Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)

by James Welch

  Fools Crow ate several slices of the meat. It was tough and stringy. It was the meat of the white bighead and Fools Crow wolfed it down. He lifted the vessel of red juice and smelled at the opening. Then he tasted it, and it was sweet and tart at the same time. He drank the chokecherry juice and the freshness made him gasp. There was something different about it, a warmth in his stomach, that made him feel heavy. He sat on the edge of the sleeping platform and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, when the tangles went out of them, he found himself looking at a dog lying in front of the Napikwan heat-maker. He frowned. The dog raised his head, and Fools Crow could see freckles on his muzzle. The dog was black and white and young but the eyes were calm and deep.

  “Sa-sak-si,” said Fools Crow. “Freckle-face. Come here.”

  But the dog didn’t move and Fools Crow was too tired to go to him.

  “Sa-sak-si,” he said again and then he lay down on the sleeping platform. This time the sleeping song came from farther away. He tried to open his eyes but he couldn’t. Nitsokan, his dream helper, held his eyelids shut, and although he struggled, he felt himself drifting to a place closer to the sleeping song. And then he heard the chatter and laughter of children and let himself go.

  The meadow was full of long grasses and thickets of willow and chokecherry beside a blue stream. The sun was warm on the backs of the many animals that grazed there. Although the larger animals remained in their own bands, they did not seem to be wary or hostile. The blackhorns grazed alongside the long-legs and prairie-runners and wags-his-tails. The bighorns and white bigheads ate mosses and grasses beneath a ledge on which a real-lion sunned himself. On the other side of the meadow, three real-bears, with cubs, sat in a huckleberry patch, oblivious to the rabbits and prairie chickens which scurried through the brush.

  Fools Crow walked among these animals without giving or taking offense. The peaks and flat-irons that surrounded the meadow were cold gray, and the trees at the lower levels were dark and covered with thin snow. The thick grasses matted beneath Fools Crow’s step and he found himself at the far end of the meadow, where the canyon walls loomed and the air grew chilly and damp. A thin crust of ice broke under his steps; beneath, the snow was grainy and when he pushed off with the balls of his feet he heard the snow squeak. But he did not hesitate. He entered. the narrow canyon and was enveloped in thick white air. The canyon was filled with large round boulders that were not of the kind to be found in that country. But Fools Crow no longer knew what country he was in.

  Three times he had to wade the stream to get around the boulders. Often he picked his way along a steep ledge that jutted twice the height of a man above the stream. Then he came to a boulder that blocked the whole of the narrow canyon. He tried the stream side and found that the ice had built up in the space beneath the upward curve of the stone. He hurried back toward the ledge and found that the boulder had crushed itself deep into the flaky shale. There was no way around the boulder, and the walls of the canyon were too steep to climb.

  Fools Crow’s eyes grew round with sudden alarm. Surely there was a way. But as he looked around, he knew there wasn’t and he felt his heart fall down. He was cold and pulled the short-robe tight around his shoulders. The white air hung thickly in the canyon, and it seemed that the long, hard journey was over. His dream had failed. He slumped down on a stone by the creek and ran his fingers through his long hair. He felt tired and almost relieved. He knew he didn’t have the power to make the dream work. Now he could return to Red Paint and take her north to the land of the Siksikas. Perhaps they would stay up there, not even return in the spring. They could learn to live in the mountains. At least they would be away from the threat of the seizers. What made him think he possessed the power to help his people?

  He sat up straight and listened. Had he heard something? Then he heard it again, a yelp, followed by another. He stood and looked through the white air, trying to see down the canyon, but all he could make out were boulders and canyon wall. Then he saw movement beside a boulder; it was an animal, running toward him, yelping. He reached for his knife but the animal veered to the far side of the canyon. He was moving so fast, Fools Crow thought he would run full speed into the boulder that blocked the canyon. At the very instant that Fools Crow recognized the animal, the black-and-white dog slid under a ground juniper branch at the base of the boulder and disappeared.

  Fools Crow walked slowly toward the juniper, his eyes wide in astonishment. Then he heard another sound and looked back and saw a dark long-haired animal. It chuckled and grunted as it ran after the dog, and Fools Crow saw the fangs and sharp claws flashing in the white air. Then the animal was past him, diving beneath the juniper branch. But the animal was larger than the dog and had to squirm through the flat opening.

  “Skunk Bear!” shouted Fools Crow. “It is me, your brother!”

  But the wolverine, with a last effort, squeezed through and vanished.

  Fools Crow ran to the ground juniper and dropped to his knees. He pushed aside the branch and saw a low narrow crevice barely large enough for a man. He gathered his courage and sang his power song that Wolverine had given him; he dropped to his stomach and began to wriggle through the crevice. In the darkness of the tunnel he got to his hands and knees and tried to see ahead, but it was black and narrow. Far ahead he heard the claws of Wolverine scraping the rocky floor as he ran. And he smelled Wolverine, and the sour damp odor made his eyes water.

