The Holy Road dww-2

by Michael Blake

  From the moment he saw them, Dances With Wolves knew there had been a disaster, and as he listened numbly to the details of the devastation and its aftermath, he felt his soul altered in ways that could only be compared with the upheaval that marks the coming of death.

  When the girl and boy were finished, he felt as if split in two. A part of him was still alive in the world, comforting his children, making preparations for a night march, and speculating on all that would need to be done to salvage what was left of his community.

  The other part of him, separate and distinct from flesh and blood, was floating and rolling as helplessly as a corpse in the currents of an ever-changing river. Past and future had ceased and the present in which he dwelt was curiously inert, devoid of thought or feeling or expression.

  It was as if he had ceased to walk on the ground, relegated instead to float, rudderless, in the space between earth and sky.

  Outwardly, he manifested none of this. In the three days it took for Hunting For Something and Rabbit to guide them back to the spot where Ten Bears and the survivors were sequestered, he clung to the warrior's performance of everyday duties: laying out routes of travel, grasping every opportunity to take game, helping other families with their loads, watching over his children, and maintaining a constant vigil for signs of enemies.

  But, inwardly, Dances With Wolves no longer knew where he was. His disorientation was so complete that he himself could not describe it. The only evidence of his spiritual disengagement was a profound stoicism that gripped him and had even spread to his children. There was a dullness in their eyes, as if something vital inside had been extinguished, and while the three family members walked and talked like anyone else, they had become shadow people, people who neither came nor went, who stayed in one place no matter what they said or did.

  There was much to do in the name of survival, and on reuniting with Ten Bears and the others who had escaped the attack, Dances With Wolves and his party of hunters threw themselves into the task of resurrecting what remained of their people. Though the hunters' packhorses were loaded with meat and untanned robes, there was not enough game to sustain them and the first order of business was to effect a move.

  A day later they climbed onto the plains, secure in the knowledge that the practiced eyes of Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair would be able to follow the tail. With so few horses most people were traveling on foot, but after two days of marching they reached a well-watered spot they had camped in before. Each heart was lifted by the presence of buffalo, whose sign was heavy and fresh in every direction.

  There was no time to mount a long trek to the shining mountains for aspen but they were fortunate to find thick copses of cottonwood and elm within a few miles that yielded enough young trees to provide the framework for new lodges. Women and girls worked day and night, rubbing hides until every muscle ached, to provide the needed coverings, and in a few days' time a new village was rising on the plains.

  The buffalo were found in such great numbers that at first glance it might have seemed like the old days, when all a man had to do was ride a few miles from his lodge to make meat. However, the animals to which the people of the plains owed their existence behaved oddly, as if they too had been scattered, but the bounty that flowed into the new village had the effect of a life-giving infusion, and by the time Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair came in, both arriving on the same day, the village was remarkably well-established.

  A week later, any prairie wanderer who happened by would have observed a strong Comanche village, perhaps a little shorter on horses than most, but well supplied with food and water, and a bustling population.

  But if the same traveler had been able to scratch through the veneer of the picture Ten Bears' restored village presented, he would have found the wreckage of what had once been a tight-knit society. The imaginary passerby would not have failed, upon closer inspection, to be struck by the spiritual fractures that divided the Comanches.

  Preoccupied with rebuilding the community and maintaining life, the members of Ten Bears' village did not actively grapple with the weighty issues that had rent their hearts, at least not at first.

  When he thought about what the future might bring, Ten Bears now found every avenue he might take barricaded by the obstacle of old age. Through his long reign as a headman he had never sought war. In fact, he had unfailingly counseled against its ravages. But now, with so many winters behind him, his influence in such matters barely existed.

  He felt as impotent on the subject of peace. If a roving band of rangers could inflict such carnage on Comanches, what would happen if hair-mouth soldiers flooded the plains with the far-shooting guns that rolled on wheels? The Comanche and all they knew would be reduced to dust so fine that it could only be seen in a shaft of light before it settled on the earth.

  In all his life he had learned nothing of the white man. He could count on one hand the times he had seen them. How could he begin to pursue peace with people he had never met? How could he meet such people? How could he talk to them? How could he understand them? He might as well dream of reaching up and pulling the moon from its eternal mooring.

  All that Ten Bears could do was what he was doing now: sit in the shade of the arbor that had been erected next to his lodge and observe as best he could through his foggy eyes and pick at the bowl of pemmican Hunting For Something had brought. The afternoon sojourns he enjoyed had been disrupted, and the old man decided that the little value left in his existence could best be served by exercising the gift of listening to people's blood.

  He passed several afternoons in this manner and had formed a number of useful conclusions. The people of the village, despite their industry, were still burdened by sorrow. They worked, but without the traditional gaiety that leavened labor. The children played, but joy was absent from their games. Coveys of women hauled water and tanned hides and cooked communal meals without the normal laughter. Impromptu gatherings of warriors were convened, but the manly spirit was missing.

