Calling Crow

by Paul Clayton

  Calling Crow felt as if a knife had punctured his heart. The cloudboats had appeared and now the bravest, noblest man in Tumaqua was dead!

  “What happened?” he said.

  Tiamai’s eyes were moist. “Our Chief and Cries At Night had been stalking a big buck deer all day. When our Chief shot his arrow into him, another arrow also struck the buck. It belonged to Many Skins Man of the Wolf Clan. Both their arrows seemed to strike the buck at the same time. Our Chief suggested that they should share the kill, but Many Skins Man insisted that his arrow had pierced the buck first, and the kill should be all his. They fought and Many Skins Man killed our Chief.” Tiamai deliberately avoided saying Chief Caldo’s name. To speak the name of the dead was taboo.

  Sun Watcher looked skyward and howled in rage. Calling Crow looked into Tiamai’s eyes. “How do you know all this?”

  “I talked to Cries At Night after they brought our Chief’s body back to Tumaqua.” She held Calling Crow’s eyes for a moment longer before she ran back to the nearest group of women and sat down.

  Calling Crow gripped his bow tightly. Perhaps he would soon use it for killing men. It would be the first time for him. If a death was due to a killing, accidental or otherwise, reparation was required from the guilty party. Failure to provide reparation meant war. As long as anyone from the five villages could remember, reparation had always been made and war averted. There was no reason to believe that this time would be any different.

  Once reparation had been made, the Council of Old Men voted on whether or not to accept it. Always it had been offered in good faith and always it had been accepted. If it were not, the young braves of the tribe would prepare to exact revenge.

  Chapter 4

  After eight days of mourning, Many Skins Man still had not shown up to make reparation, and the village of Tumaqua began making preparations for war. The cloudboats now forgotten, the men shaped stones for arrows and lances while the women scraped the fire hardened tips of stakes and buried them in the dirt around the palisade. Old women cooked all day as old men and boys carried water, arrows, and stones up to the top of the palisade. As the people worked, there was an overwhelming quiet, almost as if a summer storm were gathering. No one spoke more than was needed because nothing could be as it had been before. The people could not truly have peace until the reparation was made or war begun. Finally, on the morning of the ninth day, a runner informed the village that Many Skins Man was to come that day.

  Calling Crow thought about these things as he sat in the cool interior of his aunt’s hut. Three Pearls brought him a steaming calabash of corn soup. He sipped the hot sweet liquid hurriedly and noisily, not wanting to insult Three Pearls by leaving it unfinished. He could not take his time with it like he normally would have, and ended up gulping the rest of it down before he got to his feet. His mouth burned from drinking it so fast, but that did not matter. He must go out and watch the reparation.

  “Nephew,” Three Pearls called to him, “stay and eat more.”

  “I am sorry, Aunt,” he said, pausing in the entryway and turning to her with regret. “I must go.” He rushed out of the hut.

  Calling Crow quickly made his way to the square next to the chunkey yard. This was the place where the people came to cure hides, grind maize and grains, or just to gossip. It was here that Many Skins Man would stand before them all to make his reparation.

  Reparation or war! Which would it be? The Council of Old Men sat in the center of the yard while most of the villagers milled about behind them, talking and waiting. Calling Crow saw that Caldo’s body had been taken away to the beach where it would be raised up on lodge poles to protect it from small animals. Months from now, when the flesh was gone from the bones, certain bones would be given to the Old Men and the braves as talismans.

  Calling Crow pushed through the crowd to where Tiamai knelt in the sand, grinding corn. He watched her as she worked. Wearing only a skirt of woven bark, she pounded the blue and yellow kernels of maize into the hollow of a grinding rock with a wooden mortar, the action moving her small breasts. It was understood that the young people of the village would lie with one another, changing partners from time to time as they discovered themselves and their likes and dislikes, but by the time a brave had been on the earth twenty turnings of the seasons, he was expected to have selected one girl for his wife. Calling Crow had already selected Tiamai. He knew it and so did she. So did any others who happened to see how they looked at each other. Like most girls, Tiamai was an obedient, hard worker for her mother. Although she was but fifteen, Calling Crow was struck with the noble way she carried herself. She was also beautiful. Her long, dark hair fell to her waist and her black eyes shone like the sea at night. It was this combination of nobility and childlike beauty that had made him love her.

