by James Welch
One night, not long after they arrived in Paris, Charging Elk and Featherman and three others were outside their lodge playing poker by lantern light when they heard a loud commotion across the compound where the wide trail from the arena entered the village. Several people were shouting and rushing toward the path. Charging Elk saw Rocky Bear and his wife come out of their lodge and turn to the sound of the excitement. Then Rocky Bear let out a great yell.
The young men scooped up their matchsticks and stood, watching a group of people coming toward them. Buffalo Bill was in the center of the crowd. He was wearing the fancy black clothes that the rich men of Paris wore in the evening, with a stiff white shirt and a little white tie with wings. His goatee looked yellowish against the shirt.
Rocky Bear and his wife were on one side of him, with big grins on their faces. On the other side, an Indian man, dressed in a rough suit, smiled sheepishly.
“Black Elk,” whispered Featherman. “It is Black Elk.”
Charging Elk couldn’t believe it. Even out at the Stronghold, the word had gotten around that Black Elk and three other Oglalas had been lost in Mother England’s home a couple of years earlier. They hadn’t come back to Pine Ridge with the other performers when the show season ended. Most thought they must be dead, that they had met a treacherous end across the big water. There were even ceremonies to release their spirits and people mourned them in the old way. And in a new way—In the white man’s holy house at Pine Ridge, where the white pejata wicasa, wearing his golden-and-white robes, said many solemn words about their lost brothers and sons. When Doubles Back Woman told Charging Elk about this ceremony, and praised it, he had become angry that she and his father had even entered this holy house, much less believed what the blackrobe said. He had ridden back out to the Stronghold and vowed never to enter such a flimsy house.
And now here was Black Elk, two years later, looking surprisingly thin and pitiful under Buffalo Bill’s arm. Charging Elk hadn’t really known Black Elk, who was three years older, because they had grown up in different places. But he had known of him when they were out in the buffalo country many winters ago. Both were boys then, but the three-year difference in their ages meant they played with their own peers. At the big fight on the Greasy Grass, Charging Elk had seen him and his friends wandering among the dead soldiers, looking for things to take. But after the surrender at Fort Robinson, he didn’t see much of the older boy.
The big fire in the center of the camp was built up and two women came with a large pot of coffee, which they put on a stone on the edge of the flames. Somebody brought Buffalo Bill a stool and the others sat on their blankets. It was a warm spring night and the fire felt good and so did the cool air on their backs. Charging Elk and the other young performers sat on the opposite side of the fire and studied both Buffalo Bill and Black Elk. The women passed cups of hot coffee to the leaders.
Buffalo Bill talked to Rocky Bear, glancing from time to time at Black Elk. He had a big voice that seemed to include all the Indians around the fire.
Rocky Bear turned to Black Elk and said, “Our leader, Pahuska, welcomes you back to his family. He has been sad these past two years that his brother has been lost. But he never gave up hope that one day he would find you. He was a great scout in his younger days and he had no doubt that he would track you down. But now it seems that you have found us. Welcome to our camp, Black Elk.”
Black Elk seemed almost dazed that he was sitting at the fire with Buffalo Bill and his people once again. He looked at all the faces as he thanked Buffalo Bill and Wakan Tanka for bringing him here. Then he said, “Pahuska knows that Black Elk is an honorable man who would aspire to become a wichada yatapika, perhaps even a wicada wakan. I have lived in the wadichu world for two years and I do not like what I see. Men do not listen to each other, they fight, their greed prevents them from being generous to the less fortunate, they do not seem to me to be wise enough to embrace each other as brothers. I have learned much from this experience, much that will help me teach our people the right road when I get back to my country. I am glad to see Pahuska and my brothers and sisters, but now I am tired of this land and my heart is sick for home.”
