good,” said Crow Top. “She taught me many things. Someday I will learn that language; then I will teach you good.”
“Perhaps you should go to the white man’s school. They teach you to sit off the ground. That way you know where your ass is.”
Crow Top leaned closer to Owl Child, his hand near his mouth. He whispered and both men laughed.
“This one wants himself another white woman,” said Owl Child. “He says they are better than his hand, even better than his dog!”
Star and Red Horn teased Crow Top. The Cut Hand leaned over the side of his horse and heaved, making belching sounds, but nothing came out. He wiped his mouth and groaned.
Owl Child slid off his horse and walked over to Fast Horse. He looked down and said, “And what do you want, old woman?”
“You know what I want.”
“And when you kill this Napikwan you will feel better?”
“I have thought how I will kill him, little by little. I will cut off little pieces....”
Owl Child looked off toward the west. Most of the old bulls had passed over the crest of the yellow hill. Only the sleeping one remained on the slope. He was lying on his side, surrounded by long-tails. Any other time Owl Child would have practiced his shooting—to put the old one out of his misery—but not now. They were too close to the ranch. He knew what Fast Horse was feeling inside. He too wished to teach this redheaded Napikwan a lesson. But Fast Horse had only been wounded. He hadn’t been humiliated as Owl Child had been that day long ago when he had been struck down with a whip and slapped before his own people. But now Owl Child was revenged. He had made Malcolm Clark pay. He had killed him in his own house. The sight of Four Bears Clark lying in his own blood, his women screaming in the other room, had filled Owl Child with great pleasure. It should have been enough but it wasn’t. There were other Napikwans as evil as Four Bears. Owl Child felt his face grow hot as he heard the words again that Clark had called him: a dog and a woman. All the Napikwans would pay for those words. And to think his own cousin, Cutting-off-head Woman, had married Four Bears and had let this bad thing happen to Owl Child. To think that many of the Pikunis had disapproved of Owl Child’s revenge. They were the women—letting the Napikwans steal their lands, kill off their blackhorns, marry their women. They thought that by humbling themselves they could appease the whites. Owl Child spat. They would pay too, he thought. They would pay good, but not at the hands of Owl Child, for he would have nothing to do with them. Only Mountain Chief and a few others knew that the white men were evil two-faces. But that was not Owl Child’s worry. No, he was on his own and liked it that way. Owl Child would make a name for himself that would make them all, Pikuni or Napikwan, tremble to hear.
As he looked off toward the dying bull, he heard the soft drumming of hooves like muffled thunder. He reached his horse in ten steps, leaped into the saddle and sat tensely, rifle butt resting against his right thigh. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fast Horse scrambling to his feet.
The two riders appeared over the rim of the hill. Owl Child watched them ease their horses down the soft earth slope, kicking up mud and slush. Bear Chief and Under Bull slowed their horses to a trot. Owl Child settled back in his saddle.
“How is it?” he called.
“The man works in his corral, shoveling manure. His woman sits on the steps of the lodge with two little ones. Easy for us.” Under Bull was breathing hard. His nose ran.
“How about the horses?”
“In a wire pen behind the corral. Sixteen we counted.”
“No other Napikwans?”
“We looked around. No others.”
Owl Child turned to Fast Horse and grinned. “There is your Napikwan. Like an old cow in the corral.”
“I am ready,” said Fast Horse. The tiredness had left his bones. “I will make him cry many times before Sun returns to his lodge.”
Owl Child and the others laughed. “Then let us not keep him waiting. He gathers manure for the evening meal.”
Fast Horse rode beside Owl Child, his big bay two hands taller than the white horse with the red thunderbirds on his shoulders. This was what the Lone Eaters did not know about, he thought, this urgency, this ease with which one could make his enemies pay. He glanced back at the riders. The Cut Hand, at the rear of the small column, was leaning over his horse again.
Fools Crow had followed Fast Horse’s tracks that first day out. It had been easy in the deep snow. But that night as he lay asleep in a shelter under a cutbank surrounded by rosebushes, the chinook winds began to blow. By morning the snow level in the high places had lowered considerably. Fools Crow sat on his heels outside the shelter and ate the boiled meat that Red Paint had packed. The sky was light enough so that he could see it would be a clear day. The small puffy clouds were riding the wind northeast.
By midday he was nearly to the point where the Two Medicine joins the Bear. The grass showed yellow through the thin layer of snow on the hills to either side of him. Large chunks of ice floated in the eddy of the confluence. Fools Crow found a dry rock and sat and smoked. There was no hope of following Fast Horse’s trail now. But he didn’t need to. He knew Fast Horse would ride up on the rims overlooking the valley, keeping out of the deeper snow. Mountain Chief’s camp was not far. He would reach it sometime in the afternoon of the next day. And he knew that either he would find Fast Horse there or somebody would know where he had gone.
