by Joan Grant
“Did you find it, Dorrok?”
“No, very dear, Piyanah. Seventeen years ago I fathered a son. It was my duty to the tribe: a duty like hunting or making a journey to fetch salt, and it was the only duty I have nearly failed to carry out. The girl was frightened of me; I tried to be kind to her, but I could not defeat her terrible docility. I think that if I had told her I was going to cut off her hands she would still have lain there, staring up at me with the same questioning obedience which tried to mask her fear. I have often felt a traitor to the Great Hunters since I learned their laws from you. …”
“You have never been a traitor, Dorrok,” I said gently.
“I killed a doe in the breeding season because I was hungry: the fawn was alive when I slit her belly to gralloch her; it lived until the evening, and then I had to kill it too, so that it should not die for lack of the milk I had stolen. I have driven you and Raki nearly beyond endurance, because I was afraid that the love I felt for you might prove my weakness. I have been proud when I hardened my heart against love, and ashamed when I felt compassion. In so many ways I have betrayed the Great Hunters, but never so deeply as when I took that girl into the woods. I hated her because she would not cry for pity; I was afraid of her because that dumb suffering might make my body refuse to obey the needs of the tribe.
“Later I asked her how she learned such impassivity, and she answered, quite simply, as I might describe a fish-trap or the way to fletch an arrow, ‘There is much less pain in the Choosing than I expected. I need not have driven so many thorns under my nails, nor worn a girdle of porcupine quills under my tunic, if I had known how easy it would be to keep impassive with a man.’ It became a challenge to my pride to break down that impassivity. I tried to give her pleasure, and when that failed, to make her whimper with pain. But she remained obedient, and looked at me with the terrible patient hatred of the squaw.”
“She had a son?”
“Yes,” said Dorrok, “a son who never knew my name: a son she must have hated because he looked like me; a son she was glad to see leave the Squaws’ Tepees for ever. I am glad that she died before he entered the Death Canoe: I should have seen her standing beside the path, smiling as his body was carried to the funeral pyre, smiling because part of me had died too young.”
“Barakeechi was your son?”
“He is my son; and one day, when I have followed the Feathers of the Morning, he will recognize the link between us.
“He knows it already. He loves you, Dorrok, I know he does, as I do.”
He took my hand and held it for a moment between his own, then gently touched the callouses on the palm with his forefinger. “You love me in spite of these? In spite of the scars on your feet where I never spared you on stony trails? In spite of the scar on your shoulder that came from the cliff I knew was too steep for you to climb?”
“Perhaps I love you because of the scars, Dorrok. You made me strong enough to fulfill our promise to my mother, and in loving me you have fulfilled your promise to your son.
“It is a strong bridge that we have made over the Canyon…honour and endurance. …”
“And love, Dorrok.”
“Yes, and love. Without love all bridges must crumble into dust.” Then his voice changed, as though he was still afraid of the warmth of emotion. “But you did not come here to talk about me: it was of the Choosing?”
“Yes, Dorrok. How much do the others know about making children?”
“Very little. I should have told them tonight, or tomorrow, what they must do in duty to the tribe.”
Then I told Dorrok of my plan, and of how Raki and I were not to use the magic until we had been given the Double Headdress.
“Na-ka-chek is a wise man, and you share his wisdom with your own,” he said. “I will tell those who are going to the South with us that they must all attend the Choosing, but only as a formality, in accordance with the laws of the Two Trees. They shall take the squaws into the woods, but only to save them from the Old Women. Tomorrow we will choose a place for the encampment, and build shelters for them to use until we have made new tepees. Gorgi and the others shall hear from me how they must win the right to use the magic, and that to betray it is to betray both the Before People and the Great Hunters. In love they shall be worthy of magic, worthy of becoming the ancestors of a tribe who shall be known as the Singing People, because of them the future generations shall be happy together.”