Rocky Bear translated for Buffalo Bill, but the showman seemed to have heard the gist of it in the Lakota tongue. He nodded at Black Elk and said, “Yes, yes,” as he listened. Even after Rocky Bear had stopped, Buffalo Bill continued nodding. Then he spoke more words in his own tongue, occasionally signing to Black Elk. He was a decent sign-talker and all the Indians watched for the signs. He made the sign for friend, for travel; later, he signed for big water and iron road.
Then Rocky Bear said to Black Elk, “Pahuska understands you. He too gets sick for home. This night he was with the big royals and the big bosses of this great nation. He drank their wine and ate their food, but all the time he thought of his home and his relatives at North Platte. But Pahuska is a big man too and he knows he must teach these French what the ikce wicasa are like. They have become too modern with all their powerful engines and big buildings, their fire boats and iron roads. Even tonight they boasted of their progress in the hundred winters since they killed their king and took over. They build their big iron tree so they can look over all that they own. They forget where their people came from; that they too were ikce wiccua in the long ago. Pahuska thinks Black Elk could help him teach them the wisdom of the simple life.”
Black Elk had stayed with the company for two sleeps. During that time he told the story of himself and his companions missing the boat home; then wandering around the big English town of Birmingham, until they took the iron road to London. One of the Lakotas could speak English and he found a Wild West show called Mexican Joe. It was a small show, but the Indians were paid in cash and got enough to eat. Eventually they came to Paris, then traveled to other cities in another country, then back to Paris. After a time, Black Elk fell ill and couldn’t perform any longer. A French family took care of him, but not before he almost lost his nagi. His body did die and he dreamed of many things that only the dead are allowed to see. He didn’t say what—only that he had journeyed home and had seen his mother and father and the pitiful ikce wicasa and now he knew how to help them to regain their dignity and honor. He didn’t say how he would do this, but the young men did not question the power of Black Elk’s death vision.
After a big feast on the second night, Buffalo Bill gave him some American frogskins and a policeman took him to the iron road to reach a place where a fire boat would carry him across the big water. He was subdued as the people embraced him but he looked happy. After having died, he was happy to go home.
Charging Elk stood and stretched. The rain had diminished to a fine mist and he felt that he should go down and scout around the harbor where the fire boats rested. Of course he didn’t have enough francs to cross the big water, but he wanted to see if any of them flew the flag of America. Now that his belly was almost filled up, his mind was clearer and he had begun to think of other possibilities. The boat they came to this land on was big, with many little rooms and the big ones that held the animals and equipment. There were many little nooks that might hold a man if he didn’t require much room. He would have to have food and water to last him many sleeps. But at night, perhaps he could stretch his limbs and relieve himself.
Charging Elk gulped back a sudden rising in his throat as he remembered the first three sleeps out of New York. The fire boat had crashed up and down and rolled from side to side and he had become sick almost instantly after losing sight of the big town. The farther away from land they went, the rougher the ride. The Indians shared rooms down in the bottom of the boat and they could hear the creaking and groaning and crashing as they lay in their swaying rope beds. There were many Indians in each room and they swung and wept and vomited and sang their death songs. Charging Elk, when he thought back on it, had never seen and heard such fear in his life—not at the fight on the Greasy Grass, not at the surrender at Fort Robinson.
But then the big water calmed down, and the people, exhausted and weak, had come out in the open air and they saw nothing but water and sky forever. At that point they thought they would never see their mother earth again and were frightened all over—but they were alive. And in five more sleeps, the ship was moving slowly along the coast of France to the big port in the north. And the people gave a thanks-giving song to Wakan Tanka and once again were excited by the adventure that lay ahead. They had performed in New York and had liked it and were excited to perform for these new people. But when they set foot on the stone quai, their legs felt strange and they became dizzy and had to stand or sit for some time before maka ina forgave them for leaving her bosom.
Charging Elk now thought that he could take a few sleeps of near-death if it meant that he would be on the home side of the big water. If he didn’t cross over, he would never get home, and that was the truth of it. It would be a hard thing, but if he found an iron boat that flew the flag of America and if he could find some more of the francs for meatsticks and bread, he could do it.
