Love to Water My Soul (Dreamcatcher)

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  “Tomorrow she will go out and gather purple and yellow shooting stars. She will fill her arms with small blossoms. Their slight fragrance will become hers. Tomorrow, her hair will sparkle not with the pollen of cattails but with the tiny yellow beads of Shooting Stars woven into her braids, seeking their place.” Murmurs, then silence. “I present to you Shooting Star,” he said, holding his hand over Wren’s head. “The wind will whisper her name, but you may say it loudly so all will know. Shooting Star. A flower that blooms early in spring, covers the grassy ravines with its purple, bobs its head low to the ground, brings brightness and direction, announces spring.”

  His voice dropped, finished, at the end.

  Shooting Star glowed. With Thunder Caller’s head nod, she began around the circle, without her usual dance of tapping and washing. She stood taller. People waved at her and smiled, gathered her good fortune into themselves. Did anyone notice her new power—or loss of it—to move without the dance?

  She selected presents, then, from the basket pile. An obsidian wehe was given to Thunder Caller both as headman and for his help. On tule mats spread before her, Sunmiet laid out seed necklaces, doll’s spoons, string figures, tule toys of horses and men, reed and sagebrush candies for the children. She handed a warm rabbit blanket to Grey Doe and another to Grey Doe’s sister, who lived without a name except for how she related to another.

  I caught a smile on that old one’s face as she rubbed the soft fur against her thin cheeks. Flake suddenly lunged for the sister’s blanket and pulled on the skin. Grey Doe swatted at his nose with her good hand in rescue of her sister. Laughter followed as the big dog let go, and I saw him for the first time with his tail low between his legs.

  Oytes said to the gathering, “You scare off your suitors, Grey Doe, with that wicked one-hand hit.”

  “Who would want so weak a man he can’t fight off an old woman?” she answered back, adding to the laughter.

  A second obsidian wehe appeared in the hands of Standing Tall, who allowed a smile to cross his face as he looked down on little Wren, upon special Shooting Star.

  Thunder Caller’s voice rang out the names of people receiving distinctive namaka so all would notice and themselves be honored for accepting them, but more, so Shooting Star gained honor for their having been received. Namaka for the cooks working on the feast were set aside.

  Wuzzie heard his name called, and he hobbled forward to receive a tiny wehe from Lukwsh, one for him to slice his dried herbs and divide his medicines. He nodded at Shooting Star. “You will be a pretty flower at the festival,” he said, patting her head. Both his blue eye and brown eye fell full on her face and washed her with gentle affection. His bony fingers held the small knife. He looked like a father accepting the first kill of his son, and I believed he had forgiven Wren for not staying with the river.

  “Time to eat,” Grey Doe shouted, in charge now. “Then more to give away in honor of my granddaughter, Shooting Star.”

  Grey Doe stood with effort, throwing herself forward, her weak arm dragging behind her. She started her waddle toward the wickiup where the smells of roasting ducks put water in our mouths. She carried one end of her sister’s new blanket.

  I shifted with the crowd and tried not to show my disappointment, blinking quickly so no one would notice my eyes floating in tears. I understood. It is only what I deserved: Lukwsh’s change of heart.

  The strength of Thunder Caller’s voice stopped people in their shuffle toward food.

  “There is another who will receive a name this day.” People turned back and looked about.

  I was invisible, could not be seen. My heart pounded in my head. Would it be my turn to bear a face flushed with joy, my place to be accepted with a family and a given name?

  Thunder Caller boomed out loudly for all to hear. “Lukwsh chooses a new name for the tibo, Asiam. The wind will know her as Thocmetone, Shell Flower. It is the name carried by our sister Sarah Winnemucca, who is of two worlds now. Asiam will be known as Thocmetone by the wind, one who rides in the white world and one who rides with the people.”

  Grey Doe had swung herself around at Thunder Caller’s words. But before she could return like a raging bull elk, he added what could not be taken back.

  “Lukwsh claims her as her own. She belongs nano, together, with this family.”

  He finished and walked with swift legs to the food.

