by Paul Clayton
“So you agree with me that we should have war,” Sun Watcher said, his voice triumphant.
Again Mennewah held up his frail arm, casting silence over the group. “So what do you propose, Calling Crow?”
“We can regain the honor of our clan by killing only Many Skins Man. Then the Wolf Clan will have to decide whether or not the matter is settled. I do not think they want a war either. And I think Many Skins Man’s death will be the end of this matter.”
“How do you propose we kill Many Skins Man?” said Mennewah.
“One of us must go alone and kill him.” Calling Crow looked around at the others and then back at Mennewah. “Today, after all of you had left, Many Skins Man insulted me. It was deliberate. Birdfoot witnessed it. For that reason I will do it...”
Sun Watcher jumped to his feet. “No! It is too risky. Calling Crow is not ottsi enough to do it. He has never killed a man! What if he, too, is killed? Then we are doubly shamed.” He held out his hands pleadingly to Mennewah. “Let me go and I will surely kill him.”
“No,” said Mennewah. He struggled to get to his feet, and Sun Watcher and Birdfoot helped him up. “It is settled. Calling Crow will kill Many Skins Man and avenge our Chief’s death.” Mennewah turned to Sun Watcher. “Go see to the destruction of Many Skins Man’s gifts.” Sun Watcher bowed and followed the Old Men outside. Calling Crow waited till the others had left and then sat back down to think, the silence wrapping around him like a warm blanket of woven bark.
***
On the beach, a small fire flickered in the blackness. Waves crashed and sighed as Calling Crow danced in the flickering light. Mennewah sat before the fire, beating a drum as he stared into the flames. He held his hand up suddenly and said Calling Crow’s name. Calling Crow knelt before him, and Mennewah hung a necklace of black feathers about his neck. “Just as the black crow cannot be seen at night,” intoned the old man, “so you shall be invisible to the Wolf people.”
“I am the anger of my people,” sang Calling Crow as a large wave crashed, its weight and force reverberating through the cold, hard sand beneath them, “I shall not let my people down.”
Mennewah smeared bear fat on Calling Crow’s face. “I give you the strength of the bear. Now, bring back our honor!” Mennewah got slowly to his feet and walked slowly back to the village. Calling Crow stared into the fire as a tongue of flame licked the blackness one last time and went out, leaving the embers to glow like the eyes of a panther.
Calling Crow got to his feet and pulled his flint knife from the sheath hanging at his side. Still in a stupor after the ceremony, he waved it about as he danced. A moan escaped his lips as he stepped on the coals. Embers burst from his feet and shot away on the breeze like angry hornets. He sang the warrior’s chant again and felt himself growing stronger. He was now invisible in the blackness, like a crow. His breath rasped like a wounded animal’s as he moved off, a shadow in the swirling mist. Overhead, a sliver of moon was obscured by the coastal fog. The night air was cool and wet, the sky indistinguishable from the ground. His village now behind him, Calling Crow turned and walked toward the sea. He would use its sounds to guide him. With the smooth sand beneath his feet, he began running. knowing he’d have to finish and be on his way back before Father Sun rose from the sea. Ahead a filmy white shape raced quickly across the beach and disappeared into the dunes. Not knowing if it was a puff of sea foam or a spirit, Calling Crow’s heart raced momentarily and he reached into the medicine bag he wore at his side. Fondling the bones of Tall One and Fish Catcher, two of the bravest warriors in the Turtle Clan, and the beak, feet, and feathers of his guiding spirit, he knew he would be safe. He ran faster now, and after a few minutes the running filled him with power and courage and he forgot everything except what he must do.
After a distance Calling Crow discerned the black shapes of Big Dunes against the night sky. He turned toward them and came to the edge of the forest. Slowing to a walk, he felt his way cautiously between the trees. Soon afterward the mist disappeared and there was just enough light to pick out the trail. He began running again. An hour later he stopped when he spotted the outline of the Wolf Clan palisade. Two silhouettes moved about on the catwalk above the sharpened timber uprights.