The rain was no longer ticking on the umbrella that Charging Elk held over his head, so he closed it and hung it on his arm. His feet were wet inside the fuzzy slippers and his toes were numb with the cold. But he had made it to the harbor and there were more lights here, tall lights on big poles, and a few humans. Most of them were men and they walked in groups, talking loudly and laughing and striking each other on the back and head. They were drunk and happy, but Charging Elk stayed away from them, sometimes crossing the street to stand in a dark arcade as they passed.
At first, he had been dismayed to see hundreds of boats in the small harbor. Most of them were sailing boats, some small, some large. Their tall sail poles looked like a thick forest of slender skinned trees. Not even in Paha Sapa had he seen such a strange forest. The boats were tied to each other, so that some of the men that Charging Elk watched had to climb over two or three boats before they could disappear below the deck of their own.
As he looked at the harbor full of so many boats, he began to feel confused and he felt the old familiar hopelessness begin to set in. He didn’t see a single iron boat among them, much less one that flew the right flag. The only encouraging thing he noticed was the ease with which one could get on one of these boats.
He started to walk farther along the stone quai, out toward a large tower on a promontory. To his left were a series of restaurants, some with tables and chairs stacked outside under canvas awnings. Of the several that he passed only two were lit up. One of them was empty and the chairs rested upside down on the tables while a solitary wasichu swept the floor. But the other held a large round table just inside the window. Many people, men and women, even a few children, were crowded around the table. Charging Elk saw a big chunk of cooked beef being carved by a waiter in a white shirt and black vest. Bowls of potatoes and other things were being passed around, and Charging Elk felt his mouth water. He watched them all raise their glasses toward the center of the table, then gently strike their glasses with their neighbors. It was for a good wish. Sometimes in Paris, the Indians had gone to big houses with their bosses and had learned that it was necessary to make wishes with the glasses. Now Charging Elk became thirsty for the mnisha. The Indians weren’t supposed to drink it—just as they weren’t supposed to make friends with the French women—but they sometimes managed to sneak a few bottles back to camp. At first, Broncho Billy, their interpreter, would buy it for them for a few centimes that he would put in his pocket, but after a while Charging Elk and his friends realized that they could walk into a wineshop and pick out some bottles by themselves. The shopowners didn’t know that Buffalo Bill frowned on the Indians who drank. He had even sent two of the Oglalas and one Brule back to America for drinking too much.
Charging Elk smiled as he remembered the first time he had tried to pull the cork out of a bottle with the piece of curly iron. Somehow only the top half of the cork came out, and when he tried to capture the rest with the iron screw, he pushed it down into the bottle. And when he tipped it up, the half cork plugged up the neck. It caused great laughter among his friends, as each time he tipped the bottle nothing came out. Featherman solved the problem by pushing the cork into the bottle with the stiletto knife he had bought in Paris and pouring the wine into a tin cup.
Charging Elk stood in the shadows outside the window and watched the platter of meat being passed around. He imagined that he could smell it and that he could taste it. He had gorged on meat the size of the roast by himself, when he and Strikes Plenty killed an elk in Paha Sapa. But mostly they lived on rabbits and porcupines and sage hens; sometimes deer. The big animals had become increasingly scarce in the years he lived at the Stronghold. Many times in winter he had been as hungry as he was just before he stole the iron road policeman’s bread and cheese. Strikes Plenty was right. Their friendship probably couldn’t have survived another winter of near starvation at the Stronghold.
Although the rain had stopped, a wind had come up from the northwest and now Charging Elk could hear the harsh snapping of pieces of cloth tied to the tall poles of the big boats. Strings of white lights slung from the tops of the poles to the ends of many of the boats swayed and cast moving shadows on the water. The wind was fresh, but because of the clouds, Charging Elk wasn’t as cold as he had been during the earlier starlit nights when he would awake with white frost on the papers he would drape over himself.