The Thirty Tribes
This was the year of the Gathering of the Tribes, to which all tribal brothers went with their Chiefs; and, if the distance was not too great, some of the boys, and women to attend the cooking-pots, accompanied them. Na-ka-chek agreed that the only women to go with us might be those who wished to join our future tribe, and now it was their turn to be envied by the squaws who had boasted of the Choosing. Dorrok told us that thirty tribes came to the meeting-place: Braves vied with each other in all kinds of skill and endurance; there would be combats and canoe-racing, and feasts which lasted until dawn coloured the sky.
Raki and I, as sons of a Chief, would attend Na-ka-chek at the Feathered Council, where all inter-tribal disputes were settled. This added to our excitement, for it would teach us much more than we had been able to learn from hearing our own Elders talking at the watch-fire…we might even get ideas for new laws of our own. For the first time we should meet people whose way of life was different from the Two Trees: we must find out as much as possible about their customs and their hunting-grounds, so that we could decide in which direction to seek our place of the corn-growing. Perhaps there were places where the winter was not so long, but a more kindly climate would be no advantage if the neighbouring tribes were hostile, or had Old Women still more ridden by superstition than Nona.
The journey took thirty-one days: it was slow and easy, for we did not start until after dawn and made camp before sunset; we even stopped at noon for a meal, when there was time to rest longer than most of us needed.
One of the Elders, a very old man who seldom moved from the watch-fire, must have found it difficult to keep pace with us, but though I once saw him take off his moccasins, and so knew his feet were covered with open sores, I never saw him limp. I suggested to Raki that we make a litter for him, for he was so thin that he would have been easy to carry even over the steeper tracks, but Raki said he would be bitterly insulted.
Game was plentiful, so the cooking-pots were full. Some of us went ahead towards evening, to collect wood for the fires and have the meat cut into chunks, and the birds ready spitted for roasting over the embers. Instead of the women walking forlornly behind the last file, as ordinary squaws would have done, they kept to the same long stride we had taught them. Young Braves helped them to carry their burdens; salt and corn-meal, and the things we were taking for barter.
When Na-ka-chek saw this, he smiled at me and said, “That in itself is a triumph for you, Piyanah; for a Brave would have stood in hot ashes until his feet charred away, rather than be seen carrying a burden like a woman or a Naked Forehead.”
Fourteen years ago Narrok had come this way, not as a blind drummer, but as the Brown Feather seeking either the Scarlet or the Land beyond the Sunset. He still walked without hesitation if he rested two fingers on the shoulder of the one who went in front of him; usually I stayed with him, so that I could describe the cloud-shadows on the hills, or tell him of flowers I had not seen in our hunting-grounds. Narrok, who saw beyond the world of ordinary vision to the splendour of the West, and who yet was glad of the poor words by which I tried to share with him my sight; a flowering vine that had thrown a blanket of sky-colour over a great tree which had died in battle with the thunder-fires; a dance of insects through a shaft of sun between dark pines; a glowing pool of orchis in the dusk.
The last day of our journey was through thick woods, chiefly of fir and larch, where the pine-needles muffled the rhythm of our march until our two hundred were quiet as a solitary hunter. Raki and I had gone ahead with Dorrok;
suddenly I saw the evening sun burning through the last ranks of trees, which ceased abruptly, as though they were meadow-grass cut by the sickle of the Lord of the Forest. The light was so brilliant after the sombre woods that for a moment I was dazzled; then I saw that the ground fell sharply to a plain, rimmed by hills so regular in outline that it looked like a food-bowl of the gods. Only once were these hills cleft; where a river gushed through a narrow gorge, to throw a coil of water like a sleeping snake across the plain.
Hundreds of fires sent up their smoke to the sky, grey smoke, as though the spirits of the trees had once grown there still guarded the earth which had given them life. I had been prepared to see many people, but had not realized how strange it would be to see hundreds and tens of hundreds; to see, not one cooking-fire, but more than I could count; to see, not one Great Tepee, but nineteen set in a circle round a watch-fire that was larger than a funeral pyre.
