The Changing Wind (26 page)

This began a time when there was no clear warrior leadership in the band. The skill of Hump Ribs was in the area of diplomacy and in planning the seasonal moves. But no warrior rose up to lead the hunts or to lead the defense against the Head Splitters as Short Bow had done. The Southern band receded in numbers again.

They continued to encounter that dreaded enemy. There were few episodes of open warfare, but the enemy subchief Gray Wolf was a constant threat. At their chance meetings, he was boastful, insulting, and obscene. It was apparent that there could be no hostilities in such encounters, and secure in this knowledge, he had made open threats at each opportunity. This harangue was expected. It was irritating, sometimes infuriating, but no one ever made the mistake of starting open warfare, which would risk the lives of women and children.

Hump Ribs developed the knack of avoiding confrontation where possible. This brought scorn from the Head Splitters and a reputation for timidity on the part of the Southern band. There seemed little doubt, however, that it prevented bloodshed.

It did not, of course, prevent the sporadic raids which struck terror in the hearts of the People. At any opportunity, it seemed, Gray Wolf would swoop down on unsuspecting hunters or unsupervised children. He and his followers delighted in the opportunity to terrorize and kill and kidnap. Always, if possible, a mutilated survivor was left to tell the tale. The constant threat of kidnapped children revolved around the beauty of the women of the People. Small girls would soon be beautiful young women, to become slave-wives of their captors or sold to others. Boys were more trouble than gain to their captors, and their usual fate was a single blow with a war ax.

To avoid this danger to the children, Hump Ribs led his Southern band in new directions on unpredictable migrations. Some seasons they managed to avoid the depradations of the Head Splitters entirely. At other times, they blundered into frequent contact for a season. It was a dangerous game, this run-and-hide.

White Buffalo thought about it often. Short Bow, he
knew, would disapprove. He had always been one to stand and fight But Short Bow was dead, and there were few warriors who demonstrated his type of leadership. It was not that Hump Ribs was a bad leader. On the contrary, he was very good. But sometimes White Buffalo thought that it would be good to have someone like Short Bow as a leader in the hunt and against the Head Splitters. Such a man could work well with Hump Ribs. But none came up through the Rabbit Society.

In truth, Gray Wolf and his followers killed so many young men over a few seasons that there were not enough husbands. Multiple marriages had always been known among the People, but were not common. Usually, a wife might take in a widowed relative as a second wife for her husband and to help in the lodge. More wives than two were rare. Now, however, several lodges had three or four wives. Something must be done for the women without husbands, and this had always been the way of the People.

“Maybe you should take another wife,” suggested Crow Woman to her husband.

White Buffalo was astonished.

“Wh-what?” he blurted.

“A second wife. Maybe she could bear you a child. There is Gray Fox, who has lost her husband. She is pretty.”

“No!” White Buffalo was firm. “No, I will not think of it.
Aiee
, woman, she would not know the chants and the drum cadence. What good would she be?”

Crow Woman smiled to herself. That was the answer she had sought. If he had wished it, she could have tolerated such an arrangement, but she was pleased with her husband’s response.

As for White Buffalo, there was only one choice. What Crow suggested was unthinkable. Not the living arrangement—that could be made tolerable, except for the fact that a newcomer would be an outsider. She would be unskilled in the knowledge of the medicine that he and Crow shared. That was not the main obstacle. He could not tolerate the idea of what another child in the lodge would do to Crow. If it were their own, his and Crow Woman’s, it might possibly take the place of the happy child that they had had for a few short seasons. But to watch Crow as she tried to accept the child of another woman, yet from the loins of her husband? He knew that he could never do that to her.

Meanwhile, as these things occurred among the People, the years fell behind, marked only by pictographs on the story-skins, lines in the faces, and graying hair. It had happened so quickly. One day, it seemed to White Buffalo, they were young, and their lives were ahead, the years full of expectation. Then one day he realized with some surprise that they were growing old, and their lives were no longer ahead, but behind. He could not say when it happened. There had been no middle years, it seemed. Even more puzzling was the discovery that there had been no dividing summit. Somehow, he thought, there should have been a sort of recognition of having crossed the hilltop and started down the slope. He was not ready for the Other Side, the crossing over of the spirit; even this life was such a mystery. There were young and old, and surely there had been a day when the change had happened. When had it been, and how had he missed it?

He knew that it was past because the aching of his joints on cold mornings reminded him. His step was not as quick and sure, though he could still perform the ceremonial dances. It was frustrating to have a young mind in a body that was beset by the ravages of time. Crow Woman, who was now past her child-bearing years, was still beautiful to him. The woman who had warmed his bed in their youth still did so. The sensation of shared warmth under the robes was still thrilling and exciting. For a little while they were young again, their blood racing faster and making them forget the tragedy and disappointment that life had brought.

White Buffalo thought sometimes about passing on the heritage of the buffalo medicine. The knowledge, the skills, the cape itself, as his father had done before him. It was easy to postpone such things. In the early years, he had expected to pass the calling to his son. Or, perhaps, to his daughter. There were respected holy women among the People. White Moon had shown promise… but that was gone now. White Buffalo wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. He was sitting alone on a hill near the camp, where he loved to go and meditate. He thought again of the years when he and Crow had thought,
Surely this year there will be another child
.

In that way, year after year, he had postponed the decision about his medicine and who would be the next holy
man of the Southern band. Now it was time to face the question. There was no single event which had brought him to this way of thinking but a series of things. He had finally accepted that Crow could not bear another child. He refused to consider a child by a new wife. And now, while he still had some good years, he must find a successor. There was time to do so, but the seasons flew past much more swiftly now than in his youth. Yes, he must begin his search.

