Heartsong (11 page)

Charging Elk smiled as he remembered the first time he had tried to pull the cork out of a bottle with the piece of curly iron. Somehow only the top half of the cork came out, and when he tried to capture the rest with the iron screw, he pushed it down into the bottle. And when he tipped it up, the half cork plugged up the neck. It caused great laughter among his friends, as each time he tipped the bottle nothing came out. Featherman solved the problem by pushing the cork into the bottle with the stiletto knife he had bought in Paris and pouring the wine into a tin cup.

Charging Elk stood in the shadows outside the window and watched the platter of meat being passed around. He imagined that he could smell it and that he could taste it. He had gorged on meat the size of the roast by himself, when he and Strikes Plenty killed an elk in Paha Sapa. But mostly they lived on rabbits and porcupines and sage hens; sometimes deer. The big animals had become increasingly scarce in the years he lived at the Stronghold. Many times in winter he had been as hungry as he was just before he stole the iron road policeman's bread and cheese. Strikes Plenty was right. Their friendship probably couldn't have survived another winter of near starvation at the Stronghold.

Although the rain had stopped, a wind had come up from the northwest and now Charging Elk could hear the harsh snapping of pieces of cloth tied to the tall poles of the big boats. Strings of white lights slung from the tops of the poles to the ends of many of the boats swayed and cast moving shadows on the water. The wind was
fresh, but because of the clouds, Charging Elk wasn't as cold as he had been during the earlier starlit nights when he would awake with white frost on the papers he would drape over himself.

Charging Elk had torn himself away from the family of eaters and was now walking farther along the quai, away from the big street he had followed from Rond Point du Prado. He would keep that street in mind as a landmark, but now he wanted to make sure there were no fire boats tied to the wooden ones. He prayed to Wakan Tanka to give him a sign, to show him the flag of America. Or the name of the fire boat that had brought him to this land. The
Persian Monarch
. Before they left New York, before they boarded the giant boat, Broncho Billy had pointed out the name on the front. He had said Persia was way to the east even of the land they were going to. People there wore shiny clothes and the monarch—some kind of king that the people didn't hate—kept large flocks of comely women for his pleasure. They just lay about and waited until he called on one or two of them. The Indians were used to Broncho Billy's lies and they didn't believe this idea; still, some of the Indians, like the Blackfeet, were said to have as many as four or five wives if they could afford them. The Lakota men could rarely afford two wives. Maybe a king, who commanded many people, could have as many of the women as he wanted. Featherman joked that he would stay on the boat when it got to their destination and see if it would take him to these women. That was before the near death of seasickness.

As Charging Elk walked along the quai, he idly looked up a street that led away from the port. He stopped and looked again. In the distance of two street corners, he could see soft but bright yellow light. And he saw small figures, many of them, all walking one way. The yellow light seemed warm at this distance, warmer than the white lights of the port. By now, the wind had begun to bite through Charging Elk's coat, and his feet tingled in the now-soaked fuzzy slippers. He had become increasingly preoccupied with his
health the past few sleeps. He knew if he had to go back to the house of sickness he would lose this opportunity to find his way home. And he had the gnawing feeling that he would just become sicker there. Death visited that house too often, and he felt certain it would take him away next time.

Charging Elk passed a large building made of iron and glass. It looked different from the stone buildings, light and open like the cages for birds he had seen in some markets. It stood apart from the others on the quai, almost at the water's edge, and it smelled of sea creatures. It too was dark but he could just make out long rows of tables which seemed to be covered with shiny metal, and he wondered if this was where the women washed their clothes. Everything smells of the fish, he thought, and he felt queasy as he walked on the edge of a basin filled with small wooden boats. Each one had a single skinned tree and was open to the weather. Some were filled with small wooden cages; others had piles of knotted string beneath a piece of canvas that hung like a tent from a wooden pole attached sideways to the skinned tree. Charging Elk knew that these were devices to catch the fish and the hard-crusted creatures he had seen in markets. The Lakotas were surprised and disgusted with the things these people ate. Especially the slimy many-legged thing that seemed to melt into itself. Featherman had said something obscene about it and everybody laughed. Still, they were horrified.

By now Charging Elk found himself standing on the edge of a cobblestone square surrounded by three- and four-story buildings. At one end was a large holy house with two towers. A bell was ringing in one of the towers, and he realized that he had been hearing it for some time. But it was the din of hundreds of people in the square that muted the bell and caused him to shrink into a doorway. Some of them carried torches which gave off warm golden flames. In the center, several men carried a woman dressed in blue and white silken cloth. A golden circle hovered above her head and she
was seated on a golden chair, and at first, Charging Elk thought it was a real woman, but she didn't move. Her hands were clasped, palms and fingers pressed together, and he knew she was one of the holy statues that he had seen in the small street those few sleeps ago. These French worshiped her and were taking her up the steps to the holy house. He looked around for the man in brown robes, the kicking baby, and the men with shiny cloth wound around their heads. Perhaps they came from Persia; perhaps Broncho Billy was right; perhaps this town was where the
Perdían Monarch
came from. For just an instant, he thought he might be in Persia. But this town was only a train ride from Paris and these people were dressed like all the other French. No shiny clothes, no big cloths on their heads. And no monarch with his many women.

Charging Elk watched the procession make its way slowly up the wide steps of the holy house, and he realized that the voices of the people were not loud, just constant. They seemed to chant the same things at the same time, all the while crowding around the statue and a man in a red gown carrying a gold cross with red fire glistening at its center. As the procession ascended the stairs, Charging Elk could see that the leaders were holy, with their golden robes and tall stiff hats. One of them held a long coupstick which swayed slowly above the crowd. Two of them were swinging iron boxes that made smoke and caused the watching people to bob up and down and move their right hands over their bodies, just as they did that day in the dark cave of the holy house in Paris.

