Stone Song (35 page)

“I am glad to hear it,” Worm said. “The question is, Will you!”

Crazy Horse puffed and sent the smoke up to Father Sky. He thought of all the pain the last split of the people had caused, thirty winters of pain. “I hate the way they act,” he said, “bending other people to their will.” The Lakota as a people professed to despise that kind of domination, but many still used it.

Worm nodded. “I understand,” he said. “And you are a shirtman.”

Now the words rose from his innards, but they clotted in his throat and stuck there. “I will not divide the people,” he should have said. “I will put the people’s needs above my own. I am not just any man with natural desires. I am a shirt wearer, pledged to put the welfare of all the people ahead of my own wants, even wants that all men share.”

He should have said more: My vision commands me to the solitude and danger of a warrior, not to home, center fire, and the comfort of women and children.

He knew no words against all that and had no thoughts that would defeat it. He had only feelings. Ten winters and more of longing. And the sense that only a woman could solace him now.

He would say nothing to his father. It was nothing firm anyway, just a sense, a feeling, shapeless, seductive.

The words lurched into his mouth like bile, but he did not speak them: I will not take her. No, the words offended him, they stuck in his throat. He would say nothing.

It was Red Cloud the whites wanted in Washington, D.C. They insisted.

“He’s not even a chief,” many Oglala complained. “He can’t sign a paper.”

“The whites want
his
mark,” said others.

“It’s their newspapers,” some said mockingly. “Their newspapers make Red Cloud a big man, so he’s the one who has to go.”

People gave each other unhappy looks. Really, it wasn’t funny that the whites understood so little. It made them worse to deal with. Man-Whose-Enemies-Are-Afraid-of-His-Horses, Sitting Bear, Brave Bear, yes—these were the headmen of the Oglala. They could probably persuade the people to do what they had promised when they signed the paper. Even then, each man had choice, and the chiefs would work by leadership, not command. No Lakota could speak for another.

Then the true word came. Red Cloud had stalled, pretending not to decide whether to go see the Great White Father, until they promised to make him head chief of all the Oglala.

That’s what people whispered, snickering, but their smiles were pained. The whites were unbelievable. There could be no head chief of all the Oglala—the Big Bellies were several. Everyone remembered what had happened when the whites tried to make Bear-Scattering head of all the Lakota. When the chief accepted, forced by the whites, he had predicted his own death. And the whites had killed him.

But what was most outrageous was that your enemies tried to choose your people’s leader. Passing over the men the people respected, those who had demonstrated they thought of the welfare of all the people, the whites wanted to put their own man in. One who had split the people nearly thirty winters ago with a violent act.

The whites were arrogant beyond belief. Or stupid. People wondered why the powers made them so many and gave them guns. It was like putting everyone’s welfare in the hands of youths. Except that Lakota youths were not as wild and insolent and destructive as white people.

Crazy Horse, though, approved of Red Cloud going to see The One They Use for Father. Maybe recognizing these Bad Faces, giving them status, would ease their spirits, he told Worm. Maybe it would keep them from scheming for power all the time. And maybe they would not be so quick to take offense because a woman of their band and a shirtman of the Hunkpatila loved each other.

Crazy Horse went to his
hunka
. “Let’s go check out the Pani horses,” he said.

Hump took his meaning, all of it, the suggestion of adventure, the anger, frustration, the blocked fury.

He shook his head. “Come with me north,” he said, “where people still act like Lakota.” He hesitated and then added the angry words he meant. “And not dogs groveling near white campfires hoping for scraps.”

Crazy Horse thought for a moment. It was attractive. He was related
to the Mniconjou—Grandmother Plum was a Mniconjou and might be happier there. Maybe she would even start talking again.

Then, suddenly, Hump named it. “I wish I knew the words to get you away from her,” he said regretfully.

Black Buffalo Woman’s name sat between the
hunka
, unspoken. Crazy Horse saw how strongly Hump felt—otherwise he would have never dared say even this little. It was an old sorrow between them. This was the closest they’d ever come to talking about it.

Crazy Horse only shrugged.