  He walked over and stood by her side. She looked up at him and smiled sadly, then went back to her grinding.

  From the other side of the dunes, the sea called to Calling Crow as it surged and sighed up and down the wide beach. As he listened to its voice he watched Tiamai’s cinnamon-colored face and remembered the last time he lay with her in the forest.

  As if hearing his thought, Tiamai paused in her grinding and looked up at him. With the look they shared, he knew that he would soon make their love known to the whole village.

  She raised her hand to brush a sweat dampened strand of hair from her face. “Tell me about the cloudboats. I’ve never seen them.”

  “I pray you never will. They appeared and our great Chief died. I knew they were not a good sign.” Tiamai lowered her head at the mention of the tragedy. “I wonder what Many Skins Man will bring,” she said.

  “I don’t know, but this death will require many fine gifts.” As he looked down at Tiamai he felt his sadness lighten a little. She always worked this magic on him.

  “Soon,” said Tiamai, “when the reparation is accepted and the matter of our Chief’s death settled, the Council of Old Men will pick a new Chief from among the top braves. Then life in the village will be as it was. Perhaps they will pick you.” Tiamai smiled and turned away to her work.

  Calling Crow said nothing. He knew he was a candidate, along with a dozen or so other braves. However, like everyone else in the village, he thought the Old Men would pick Sun Watcher. He was the bravest and strongest in the village. Whenever they gathered in the chunkey yard to play ball against a neighboring village, they would always win because of Sun Watcher’s strength and skills. As a boy, Calling Crow had challenged him many times in wrestling, footraces, and shooting arrows, but try as he could, not once had he been able to best him.

  A gull glided overhead, crying out sorrowfully to the people below. Calling Crow looked toward the sea. “The other day,” he said slowly, “as I watched the cloudboats, in spite of my repulsion, I felt they were calling me.”

  Tiamai looked up at him and frowned. “I am afraid for all of us.” Turning away, she brushed the last bits of moist ground meal that clung to the rock into her basket and began pounding another pile of maize kernels. After a moment she looked up at Calling Crow. “You could ask Mennewah what it all means.” As Shaman, Mennewah was leader of the Council of Old Men.

  “Yes. Or I could enter the dreamworld myself and find out.”

  Tiamai pounded the maize harder as concern darkened her face. She was about to say something when excited voices sounded from the far end of the village. They turned and saw the delegation of Wolf Clan people coming through the village gate. Many Skins Man towered over his people as they walked among the villagers. Forest dwellers, the Wolf Clan people came regularly to Tumaqua to trade. They had much that Calling Crow’s tribe desired, such as pemmican, buffalo robes that had been traded from tribe to tribe all the way from the banks of the great river, moccasins from the Flathead People. They also had small gold ornaments from the Mountain People, and even greenstone jewelry from the People of the Hot Lands. Calling Crow’s people, the Turtle Clan, paid for these things with the bounty of
the sea and the small rivers feeding it. They gathered these things, shells and river pearls for wampum belts, from their small dugout canoes.

  Many Skins Man led his group through the huts toward the square. Despite the recent spell of warm weather, he wore a bearskin mantle. It was open at the front, showing off his wide muscled chest which glistened with sweat and grease beneath a necklace of white bear’s teeth. Two of his Flathead slaves flanked him, each carrying a large bundle of his goods, and behind him walked six Wolf Clan braves. One of the Flathead slaves tripped on a root and fell, spilling his bundles. Cursing angrily, Many Skins Man kicked him in the rear, and the man rolled quickly out of range. The assembled Turtle Clan people watched closely, a few laughing nervously, as the frightened slave gathered the bundles up, furtively keeping his eyes on Many Skins Man the whole time.

  The group advanced once again and as Calling Crow watched them, he thought that Many Skins Man’s bearing was too proud for the occasion. He searched the big man’s face for sorrow or contrition but could find none. When the Wolf Clan group drew up before the Council of Old Men, Many Skins Man gave a command in a deep resonant voice and his party began putting down their bundles.