  Grey Doe’s eyes bore holes into Lukwsh, and she hissed, “Does Thocmetone know you give her name away while she lives? To white dung?”

  Lukwsh’s calm eyes faced forward. She did not turn to Grey Doe’s glare. “She knows and is honored.”

  Lukwsh began to hand out items she had set aside, an act that pulled people back from the food. A precious Hudson’s Bay blanket and a soft hug from Lukwsh went to Thunder Caller, dried fish for Oytes, more for Buck Brush, a rabbit rope for Stink Bug. A soft deer hide that smelled of Sunmiet was handed to Grey Doe, who snorted at the namaka but then took it as Lukwsh knew she must.

  Shooting Star bounced happily about, handing gifts and trinkets without a twinge of jealousy for sharing her naming with me. I gave out smaller baskets, some with flower designs woven into them, some marked like snake skins. I saved my treasure for last.

  My eyes caught Lukwsh’s, and she nodded. Amid the activity so as not to bring notice, I handed Shard the work of my hands.

  The decoy was made of the skin of one of his ducks, caught in nets with the help of Flake. I had stretched the skin over the tule frame, stuffed it with cattails, tied the bill, and made it with all the tenderness my hands could give. I believed it had value because Lukwsh admired it. It would be precious if Shard accepted it in honor of my name.

  The usual pause was followed with his words, “You have done well, little one.” His hands brushed mine as he lifted the decoy from my fingers. “It is as good as I have seen.”

  He turned the decoy over in his wide hands, honored it with his touch.

  Before I had the courage to look up at him, let the warmth of his words fill me up, I heard Thunder Caller shout out, “One more gift.” A crumb of fried bread dribbled from his chin.

  People watched in silence.

  Again Lukwsh nodded her head and I approached, heart pounding. She handed me a large basket I recognized as one she filled late in the night when she thought us all asleep. She whispered to Thunder Caller, who announced the recipient.

  “For Wuzz-ie!” he shouted. “In honor of the nabawici child Lukwsh now calls her own.”

  My eyes lowered in respect as I handed the little man a burden basket wide at the top, coming to a point at the bottom. It stood almost as tall as he but was as light as a wada seed for it contained dried herbs and leaves. Cusick’s sunflower for coughs, spider flower for fevers, some black tree lichen brought by Sunmiet and stuffed into the basket to be boiled to ease the aches of old bones. Wide leaves of rattlesnake plantain for treating boils and some wild lichen for bruises and even wild iris for toothaches lay deep in the dark basket. Lukwsh had even placed morning glory inside, and I understood now why she giggled when she did: the ground-crouching plant was a fine hair tonic, something Wuzzie’s bald head would force him to give away.

  Lukwsh had gathered these herbs and saved them from her travels between her first people and these, used them sparingly. Her gift was precious beyond measure, and she had given it for me.

  Wuzzie’s spider-like fingers reached deep into the basket and pulled out soft leather bags. He rubbed the herbs and leaves inside between his fingertips. He sniffed at the tiny buds and took a long time touching and smelling each bag. His eyes gave away his desire.

  And then I thought I understood what secrets Lukwsh knew that gave her power: she knew his need, his greed. He had exposed himself to her and now would have to accept me and my new name if he wished to take away the basket.

  It was an error in understanding, one not corrected until I was older and had been sent away. But on that day, I believed Wuzzie would
be more powerful if he had never bared his inner being, kept who he was wrapped up tighter than twists of horsehair ropes. It was something to be remembered, how Lukwsh looked into him and, knowing who he was inside, stripped him of a small petal of his power.

  Wuzzie turned from me and said loud enough for all to hear. “I found this Asiam and traded her away. This was a mistake a wise man learns to say out loud.”

  My ears burned and I felt a flutter in my stomach. Wuzzie praising me, saying he had made a mistake in trading me?

  “I should not have traded you but left you,” he said, glaring, “so you would not be influenced by Lukwsh’s strange wisdom. But I did not,” he raised his fluttering voice to head off murmurs, “so the spirits will know you as Shell Flower now, Thocmetone.” Beneath his breath so only I could hear, he added, “But they will also know—as I do—who you really are.”

