by Lisa Smedman
I paid close attention to all that was going on around me. At our meeting in Regina, Steele had told me that Big Bear had been working to unite the Cree tribes with the Blackfoot Confederacy. I’d thought this ridiculous at the time, but here I saw evidence of his efforts with my own eyes.
When the chiefs concluded their lengthy and very formal greetings, they turned and began to walk along the bluffs, away from the assembled warriors. I glanced at the brave who had been detailed to watch me; his attention was fixed on the chiefs. Tired and hungry after three days of riding, I decided it was time to make my appeal.
“Chief Poundmaker!” I said as I strode forward. “I am Corporal Grayburn of the North-West Mounted Police. I have been brought here against my will by Chief Big Bear, and I must protest that—”
I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and ducked just in time to avoid a rifle barrel swung at my head. The warrior who had been assigned to watch me shouted angry words in Cree, then lifted his weapon, cocking it. Big Bear spun around and shouted something. I saw him waving his hands in the air and running in our direction as I grabbed the barrel of the rifle, forcing it to the side. The rifle spat flame, and I heard startled shouts from the assembled chiefs as a bullet flew in their direction. The brave with whom I grappled snarled at me, his face twisted with anger.
Then Big Bear was beside us. With a strength I had not expected in so short-statured and wizened a man, he yanked the rifle out of both of our hands. He said a few curt words to the brave, who slunk away like a whipped dog, then stared angrily up at me. Then he spoke to the other chiefs, gesturing at me repeatedly.
Poundmaker translated his words into the Blackfoot language. The others listened, then stared at me and shook their heads, muttering. I didn’t need to understand the Blackfoot tongue to read the threatening looks in their eyes. Red Crow picked up his hat from the ground — I wondered if the bullet had knocked it off his head — and gave me a look that could have split stone.
I had no idea what Big Bear was saying, but it was clear that he wanted me at this council, and that the other chiefs were reluctant at best, openly hostile at worst. Then I heard a word I recognized — one that Poundmaker didn’t have to translate: Iniskim. I nodded my head vigorously. I didn’t think the Indians were going to harm me, but I was still in a sticky situation, and mentioning the child had saved me once already.
“That’s right,” I said. “I know the Indian girl named Iniskim. She … became a buffalo calf.” Feeling somewhat foolish, I raised forefingers to the sky and touched my thumbs to the side of my head, imitating a buffalo’s horns. I used the Cree word for it: “Paskwawimostos — buffalo.”
The chiefs stared at me for several long moments. Mountain was nodding his head and Crowfoot had a thoughtful look on his face, but Red Crow glowered suspiciously at Big Bear, as if I were a dog that the Cree chief had trained to do a trick. Poundmaker was the first to break the silence. He conferred with the other chiefs in a low voice until Red Crow reluctantly nodded, then said something to Big Bear. I could see the chiefs had reached a decision.
“You come,” Big Bear said, repeating the curt instructions he’d given me three days before on the riverbank.
Every eye was on me, and more than one rifle was pointed in my direction. I heard an uneasy murmur sweep across the crowd. I followed Big Bear and the other chiefs, wondering what would happen next.
Only a handful of warriors from the hundred or so that had assembled above the Milk River followed us. Wandering Spirit was one of them, and he made a point of walking next to me and glaring. In addition to his spotted buckskin shirt and lynx-skin cap, he was wearing an amulet on a thong about his neck. It looked as though it was made from a piece of squared-off bone.
I blinked in surprise as I recognized the “amulet” for what it was: a chipped rectangle of ivory — a key from a piano. Then I realized which instrument it had to have come from: the melodeon in the church of Victoria Mission.
I gave Wandering Spirit a hard look. If I lived through this day, I fully intended to return with a patrol to arrest him on charges of murder and assaulting a police officer. I’d see him hang.
Wandering Spirit must have heard my silent vow. He raised his hand, his fingers hooked like claws. My breath caught in my chest as I recognized the gesture for what it was: a reminder of the magical wound he’d given Inspector Dickens.