Na-ka-chek led us down to the plain. Raki and I walked directly behind him, and we were followed by the Elders and Scarlet Feathers, and then the others came in order of rank…so of course the women came last. Brown Feathers carried my father’s tepee and the Tepee of the Elders; for these, being objects of veneration, increased the stature of those in whose care they had been placed. The tepees were not of double hides, for it was summer, but they had been freshly painted with scenes from the history of the Two Trees: there were pictures of men hunting, of deer and birds, and among these the symbols which only the Elders can understand. Now there was also the story of our victory over the Black Feathers, done in black and red on the right of the opening, so that all would know of our triumph without our appearing boastful. It is courteous for a man to give truthful answer to any question asked by a friend, but only a braggart tells, unasked, a story which increases the lustre of himself or his tribe.
As the Chief’s sons, Raki and I could have shared the Great Tepee with Na-ka-chek, but he wished me to be treated as a Brown Feather, and thought it less probable that I should be recognized as a girl if we stayed with the rest of the tribe. This we were very willing to do, as it greatly increased our freedom.
The camping-ground allotted to us was to the west of the Great Tepees and near the river. Shelters thatched with pine branches had been prepared; this work, I found out later, being the responsibility of the Chief on whose land the Gathering took place. His tribe was much larger than ours and had many Naked Foreheads. Some of these were the sons of enemies captured in battle against the Horned Toad, a tribe which had been exiled from the Brotherhood of Tribes for betraying the Laws of Battle thirty years earlier.
A large stack of firewood had been cut for us, and cooking-stones left in a heap beside it; even a row of freshly filled water-jars had been set ready. After so much hospitality we were not surprised when two Naked Foreheads brought us five reeds, each of six fish, two haunches of smoked venison; and then, as though that were not enough, there was a basket of roasted eggs and a small jar of salt. Salt—and given casually, as though it were an ordinary gift like deer-meat or a blanket!
The camping-ground of each tribe was marked off by poles; decorated with carving, bunches of feathers, or bands of porcupine quills, glued to the wood, the joints covered with coloured leather. It was as though one of the Great Hunters had scooped up a gigantic territory in his hand and let the mountains and plains trickle through his fingers until only the people were left; people so different, yet who, because they were no longer divided by many days’ journey, had become suddenly ordinary. No one expects a stranger to be like himself, but here there were so many strangers, and even their language was difficult to understand. Some had skins much darker than ours, and others were a sickly yellow, as though they had always lived in the dark. The women were stirring the cooking-pots and the Braves were appraising each other and pretending to find nothing extraordinary in the many things which must have been as strange to them as to us.
Instead of wearing the tribal mark only on the forehead, some had patches of colour on cheek-bones or chin, and others had been branded with the tribal pattern on the right shoulder or the base of the throat. How the women who had not come with us would have coveted the ornaments that I saw other squaws wearing! Necklaces of beads larger than a pigeon’s eggs, made of stone in blue or red-earth-colour streaked with white. There were necklaces of shells, and of rare woods intricately carved; forehead-bands of beads or painted leather, or—and these were by far the most beautiful—of feathers which must have come from the breasts of rare and brilliant birds.
Many of the women had spread their blankets on the ground so that the patterns might be admired. Some of these had the blue of a jay and a dark, moss-green woven into them, so I knew there were dyes unknown to us. Our new tunics no longer seemed so splendid: there was finer doe-skin, more elaborate embroidery, than any to be found in our tribe. We could not console ourselves by thinking that as we were a warrior tribe we had no time for decoration; for the Leaping Waters, warriors of great stature and renowned for courage, carried tomahawks whose handles were of the yellow metal that is found in the river from which they take their name and is worth even more than salt in barter. Their belts were studded with it and it hafted their spears; they even wore armlets of the same rich yellow. They bore the scars of many battles, and their thin, proud mouths wore the secret smiles of victors, who are secure that tomorrow’s conflict will provide yet another story to be retold at the watch-fires of their children’s children.