  The tunnel was cool and a draft came up into his face, but Fools Crow soon found himself sweating. His hands and knees ached and burned from sliding along the slick surface of rock. Once he called out to Wolverine to let him catch up, but all he heard was the steady clicking of the animal’s claws. Three times he panicked and tried to turn around but the space was too narrow and he succeeded only enough to get himself stuck and even more panicked. But each time he managed to free himself, and finally he was too tired and sore to even think. He crawled on, and each movement became a chant from deep within him:

  Wolverine is my brother,

  From Wolverine I take my courage,

  Wolverine is my brother,

  From Wolverine I take my strength.

  The air was golden and the sky was the bottomless blue of summer. All around him the trees and shrubs were leafed out and moving with the warm breeze. He lowered his eyes from the glare of the sun and saw that he was sitting in a thicket of long grasses. A summer stream passed beside him, and he saw that the stones beneath the surface were dark and sharp. He stood and his legs were stiff. He stretched, then looked himself over. He expected to see his leggings in tatters and his knees raw, but there was no sign of his struggle through the tunnel. His hands were unmarked. He looked behind him to where the stream entered the canyon. There were no boulders, no fog, no sign of winter. He felt a stab of fear in his heart as he realized he had left that season behind—and the Lone Eaters. Would he be able to go back? Would he see Red Paint again? What was this summer land? He looked around. Where was Skunk Bear? But as he asked himself these questions, the fear that had prompted them subsided in the warm sun and he felt only wonder. He knew that this place was part of his journey and surely the end of it.

  Fools Crow began to walk farther into the immense valley. All around him he could see the distant hazy peaks of the mountains. The stiffness left his legs and his stride became light. He walked for a long time, through grassy meadows, through groves of spear-leaf trees, toward a knoll that rose above even the highest trees. He climbed the slope to the top, and the sweat running down his face made him feel good and strong. At the top he looked out over the valley and could see that it was more a huge bowl than valley. He could see no entrances or exits, and yet not too far distant he saw a sandy-bottomed river and, beyond it, more trees and meadows. Although all that he could see was beautiful and lush with growth, he sensed that something about this country was different, as though he were alone in it. But the thought did not disturb him, and he trotted down the slope toward the ri
ver.

  After his swim, Fools Crow lay down on the warm sand of the beach. The beads of water glistened on his body, and as he slung his forearm over his eyes, he wondered that Sun Chief never seemed to move from his position directly overhead. And he wondered at the silence, the stillness of the air. He breathed a long sigh and then he slept.

  The woman stood against a tree about fifty paces from the naked man. Beside her, the black-and-white dog sprawled on the grassy dune, his head down between his paws. His eyes were less on the man than on the clothes, which were a few paces nearer. He considered the distance and the amount of time it would take to get to the clothes. He could feel the muscles tense in his hind legs, and his front paws curled slightly to gain purchase in the sandy soil. But just as he lifted his head, carefully, deliberately, he felt the woman’s kick on his left thigh. He looked up and she waved her finger from side to side. He put his head down between his paws and closed his eyes, but he didn’t sleep.

  The woman wore a white doeskin dress which reached almost to the tops of her moccasins. A black leather belt, studded with brass tacks, encircled her waist, the two ends hanging down in front. There were no elk teeth, no shells, no fringes on the dress. Her moccasins were plain and she wore no necklace, no earrings, no feather or beaded medallions in her hair. Her graying hair was cut short and close to her head. She stroked it absently as she watched the sleeping man.

  Fools Crow awoke and the sun was still high and warm. He stood and brushed the sand from his back and legs. He looked at the blue river and could see all the way down to its sandy bottom. It puzzled him that he could see nothing but sand—no rocks, no water plants, no froth or debris, just sand. Then he listened. Although the day was at its midpoint, he should have heard some birds—a yellow-breast or a long-tail, perhaps. Or a raven from one of the distant mountainsides. But he heard nothing. And it struck him that he had seen no animals from the knoll. That was what he had expected to see—blackhorns, wags-his-tails, long-legs. In such lushness he had expected to see large herds of animals.

  As he drew on his leggings Fools Crow thought of his own country. It seemed far away now, not just in seasons or sleeps but in the way that Sun or Night Red Light was distant. From the tunnel, he had emerged into a world where even the animals did not exist. But what will I eat? he thought. I haven’t even seen any berries. Then he realized that he was not hungry, that the thought of food was only a thought. He tightened the blue breechcloth around his middle, then sat to brush his feet. The winter moccasins seemed strange in such country.

  He saw the black-and-white dog as it charged straight at him. He jumped to his feet and pulled his knife, but the dog stopped suddenly at ten paces and sat down, eyeing the moccasins. Fools Crow recognized the dog again, then lifted his eyes to the patch of white at the edge of the treeline downstream.

  30

  ONE OF THE DAY-RIDERS guarding the horse herd saw the travois first. He had been huddled down in his robe, half asleep, when he felt his horse tense up beneath him. Still, he did not open his eyes until he heard several horses whicker and snort.

