Scarlet Plume, Second Edition

by Frederick Manfred

  All the faces around the camp circle turned to look.

  “Thus it is we are known as the Center People. This fire is sacred. We must keep it alive or the Center People of the Dakotas will fail and die away. All the other six Dakota tribes look to us. Many Yanktons have already cut their hair and put on the white breeches of the Bad Talkers. Soon their blood will be lost amongst the whites much as a rain is lost in a lake. When the sun shines again can anyone tell out the raindrops from the waters of a lake?”

  The people sat in front of their tepees as still as wondering jack-rabbits.

  “It is for this reason that the old chiefs of this band have forbidden you the use of the white man’s woolen blanket, the white man’s pipe hat, his breeches pants, his silver spoons, his strange stone plates, his iron needles, his push water, his wagons. It is not for us to like the things of the white man. We belong to the old medicine lodge of the Center People. We are the only ones left of the old Yanktons who live in this manner.”

  Light from the council fire struck the old chief from the side. His shadow going out through the horns of the camp slanted up gigantic into the night sky. The little children sat as still as graven dolls.

  “Your old chiefs have wondered at times if the Yanktons should not return the white man’s iron guns and iron cooking pots. Perhaps He Who Has A Secret Name is angry with us because we keep the iron guns and the iron pots. Perhaps that is why the heart of Bullhead was corrupted. I do not know. I have pondered on this much to myself.”

  A baby began to cry; was immediately silenced.

  “The iron of the white man is a bad thing. He uses it in his wars, not for the game. The white man’s war is just shooting. He shoots his small guns and he shoots his wagon-guns. He kills and kills. When the white man gets mad he wants to kill everyone. There is no honor in it. It is just killing. The Great White Father who lives in a village known as the Washing Town cannot stop it. It goes on and on. White brothers delight in killing white brothers, and red brothers and black brothers. How can this strange thing be? I have thought much about this. It is in my heart that the Yanktons should think of moving farther west. Perhaps the Yanktons should remove to the other side of Great Smoky Water where our brothers the Teton Dakotas have pitched their tepees. Then we can let the white man shoot his big wagon-guns. We will laugh at him because it will be like the bang-bang on a big drum for all the good it will do. It will only make a noise.”

  Farther west?

  “Dear Lord,” Judith thought, “then I’ll never get back to St. Paul.”

  “We do not like to leave the Place Of The Pipestone. It is our old home. It is a good place. It was given to us so that we might protect it for all the red brothers. It will be a bad thing if the white man comes and touches it. The day the white man begins to quarry the pipestone, a hole will be made into our flesh and the blood will run out and we will never be able to stop it. I do not know. We must consider together to see how we can save the old ways of the Yankton council fire. There is much to be thought on. I have said.”

  Whitebone turned and gravely retired to his tepee.

  Deep night came. Cooking fires were allowed to die. Tepee doors were lashed shut. Only the single council fire continued to burn brightly, without smoke.

  Early the next morning there was a nervous cough outside the door. The three males sat up—Whitebone, Scarlet Plume, Two Two.

  “What is it?” Whitebone called. “Who calls? Can you not wait until the tepee fire is kindled?”

  “Bullhead has arrived at the Place Of The Pipestone.” It was Walking Voice, the camp crier. “Bullhead has pitched his tepee beside the Rock Split By Thunder. He is alone. The camp police believe he has refused to offer a sacrifice of tobacco to the Thunderbirds. In ancient times another brave who refused to offer this sacrifice on the Rock Split By Thunder was struck down by the Thunderbirds.”

  Scarlet Plume looked at Whitebone with a slowly darkening face. “My father, here is another bad thing. We did not burn and utterly destroy the goods of this banished one. We did not follow the sacred custom. You see now that he still has a tepee to live in. Soon others will pitch their lodges beside his. Our band will be broken in two.”

  Whitebone sat very still. He scratched the sides of his gaunt old chest.

  There was a clap of thunder to the west of the camp.