Calling Crow moved into the shadowed darkness of the trees to hide. This was swampland and he found himself in cool water up to his knees. A multitude of bullfrogs and crickets filled the cool night air with their music. Calling Crow drank in the sounds. He looked down and noticed a large frog on a half-submerged log. A white winged moth flitted by, and the big frog spat out its tongue, catching the moth in midflight. It was a good omen. That’s what he must do to Many Skins Man. His people were depending on him.
Calling Crow crouched like a panther and studied the movements of the guards. For a long time they remained in the same place talking quietly, and he supplanted his discomfort with the memory of Caldo and the voice of his spirit calling out for revenge. The singing of the frogs and crickets grew louder and intoxicating, and he heard encouragement in their music. One of the sentries laughed loudly at something. Calling Crow felt at his feet and picked up a stone. He threw it at the far end of the wall and the two sentries moved off. When they were no bigger than his finger, he quickly pulled himself up to the top of the wall and dropped down noiselessly on the other side. As he crept silently past the dark huts he heard the sounds of life all about him, a child crying somewhere, the phlegmy cough of an old man, the furtive breathing of lovers. Then he saw the dark outline of the big hut at the corner of the compound. It was just as Mennewah and the other Old Men had described it. He had to restrain himself from running. Soon this battle would be over and his village would know peace again.
Calling Crow stepped through the entryway of the hut and stood as still as a panther while his eyes adjusted to the dark. He scanned the hut and saw only Many Skins Man lying on a pallet next to the fire. A single flame danced alone, casting a wobbly glow. Without a sound Calling Crow glided across the dirt floor and stood looking down on the man. His heart was pounding as he withdrew his stone knife and knelt.
Many Skins Man’s lips were parted and pulled away from his big teeth. For a few moments Calling Crow listened to the sound of Many Skins Man’s deep breathing and watched his bare chest rise and fall. He had not thought it would be this easy and he was grateful to his spirit guide. Arms trembling slightly, he raised the knife in both hands. He was about to bring it down forcefully when a spirit voice spoke in his head. Would it not be more honorable, the voice said, and the Clan’s revenge sweeter, if Calling Crow woke Many Skins Man first and let him see the face of his killer before he died?
Calling Crow touched the big man on the chest. Many Skins Man smacked his lips as he stirred dumbly. His eyelids quivered like a bird shaking the wet out of its wings, but they did not open and he quickly fell back into his sleep. Calling Crow reached down to touch Many Skins Man again when the big man rolled off the pallet with the speed of a hare. Calling Crow brought the knife down wildly, stabbing at nothing. The fire flickered and went out. Calling Crow moved backward, but not before he felt a sudden current of air. A club whistled by his ear and crashed into his arm. Pain flared in his hand as he dropped his knife.
Calling Crow ducked to the ground and rolled away. For a few frightening moments, his fighting arm hung uselessly from his shoulder like a leather thong. Slowly, the feeling returned, as he edged backward. From somewhere in the darkness Many Skins Man whispered hoarsely, “Turtle brave! You are a fool to come here. I could call out now and many braves would come and kill you. But I want the pleasure for myself”
Calling Crow crouched silently, working the fingers of his hand.
“Were my skins not good enough for your people?” The voice seemed to come from everywhere.
Calling Crow moved backward. “You do not possess enough wealth to make reparation for our Chief’s death.”
“Ah! It is you.” Many Skins Man’s voice now seemed to come from the
bark roof above. “I thought they would have sent their biggest brave.”
Calling Crow said nothing. He continued to work his fingers, the movement painful as he ran them across the ground in search of his knife. His ears strained for any sound of the other man’s movements.
“It is just as well,” said the large voice softly, “for I am tired. I will kill you much faster and wear your headskin on my belt.”
Calling Crow’s heart pounded within his chest. How could a big man like Many Skins Man move so silently? His voice seemed to float about the hut. Calling Crow realized then that the man would know the layout of his hut well. He searched the thick blackness and thought he could feel the big man approaching. Kneading the medicine bag tied to his side, he said a prayer and slipped sideways. Many Skins Man’s breath exploded in a hiss as a flurry of blows whipped the air. Calling Crow jumped backward and moved toward the pallet. He prayed wildly to his spirit guide as he searched the ground with his fingers. He touched the smooth bone handle of his knife and grasped it like the hand of a good friend. Frantically he tried to get a sense of where the other was. Again his voice came from the blackness, this time from near the entryway. “I shall deliver your bashed brains to the doe girl in a calabash, fool.”