When we saw a tribe who came from the far South, we knew it must be a land where food is very plentiful; for even the warriors were almost fat and laughed easily. Their women were sleek as dormice, with soft voices and small plump hands. They rolled a little when they walked, like pinioned ducks in a hurry. This was the only tribe in which we saw the men take any notice of the women. I saw a squaw bending over a cooking-pot, and a man slapped her on the buttock in a friendly way; she was obviously flattered at this mark of attention, for when he had gone she giggled and the eyes of her two companions were round with envy.
Every night the tribal story-tellers told the legends of their people, and all who gathered to listen were offered smoke or drink. Raki and I shared a cup of something dark and brown in the encampment of the Leaping Waters: it had a hot, bitter taste, and everything I looked at directly afterwards trembled as though in a heat haze. Later, Raki told me that he had felt the same. The stories we heard there were all of battle; the Leaping Waters even claimed to have driven the Black Feathers into the East, though this in the time of the ancestors. We were very doubtful if this were true, for they described them as being twice as tall as ordinary men, and having heads naked as eggs.
“That must be to explain why they haven’t any of the Black Feathers’ scalps,” whispered Raki, and I nodded to show I agreed.
They had brought some other scalps with them, and these were passed round from hand to hand while the audience made noises of admiration or respect. The scalps had red hair, and were so old that the skin was hard as wood. They were supposed to have been taken from very dangerous enemies who came out of the sunset in long canoes more than five hundred years ago, and had the power of turning themselves into fish and escaping by river when pursued.
We listened to every story-teller in turn, hoping that one of them would have news of the Before People. We heard of courage and cunning, endurance and even laughter, but of the wisdom we sought we found nothing. There were the legends of the morning of the world, the same legends as our own, but with decorations that made them fit into the pattern of a different tribal lore; and the story of the first man and the first woman we heard again from a tribe of the south-west, who made pottery finer than I had ever seen…even Minshi would have had to admit that it was better than any he could make.
The last story-teller we heard belonged to the people from the South whom we had seen on our first evening. They were called the Smiling Valleys, and their stories were quite different from the rest. In one, the hero enjoyed sitting
in the sun, having found a magical tree which dropped ripe fruit into his mouth whenever he opened it. In another, a woman was beguiled by a fire spirit, who in recognition of the pleasure she had afforded him, gave her a magic cooking-pot, which was always full of food so pleasing to the men that they were never discontented. Henceforward she had no need to work and could lie drowsing in the shade so long as she never brushed away the fly which settled on her forehead every seven days. The fly was sent by the fire spirit, to remind her that if she forgot to be grateful to him he would ask Great Fly to send a buzzing, biting cloud that would make it impossible for her to sleep even for an instant. It was a happy story, for the woman put a drop of honey on her forehead for the fly, so Great Fly was grateful for this courtesy to his people and told them not to trouble any of her tribe even in the hot weather.
Afterwards Raki and I talked to one of the Smiling Valleys; we were the only strangers at their watch-fire, perhaps because everyone else preferred to hear of killing, and scalps, and blood. Some of his words were different from ours, but not sufficiently so to make it difficult to understand the meaning. They were all very willing to talk about their own country, which lay seventy days’ journey to the south; nor were they ashamed to admit that they, too, were awed at seeing so many strangers at one time and in one place; which made us feel even more friendly towards them.
I knew Raki shared my excitement as we listened. They could not tell us of the Before People, but they had news which was equally important to our future. They never saw snow except on the mountains which sheltered them from the north; their land was so fertile that they could grow three crops in the same year, and fish were so plentiful in their rivers that a hunter need not kill unless he felt inclined. They were proud of their leisure, proud of the smiling weather and their fertile earth; as we were proud that we could challenge the winter, and live through the long moons of cold on the food we had spent the summer storing as a bear stores fat for its winter sleep. There were no Scarlet Feathers among them, but instead of being ashamed they laughed and said, “Why should a man risk death for no reason when life is pleasant?”