  My eyes searched for Lukwsh, to see if she was pleased he had accepted my name or angry that his words threatened to dishonor her gift. My own mind wore confusion wrapped in his stinging phrase.

  Lukwsh spoke to the crowd. “I am happy Wuzzie has accepted the child I take as my own.”

  I understood then that he had accepted what he must if he wished to take the basket. He honored the spirit of the gift if not me, and Lukwsh returned the honor. I was proud of her wise thinking, that she had again shown there always is a way.

  But before I found her eyes to thank her, Wuzzie added final stinging words.

  “You must not think you are so special, Asiam,” he said for all to hear. “You are simply equal to the value of old leaves no longer attached to where they belong.” He let some of the herbs from the basket drift from his fingers. “You are set apart from what gives life. Decayed. You do not deserve what honor has been given you.” He smiled then, that quick one that left pain. “You are traded again, this time for things dead. Perhaps these leaves speak of your future.”

  People talked at once, too mixed up for me to understand. Lukwsh raised her voice, Grey Doe shouted, even Shard had words to say. His eyes flashed, his mouth twisted in anger, but I did not know if at Wuzzie or at me. Thunder Caller interrupted, gained control over his people if not the flush of my face.

  “A name has been given as a sign that a child is precious to another. Gifts given and received. She will be held now in another’s mind with that name. That is the way with our people. Nothing can take away Shell Flower’s name from the wind nor the love in which it was given. This name-giving is finished. Let us eat.”

  Thunder Caller earned his blanket and the wehe he received that day. And by the force of Thunder Caller’s words and the power of Thunder Caller’s presence and the honor of the headman’s position as speaker for the giving, Wuzzie raised no more objections.

  Grey Doe turned her sour face inward to add to what lived there. And so we ate and finished the feast with the scamper of small children racing over the gifts and toys, chewing balls of sagebrush ooze that turned their gums black. They devoured everything laid out for them as hungry dogs consume a squirrel.

  Near the end of the feast, I squeezed in beside Sunmiet holding her baby in its board. With a gentle finger I pushed the little ring with its crisscross of sinew hanging from the rose brace. My heart with force turned to happy things, dreams of my own.

  “You will have to come with Lukwsh sometime to visit us at Tlhxni,” she said. “Little Owl will be older and more fun to play with.” She let me push the dreamcatcher. We watched the feather flutter in the wind. “Many gather there to fish. It does not matter who you are or where you come from or what your name is. You will be welcome while the salmon run.”

  “Standing Tall …?”

  “His surface is hard, but he scratches easily,” she said. “He is angry with some Paiutes, those who stole and raided in the war. He lost friends when they came over the hills, killed a kasa who could not outrun their arrows. He does not believe those warriors were mostly from the Nevada country. He thinks Lukwsh is foolish to stay with these people when her man has died. He thinks she should come home.”

  She looked up and led my eyes to Lukwsh, gently stroking Wren’s hair as they talked, their faces close to each other. “But Lukwsh has found her place here where she gave her heart to a Paiute and his children, had one of her own. He was kind, always kind, that man.” Her eyes drifted away, and I wondered if she wished for such kindness in her life.

  “Standing Tall even scowls at my people,” she continued. “Lukwsh’s people, who have been where we live since the beginning.” She laughed, fluttered her long eyelashes. “And he says he dislikes tibos too, that our spirit man, Queahpama, is right about not dancing with whites.” So she too had heard of the strange dance, the one that threatened to harm tibos but bring the people all together. “But he has learned not to stop my friendship with them, especially one hitse.”

  I thought she spoke of Lukwsh until she added, “She is like my partner, that one who lives along the packtrail where we fish. But only my friend. Standing Tall does not like her.”

  “A white woman summers with you?”

  “Jane Sherar does not live at Tlhxni where the river rushes sideways in a rope-like falls,” she corrected. “Not yet. But like us, she feels it. That river is a part of her. None of us lives there all the time. We come to fish.” She motioned her hand to the north. “It is that way, off the road they call Military Highway. We took that trail from Warm Springs to Canyon City to ride here.”