He told Crow Woman of his decision that night as they settled in, snuggled under the robes against the crisp autumn chill.

“I am made to think,” he observed casually, “that I should find someone to learn my medicine.”

She looked at him seriously in the flickering light from the fire.

“Are you not feeling well?”

“What? Oh, yes… I am well. But we are no longer young.”

“We are not old, either.” She cuddled against him suggestively. “I will show you.”

He smiled at her.

“Sometimes my bones tell me otherwise.”

Both chuckled.

“But, Crow,” he went on, “it takes time to learn the dances, the ceremonies, the medicine of the plants.”

“Yes, I well remember,” she mused.

“So,” he continued, “I must find an apprentice.”

“What will you do?” she asked.

“I do not know. What do you think?”

“You could watch the Rabbit Society.”

“Yes, that is good. You watch too. First, the child must have the gift of the spirit. But it is also necessary to have the interest. Also, most important, he must be willing to make the sacrifice… take the responsibility for the demands of such a life.”

“He… or
she?”
Crow Woman asked mischieviously.

“Well, yes. But a young woman would have even more sacrifices to make. She would have to take avow of chastity or wait until her years of child bearing are over.”

This was a delicate area, and he hated to go into it. Crow’s fertile years were barely past, and he thought the subject might be painful to her. Then he saw the mischief
in her eyes. He seized her and tickled her in places that he knew would provoke a response.

“Stop!” She giggled. “I only meant that—”

“Of course,” he said more seriously as they settled back down. “I should look for women also who would make good apprentices.”

“There is a girl I have seen,” Crow said thoughtfully. “She seems wise beyond her years. She reminds me…” She paused a moment. “No! I know! Do you remember a young man called Mouse? I think he is a nephew of Stone Breaker, on Cattail’s side.”

“Maybe,” White Buffalo answered. “A thin, muscular boy, big ears and a sharp nose.”

“Yes,” laughed Crow. “Mouse!”

“I remember him. A quiet young man. It is good, Crow. We will watch him.”

“Could I ask Cattail about him?”

“Of course. But do not say why. No one must know what we are seeking.”

“Not even Cattail? Stone Breaker?” Crow asked in wonder.

“No. It must not be. Would I try to choose an apprentice for Stone Breaker?”

“No, my husband. But, he already has one. Their oldest son.”

“Oh? I did not know. Well, it is good. Stone Breaker too sees the need to choose an apprentice.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But he is no older than you, and you can still warm my bed,” Crow said seductively.

She cuddled against him, and White Buffalo forgot the urgency to select an apprentice. They were young again, and in love.

M
ouse seemed a likely prospect. White Buffalo observed the youngster in the activities of the Rabbit Society. It was easy to do. There were always a few adults watching the instruction, cheering the children on. As they learned the skills of the hunt, the use of weapons, and the simple athletic skills of survival, it was possible to observe and estimate the potential of each.

And the potential of the one called Mouse did seem great. He was calm and mature in his approach, well liked but not an obvious leader. His range of skills was impressive, from his use of the bow to his well-coordinated speed in swimming. Yes, thought White Buffalo, this one will do to watch. Whenever opportunity offered, the holy man made his way to the activities of the day and sat to observe. Sometimes he chuckled to himself at a particularly clever triumph of someone, especially Mouse. Each day he was more certain.

There were also indications that the young man might have the gift of the spirit; at least, he seemed to have wisdom and insight beyond his years. It was something that could be nurtured, encouraged as it grew. If, of course, Mouse wished to do so. The youth appeared to be about fourteen or fifteen summers. There were few things that were notable about his appearance. He was neither tall nor burly in build but rather short and slender. His muscles were well defined, however, and his strength was deceptive. The large ears and pointed features made him appear rather comical, and the name he bore was quite descriptive. However, White Buffalo soon saw that here was a young man who would some day be taken quite seriously. There were leadership qualities behind that seriocomic face. While the appellation Mouse fit his description
quite well, it had no correlation at all with the youth’s spirit. Some day, thought White Buffalo, this one would outgrow that name and shed it as the snake does its skin. Little did the holy man realize that he would witness the event that caused such a change.

It was a warm day, early in the Moon of Falling Leaves. The word had been passed that soon the band would move to a wintering area, but a specific day had not been chosen. There was still good hunting, the weather was uncommonly fine, and the temptation to stay a little longer was great. There had been no contact with the Head Splitters this season, so it was a great surprise when the enemy came.

White Buffalo was sitting on the slope outside the camp, watching several young people practicing with the bow. Primarily, he was watching the quiet demeanor of the one he had begun to think of as his successor. The one called Mouse was active and skilled in this game. His arrows were usually in or near the white spot at the center of the grass-filled target-skin. Still he was quiet and unassuming, though confident. Of the six or eight others, two were young women. Naturally, there was some flirtatious courting going on, and White Buffalo smiled in amusement. He leaned back against a massive sycamore and closed his eyes, soaking in the comforting warmth of the sunlight. It seemed to help the stiffness in his joints to warm them in this way. He dozed off for a moment.

“You are next, Mouse!” someone called. “See if you can beat Red Hawk’s shot!”

White Buffalo stirred and opened his eyes. He wanted to see this shot and to take a vicarious pride in the skill of his pupil. Of course, Mouse was hardly his pupil yet. He had not even approached the boy about such an apprenticeship. He must do so soon, maybe during the journey to winter camp. That would give Mouse a chance to consider as they traveled. Yes, he would speak to the young man soon.