I expected him to kill me on the spot, but the sidelong look that Wandering Spirit gave his chief told me why he did not: I was still under Big Bear’s protection.
I wondered again why Big Bear had brought me here. I knew that the Cree chief was involved in the disappearances that were plaguing the North-West, and I suspected that these other chiefs were also involved — or soon would be. I made careful mental notes, carefully adding up the evidence against them. As I thought about it, however, I wondered what charges I could possibly lay. I doubted that British law had a statute that covered the forcible transformation of humans into beasts. Even if there were, what magistrate or jury would believe my evidence? I could only hope that Steele was preparing for this contingency.
The group of chiefs and warriors adjourned along the bluffs to a lone tepee that had been set up overlooking the river. The whole of the tepee was painted a dusky red, save for a band of blue at the top and a circle of stick-figure animals, painted in black around the bottom. These crude drawings bore an unsettling resemblance to the figures I had seen in my dream.
Big Bear said something to the braves who had accompanied us, and then the chiefs, together with Wandering Spirit, filed inside the tepee. I tried to enter it myself, but as soon as my hand touched the door flap one of the braves — the fellow who had carried Poundmaker’s umbrella — knocked it aside. Apparently I was to remain outside with the six warriors — three Cree, and three from the Blackfoot Confederacy — who had accompanied the chiefs. They squatted on the grassy bluff, rifles across their knees, and motioned for me to join them.
I took another glance at the tepee, inside which voices were murmuring. I supposed my chance to speak to the chiefs would come when I was summoned inside. I found a large flat stone to sit on, and checked my watch. Assuming that the watch wasn’t running fast or slow again, the time was just past nine o’clock. I decided to give the chiefs no more than an hour before demanding an audience with them.
I passed the time by filling and lighting my pipe and watching the sun go down, listening intently to the voices inside the tepee for any words I recognized. From out of the top of the tepee drifted smoke that was tinged with the sweet smell of burning sage.
As I smoked, I debated what to do next. As a lone policeman in a camp of a hundred armed Indians, I had no hope of making any arrests. I’d be lucky to get out of here with my scalp still attached to my head. Yet I could give the chiefs a strong warning, and remind them that they’d face years of imprisonment with hard labour, at the very least, if they harmed a member of the North-West Mounted Police. Perhaps through bluster and bravado I could convince them to let me go.
When I checked my watch again I found that it had stopped working. It had to be at least nine o’clock, however, since the hands had stopped at five minutes before the hour. The sun was just slipping below the horizon, painting the sky a bloody pink, when from inside the tepee came the sound of a drum and a rattle. A voice rose in a chant, and then another, and soon a chorus was filling the air. I could pick out Poundmaker’s deep, stentorian tones and the wheezing voice of Little Pine. I couldn’t make out any of the words — my grasp of the Indian languages was too tenuous — but the chant seemed to be a jumble of Blackfoot and Cree.
I rose to my feet, and the warriors squatting on the ground rose to flank me, rifles still held in the crooks of their arms. I showed them my watch, then looked pointedly at the tepee, which was already starting to shake from the fervour of those inside. For all I knew, the chiefs would go on for hours. During a sun dance, the Indians will carry on for days, not stopping until they drop from
exhaustion. I was tired and hungry and my stomach felt as if it had twisted into a knot — I’d reached the end of my patience, and wasn’t very keen on the prospect of sitting up all night.
“This has gone on long enough,” I told the fellow with the umbrella, who sat closest to the tepee door. “Big Bear forced me to ride across the prairie for three days, and now has kept me waiting for an hour outside his tepee. Either I speak to the chiefs now, or I’m leaving. You can try to stop me from entering the tepee if you like — but you’ll have to put a bullet in my back to do it.” I winced as another spasm of pain wracked my stomach, then added: “Quite frankly, I don’t really care if you do.”
I expected them to prevent me from entering, but instead they untied the flap of the tepee. Then they backed cautiously away, as if expecting something dangerous to burst from within.