  My mind wandered with her words. She had taken the north highway, the one my eyes had gazed toward since coming to the lakes. She weathered the ways and names of white people and had seen a place they lived differently than in the wickiups of the people.

  “If I looked for a certain tibo,” I asked, hesitation in my words, “I could find them? Along the road?”

  “The agents do not keep their word about providing tools or blankets to us,” she said. “Most leave the reservation for food. A man named Huntington tried to trick us and took land in return for rag papers.” She shook her head once as if agreeing with herself. “We take care of our own.”

  “If I wished to find a tibo …” I persisted.

  She turned her body to me, gave me her full attention. “If you came with Lukwsh to visit, you might meet her, my friend. She would make you not afraid to be an owl, which is what you are. Never be afraid of what you are, or you will give away the power to change it into what you want to be.”

  Her words floated over my head but drifted back in years later. That day I wanted only to know what hope I had for searching, so I told her what I remembered of it, the day the wagons rattled away. When I finished, she shook her head.

  “Not without a name,” she said. “White people give no meaning without one, two, three names. More names means more power. All their scratchings on paper command only if they mark their names there. They make some up and change them. Most do not remember who had a name before them, which kasa first wore it so any can know who are cousins. To find a certain white person without a name.” Her voice trailed off, and she raised her hands to the air and lifted her fingers to the sky.

  “Something that belonged to them,” she said, “paper marking land or a likeness they call photograph. Maybe a trinket. Or knowing where they came? Where they traveled to? You have none of these?”

  I shook my head. A twinge of sadness walked across my heart for the lost necklace, the lost people who were my own. Snow had fallen before I healed enough to search that year I fell. Each spring since had not revealed my treasure basket or any link to a disappearing wagon.

  “A pup never belongs to a litter if he is always wandering to other places. Others get his share of food. You have a family now and a special name. Perhaps you can search here to find where you belong.”

  That night I slept and dreamed of flowers, of fish jumping in the twists of a wild river, of talking with owls. It was a dream of changes and journeys to faraway places. I traveled alone. I saw buildings of stone, green le
aves lining long lava caves, people with pale faces shuffling about. I arrived there tired, trying to find the reason. My heart pounded from the effort of my search. My chest filled with a warmth I imagined might be like puhagamni, having powers, made me wonder when I would discover mine.

  I awoke alert, the dream fresh in my memory, and I tied it into my string of knots.

  I had a day dream, too: a new name and people willing to claim me. A sister now to share my thoughts with and my hope; a woman who made obsidian wehe who stood for me and let me think of her as mother; an invitation to visit Sunmiet and ride on the military trail. And the joy of the flower festival yet to take away Wuzzie’s distant words of pain.

  My treasure basket was full, and I had dreams to make it overflow. I didn’t know then that what we dream of is not always meant to be.

  THE EIGHTH KNOT

  CHANGE

  Stomach pains and cramps began in the night and woke me. Something wet and sticky remained on my mat when I made my way outside toward the private place. A star fell from a sky as black as Flake’s fur. I ached all over. Stumbling back to my mat, I noticed a strange smell coming from me. Twisting and turning took up much of the night. I finally found my stomach twisted less when I pulled my knees up, and I wondered for a moment whether Wuzzie had put something in my food to make me ill.

  “You have begun your flow, na?” Lukwsh said in the morning after scooting Shard and Stink Bug and even Wren out the flap. Red streaks on my mat were her answer.

  I had heard of such things and had seen Lukwsh go with her friends to willow wickiups built for this purpose and remain five days. She seemed to find pleasure in the time away. I could too, if it had not fallen on the day of the flower festival.

  “Vanilla Leaf. We will ask her to go with you,” Lukwsh said. “There are usually three the first time.”

  “She would miss the festival,” I said, my voice breaking. I choked back the sob that worked its way forward as my mind said only one trail led through this disappointment. “Hers is a flower name.”