  Sun Watcher, Big Nose, Birdfoot, and half a dozen other braves crowded around Calling Crow. The Turtle Clan people were silent as Many Skins Man cut open one of the bundles of skins. Quickly and dramatically, he raised a large bear pelt before the crowd, completely obscuring himself behind it except for his big hands.

  “Ah!” said several people as they shook their heads in appreciation of the size and quality at the skins. Calling Crow and Sun Watcher moved closer as Many Skins Man held up a number of fine stone calumets in one large hand. Again the crowd showed their amazement at such wealth with sighs and muttered words of wonder. Calling Crow looked over at the Council of Old Men. Unlike the people, they remained still and quiet, their ancient black eyes mere slits under their heavy lids.

  “Many Skins Man!” The voice was loud and challenging, silencing the crowd. It was Sun Watcher. “Tell us how our beloved Chief died.”

  The crowd boiled with murmured conversations as Many Skins Man’s dark eyes searched the crowd for his questioner. Settling on Sun Watcher, he said, “I will tell it only one more time. You forget. It was I who was wronged.” He waited till the crowd had quieted. “I tracked a powerful buck for most of that day. Finally, my arrow found him and I was following his blood trail. I was very happy because I knew that soon he would be mine. It was then that the deceased put his arrow into him. He mistakenly thought the buck was his. We fought and I killed him.”

  On this last admission Calling Crow saw a slight smile pass over Many Skins Man’s face, like the shadow of a cloud moving over a field on a sunny day. Hot anger boiled deep within him. “How was our Chief’s death?” Calling Crow called out to the Wolf warrior. “Was it a good death? Did he speak to you?”

  Many Skins Man turned in his direction and Calling Crow’s anger flared even higher when the Wolf warrior’s eyes paused momentarily to admire Tiamai before moving on to Calling Crow. “I do not know. He said nothing. He died like a man.”

  “Not like a Chief?” cried Big Nose with anguished anger.

  “I will speak of this no more.” Many Skins Man folded his arms and remained sullenly silent. For a while the world seemed to slow. Calling Crow and the other braves watched the Old Men to see what they would do.

  “I have more gifts,” said Many Skins Man finally, but no one looked his way. All eyes remained on the Old Men. Finally Mennewah raised his hand. “Go on, Many Skins Man. Finish your business. Then we will begin ours.”

  Many Skins Man held up a bundle of deerskins as thick as a man and again the crowd muttered appreciatively. The pile grew into a mound as the Wolf Clan people finished displaying the gifts. Finally the Council of Old Men got to their feet and walked off. Most of the Turtle Clan people followed them.

  Only a handful of curious boys remained as Many Skins Man’s entourage prepared to leave. The Council’s decision would be delivered later. Birdfoot wandered over to stand beside Calling Crow. A few feet away, Tiamai knelt as she gathered her corn up into a basket.

  “He has brought many fine things,” said Tiamai. I wonder if the Council of Old Men will accept them.”

  “I think they will,” said Birdfoot.

  “I don’t know,” Calling Crow said as he watched the Wolf Clan group walk past on their way to the gate. He was surprised to see Many Skins Man leave the group and come closer, stopping to stand before Tiamai. “What a fine looking girl you are!” he said. “What is your name?”

  Tiamai said nothing, keeping her head down.

  Calling Crow looked at Many Skins Man in angry incredulity and Birdfoot quickly spoke, “She is Calling Crow’s woman. You should not speak to her.”

  Many Skins Man looked down his nose at Calling Crow. “His?” he said, and laughed. He turned back to Tiamai and draped a beaver skin cape on the ground before her. “For the beautiful doe girl,” he said, “a fine warm covering to keep the wet chill of winter from her smooth young skin.”

  Using his bow, Calling Crow flipped the skin away as if it were a deadly whitemouth snake. Many Skins Man’s face betrayed his shock. One of his slaves quickly rushed over to recover the skin as Tiamai walked away, her head down in embarrassment.