  “See!” Walking Voice cried outside. “Already the Thunderbirds utter their displeasure.”

  Whitebone spoke. “Ai, I have failed my people. I could not be cruel to Bullhead. He was a brave man. Aiii.”

  “The Thunderbirds come with many beating wings,” Walking Voice cried. “I see a great wind rising in the west. The smell of rain is not in it. It is a very strong wind. The people must rise quickly and hold down their tepees.”

  Smoky Day, Judith, Tinkling sat up, drew on their buckskins, and rushed outside.

  It was brown out. The front of a line storm had already rushed past overhead. Shreds of a second roll of clouds flew by like arching shrapnel. The butt of the storm, black and unusually high, was but a mile away. The cloud butt was long and narrow. It churned and twisted. It resembled a river hanging upside down in the sky, full of whirlpools and cataracts.

  There was a tick in the earth beneath the cloud butt, then an enormous explosion of zigzagging yellow light.

  All the Yankton women in camp rushed about hammering down the tepee stakes. Even Bullhead, a half mile off to the east, could be seen flying about his tepee. One of the Keepers Of The Center Fire scooped up the red ashes of the council fire and brought it inside.

  “Look,” Two Two cried. “Traveling Hail does a strange thing.”

  Everyone whirled around to look.

  Traveling Hail came out of his tepee walking on his hands, toes pointed to the sky. Traveling Hail had painted a face on the soles of his moccasins while his real face was covered by a mask.

  Scarlet Plume spoke in an awed whisper. “Ahh, I see now that it is my brother who has become the new Contrary. He has fasted and this is what he has seen in his vision.”

  Whitebone looked pleased. “It is a good thing. The Yanktons have been without a heyoka for many moons. Now we have one in our midst who can keep the lightning away. Now we will not need to fear the wrath of the Thunderbirds.” Whitebone threw Scarlet Plume a wily look. “Perhaps soon we will also have a new medicine man.”

  Walking on his hands, Traveling Hail made a complete circle of the camp, going from tepee to tepee.

  The Thunderbirds overhead appeared to be baffled by Traveling Hail’s new medicine. The black butt of the storm came on without further flicker. The Yanktons watched it churn by.

  When it became apparent that the storm cloud would not strike the camp, the women began to trill songs of thankfulness for the presence of their new heyoka.

  The thwarted Thunderbirds, however, did let go with one last flicker of power. Just as the tail of the cloud passed over Bullhead’s single tepee beside the Rock Split By Thunder, the Thunderbirds struck. They threw a yellow spear of fire down Bullhead’s smoke hole. His tepee seemed to explode into bits, then was gone.

  “Aiii!” cried the Yanktons. Many covered their eyes as well as their mouths.

  The Thunderbird cloud drew in its tail and passed on.

  After a time Whitebone sent out the camp police to see what might have been the fate of Bullhead.

  To everyone’s surprise, the camp police returned carrying Bullhead on a litter made out of the remains of his tepee. The camp police carried him to the door of Whitebone’s tepee. They placed him carefully on the grass.

  All looked down at him. A great burn lay across his thigh where the lightning had grazed him. The Thunderbirds had bit off his testicles. Bullhead’s big face was pale, of the color of scorched leather. He was conscious. A piece of hide, burned to a crisp, smoked in his hair. It was all that was left of Angela’s silver scalp.

  Bullhead’s eyes moved slowly from face to face. Finally he saw Whitebone. “My father.�
�� Bullhead’s voice was low, like that of a ghost speaking out of a hole in the ground. “My father, I wish to speak with you.”

  Whitebone sat down beside Bullhead. Whitebone called for his special pipe. He filled and lighted it. He smoked it. All the people watched him in silence. Finally Whitebone held the stem of the pipe toward Bullhead. “Speak, my son. You live. Come straight for the pipe.”

  “My father, the Thunderbirds have spoken to me.”

  “What did they say? Come straight for the pipe. The pipe does not lie.”

  “They said I have done much wrong.”

  “What did they say? Come straight for the pipe. Think of the helpless women and children who await to hear what you have to say.”

