Stone Song (25 page)

He wanted only to disappear.

Dark was falling, and Black Buffalo Woman didn’t want to miss a moment of the dance. She looked one more time at the red part in her hair. She put the mirror into a parfleche, took out a tied bunch of sweetgrass, cut off just a little, and popped it into her mouth. She took some spruce gum in one hand. Before the first dance she would chew it to sweeten her breath. Then she put all her rush aside, stepped through the door, and followed her mother demurely to the big circle where the whole village was gathered.

Oh, yes, she would have to remember to tell Curly that she had lost his ring. The word was already around the camp, and some did not believe it.

The Hunkpatila and Bad Faces came together for this big dance. Victory dances had parts where sweethearts danced together—you told the
winkte
who you wanted your sweetheart to be, and he matched you. She wouldn’t dance with Curly, because he wouldn’t dance. True, he had a wounded leg now, but he never participated in dances anyway. He would
stand away from the big center fire in the shadows with the others who didn’t dance, the old, the infirm, and the sour-spirited. It was what she liked about him least, the way he stood off from other people.

To Black Buffalo Woman the drum was something larger and stronger than you. It throbbed through you, it took you over, it sent its pulse through your body and made you move as it willed. She loved it. Why would Curly disdain it? The word
strange
came up for him too often.

She took a place in the big circle next to her mother. The singers and drummers grouped near the fire, the women on the opposite side. The
winkte
, the men who lived as women, stood in the middle. They directed the victory dance.
Winkte
understood matters of love and could give young men songs of seduction their sweethearts would find irresistible. But not as irresistible as the seduction songs of bone keepers. She shivered.

The drum started its pulse.

Across the circle she saw Curly watching her covertly. A lot of good it would do him tonight. Though he’d done something good, so they said, he’d marched into camp in that weird way, like a beggar to be pitied. And tonight he would act aloof. So her eyes were for her potential dancing partners. Who would she say would be her sweethearts for tonight? Probably one or two of the Bad Face young men who had been courting her, standing near her lodge with a blanket to wrap her in and hold her close and talk. Maybe Black Twin, who had an interestingly devious mind. Or White Twin, who was odd but just as good-looking. Maybe Pretty Fellow, who was beautiful, broken nose or not. Maybe He Dog, who might turn out to be a chief. Surely No Water.

The singers lifted their voices in a victory song. She watched the dancers, her body moving to the beat.

Maybe she should choose Young Man-Whose-Enemies, who would one day be leader of the Hunkpatila. That would cause talk.

Who would ask for her? When the
winkte
had two requesting each other, that was a real match. No Water would ask for her, for sure.

She thought she would speak his name at least once. She was strangely excited about dancing with No Water. She couldn’t deny that he was attractive. He was so big and strong. Until a few days ago she had thought he was a little dull. But he had done so much to get her—that was intriguing. He had risked being possessed by the
tonwan
. And the way he had told her she would be his, so masterful, that still made her heart squeeze when she remembered it.

He’d called her perverse. Intriguing.

The potion? She didn’t know yet. Potions didn’t always work. But she couldn’t deny that she was fascinated.

Curly made her heart squeeze, too, always had. She was eighteen winters
old now, and she had been in love with Curly probably for half her life. She had made love only to him. She wondered if he had her ring somewhere on his person.

A woman changed, though. She didn’t always take her girlish loves seriously. Sometimes she married another because it was wise or just because she felt like it. A young woman needed plenty of suitors. This was Black Buffalo Woman’s time before the responsibilities of a husband and children. She intended to take advantage of it.

And tonight, as she danced with every man she could, her every movement would be flaunted in Curly’s face. And No Water’s face.

It was time, the drums said. She stepped forward with the other women. When the
winkte
came near, she whispered, “No Water.”