  Calling Crow stared angrily at Many Skins Man. “Even if she wanted your flea infested skin, while we mourn there can be no courting and gift giving. That is our custom.”

  “We have our customs, too, Turtle brave, and one of them is to honor beauty wherever and whenever we find it.”

  His face burning with fury, Calling Crow stared at the other man. “I think you shall learn more than you care to about our customs.”

  Many Skins Man smiled at Calling Crow and turned to his party. “Let us go.” As they disappeared through the gate, Many Skins Man’s loud laughter floated back.

  Chapter 5

  The chokafa was circular in shape and higher than two men. Its conical roof had an opening in the center to let out smoke, and the walls and ceiling were made of bark smeared with clay. Woven mats of cane carpeted the ground, and a single fire burned in the center. Calling Crow sat on the matting with Sun Watcher, Big Nose, Birdfoot, and the other braves, while across from them sat Mennewah and the rest of the Council of Old Men. The Old Men were dressed in their ceremonial raven’s feathers. In front of them on a straw mat, the Chief’s raven feather mantle and deerskin fringed medicine pipe were placed for all to see.

  Old Mennewah clasped his weathered hands in front of his round belly as his watery eyes appraised the young men before him. “We have discussed our Chief’s death and Many Skins Man’s reparation, but we wanted to hear from you young men and find out what is in your hearts.”

  Calling Crow opened his mouth to speak when Sun Watcher jumped to his feet. “Many Skins Man is like the snake in the grass you don’t see. He is an arrogant liar. Many times he and other Wolf Clan braves have crossed the rivers and trails that mark our borders in search of game. They are a menace which must be dealt with. I say burn his gifts and make war on them!”

  Big Nose, Laughing Man, and four other braves jumped to their feet beside Sun Watcher and yelled their agreement. Mennewah’s face remained impassive. “I agree that Many Skins Man is an arrogant fool, but is arrogance and foolishness reason enough to go to war? If it was, we would have to go to war against some of our own, would we not?”

  The other two members of the Council of Old Men, Red Dog and Flathead Killer, smiled, but Sun Watcher and the other braves remained on their feet, their anger unabated. After a moment Birdfoot said, “You speak well, Grandfather. I agree with what you say.”

  Mennewah motioned Sun Watcher and the others to sit. “Birdfoot, stand and speak.”

  Birdfoot stood. In the dimness of the hut, his large eyes gave him an owl-like appearance. “We have lived near the Wolf Clan for many generations now. There have been problems, but that is natural
for different peoples living so close to one another. I say that if contrition does not come easily to Many Skins Man, we should demand more reparation.”

  “No, Grandfather,” cried Sun Watcher angrily. “No.”

  Old Red Dog held up his bony hand for silence. “Is that enough, Birdfoot?” he said. “Because there has long been peace, we should choose peace?”

  “No. But what of our beloved Chief? He was a man of peace. I vote as I think he would have voted. For peace.”

  “Yes,” said Slim Boy, rising to stand beside Birdfoot. “I, too, vote for peace.”

  Another brave stood beside them. “Peace,” he said.

  Mennewah looked at Calling Crow. “What have you to say, Calling Crow?”

  “Yes,” said Red Dog, his emaciated face wrinkling like an autumn leaf. “Calling Crow is the only one who hasn’t spoken yet.” Flathead Killer, the other member of the Council of Old Men, nodded in agreement.

  Calling Crow’s heart was heavy as he rose to his feet. He had thought hard about this matter and none of the possible courses of action were good. He faced the Old Men. For a moment he said nothing.

  Mennewah looked at him sadly. “Well, Calling Crow, do you vote for peace or war?”

  “I vote for neither, Grandfather.”

  Sun Watcher laughed derisively. “What kind of answer is that?” The other braves laughed with him as they cast sidelong glances at Calling Crow.

  “Enough,” said Mennewah. “What do you mean, Calling Crow?”

  “I do not want war because innocent people from both villages could die. As Birdfoot said, our beloved Chief was a strong, gentle man, a man of peace. However, I saw through Many Skins Man’s eyes into his heart, and I know that his remorse is a sham. Because of that, all his fine gifts are not worth their weight in excrement.”