  “They said I must change my ways.”

  “What did they say? What did you see? Come straight for the pipe.”

  Bullhead sat up on his litter with a great groan. He took the stem of the pipe between his lips while Whitebone held it. He drew on it. He let out smoke with a gradual, collapsing breath. “My father, my heart is wiped out. I am changed. The Thunderbirds say I must follow the path of a medicine man. Well, there is much to learn. I must pray. I must be purified many times. Perhaps by the time another Moon of Scarlet Plums has come along I shall be a true medicine man. Let the people have patience. Perhaps they will learn to love me. There is much to learn.” Bullhead fell back on his litter exhausted. The big purple burn on his thigh began to bleed.

  Whitebone stood up. “Yanktons, a great thing has come to pass. The man who was once known as Bullhead has changed hearts. Therefore he must be given a new name. From this time forth let him be known as Center Of The Body. Yanktons, once again we are a complete People Living In The Center Of The World. Yanktons, let us take the morning bath of purification and begin the new day. Groom the head. Let there be no lice. I have said.”

  That same day, when the sun was halfway down the slope of the afternoon, Smoky Day fell on her face in the grass. She had been about to bring in the sleeping robes for the night.

  Tinkling, who was with her, immediately began to wail.

  Judith rushed to Smoky Day’s side. So did Scarlet Plume and Whitebone. Together, and gently, they rolled Smoky Day over on her back. Smoky Day still breathed but her eyes were closed. As Judith leaned over her, she caught a whiff of rotting flesh. It was the first time she had noticed the smell on her. She had often wondered how Smoky Day managed to keep smelling so young. Among the white people an old woman often smelled like the inside of a pisspot.

  Scarlet Plume gave Smoky Day a smile full of the warmest love. His single scarlet feather wiggled as he spoke. “Where does it hurt thee, Old Woman Of The Lodge?”

  “My breath departs.” Smoky Day’s whisper seemed to come from behind and above them. “This is my die day.”

  “Open your eyes, old mother.”

  “My eyes have seen enough.”

  “Come, you are the mother of my mother. I wish to look upon your loving eyes once more.”

  “My sons, remove to a new camping site. Do not think of me. I do not wish to be a burden to you.” Her old twig fingers threshed lightly on her buckskin dress. “I am an aged tree. My branches are all knocked off. Not even the Thunderbird cares to alight on my stumps.”

  “We will never leave you behind to die alone. Come, open your eyes.”

  “My eyes have finished with their work. They will never see again. I choose to fall asleep in this sacred place. I have spoken.”

  Presently, as they all waited, He Who Has A Secret Name permitted her one more lingering breath, and Smoky Day was dead.

  It fell to Judith to dress the body in a new white doeskin tunic. In so doing Judith found the cause of the strange rotting stink. A big sore, the size and shape of a rose blossom, ran pus at the root of one of Smoky Day’s paps. It was the same pap the baby Born By The Way suckled. Judith recognized the sore as a cancer. Judith placed the dressed body in a tanned robe, then wrapped the whole with an untanned hide secured by thongs. Smoky Day’s favorite bone awl was buried with her. Scarlet Plume meanwhile cut a lock from Smoky Day’s whitening hair and rolled it up in a spirit bundle. The spirit bundle was placed on a special tripod at the back of Whitebone’s lodge, the place of honor.

  Scarlet Plume built the burial scaffold and together with the family gave Smoky Day’s body to the power of the sky. Both Scarlet Plume and Whitebone scarified themselves and cut off part of their hair in mourning.

  All the Yanktons wept. The harsh cries of the braves were like the screams of eagles: “Eeee. Eeee!” The strident shrieks of the squaws were like the yowlings of wild wolves: “Owooh! Owooh!” Even the children screeched in sorrow: “Iiii! Iiii!” Yankton tears glistened in the green grass.