  The horse pulling the travois answered them and began to trot toward the herd. The young man, Good Grass Bull, stood in his stirrups to see over the herd. The horse was a red roan, and he held his head high as he crossed the snowy field. The travois poles made smooth stripes in the snow on either side of the horse tracks. Good Grass Bull followed with his eyes the stripes up the sloping incline to the ridge above the Two Medicine valley. There he saw a dark figure on a horse, but he could not make out anything distinct about the rider. Just as he was about to call out a warning to the others, the figure whirled the horse around and disappeared behind the ridge.

  Good Grass Bull cut through the herd toward the travois. He saw Calf Looking coming from the other perimeter. He swatted a red-and-white yearling with his quirt and the horse squealed, causing the other horses to make way.

  The travois was made of two freshly cut, unpeeled lodgepole pines lashed together with rawhide latticework. Strapped to the latticework was a long bundle wrapped in a yellow tanned-on-both-sides hide. Calf Looking swatted away some horses that had come too near, then dismounted. He was older than Good Grass Bull and prided himself on his fearlessness.

  “I saw something up there,” Good Grass Bull pointed with his lips to the top of the ridge. “It was a rider. It could be an enemy.”

  Calf Looking touched the yellow hide. It was frozen hard. “It’s a human being,” he said. He glanced up at the ridge. “Someone makes us a gift of a dead one.”

  Both young men grew silent, each thinking of the possibility that the enemy was just over the ridge. Although both were prepared to defend the herd, they were perplexed and unsure of themselves in dealing with this strange travois. Finally Calf Looking said, “You go get some men. I’ll warn the other riders.” He patted the travois horse on the neck. Then he swung up on his own horse. “And go with speed. If there are enemies about, it will go hard on us.”

  Fast Horse had watched the travois horse pick his way down the slope to the river valley. He knew the day-riders would be half asleep, for he had been one himself when he was younger. He had spent his time dozing and daydreaming, dreaming of the day when his own horses would be many, when his lodge would be filled with wives and children. He had dreamed of war honors and strong medicine, an exalted place among the Pikunis. But that was not to be. Now he was a solitary figure in the isolation of a vast land.

  He had told himself many times that it was his failure to find the ice spring of Cold Maker that made everything go bad—and for a while he had come to believe it. Even when he betrayed Yellow Kidney in the Crow camp, he felt that it was Cold Maker’s doing, his revenge on the party for continuing their raid after failing to find the ice spring. But now he knew that it was he, and he alone, who created the disaster that led to Yellow Kidney’s fall. And it was he who brought Yellow Kidney’s body back to his people.

  As he watched the travois horse cross the snowy field toward the herds, he felt an impulse to ride into camp, to the lodge of his father. But he knew he could not ask for forgiveness. He didn’t have it in him anymore. The suffering he and Owl Child and the others had caused had hardened him in a way that was irreversible. To ask for forgiveness would be to ask for entry back into the lives of his people, and he was not one of them now; nor was he with Owl Child and his gang. He had left them at Bad Horse Butte after making the travois and strapping Yellow Kidney’s body to it. He would not see them again.

  He lifted his eyes across the valley to the rolling plains beyond. There was safety up there, beyond the Medicine Line, and he had some of the yellow dust that the Napikwans valued. He was alone now, but he knew he would be welcome at the whiskey forts in the north. There were many men alone up there.

  He heard a horse whicker, then another, and he looked down at the horse herds. He saw one of the day-riders stir, then look up at him. He whirled his horse and galloped out of sight. He had returned Yellow Kidney.

  31

  THE WOMAN in the white doeskin dress approached boldly, and Fools Crow did not know what to make of her. From a distance she had looked old, but as she drew nearer the years seemed to fall away. Her face, beneath the gray cut-off hair, was wrinkled, but the wrinkles were those of a person who laughs much, who grows old but remains young. And yet she wore the short hair of one who mourns.

  “Ok-yi,” she said. “Welcome.”

  Fools Crow recognized her voice. She was the figure who had greeted him in the doorway of the small cabin.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “The one who left meat and drink for you back there—to give you strength to complete your journey.” She smiled and the wrinkles both deepened and disappeared.

  “Is my journey done?”

  “Yes.” She laughed. “You are here.”

  “Where is this place?”

  She walked around him and stood, looking off across the river. She walked lightly, but she stood with a fi
rmness that suggested this was her world.

  “Am I in the Shadowland then?”

  The woman whirled around and laughed and her laughter was low and throaty. “Do you think you are in the Shadowland? Do you think these are the Sand Hills?” She waved her arm around the bowl to the distant mountains.

  Fools Crow was ashamed of himself and yet relieved. Then he grew annoyed with the woman. “You laugh at my ignorance, but you say nothing that informs me. I have traveled many sleeps to reach this place, and I lose track of time. I have endured hardships. Now I find myself in a land that is always summer. I am far from my people and I wish to return to them.”

  The woman stepped closer and touched his arm. “I have upset you. For this I am ashamed.” She turned her head aside. “I do not see many of your people and I forget myself,” she said.