Charging Elk had torn himself away from the family of eaters and was now walking farther along the quai, away from the big street he had followed from Rond Point du Prado. He would keep that street in mind as a landmark, but now he wanted to make sure there were no fire boats tied to the wooden ones. He prayed to Wakan Tanka to give him a sign, to show him the flag of America. Or the name of the fire boat that had brought him to this land. The Persian Monarch. Before they left New York, before they boarded the giant boat, Broncho Billy had pointed out the name on the front. He had said Persia was way to the east even of the land they were going to. People there wore shiny clothes and the monarch—some kind of king that the people didn’t hate—kept large flocks of comely women for his pleasure. They just lay about and waited until he called on one or two of them. The Indians were used to Broncho Billy’s lies and they didn’t believe this idea; still, some of the Indians, like the Blackfeet, were said to have as many as four or five wives if they could afford them. The Lakota men could rarely afford two wives. Maybe a king, who commanded many people, could have as many of the women as he wanted. Featherman joked that he would stay on the boat when it got to their destination and see if it would take him to these women. That was before the near death of seasickness.
As Charging Elk walked along the quai, he idly looked up a street that led away from the port. He stopped and looked again. In the distance of two street corners, he could see soft but bright yellow light. And he saw small figures, many of them, all walking one way. The yellow light seemed warm at this distance, warmer than the white lights of the port. By now, the wind had begun to bite through Charging Elk’s coat, and his feet tingled in the now-soaked fuzzy slippers. He had become increasingly preoccupied with his health the past few sleeps. He knew if he had to go back to the house of sickness he would lose this opportunity to find his way home. And he had the gnawing feeling that he would just become sicker there. Death visited that house too often, and he felt certain it would take him away next time.
Charging Elk passed a large building made of iron and glass. It looked different from the stone buildings, light and open like the cages for birds he had seen in some markets. It stood apart from the others on the quai, almost at the water’s edge, and it smelled of sea creatures. It too was dark but he could just make out long rows of tables which seemed to be covered with shiny metal, and he wondered if this was where the women washed their clothes. Everything smells of the fish, he thought, and he felt queasy as he walked on the edge of a basin filled with small wooden boats. Each one had a single skinned t
ree and was open to the weather. Some were filled with small wooden cages; others had piles of knotted string beneath a piece of canvas that hung like a tent from a wooden pole attached sideways to the skinned tree. Charging Elk knew that these were devices to catch the fish and the hard-crusted creatures he had seen in markets. The Lakotas were surprised and disgusted with the things these people ate. Especially the slimy many-legged thing that seemed to melt into itself. Featherman had said something obscene about it and everybody laughed. Still, they were horrified.
By now Charging Elk found himself standing on the edge of a cobblestone square surrounded by three- and four-story buildings. At one end was a large holy house with two towers. A bell was ringing in one of the towers, and he realized that he had been hearing it for some time. But it was the din of hundreds of people in the square that muted the bell and caused him to shrink into a doorway. Some of them carried torches which gave off warm golden flames. In the center, several men carried a woman dressed in blue and white silken cloth. A golden circle hovered above her head and she was seated on a golden chair, and at first, Charging Elk thought it was a real woman, but she didn’t move. Her hands were clasped, palms and fingers pressed together, and he knew she was one of the holy statues that he had seen in the small street those few sleeps ago. These French worshiped her and were taking her up the steps to the holy house. He looked around for the man in brown robes, the kicking baby, and the men with shiny cloth wound around their heads. Perhaps they came from Persia; perhaps Broncho Billy was right; perhaps this town was where the Perdían Monarch came from. For just an instant, he thought he might be in Persia. But this town was only a train ride from Paris and these people were dressed like all the other French. No shiny clothes, no big cloths on their heads. And no monarch with his many women.