He had enough boiled meat to last this night and the next morning. Then he would have to start living on the pemmican or stop and kill something. He chewed on the cold belly fat that Red Paint had thrown in as a treat and suddenly, unexpectedly, felt excited. He was enjoying himself. He had not been without another person for some time. He did not feel sad or lonely because Red Paint or his father or another hunter were not with him; instead, he felt the freedom of being alone, of relying only upon himself. He remembered his first lone hunt as a youth, the giddiness with which he stalked the deer for a whole day, the thrill he felt when he held its liver in his hands, still warm and steaming in the winter air. He had never felt so free.
The thought came into his mind without warning, the sudden understanding of what Fast Horse found so attractive in running with Owl Child. It was this freedom from responsibility, from accountability to the group, that was so alluring. As long as one thought of himself as part of the group, he would be responsible to and for that group. If one cut the ties, he had the freedom to roam, to think only of himself and not worry about the consequences of his actions. So it was for Owl Child and Fast Horse to roam. And so it was for the Pikunis to suffer.
He stood and walked over to the joining of the two rivers. As he watched the silent seam filled with ice chunks and froth, he knew he would find Fast Horse. But could he talk him into returning to camp, into giving up this freedom? Fast Horse had changed, and Fools Crow knew his task was hopeless. His own feeling of freedom deserted him. As he looked into the ice-clogged seam of the two rivers, he felt again the weight of responsibility. He had promised Boss Ribs to bring back his son, and that’s what he would try to do. He tossed a chunk of ice into the seam and it joined the other chunks, indistinguishable, heading downriver.
The camp of the Many Chiefs lay in a bend of the Bear River not far east of the Medicine Rock. The Medicine Rock was red and lay halfway up a bluff on the north side of the river. Many said there was life in that rock and made offerings to it. Fools Crow had placed a small brass earring at its base but did not linger. He noticed feathers and shells and a finger ring around it. Such offerings assured safe traveling.
Fools Crow followed the valley east to the camp. It was not a large camp, some twenty-seven lodges scattered on both sides of the slow clear river. Less than three moons ago there had been forty-four lodges, but many had moved away when they heard that the seizers were looking for Mountain Chief. The river had cut deep here, and the lodges lay between tall dark bluffs over which the cold north winds passed. Big-leaf trees and stands of willow marked the curve of the river, just above the cracked black gumbo of the bed.
Fools Crow urged his horse across a shallow riffle to the side where Mountain Chiefs lodge stood, surrounded by others. On a small bluff behind the lodges, children slid down the slope on their buffalo-rib sleds. The snow had long since turned to black slush and the sleds moved slowly. A pack of dogs trotted out to greet Fools Crow. Others stood barking beside the entrances to the lodges.
Mountain Chiefs tipi was made of twenty-five skins, the largest in the village. The top and bottom were painted black and red and yellow in stripes and jagged lines. Red horses circled the middle. Fools Crow saw a handsome woman hacking meat from a bone near the entrance. He recognized her as the chiefs sits-beside-him wife. She looked up, pushing the hair from her face with the backs of her hands.
Fools Crow slid off his horse. “I am looking for the great Mountain Chief. I would speak with him about an important matter concerning Boss Ribs, keeper of the Beaver Medicine.”
“You are of the Lone Eaters.”
“I am the son of Rides-at-the-door, war chief of the Lone Eaters.”
The woman smiled. “And your mother is Double Strike Woman, formerly of the Hard Topknots. We grew up together. That makes you White Man’s Dog or Running Fisher.”
“Fools Crow. I used to be White Man’s Dog.”
“Then you are welcome, young man, whatever your name is.”
Fools Crow blushed. The woman was teasing him.
“You come to talk importantly with my husband, then?” She stood. She was slender and as tall as Fools Crow.
“Yes,” he mumbled.
“He is down at the river with two others.” She pointed in the direction where the river made a sweeping loop, north to south, before heading east again. She smiled again. “I think they are gambling.”
Fools Crow thanked her and walked off in the direction she had pointed.
“Say hello to your mother,” she called. “Tell her Little Young Man Woman greets her.”
Fools Crow thanked her again. He liked this woman who joked like a man. She was well named.
At the edge of the camp he heard giggling behind him. He turned and found that he was being followed by three little girls. One of them was holding a puppy. He raised his arms and growled at them and they ran off, their small buckskin dresses flapping around their ankles.
The trail led through a narrow strip of willows, set down from the camp level. He met a young man dressed only in leggings and moccasins who eyed him warily, without speaking, until he was past. His naked upper body was wet.
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