Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)

by James Welch

  “I give you your freedom, young woman. You are no longer my wife. You will quit this camp in the morning before Sun Chief begins his journey. You may take your riding horse and three others from my herd. Tell your father they are a gift from his friend Rides-at-the-door. But he must never know the real reason for your return. You must vow to the Above Ones that you will tell no one of this.”

  Kills-close-to-the-lake had listened to these words—they had entered her ears but somehow had lost their way to her heart. She found herself sitting with the two men she had lived with, but they seemed like strangers to her. The very purpose of this confrontation seemed less important to her than the punishment she had expected, even desired. Her hands were folded in her lap and she looked at the stub of the little finger on her left hand, the finger she had sacrificed at the Sun Dance last summer. How far away that was! Although she only vaguely understood the reason for the sacrifice, she had felt good about it—she had felt virtuous. She had put Fools Crow away from her heart. She made a fist of the hand and the stub disappeared and she knew that she had not put him away. She would have gladly committed this offense with him and accepted the punishment. Now the thought of punishment faded from her mind and she felt only emptiness and she accepted that as her future.

  Rides-at-the-door watched her slip out the entrance. Then he spoke to Running Fisher, his stare still focused on the skin flap.

  “Your mother has relatives among the far north people, the Siksikas—you know them. Perhaps they will take you in. You must tell them that it had nothing to do with Double Strike Woman or Striped Face. Tell them you are pitiful and would live with them until the moon of the many drums. There is a Medicine Pipe man among them. You may tell him everything and beg him to remember you when he rolls out his bundle at the first thunder. Give him three horses if he consents to do this. You must walk among the Siksikas with your head down, for they are a proud people and will look upon you with kindness only if you humble yourself. It will be hard on you, my son, for you are young and prideful, but it must be done.”

  For the first time since entering the lodge, Running Fisher looked at his father. His eyes were clear and unwavering. “I have offended you,” he said. “For this I deserve whatever punishment you wish. You are a man of great reputation and I am a nothing-one. It is true—I have been prideful, I have boasted to others of my accomplishments, but what are they? Twice I have taken scrawny horses from the Entrails People. I even captured a ball-and-powder gun, an old and poor weapon, hardly worth keeping. Many said then that I would become something, that I would capture the eyes of the Above Ones. I painted myself with designs I saw in a dream, and when I walked around camp I felt the eyes of the others on me. When I danced, I danced in my own way. I painted my arrows with a pigment I alone possessed. But through it all, I knew I was a nothing-one.”

  Running Fisher looked into his father’s face and his eyes became dark and burning.

  “I longed to be a man before I was one. I wished to sit in on the councils, to join an older society, to become a Crazy Dog or a Raven Carrier. I wanted my own lodge, my own band of horses. I wanted people to point at me and say, ‘There goes Running Fisher, he is a wealthy man and a great warrior. His medicine is the most powerful of the Pikunis.’ But two things occurred. I saw what happened to Fast Horse and I saw myself in him. As a child I watched him strut around the camp and I wanted to be just like him.” Running Fisher tried to smile. “And now I am. I have dishonored those who trusted me and I am to be banished for it. It is right.

  “But something else happened, something that causes me even greater shame. It happened the day Sun hid his face, when we were on the war trail to the Crow country to revenge—” Running Fisher stopped in mid-sentence, and the flame went out of his eyes. He slumped back, and his voice was low and discouraged. “I—I lost my courage that day. I trembled like the quaking-leaf tree. I prayed to Sun Chief to give me back my courage, to make me fierce against the Crows, to make my people proud of me. It didn’t happen. When we charged down on the Crow village, I shot my gun in the air, I shouted threats and I rode hard. But I didn’t enter the village. I was afraid, and so I stayed on the outside and shot into lodges. Then I retreated with the first wave of Pikunis. Even then I was afraid that a Crow would ride me down and kill me. I covered myself with shame that day, and now I must live with a coward’s heart.”

  Both men shared the weight of those words in the quiet night. The fire flickered silently on the walls and all the camp dogs were silent. But Running Fisher was not finished.

  “I see my brother, Fools Crow, acquire wealth and respect. He learns the ways of the many-faces. He sits at the council fire with the men. And he has a woman who gladly lies with him and carries his child. It is only with great effort that I can keep from hating my own brother. Before, I told myself, these things will come to me too, but I was not patient. I tried to act like a man, but I am worse than a child—I am nothing. The Above Ones do not even see Running Fisher. He is an insect, and now he commits a great offense against his father. And he dishonors Kills-close-to-the-lake.” He looked down at his hands, which had been twisted into interlocking fists, the knuckles white and large. “For this I gladly accept your punishment.”

  Rides-at-the-door, for the first time that night, felt something other than sadness. His eyes were wet and bright in the firelight. He felt regret that he hadn’t seen earlier what was happening to Running Fisher, that he hadn’t been able to help him through this period. Then this bad thing would not have happened. But somewhere further inside, he felt a quickening of his spirit that his son should accept and understand the shame of his actions—and the consequences. Rides-at-the-door earlier had thought simply to banish his son, to cast him out into the cold, to allow him to attempt to survive the elements and the censure of his people. That would have been the proper thing. But he knew too many young men who had ended up full of bitterness and hatred and they never recovered—like Fast Horse. Rides-at-the-door wanted his son to have a chance to cleanse himself, to regain his dignity: possibly to return to the Lone Eaters, possibly to begin a new life elsewhere. He was young enough.