So they went against the Pani together. When they got back, bringing ponies, the news came. At the last Man-Whose-Enemies-Are-Afraid-of-His-Horses had decided not to go to Washington. But Red Cloud had gone, and several other Oglala, including Drum-on-His-Back, who had learned to read the whites’ writing.

“Your mothers’ brother, too,” said Worm, “and some other Sicangu.” Crazy Horse thought of his uncle Spotted Tail and Red Cloud negotiating with the whites, probably from their knees. Worm chose his words carefully. “They’re asking the ‘Great White Father’ to take pity on them.”

Worm smiled sardonically.

He Dog came to Crazy Horse and asked him to lead an old-time party for hunting and raiding, with several lodges along and women to do the cooking, the way the big parties had gone out before things changed. The young warriors wanted it, said He Dog. They would go against the Psatoka, as in the old days.

Crazy Horse was touched by the request. While Red Cloud and the other politicians tried to find honor at the house of The One They Use for Father, he and the young men would look for it at the frontier of life and death. “
Hoye!
” he said with grim enthusiasm. “Let’s go.”

Before they left, the leaders of Kangi Yuha, the Raven Owners Society, invited everyone to a big ceremony to make He Dog and Crazy Horse bearers of the short lances. The duties of these two men were strict. In battle, they had to drive their otter-wrapped lances into the ground and not leave that spot. Their companions charged and tried not to retreat. If they were driven back, the other warriors could pull up the lances and release the bearers from their obligation—if that was possible and if the lance bearers served courageously. Then they could retreat and later retire honorably as bearers of the short lances.

Normally the new lance bearers went immediately to war. But this time Crazy Horse and He Dog got a surprise—the Big Bellies wanted to perform another ceremony.

Two Big Bellies brought out the ceremonial weapons known as the lances of the Oglala. They were said to be hundreds of years old, older than two or three times seven generations. They were given to the people originally as a promise that the strength of the Oglala would always rise again, like grass in the spring.

Everyone had heard of these lances, but they had gone unused for as long as any but the oldest could remember.

Now the Big Bellies sang songs entrusting these ancient lances of the Oglala to Crazy Horse and He Dog, and with them the promise of strength and renewal for the people.

The two warriors led their big war party away toward Psatoka country carrying these emblems. The people walked them out of camp raising resounding cheers, once-in-a-lifetime cheers.

Worm worked his way to the front. He wanted to see his son’s face. His elder son had walked a difficult road, refusing to take scalps, to count coups, to wear the insignia of success in battle. Until now the Oglala with the most war honors had looked like a poor man of no accomplishment. But today Crazy Horse was achieving something his heart had yearned for, the zenith of honors, the highest war rank the Oglala could offer. His face was solemn, but Worm saw a rare lightness in the young man’s eyes.

Tears ran down Worm’s cheeks.

Black Buffalo Woman cut the moccasin carefully, more carefully than she usually did. She was not fond of sewing or cooking or other domestic tasks. In fact, she wanted No Water to take a second wife so that as sits-beside-him wife, she could supervise the domestic chores instead of doing them and focus on helping her husband make his way. There was plenty a clever wife could do.

She was cutting this moccasin carefully because it was for her Strange Man. Yes, he would always be “My Strange Man” to her. Now the Strange Man was one of the two most honored warriors of many generations of the Lakota.

She handed the two pieces of leather to Plum, the ancient one who was the woman of the sandy-haired man’s lodge. Plum was deaf and dumb and dull of mind, but she could sew if you cut the pieces for her and put the awl and sinew in her hand. And talked to her to keep her from drifting off into the daze she usually lived in.

Black Buffalo Woman’s eyes twinkled when she looked at Plum. She couldn’t help feeling that Plum was the great sign of her victory. The Strange Man wanted no other wife but Black Buffalo Woman. Having
lost her, he lived with his grandmother, and a grandmother who could do almost nothing for him. All but the simplest tasks fell on him. That made Black Buffalo Woman smile.