  Though he had always tended toward reticence, Kicking Bird had been positively mute since his return from Kiowa country. His way of looking forward had been a goad for activity but when Ten Bears saw him now, he was invariably alone. When he came close enough to offer a salutation, on one occasion squatting directly in front of Ten Bears for a brief inquiry as to his health, the old man had the opportunity to penetrate the mask of pain Kicking Bird wore in common with everyone else. What he saw were sparks and what he heard was a rushing of blood that made his ears ring. In the few seconds Kicking Bird sat before him, Ten Bears became convinced that the former medicine man was engaged deeply, turbulently, in thought. What he might be thinking Ten Bears did not know, but he was convinced that Kicking Bird was soon to leave the village again.

  Wind In His Hair had come by a few times to acknowledge Ten Bears in the same fleeting fashion. The rangers had killed two of his wives and five of the seven children he had sired, but the great warrior made no mention of his family's demolition. Nor did he speak of his plans in their brief encounters, but the old man did not have to listen very hard to hear his blood-simply to know him was to know what Wind In His Hair would do. Like a cornered panther, Wind In His Hair would fight. When he might move, and with what force, was all that remained to be seen.

  The blood of Dances With Wolves was the hardest to hear, and Ten Bears could only guess at the depth of his suffering. Just once had he stopped at the door of the lodge, and then he had barely spoken as he placed a prime cut of buffalo haunch inside the flap. Ten Bears had been sitting inside smoking and when their eyes met, Dances With Wolves had said, "For you, Grandfather," then ducked out of sight.

  In subsequent days, Ten Bears saw him venture out to hunt only twice. The rest of the time he was indoors, and most often his children could be seen just outside their lodge, for they never went anywhere without their father. Snake In Hands no longer ran after snakes and Always Walking now stayed put, except in the company of their
father. The boy and girl played with other children only if they came around, and Dances With Wolves had few visitors so far as Ten Bears could tell.

  The old man viewed everything with the detachment of age. He had finally accepted what had come to pass, and the fretting he had engaged in so often before the ranger attack all but ceased. It was replaced now with a simple curiosity as to how everything might turn out, and nothing piqued his interest more than the goings-on in the lodge directly across the way from his own.

  That particular lodge represented what was left of the joy in life for Ten Bears. It reminded him of the new growth that emerges from the prairie after the grass has been scorched to nothing by fire. He was thankful to be close enough to see the comings and goings there, and watching them was his only pleasure.

  In normal times this family configuration could never have happened, but catastrophe had necessitated many odd jugglings of lives. The landing together of the three souls across the way violated more rules of tribal conduct than could be counted. In times past such a thing would not have been tolerated, and if a couple like the one living near Ten Bears had persisted they might face expulsion from the group, a punishment reserved for the most heinous public crimes.

  But time and custom had been turned upside down, and not an eyebrow was raised against the union of Smiles A Lot and Hunting For Something and their surrogate son, Rabbit. Circumstance had deprived each of their families. She needed a provider and he needed a supporter. Together they were building something out of nothing and, far from being an embarrassment, they quickly became a prideful symbol of Comanche resilience. That the girl's grandfather, the venerable and unassailable Ten Bears, made no objection to the unsanctified union rendered it palatable to the strictest among them, and the young couple went about the business of life unimpeded.

  As before, Hunting For Something came every day, making sure her grandfather had something to eat. Rabbit was in and out of the lodge at all hours, and most evenings Smiles A Lot kept the old man company for an hour or two, listening to stories of adventure and heroism and funny anecdotes.

  The presence of this odd trio was a tonic for Ten Bears, invigorating him with a sense of belonging he had not felt since the last of his wives died. The old man sat in the shade of his arbor, his despair tempered by the closeness of his new, made-up family. Good coming out of bad, he often thought to himself, it always happens. What will come next? Who knows? This arbor is a good place — I know that. Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair and Dances With Wolves. . does it matter what they are thinking? They are making up their minds. When they are ready they will come and talk with me. In the meantime, I am happy in this shade. There's a little breeze to make it just right. Is that her coming?. . How I miss my young eyes.

  "Hunting For Something!"

  "Hello, Grandfather."

  Chapter XXI

  The three warriors upon whose actions the fate of their people might depend did make up their minds, just as Ten Bears knew they would, and they divulged their plans to him in separate visits on the same day.

  Ten Bears had actually dreamt such a scenario the night before, and so he was not surprised when Kicking Bird appeared at his door in the early morning, asking to talk.

  The two men smoked a pipe in silence, and when the bowl was exhausted, Ten Bears knocked the ash deftly into his flameless fire and said in an offhand way, "You have been thinking a lot."

  Kicking Bird smiled. "Yes, Grandfather. I have been thinking since I came back from Touch The Clouds' camp."

  He then revealed all that had happened during his visit to the Kiowas, describing in detail his encounter with the white man Lawrie Tatum, placing particular emphasis on the Quaker's offer of protection and support for those who loved peace and would be willing to follow the white man's "holy road."

  As he finished his fascinating story Kicking Bird withdrew his own pipe and tamped a few pinches of tobacco into the bowl.

  "Did you smoke the pipe with this man?" Ten Bears asked.

  "We smoked the pipe."

  "His words were true?"

  "There was nothing to show they were not. I have decided to go back up there and find Lawrie Tatum and talk to him some more.”