Calling Crow turned and stumbled, his breath coming too noisily. Squatting, his eyes strained as he searched the darkness. Where was he? His ears picked up no sound, his nose no smell. Oh, Great Spirit, he prayed, give me the eyes of an owl, the ears of a deer. Putting all his trust into his prayers, he sensed the other’s presence close by. With the speed of a striking rattlesnake, he jabbed his knife in that direction and felt it penetrate flesh, then strike bone as Many Skins Man grunted sharply. Many Skins Man’s war club whipped by as Calling Crow threw himself backward. A weak blow grazed Calling Crow’s chest, knocking the wind out of him, and he dropped to the ground and rolled away. Forcing breath into his lungs, he got to his feet. The sickly, sucking sounds of the big man’s breathing filled the hut. Calling Crow felt calm return to him. With his knife outstretched, he slowly advanced on the sound. When, he could feel the heat of the man and smell his blood, he dodged to the side as a weak club blow fell harmlessly across his back. Then he lunged, jabbing his knife. He felt it pierce flesh and go deep. The smell of feces flooded the hut as Many Skins Man’s intestines opened. Many Skins Man groaned loudly, his big arms wrapping around Calling Crow as the younger man pulled the knife out of his enemy. Calling Crow recoiled in disgust from the big man’s hot breath. The other’s great weight threatened to pull him to the ground, but Calling Crow managed to escape his grasp. He rolled away from Many Skins Man and was ready to launch another attack, but the other lay still. Thinking it a trick, he kicked at the dark shape on the floor, but nothing happened.
Calling Crow knelt in the darkness. Somewhere outside a dog howled and his skin crawled. He wondered if it was Many Skins Man’s spirit lamenting his passing. He pulled Many Skins Man’s thick hair backward. He was glad for the darkness as he sawed at the scalp with his knife. He did not want to do this thing, but the Council had told him he must. As the scalp came off freely and easily he felt Many Skins Man’s courage and strength flowing into him. From a nearby hut someone coughed suddenly and another voice called out. Calling Crow stopped moving and the voices died. He daubed the bloody scalp into the dust of the earth to dry it. Getting to his feet, he tied the scalp to his girdle and wiped the smear of blood from his face and hands. Taking the biggest bundle of skins he could carry, he went out into the blackness.
Chapter 6
Day dawned pale green, with fog covering the open field between Tumaqua and the forest. A small, quiet crowd of old men and little boys followed Calling Crow down Tumaqua’s main path. Two of the biggest boys carried the large bundle of skins he had brought back. Smeared with dried blood, Calling Crow broke into a run when they reached the chunkey yard and tied Many Skins Man’s scalp to a trophy pole. He turned and headed for the chokafa where he would undergo the smoke purification ceremony, or smoke bath. It was the tribe’s custom that whenever one of its members killed a man, he had to be purified in this way before he could rejoin the society of the tribe. The crowd grew as some braves and women followed along. When they reached the entryway of the chokafa, Calling Crow saw Sun Watcher and Big Nose approaching. He paused before going inside. Sun Watcher and Big Nose smiled when they saw the blood that covered Calling Crow.
“Well?” said Sun Watcher.
Calling Crow looked at him tiredly. “He is dead.”
Sun Watcher stared at Calling Crow with what looked like disbelief, but said nothing. Big Nose nodded his head in appreciation. He turned to face the small crowd. “Many Skins Man is dead!” he shouted at them.
Calling Crow nodded to the crowd. The killing had left him feeling drained and their cheering warmed his heart. He touched Big Nose on the arm. “Take these skins to Doe Woman for me. Tell her I wish to make Tiamai my wife. I will wait here for my answer.”
Big Nose nodded and left.
Sun Watcher stood in place, and continued to stare after Calling Crow as he entered the cool darkness of the chokafa. Calling Crow went to a corner of the chokafa where he made a pallet of some dried bulrushes and covered it with a skin. He lay down and, for what seemed like a long time, his wounds throbbed with a life of their own. Finally, blessed steep came over him. He came to briefly when he heard Mennewah chanting over him. The old shaman was wafting fragrant smoke his way with an eagle’s feather. Calling Crow watched drowsily for a few moments before falling back to sleep.