The people followed the golden men into the big house and then the doors closed. The bell had quit ringing and suddenly it was as quiet as it had been that afternoon and evening. The golden torches were gone too; only the lights on posts cast their cold white circles on the wet cobblestones.

Charging Elk wondered what kind of ceremony this was that the white people held during this Moon of the Popping Trees. He knew
it was holy; perhaps as holy as the
wiwanyag wachipi
. But the Dance Looking at the Sun was held during the Moon of Red Cherries, when it was warm and Sun looked down on his people for the longest time of his yearly journey.

Now the people were forbidden to hold the Sun Dance, just as they were forbidden to speak Lakota. But many of the people from Pine Ridge came out to the Stronghold to participate in the Sun Dance. The whites never bothered with the Indians out there and so they were free to perform their holiest ceremony in the old way.

Charging Elk had sacrificed his flesh before the
wagachun
when he was seventeen winters, one winter after his visit from badger, who gave him much medicine. The pain of the thongs in his breast as he danced before the sacred tree was unbearable and he was certain he would disgrace himself, but just as he was about to cry out, the pain ended and he was in another world. It was as though he could see himself dancing and blowing the eagle-bone whistle and, at the same time, entering the Great Mystery, where he saw the ancestors and the great herds of buffaloes under the wind and sun and moon. He saw many sacred beings in this world and he knew it was the real world. He heard the beat of the drum and he knew it was the heartbeat of the
can gleska
, where all becomes one. As he danced, he heard the pounding rhythm in his feet, the shrill arrow of his whistle, and he felt the darkness take him. Later, in the
pejuta wicasa's
sweat lodge, he had vowed to always live in the old way, to participate only in Lakota ceremonies, to avoid and ignore the holy ceremonies of the
wasichus
. And he had fulfilled that vow as best he could.

But now he had witnessed one of the white mens ceremonies and he found himself wishing he could go into their sacred house and see some more. He wanted to be with these people, inside where it was warm and holy. But he knew that as soon as he entered, the people would stare at him, or maybe they would throw
him out because he wasn't one of them. Or worse, they might think he was an enemy.

Charging Elk was sunk inside of himself, thinking of his loneliness in the cold dark while the
wasichiu
were in the sacred room with their holy woman and the golden leaders, and he didn't notice the slow, measured steps which clumped dully on the wet cobblestones. If he had heard the steps, he could have just stepped farther into the shadows or walked deliberately around the corner and toward the harbor. He had observed that people who walked deliberately in these big towns were seldom seen.

But he was caught unawares and he jumped when he heard the voice behind him.
“Pardon, monsieur.”
The voice was calling for his attention, and so he turned.

The man wore a shiny dark cape that fell down past his knees and a small flat cap with a visor and a curtain that covered his neck and ears. He said something else, something that seemed to be a question. Charging Elk looked down at the man's silver buttons, which were attached to a tunic beneath the cape. He shrugged uselessly and he saw that the man carried a long stick. He knew that the man was an
akecita
, for he had seen many of them patrolling the streets of Paris, and even Marseille. He had avoided them these past sleeps and now he was disappointed that he had been surprised by one. Again he shrugged, and again he avoided looking into the policeman's face. But he had sized him up and saw that the policeman was taller than the people of this town, but still half a head shorter than Charging Elk. He was also slighter and the knuckles that gripped the baton were sharp and white. Charging Elk thought he could take him with a quick move that would allow him to spin the man and get a grip that would break his neck or his windpipe. One of the older men at the Stronghold, one who had fought many times with enemies, had shown him and Strikes Plenty how he had used this move when an enemy thought he had him cornered.

But Charging Elk stood, still looking at the buttons, while the
akecita
continued talking. The voice was becoming louder and faster, slightly more threatening, and Charging Elk felt his body go tense with anticipation of the policeman's first move.

He had been in three or four fights in his life, only one with a white man, a miner who had caught him stealing food from his shack. He had knocked the miner down and hit him on the head with a half-full coffeepot. Then he had run away. He and Strikes Plenty had laughed about the incident, but afterward Charging Elk had wished he had lifted the miner's hair. But the thought had not occurred to him then as he sought only to escape. Anyway, there was no glory in scalping enemies anymore. There were no real enemies anymore. The old days when one rode into camp with an enemy's scalp and the people sang an honoring song were gone. Now the reservation people would be angry and frightened of reprisal.

Charging Elk felt the rush of anticipation leave his body. He knew he was just as powerless in this country beyond the big water as the people were on their own land. He knew that his badger medicine would not help him here. All he had left was his death song and now was not the time to sing it.

The policeman grabbed him by the biceps and pushed him toward a street that led away from the square.

C
harging Elk sat for a long time under a single yellow wire in a small room in a place of many rooms. He sat on a hard chair with his coat buttoned to his neck and his beret pushed back so that it perched on the crown of his head. His long hair fell over the coat collar to his shoulders and his eyes were slitted and without expression.

Many policemen came to look at him, in twos and threes, chatting among themselves, gesturing toward him, then going away. None of
them addressed him, but one was bold enough to offer him his tobacco and papers, which Charging Elk took. He rolled a cigarette, accepted a light, then nodded at the man, and the man shrugged and almost smiled as he left. A moment later, Charging Elk could hear much shouting and laughter in the passageway outside the room.