The Changing Wind (5 page)

“Enough!” called Short Bow. “Now look for the wounded.”

Small Elk now remembered to fit another arrow to his bow.

“Elk! Over here!” Crow shouted.

He turned and trotted toward the sound of her voice. There, her eyes shining, stood the girl, bow in hand, her smile wide in triumph. In front of her lay the carcass of a fat cow elk, an arrow protruding from just behind the ribs. The animal was still kicking feebly.

“Our kill!” Crow called. “That is your arrow. Mine is in the other flank.”

“Are you sure? This is my arrow?”

“Of course! Look at it. I saw you shoot, and the cow turned away toward me. I shot too, and she went down.”

“Good!” Short Bow observed as he passed. “You two have done well.”

Crow was practically jumping up and down with excitement.

“I can hardly wait to tell Bull Roarer!” she exclaimed. “He will be so pleased.”

C
row and Small Elk had excitedly described the hunt, repeatedly and in detail. It was only after the first flush of success had begun to fade that they noticed that their friend was not altogether pleased with their success. Actually, it was Grow who noticed. Bull Roarer listened politely, quietly congratulated them, and lapsed again into silence.

“Aiee
, what a hunt!” Small Elk was still chortling. “My friend, this cow came rushing past; I shot, but could not see where the arrow struck. Then Crow placed her arrow too. You—”

He started to say, “You should have been there,” but suddenly realized the problem. It was an uncomfortable moment, and there had been few such moments in the lifelong friendship of these three.

“Come, Elk,” Crow interrupted the awkward silence. “We must help with the butchering.”

Bull Roarer sat and watched them go. Normally he would have helped too. Normally, of course, the others would have good-naturedly demanded it.

Crow was silent and depressed. They had, in their excitement, failed to realize that their success would only hurt their friend, who could never accomplish such things. He could have helped with such chores as skinning and butchering, but that would only call attention again to his handicap. She could understand Bull Roarer’s fears, and her heart went out to him. He would feel that he was good for nothing but menial tasks.

She could see that Small Elk felt it too, but neither of them spoke. It was an unpleasant thing, this obstacle that had come between them. She felt that they must find a
way to help their friend, not from pity, but from friendship. They had had so many good times during their childhood that it must not be spoiled now. She thought of speaking to Small Elk about it but rejected the idea. She would think of something.

It was only a few days later that another hunt was planned. This would not be an urgent situation, as when the band of elk had suddenly become available. This was a carefully planned foray into the prairie, where a fragment of one of the migrating buffalo herds had wandered close. Small Elk’s father, caped in the sacred white robe that gave the holy man his name, performed the buffalo-dance ceremony at the fire the night before. Hunters sat, meticulously putting finishing touches on their weapons, readying everything for the hunt. It was an important hunt, the first in which the youngsters would take part as fully eligible hunters, ready to prove themselves. There were still a few who had not yet made a kill of large game. Small Elk and Crow, of course, with their success in the elk hunt, carried some degree of prestige.

The morning dawned with a slight chill in the air, mist rising from the stream like a thin white veil of smoke. The hunters were already stirring.

“Come on, Crow,” Small Elk called. “It is time to go. We must not keep Short Bow and the others waiting.”

The girl stood in front of her parents’ lodge, watching the hunters’ preparations.

“You go ahead,” she said. “I will stay here with Bull Roarer.”

Small Elk stared at her for a moment, a mixture of emotions struggling within him. Then he turned on his heel.

“It is good,” he snapped over his shoulder.

Crow knew that it was not. It was bad, all of it. She had been forced into a situation where she appeared to choose between her friends. She was not rejecting Small Elk, her lifelong friend and more recently her hunting companion, but Elk obviously felt her decision as a rejection. In his eyes, she supposed, her staying behind appeared to be a choice of the company of Bull Roarer.
It is not that way
, she wanted to shout at him.
Bull Roarer needs me more, needs us both. We cannot leave him now, in the time of his greatest need
.

The girl watched Small Elk stride away, the hurt and anger reflected in every motion of his body. She had never realized before that one can
walk
angrily, Tears came to her eyes as she realized that his hurt had come between them. It would never be the same again, the easy, happy friendship they had shared. She hurried to a secret place behind the lodges and dried her tears, then ran to the stream to wash her face. She rose, combed out her hair and replaited it, and then went looking for Bull Roarer. She walked along the stream, knowing that he often sought solitude there, away from the camp.

He was seated on the trunk of a fallen cottonwood, idly tossing pebbles into the pool. He looked up irritably.

“You should go,” he said sharply. “The hunters will be leaving.”

“They are gone,” Crow said.

“You are not going?”

“No. What shall we do today?”

Bull Roarer stared at her, first with a puzzled look, then with hurt and anger. She had not been prepared for this.

“Go away!” Bull Roarer almost shouted. “I do not need your pity!”

Crow was silent, fighting back the tears. Now both of the young men were angry at her. She had tried only to help, and was completely misunderstood by her two best friends.

“Bull Roarer, I—”

“Do not deny it. You are here only because you feel sorrow for me.” He struck the crippled leg with his hand. “I can do nothing, with this useless stick. I wish the Head Splitter had killed me that day.”

Crow was angry.

“Of course I feel sorrow,” she snapped at him, seating herself on the log, “because you are my friend. But mostly, you feel sorrow for yourself!”

He looked at her, fighting back the tears.