  What happened next stunned Judith. Whitebone not only gave away all of Smoky Day’s belongings, he also gave away all of his own, everything, because she was of his family. While two drummers boomed out the slow Giveaway Dance and certain young braves bird-stepped around the drummers in a circle, the women of needy families came by, one by one, to take the gifts from his hand: tepee, lodgepoles, robes, armor, bedding, stores of food, clothes, moccasins, until at last Whitebone, except for the old shiny breechclout he wore, stood naked and alone in the grass. Receiver as well as giver wept unashamedly.

  Finally even Judith wept. But she wept for another reason. She had just then come to appreciate fully the meaning of what was done at Blue Mounds when Whitebone went through his village to make sure that the lowliest and poorest of the Yanktons had sufficient to eat, heaping fresh meat and new buffalo skins upon them until they had even more than he did.

  “Where does the red man come from,” she cried aloud, “that he gives instead of takes?”

  No one answered her.

  She thought, “The white man and the red man will never, never get together. One or the other has got to go under.” She shook her head sadly. “I see it coming. The givers shall all be destroyed. Even if there were to be deliberate intermarriage, a mingling of the bloods, the giver shall still be wiped out. It is apparent that the white man’s stronger God loveth the cheerful taker.”

  The two drummers struck a new beat, quicker, happier. As if to show that even the needy and the unlucky also had their code of giving, a foursome of the very poorest squaws went about the village retrieving most of Whitebone’s possessions, not Smoky Day’s, and returned them to him. The brown faces of the four poor squaws glowed from within, their black eyes sparkling with happiness at what they were doing.

  It bewildered Judith even more. “What fools you are,” she cried aloud again. “This is the very thing that will surely destroy you.”

  Scarlet Plume moved in the grass beside her. “You do not consider this a good thing?”

  “All I can say is, Jesus Christ himself must have been an Indian. Give, and it shall be given to you. Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon the earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal, but give to him who hath need. No wonder Theodosia came to love the red man.”

  Later a woman’s society known as the One Only Wives held a feast. Smoky Day was one of those who all her life had been with only one man and thus was an honored member.

  6

  The Yanktons obeyed Smoky Day’s request and removed to a place known as Where Part Of The River Turns Through A Red Cut In The Land. Judith called the place simply Dell Rapids. A fork of the River Of The Double Bend ran through a deep and beautiful red rock gorge. In one turn the red gorge widened out and formed a natural amphitheater. The amphitheater had a sandy floor and made a perfect spot in which to hide a village. The stream ran slow and clear, and formed many pink swimming holes. The looming columnar walls of the amphitheater were covered with grapevines and scarlet sumac. Plums grew in wild profusion both on top and along the bottom. Farther along, where the amphitheater shaped off into a narrow gorge again, the Yanktons sometimes used the west wall for yet another Buffalo Jump.

  Judith was out gathe
ring ripe plums when she became aware that “those” had at last come upon her. She let go a big relieving sigh. “Thank God I am not mother again.” By her reckoning she had been a good week overdue. She had had the whites quite bad the last few days and these she had heard always preceded conception. It had happened the time she’d had Angela.

  “All that awful work done to me must have thrown them off. Well, they’re here and thank God for that at least.”

  She put aside the parfleche of plums and gathered a lapful of cattails from a swampy spot upriver. She would catch the flow with their tender fluff.

  When Judith returned to Whitebone’s lodge she said nothing about her “those.” According to strict Yankton taboo she was required to retire to a retreating lodge or menstruation hut. She made up her mind she was not going to conform to this. She would be obedient to the old chief in some things but not in this. She was from St. Paul, where women knew how to handle “the curse” and still be free like men. The Yankton taboo in this matter belonged back even before the time of the Old Testament. She would cover her “those” with the perfume of juices squeezed from wild flowers. At night she would so arrange it that Whitebone would not find out. Somehow for five nights she would avoid his nosy hands.

  She spent the evening getting water, washing out the cooking pot, and mending moccasins. She made a point of presenting a face without guile. The corners of her lips would not give her away. She was the dutiful, seemingly pregnant wife interested in keeping her nest neat and orderly.