That’s why the women of the village sat with Plum and helped her sew moccasins and the like. That’s why Black Buffalo Woman, while her band was camped with the Long Face people of Crazy Horse, could seem to be helping Plum while waiting for her Strange Man.

He would be back soon, probably with lots of Psatoka horses. Though not any scalps. She sighed. Well, he would find her making his moccasins.

When she thought of the elk teeth and the other gifts, and his face when he handed them to her, her heart ached.

Turmoil. Black Buffalo Woman always put him into turmoil. She had come to him the first time on the day of Spotted Tail’s supposed hanging and helped him learn love and death together. Whenever he saw her after that, his only awareness was of her. When a smell is that sweet and strong in your nostrils, you suck it in deep and maybe start dreaming, or live as though you’re in a dream.

Crazy Horse touched Grandmother Plum on the shoulder. Though she didn’t seem to recognize him, he was sure she did. He stood there awkwardly before the two women.

“Thank you for helping our
unci
,” Little Hawk said politely.

Crazy Horse was glad his brother had remembered decorum. His heart beat fast—was she making moccasins for him?

“Plum needs to rest now,” said Black Buffalo Woman. “I’ll help her.” She assisted the old woman to her feet and led her toward the lodge.

Was Black Buffalo Woman arranging for them to be alone in the lodge together? Then he took thought. It wouldn’t do for them to be seen entering at the same time. “I’ll be back,” he murmured, head down. “I have something for you.”

The beads were in the parfleche he was carrying, but he needed time.

He walked away from the tipi as though he had a task. He turned his attention inward to Hawk. He felt nothing.

Strange, always strange: When he was around Black Buffalo Woman, he never could feel Hawk. He never knew whether Hawk was comfortable or agitated in her presence. He didn’t know why.

He came back without his brother, as she knew he would. She had built a center fire.

They talked idly for a while:

“How are your children?”

“Very well. Yourself? Your brother? What is the news from the Holy Road?”

“Nothing ever changes.”

This was an intimate remark, coming from him. They traded news and gossip a little, as though they talked to each other often and comfortably. She slipped in the information that No Water was away just now.

Her Strange Man mostly kept his head down, as though he were the one obligated to avoid a meeting of the eyes. She smiled to herself—even smiled openly—and looked him straight in the face, telling him something.

At last he came out with it. “I have something for you. From one of the posts on the Holy Road.” He handed her four strands of beads. White, always useful. The color called chief blue. Sahiyela rose, a muted version of the hue of wild roses. The yellow called fatty yellow. She held them up in the light shafting down from the center hole. “They’re beautiful together,” she said truthfully. “I will make something and wear it in your honor.”

This was brazen. He offered no response. Finally, he glanced sideways at the old woman and said, “I miss you.”

She touched his forearm. He sucked in his breath and drew it back.

She smiled at him, not quite certain. Did he think the old woman saw? Or heard? Everyone knew better. She had a moment’s misgiving. Maybe he was too strange, lived too much in a private world. Maybe he would end up like his grandmother.

No
, she told herself,
no danger
. Her presence gave him strong feelings, she knew, nearly made him intoxicated. He was one of the most honored men among the Oglala. He was a hero, a naive and foolish hero, perhaps, but a hero. And she could make him feel intoxicated.

So she plunged in. “I must tell you something.”

Crazy Horse was horrified. He could scarcely believe it, even of No Water. To steal the bag of her first flow, her offering to the powers of fecundity. To follow her to the plum tree, defy all the spirits, and steal it.

Then the truly incredible part: To use it to have a spell cast upon her. Use it to alter her mind, though not her affections. Use it to manipulate her, control her, dominate her, take over her will.

He had given No Water credit falsely. He thought No Water loved her. But no Lakota usurped the will of a loved person.

And he thought he had lost her. Not so. She had loved him all along, helplessly. He thought she had betrayed him. Not so. No Water had victimized them both.

A picture came to his mind: Black Buffalo Woman being topped by the man she despised, being dominated, being coerced. He obliterated it. Unbearable.

He looked into her eyes. They shone back at him, open, vulnerable. She was telling the entire truth.

He felt shattered.