  Ten Bears nodded, then lapsed into thought. The men smoked in silence, passing Kicking Bird's pipe back and forth.

  "I am wondering," Ten Bears began at last. "This white man's holy road. . how can Comanches take a road they have never traveled. . how can they take a road where everything is new and strange and still be Comanches? How can they be happy?"

  Kicking Bird listened as he sucked at the pipe and sent a long stream of smoke curling toward the hole in Ten Bears' lodge.

  "I don't know, Grandfather. But I want to see this Lawrie Tatum again and talk with him. Your question is good. It says a lot. But it makes a question come into my mind, a question that might be just as good. I think of the buffalo growing more scarce each summer. I think of white soldiers coming into the country. I think of these rangers tearing at our camp like starving wolves — killing our women and children, burning down our lodges. When I think of these things, I wonder what will happen if they continue. You ask how we can walk this holy road, and I wonder. . how can we not?"

  "Ahhh!" Ten Bears exclaimed as he passed back the pipe. “your question is a good one, too. It vexes me greatly. When will you see this — how do you say it? — Loree Taydum again?"

  "We will leave at sunup. Perhaps you should come with us.”

  “Me? No. . no. . I'm good here, but if you come back and tell me the Loree Taydum man is a good one and that all his promises are true and that an old man like me can be happy on his holy road, maybe then I will go."

  Kicking Bird smiled and started to his feet.

  "Who goes with you?" Ten Bears asked.

  "Whoever wants to."

  "Well," the old man cautioned, "don't take the whole village. Those rangers might come back again."

  “No, Grandfather," Kicking Bird assured him, "I won't do that.”

  The sun had passed the midway point in its daily journey and Ten Bears had just settled himself in the arbor with a bowl of Hunting For Something's pemmican when he glanced up to see the confident figure of Wind In His Hair striding toward him.

  "Can I speak with you, Grandfather?" the one-eyed warrior asked respectfully.

  "I always like to talk with Wind In His Hair."

  "I don't have my pipe."

  "Nor do I. Mine's in the lodge."

  "I can bring it."

  "That's not necessary," Ten Bears said, moving over to make room in the arbor. "Wind In His Hair's heart is always true. Come and sit down."

  Wind In His Hair settled next to the man he had known all his life and came straight to the point.

  "What has happened must be avenged, Grandfather.”

  "It has always been so," Ten Bears agreed. "But I wonder," he continued, setting his food bowl to one side. "Your father fought the whites, and his father before him. You have fought white people. It seems that after all these winters, almost too many to be counted, that the only thing this fighting has brought us is more white people. After every fight there are fewer Comanches. Maybe we should start looking for ways to walk the peace road."

  Wind In His Hair gazed out at the village for such a long time that Ten Bears picked up his bowl and resumed eating. When Wind In His Hair spoke again his eyes were still fixed somewhere in front of him.

  "I am different from what I used to be, Grandfather. I'm getting older, and I love peace more. I like to be with One Braid Trailing and our children. But I will always be a warrior, a Hard Shield. I will be that when I die. There will never be peace if an enemy can kill us whenever he likes, can burn our homes and steal our horses without being punished. That is not peace. Peace can't be made when one is strong and the other is weak. Both must be strong. The whites will keep killing us until the Comanches are no more. . if we let them. How can I let them feast on us and toss our bones to one side? A Comanc
he cannot do that."

  Again a silence descended in the arbor and, as if sent to fill it, a sudden gust of summer's breeze brought the dry leaves hanging on its boughs to life. Then Ten Bears spoke again.

  "I am old now and people think I am wise. I am not. I do not know what road to take. All I know is that it makes my old heart glad to hear Wind In His Hair's words."

  "Thank you, Grandfather.”

  "When will you leave?"

  “I have sent runners to tell White Bear that the Comanche are making a war on the whites. When he will come, I don't know. We will make a big party of the bravest Comanche and Kiowa. Then we will go.”

  "Don't take the whole village."

  "No, Grandfather, I won't do that.”

  Ten Bears watched him walk away. Long after his form had blurred and disappeared, the old man was still thinking about Wind In His Hair.

  He thought about him so hard that Ten Bears, eyes began to run. He bent his head and, as his tears wet the dust next to his feet, he realized that he was mourning. Wind In His Hair would be killed, and his passing would take the strongest, most beautiful bloom of Comanche warriorhood. After Wind In His Hair, there would be no more.

  A few hours later Ten Bears was lying on his side, watching the afternoon shadows begin their long crawl through his open door when a pair of legs came into view at the lodge entrance and Dances With Wolves' voice floated inside.

  "Grandfather? Are you in there?"

  Pushing himself up to a sitting position, Ten Bears answered, “Yes, yes. Come in, Dances With Wolves.”

  The tall warrior ducked through the flap, followed by his two children, and for a moment they all stood awkwardly.

  "Sit down in my home," Ten Bears urged. Dances With Wolves said nothing to his boy and girl but indicated the ground with the flat of his hand and the three sat, the children just behind their father.

  "Do you have any tobacco?" Ten Bears asked. “Mine is almost gone. It seems everyone is coming to see me today.”