The tepee was shaking now; the painted buffalo hides that made up its covering were vibrating like a struck drum. Even the poles that supported it were rattling against one another. I noticed that the warriors’ eyes widened every time they glanced at it. When I placed my hand on the door flap, they all drew back another pace. I shook my head at their timidity. Regardless of what kind of weird ritual was going on inside, I was going to get on with my investigation, one way or another. I bent down low, and pushed my way in through the door flap.
It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light inside as the flap closed behind me. The interior of the tepee was lit only by a small fire that had burned down to glowing coals, and the light that passed through the thick, ochre-painted walls of the tepee was a murky red. I could just make out Poundmaker sitting directly opposite the opening, beating on an ornately carved, bowl-shaped drum. Big Bear sat in the position of honour on his right, followed by Piapot, Beardy and Little Pine, who was closest to me. To Poundmaker’s left sat chiefs Crowfoot, Red Crow, and Mountain. Wandering Spirit sat closest to the tepee’s entrance, as if guarding it. Each of the men had stripped down to his breechcloth, and they were chanting in unison to the beat of the drum. Little Pine shook a rattle, and Crowfoot fanned the coals with his eagle wing. The smell of burning sage was nearly overpowering, and the hot smoke stung my throat and lungs.
Behind the chiefs, the walls of the tepee fluttered and rippled like a sail in a strong wind. The poles were shaking, rattling against one another where they met at the apex of the tepee, as if an earthquake were jiggling them up and down. Yet the ground underfoot was firm and I knew that the air outside was still. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise: magic was at work here. Whatever its purpose was, I was certain it couldn’t be good. I decided to put a stop to it.
Every one of the Indians had his eyes fixed upon the glowing coals at the centre of the tepee. Not one of them had looked up at me, although all must have noticed my entrance. It was hot inside the tepee; I could feel sweat running down my sides, under my jacket. I bent over and yanked the rattle out of Little Pine’s gnarled hands.
“This is an illegal gathering,” I told them in as stern a voice as I could muster. “I order you, in the name of the Queen, to stop it this instant.”
The chant faltered to a halt. The Indians all looked up at me at once. I dropped the rattle on the ground; it rolled toward the fire pit and Beardy caught it just before it toppled into the coals. Wandering Spirit shifted; I saw his feather-tipped coup stick in his hand. Behind him, the sides of the tepee continued to shake.
Smoke from the fire stung my eyes, making them water. I was having trouble seeing in the dim light; the cross-legged chiefs wavered and blurred like figures underwater, but although the air was clearer down where they sat, I wasn’t about to give up the advantage of height. I blinked my tearing eyes and tried to focus on Big Bear’s hunched form. I kept talking, even though I knew he spoke no English. Perhaps the force of my words would be enough, or perhaps thought transference would convey my meaning.
“Big Bear, unless you want to feel about your neck the noose that you so fear, I suggest you order your men to release me at once. I also order you and Wandering Spirit to turn yourselves in to the nearest North-West Mounted Police detachment for questioning in connection with the disappearance of—”
Poundmaker suddenly stood and raised his club. The three knife blades embedded in the end of it gleamed red in the firelight. The coals were also reflected in his eyes, which no longer looked human; instead they were small and fierce. I took an involuntary step back, and found my shoulders pressing against the side of the tepee.
I swallowed and raised my hands, preparing to fend off any attack. “Poundmaker!” I shouted. “Stop! Murder is a hanging offence!”
The Cree chief stepped around the campfire, menace in his eyes. Then his club swept down — but I was not its target. Instead it struck the drum he still held, tearing it open. In that same instant, all of the Indians cried out at once, their voices a blend of strange cries, howls, and roars.
A similar cry erupted from my own lips. Then I lost control of my body. It twisted and shrank, and my hands were forced down to my sides. My face broadened and flattened, and the skin all over my body erupted into itches as if hair were growing at a terrific pace. The tepee around me, its glowing red sides still shaking, loomed large overhead as I shrank. I tried to shout, but my lips had become hooked and hard, and produced something that sounded like a bird’s hooting cry. Terrified, I looked around me with eyes that felt as if they were stretched wide with fear. The interior of the tepee had been very dark, but now it seemed as bright as day, although everything was in shades of black and white.