When the time came for the fighters to tell of their exploits, He Dog tried to push Curly into the big circle first. Curly refused wordlessly, standing his ground at the back of the crowd, next to his father. So He Dog chuckled low and shrugged and went out to show how he had killed one of the men of the unknown tongue. Others followed, gladly. They danced and mimed and chanted how they had killed or struck coup or stolen horses, and the women made their excited trilling. Strength and unity throbbed in the people. Then the young men and women would dance again, never touching, but their attraction tangible as the rays of the sun on a hot day.

Curly watched Black Buffalo Woman. She was dancing opposite He Dog. Earlier, when she had danced with No Water, Curly realized they had spoken for each other. His skin prickled like he was poisoned.

“Brother,” said Hump softly next to Curly’s ear, “you must dance your deeds.”

Curly had not heard his
hunka
coming. Most of the others had strutted their bravery by now. Curly looked up into Hump’s eyes and shook his head no.

“You showed great medicine,” said Hump. “The people need to feel your strength among them.”

Curly shook his head again.

“It is not his way,” said Tasunke Witko quietly.

Curly felt a twist of pain. Difficult, in a world where the respect a man earned was almost entirely based on coups, very difficult not to be able to declare your deeds, to have to hide your accomplishments always. Yet he noted that Hawk was quiet on her perch, content.

“It is not his way,” repeated Tasunke Witko.

Hump padded off silently.

Curly’s one moment came when the women danced in a circle with the scalps. His mother Red Grass led the way, the only woman with two
scalps hanging from the top of her stick. She strode with pride, all the more fierce because her son had kept silent. The crowd murmured. He heard the words “Strange Man” for the thousandth time. Yes, strange—two scalps dancing at the end of the pole and nothing said about them.

His medicine of invincibility would be an open secret, he knew that. The other warriors would tell their families, and tomorrow the tale would be all over the camp. They would say he was one of those rare ones, meant for desperate deeds.

He was glad. Maybe that was weakness, but he was proud. Even if he didn’t get to dance his power before the world, he was a warrior, a true warrior.

Without seeming to, he looked around the crowd. Black Buffalo Woman’s eyes gleamed hot, and maybe they were fixed on Curly’s mother. The Black Elk family, the Man-Whose-Enemies-Are-Afraid-of-His-Horses family, and other Oglala families looked exultant. They didn’t embarrass any of the fighters by looking directly at them, even their own.

“They are proud of you,” said Tasunke Witko. He put a hand on his son’s shoulder lightly, and took it back. “Two scalps. I am proud of you. Not accepting praise is hard, I know.”

Curly nodded without looking at his father.

The women raised the trilling to a new intensity as the mothers brought the dance to a finish. Curly looked at the Bad Faces and knew they were not pleased. Only one Bad Face had been invited on the raid—they would remember that slight. The twins would remember, and Pretty Fellow of the smashed nose, and No Water the clumsy.

A flash from his vision came to him, Lakota hands pulling from behind.

He promised himself he would remember every bit of his vision every day and never again violate it. He would go to war at every chance. He would ride ahead of his comrades, unafraid. He would know his own invincibility. He would take nothing for himself, not property, not glory, and especially not scalps.

Black Buffalo Woman watched Curly without seeming to. Two scalps. Two scalps! And two enemies killed. Her lover was strange, very strange, but he was bold, and blessed in war.

She wanted him. It made her tremble with want, looking at him and seeing those scalps dance on the end of pole.

It would only take a little time—they would do it fast and hard, the way she wanted it. It would only take the time of one dance. No one would notice. Her flow was just finished, and she would not take on life within her. She wanted it.

Just as she started to slip out, she glanced at No Water. He was glaring at her. Openly and antagonistically.

The memory made her shiver. “I will kill you,” No Water had said. “Not him. You.”

Her loins went cold. She cast her eyes down and did not let herself look at either man. Though the drum still beat, she was frozen still.