Sometime later he awoke again as Tiamai knelt down beside him, handing him a gourd of hot corn soup. Calling Crow’s body ached as he sat up to drink it. Immediately he felt the soothing power of Mother Corn flowing through his body. He sighed and looked at Tiamai.
“They are fine skins,” she said. “And my mother thinks so, too. I will be ready in a moon’s time.”
Calling Crow nodded. “It is good.” He felt complete now as they looked into each other’s eyes. Tiamai lay beside him. As he entered her, she held his head and whispered his name. After his seed spilled into her, he tumbled back into sleep.
For a long time the couple lay on the pallet, their limbs happily entwined in warmth. The skin covering of the chokafa entryway flapped open noisily and light flashed briefly against the wall as the Old Men entered. Tiamai quietly got to her feet and left as Calling Crow sat up. Mennewah, Red Dog, and Flathead Killer stood before him solemnly. Mennewah carried the Chief’s raven-feather mantle in his hands, Red Dog, the Chief’s calumet. Calling Crow struggled to get to his feet, but Mennewah held up his hand. “A runner from the Wolf Clan came this morning bearing an eagle’s feather. They consider the matter settled. There will be no war.”
“That is good,” said Calling Crow.
Red Dog and Flathead Killer smiled and nodded. Without another word, and with great respect, Mennewah and Red Dog lay the mantle and calumet at Calling Crow’s feet and went away.
Calling Crow was astounded at being chosen. Worried about how his friend Sun Watcher would react, he went to see him, but Sun Watcher was not in his hut. For the next several days he avoided Calling Crow. Calling Crow knew that his being chosen as chief did not sit well with the other man, but, he told himself, it will pass. When it does, he thought, I will counsel with him and we will be close once more.
Three days of feasting followed Calling Crow’s appointment as Chief. There were ball games, footraces, and wrestling matches. On the third night the entire village crowded into the chokafa for dancing and singing. Sitting in the position of honor next to Mennewah, Calling Crow was filled with joy and love for his people. He would serve them well by becoming a good Chief. Like Caldo, he would seek counsel and consensus. He would strive for magnanimity and dignity.
After the women had danced, it was the men’s turn. What a beautiful thing their dancing was, thought Calling Crow as he watched them. In the flickering firelight the figures moved like birds to the p
ounding of the drums and the chirping trill of the flutes. The dancing and singing was a powerful prayer to the Great Spirit. It filled the old men with such strength that they moved gracefully once again, forgetting their aches and pains. Arms outstretched like bird wings, they wove their way through the people, more graceful even than young girls.
The dancing slowed as three Turtle braves led two strangers into the chokafa. They were Mountain People, come from the west. The strangers spoke to one of the Turtle men and he turned to another. Calling Crow wondered what it meant. A small crowd now surrounded the Mountain People braves.
Sun Watcher shouted at the two and the dancing stopped. Calling Crow went over and placed himself between Sun Watcher and the two men. “I will speak to them,” he said. Sun Watcher’s face was angry, but he held his tongue.
Calling Crow turned to the two men. “Why do you disrupt our celebration?”
“We have seen the cloudboats.”
“Where?” asked Calling Crow.
“Four days walk to the south,” said one of the men.
Immediately people began arguing aloud, some wailing worriedly. Sun Watcher shouted, his eyes full of fire. “We must find them and fight them!” “Yes!” shouted some other braves. “Let us go and kill them.”
“How can you fight them?” asked an old man. “They are like the wind!”
“They came and our Chief died!” someone shouted. “They will kill us all!”
Calling Crow spread his arms and shouted, “Enough!”
The people looked at him.
“I will seek a vision to find out more about these cloudboats. And then I will go to find them.”
“No,” they cried out, “no!”
Someone shouted, “We will lose you too, our new Chief!”
“No,” said Calling Crow in a loud, calm voice. “I will find the secret of the cloudboats and I will come back. That is my promise to you all.”