I blinked, amazed by what I saw. The Indian chiefs had disappeared. In their places were animals. Directly in front of me stood a mink, its paws and head just peeping above the remains of a torn drum. To its right loomed a gigantic bear with a human hand suspended on a thong about its neck. On the other side of the mink was a large black crow. It stared at me with unblinking, beady eyes. Nestled within the black feathers on the top of its head was what looked like a tiny, shrivelled human head.
Other animals were ranged around me in a circle. To my left were an eagle, a fox, and a mouse, which scurried away behind the fox; to my right a gopher, and a deer with broad antlers. Nearest the door flap was a lynx. Without warning, it took a slash at me, and only by jerking aside at the last instant did I avoid the blow. The lynx’s claw tore a hole in the side of the tepee, through which blood-red sunlight spilled. Then the bear reared up on its hind legs and roared. Cowed, the lynx slunk back into a crouch.
The other animals stared at me, and for a frozen moment I was too surprised to do anything but blink. They stood ranged around me in a half-circle, like the animals I’d seen in my dream. The only difference was that I stood not at the base of the buffalo-jump cliff but inside a tepee.
Something else was different from my dream: I was no longer a man. My skin was covered in feathers, and my arms had become wings. My eyes were large and round, and when I opened my mouth to speak, all that emerged was the hoot of an owl.
What’s happened to me? I hooted, my feathers ruffling in alarm. Where am I?
We have entered the spirit world, the mink answered. We have taken on spirit form, and can understand each other now.
It was true. The mink was speaking Cree, but I understood it as if I spoke the language fluently.
Ask him where she is, the crow cawed in Blackfoot.
Who? I hooted.
My granddaughter, the deer said in a soft voice. She is lost.
I shrugged my wings and moved my head slowly from side to side. I had no idea what they were talking about.
He knows nothing, the lynx growled. And he knows too much. Mistihaimuskwa was wrong to have brought him here. We should kill him now, before he does any more harm. The lynx raised a paw and flexed it, and sharp claws sprang from the pads. I saw that a tiny black feather was tied to one of its claws.
The bear growled the others into silence. This red coat has powerful medicine. He came through the earth and was st
ill a man. He touched the buffalo stone and was still a man. He saw Iniskim, and waved her back into the earth.
The bear pointed a claw at the eagle. You, Piapot, sensed the power of his spirit a year ago and warned us of him. Yet when you tried to knock him from the sky with a thunderstorm, he escaped you.
I looked at the eagle, and saw a spark of lightning flash in its eye. I suddenly realized that it was Piapot who had directed the thunderstorm that had buffeted the air bicycle over Regina. The Indians must have been watching me for some time. But why?
The bear nodded toward the lynx, then added: Kapapamahchakwew was also powerless against him. When he tried to send the red coat into the land of the dead, the red coat would not go.
The lynx growled softly and flattened its ears. Its claws — and the black feather that was tied to one of them — retracted back into their pads.
The fox cocked its head, and stared at me with its tongue lolling. Now we see why this red coat is so powerful: he stands before us in the form of an owl. We all know what that means.
What? I hooted in alarm. What does it mean? What are you going to do to me?
Do not be afraid, the bear growled. I brought you here because you said you knew where Iniskim was. Tell us how to find her, and we will guide you back to the world of men and let you live. You will not be harmed; you have my word on this.
The mink stared fiercely at me. If you refuse to tell us, we will leave you here in the spirit world. You will never find your way back, and your body will sicken and die. Now, where is Iniskim?
I suddenly realized that Iniskim must have been the granddaughter that Mountain said was lost. The albino girl was obviously very important to the Indians, and I could guess why: Iniskim, named after a stone that could “call buffalo,” must be a vital part of the magic that would turn every settler in the North-West Territories into buffalo with the coming of the next full moon. I chided myself for not seeing it sooner: I should have realized that much from my prophetic dream. In it, on the Day of Changes, a white buffalo calf had stood atop the large boulder that the spiral-shaped buffalo stone had grown into.