Curly lay sleepless on his blankets in his parents’ lodge. It wasn’t his leg keeping him awake, for the wound felt good enough under his father’s poultice. It wasn’t even the loud, raspy breathing of Little Hawk next to him, though that was irksome. He did fret more about forgetting his vision and taking the scalps. And about Black Buffalo Woman—tonight of all nights he would have liked to sneak away into the willows with her—his body sometimes raged with wanting.

But even that didn’t seem right, he told himself. Why should he and his woman have to sneak into the bushes? He was a man of twenty-one winters now and much respected, even if neither he nor anyone else could say so out loud. Black Buffalo Woman was the right age for marriage. Why didn’t they go ahead?

A thousand reasons
, he reminded himself. As a
heyoka
he was called to a life of silence and contemplation, not to family life or conviviality. As a warrior he was pledged to do desperate deeds. Surely his medicine would protect him, but if he made a mistake, or misunderstood his medicine … Family life did not seem right as long as his spirit was flung completely into the maw of war. Also, he had promised to become an Inyan dreamer, as revealed in his vision. He didn’t know what hardships that might mean. And he was committed to gaining nothing for himself, not horses, not good clothes, not an abundance of food, not a lodge with fine furnishings. Could he ask a woman to share such a life with him?

Could he
not
ask Black Buffalo Woman?

He would talk to Hump about all this. Tasunke Witko, too. Now that he thought about it, Horn Chips, too.

He turned over, restless.

He fingered Inyan underneath his left arm, next to his heart. He and Chips would pray over it sometimes and ask for its aid and guidance. Inyan creatures were the oldest people on earth. From time to time in Curly’s life he would beg Inyan to speak, to advise him at crossroads. He would wear it next to his heart, always, so that he might hear what it said.

He turned over, restless and more restless.

Why hadn’t he been able to speak to Black Buffalo Woman tonight? He had stayed up all through the dance, until the sky began to get light. She was always dancing or standing close to her mother, very close, as though under her mother’s protection. When he tried to catch her eye,
she wouldn’t look—he was sure that was deliberate. At dawn she and her mother skipped back to their lodge hand in hand, like children without a care. He watched them sullenly from afar.

His father and mothers and brother got up and started on their day. Curly pretended to be asleep. He’d had no rest at all. Now he couldn’t even fidget or flop from side to side. Finally they all went out, and he drifted off.

He ate a little, feeling better. He didn’t know why he’d fretted so all night. Cooking in your own juices, Tasunke Witko called it. He put his horn out and accepted a little more soup from Red Grass. He would sit for a while, waiting. Hawk was easy within him. He would sit and think and ponder his vision. This afternoon he would go into the sweat lodge and pledge himself to it anew. He would go forth into the world as a warrior, trusting his feet to find the path, trusting Hawk to guide him. Trust was all.

His father came in without a word and got something out of a parfleche. His beaded ceremonial blanket, Curly saw. The one Curly’s birth mother had made him, showing what this
wicasa wakan
beheld when he looked beyond. Tasunke Witko put the blanket around his shoulders and went out. Curly pondered—what was his father doing?

Curly was putting his mind back to his own concerns, his own duties on his own way, when he heard his father begin an honor song:

“
My son rode forth

against the people of the unknown tongue
.

Against the people of the unknown tongue

my son rode forth
.”

The voice of His Crazy Horse rose bold and quavering at once toward Wi, Father Sun, on the opening words, “My son.” Through the rest of the line it fell in a caress. The second time Tasunke Witko made the words “my son rode forth” clamor heroically.

“
My son rode forth

against the people of the unknown tongue
.

Against the people of the unknown tongue

my son rode forth
.”

Curly got up and stepped outside in nothing but his breechcloth. His father was making a circle within the lodges, intoning this honor song. People were falling in behind him in a double line to show their esteem for Curly.

Tears rose in Curly’s eyes.

“
For his courage

I give him a new name
,

the name of many fathers before him
.”

The line behind the man known until now as Tasunke Witko was long. The people were smiling broadly, the old men and women and the leaders and the young warriors and the children. They walked in a stately manner, ceremonially, but the children were laughing.