“Crow, you do not understand. My spirit wishes to do things that my body cannot.”

She sat silent, unable to comment.
Everyone
, she thought,
experiences that sometimes
. But that would be little consolation to Bull Roarer. His limitation was more pronounced, more permanent.

There was a sound of someone approaching, and Crow
turned to see one of the older men of the band, following the path along the stream. She recognized Stone Breaker, who now noticed the two young people on the log. Ordinarily, unless he had something to tell them, he would simply nod and leave them alone. Privacy was always prized and respected. But Stone Breaker came over to sit near them, putting down the bundle he carried. Grow quickly brushed at her eyes, hoping there were no remaining tears. She resented the man’s intrusion.

“Ah-koh!”
he greeted. “May I join you?”

“Ah-koh
, Uncle. Of course,” Crow said politely.

She used the traditional term of address for any adult male older than one’s self, even though she knew Stone Breaker only slightly. Bull Roarer said nothing.

“It is a pleasant day,” the man observed. “Let me see… you are Crow Woman?”

Crow blushed, but the man seemed not to notice. She felt much less resentful now. It was the first time she had been called Crow
Woman
, and the attention was quite flattering. She had begun to notice changes in her body—a swelling and sensitivity in her breasts and the sprouting of hair in places that hinted at her coming womanhood. She was experiencing new emotions, new and strange urges. But she had thought no one noticed except herself. Her parents, maybe, but they had said nothing. Now it was an honor to have her maturity and coming womanhood acknowledged in this way. She sat up straighter, quite aware of the slight pressure of her enlarging breasts against the soft buckskin of her dress.

“Yes, Uncle,” she said self-consciously.

“And Bull Roarer?” the old man asked.

Bull Roarer nodded. Crow wondered if the next question would be why the young man had not gone on the hunt, but it did not come. Stone Breaker seemed not to think of that obvious question but still seemed not to notice the crippled leg. Crow would have thought the man quite dull and nonobservant, except for his obvious powers of perception about her womanhood. He must have some purpose here, but what could it be?

Stone Breaker opened his little pack and took out some flakes of flint, a piece of heavy leather, and a tool made from the tip of an antler. It was fitted with a handle made by wrapping the shaft of the horn with rawhide. He spread
the leather pad over his thighs and studied the flints. Finally, he selected one, a smooth blue-gray flake as wide as two fingers and twice as long. It seemed already partly shaped.

“This is a good place to work,” Stone Breaker said conversationally. “The light is good, and my eyes are not what they once were. My legs, either”—he chuckled.

Crow glanced in concern at Bull Roarer, wondering if the remark had hurt him, but he was busily tossing pebbles into the stream. The girl was still a little surprised at Stone Breaker’s disregard for their privacy. She was now willing to overlook it because of his flattering observation of her womanhood.

Stone Breaker placed the flint on the leather pad across his knee and held it tightly with his left hand. He pressed the antler-tip tool on the flint’s surface, near the edge, and a tiny flake snapped off the stone. He moved the tool a little and repeated the chipping.

Grow was aware that this man had a reputation as a skillful worker of flint. This, of course, was the reason for his name. Some men made their own arrowheads and spear points, but one made by Stone Breaker was highly prized. Her mother used a skinning knife of his workmanship.

He worked rapidly, and an arrow point began to take shape. This would be a fairly large and heavy point, it appeared, a hunting tool, made from the blue native stone that appeared in veins in the softer white stone of the hills.

Now, Bull Roarer too was watching as the shape of the point continued to emerge. Stone Breaker paused to hold it up and examine it for balance and symmetry. He nodded to himself and continued to work. Finally he laid aside his leather pad and tools to stand and stretch.

“Aiee,”
he said, “I become stiff from sitting.”

“May I see the stone, Uncle?” Crow asked.

“Yes, of course,” he said casually. “Would you like to see others?”

Without waiting for an answer, he reached into a small pouch at his waist and drew out a pair of buckskin-wrapped objects, which he unrolled and displayed on his palm. Both were of a stone that was plainly not native to the area, used as a display of Stone Breaker’s craft. Crow knew that this man, like others of the tribe, traded extensively
with anyone they contacted. Meat and robes to the Growers in exchange for corn, beans, and pumpkins. Sometimes people traded even with the Head Splitters during the occasional chance meetings. This trade, Small Elk had said, was the source of such things as the pipestone of his father’s ceremonial red pipe, found far to the north somewhere, in only one place.

Now she saw the two objects in Stone Breaker’s palm. Neither, she suspected, was intended for use, but only to demonstrate the skill of the maker. One was a miniature arrowhead, precise in every detail but so small that it was no bigger than Stone Breaker’s thumbnail, of stone of a dark, lustrous red color, warm in character. The other was an amulet, slightly larger, of rosy pink stone. It was more intricate in shape and seemed to represent a bird in flight.

“They are beautiful!” exclaimed the girl.

Now even Bull Roarer was looking over her shoulder at the objects.

“These are my best work,” Stone Breaker was saying proudly, as he began to rewrap them carefully.
“Aiee
, it is bad that I have no son to teach these skills!”

Crow glanced at Bull Roarer. It appeared that he had not yet figured out the reason for the old man’s unorthodox behavior. She said nothing but resolved to let her friend think this out for himself. What good fortune, that this respected weaponsmaker of such great skill had practically invited Bull Roarer… She felt better than she had in many days, and her heart was not nearly so heavy.