  “If you are successful in your stay with the Siksikas, if you learn from them and purify yourself with their Medicine Pipe keeper, perhaps sometime you would return to the Lone Eaters. It is getting time for you to dance before the Medicine Pole. Perhaps I would assist you.”

  Running Fisher looked up at his father; he looked at him for a long time. His eyes, too, were shiny.

  “I will do as you say, my father. I will leave tonight and I will pray to Cold Maker to allow me safe journey. I ask that you too pray for this nothing-one. If I return I will have the strength to ask your forgiveness in the proper way.” He turned his head so that his father would not see the wetness on his cheeks. “If I do not return, I ask that you and my mother think of me as I once was, a loving and obedient son.”

  Double Strike Woman lay facing away from the fire. Only her loose hair was visible above the sleeping robes. Rides-at-the-door felt great pity for her. Her younger son was gone, banished by her husband. Her older son had been gone for six sleeps and she was sure he would not return, that he had been swallowed up by Cold Maker and would never be found. Her two sons were gone and neither would have a proper burial. They would not even be able to go to the Sand Hills to join their dear relatives. She had wept and wailed all night, and only by much talking and soothing could Rides-at-the-door convince her that it was not time to mourn, that both were still alive and both would return to her. At last she had looked into his eyes and seen the truth of it, or at least an earnestness that she could understand. Then she began to dig around among her belongings until she came up with her best elkskin robe and her small-bone breastplate. He had gone with her into the night, hurrying through the snow, until they came before two large spear-leaf trees. She placed the robe in one and the breastplate in the other. Together, they prayed to Sun Chief to accept their offerings and to look after th
eir sons, to bring them safely home when the time came. Rides-at-the-door remembered looking up then and seeing the Star-that-stands-still and feeling that their prayer would be answered. The light from the star came straight down and the snow shone like the silver of the Many Bracelets People. They walked back to camp without speaking. He walked with his arm around her shoulders, but she felt small to him and far away in her thoughts.

  Rides-at-the-door pushed a stick farther into the fire, and the lodge brightened. He looked over at the robes of Striped Face. She lay with one naked arm flung across her forehead. He could barely make out the hump of her belly beneath the shaggy robe. She was with child and would deliver within two moons. Rides-at-the-door marveled at how Mother Earth always took care of her children. Some die but there are others to take their place. Even as his sons were far from him, and in perilous circumstances, there was a new life in the lodge waiting to be born, to grow up and be strong. We will go on, he thought; as long as Mother Earth smiles on her children, we will continue to be a people. We will live and die and live on. It is the Pikuni way.

  He lit his pipe and watched the belly of his second wife move up and down with her breathing. Although he had been angry with her earlier in the day, she had been right to tell him. If the two lovers had been allowed to continue, the whole camp, eventually all the Pikunis, would have known about it—if they don’t already, he thought. He would have to tell his wives not to see White Grass Woman for a while. It would be difficult to keep the fat cow from learning about his disgrace and telling the whole camp, but they had to try, for honor’s sake. Then he thought that his pitiful honor was as a hopping-biter on the blackhorn that was dying of the watery eye. The Pikunis were dying, and all he could think about was himself and his honor. Oh, hateful one! Your heart tonight is as small and hard as the seed of the stinking-weed. He buried his face in his hands and sat motionless, listening to the dry crackle of the fire. It seemed that every day brought news to cause him to feel more tired than the last. He wished he could have made himself feel better about Fools Crow’s return, but he didn’t even know where his son had gone. Red Paint would only say that he had had a dream and left the next morning.

  He almost smiled as he thought of the talk in camp that day. Many people were now anxious to cross the Medicine Line to escape the white-scabs and the seizers. Even Sits-in-the-middle, so vocal in his opposition, now talked as though it had been his idea in the first place. Three Bears would go, to lead his people from danger, but he would rather die in his own country. He too had been looking old and tired these days. Rides-at-the-door was certain that to go north would be the best course, at least for the winter. And he knew that he could swing the decision. If he talked to Three Bears this night, they would pack up in the morning.

  Double Strike Woman rolled onto her back and heaved a shuddering sigh. Several strands of hair were stuck to her cheek. As he looked at his sits-beside-him wife, he thought of the suffering she had endured just that evening. No, he could not move his family while Fools Crow was gone. They would wait until the time for the sore-eyes moon and beyond. They would keep vigil with Red Paint and the infant growing inside her. They would take their chances with the white-scabs disease and with the seizers. When the snow melted and when they could move about freely, perhaps it would be like it always had been.

  Rides-at-the-door lit his pipe. In the back of his mind he heard a voice, and it told him he was a foolish man. He rolled his shoulders beneath the blackhorn robe and didn’t listen to that voice. Instead, he thought that he would sweat with Mik-api in the morning. He would purify himself with his son’s friend. Perhaps Mik-api would know something.

  33

  “WHO DO YOU MOURN?” he said.

  They were sitting across the cold fire pit from each other. She had spent the day painting a design on the yellow skin. Fools Crow had watched her mix her paints and he had watched her dab the paint on the skin, but when he looked at the skin he could not see her design. The paints vanished and yet she painted on, as though she could see some image emerging. After a time, Fools Crow had given up and gone for a walk. Then he returned to the lodge and smoked and thought about the woman’s strange mourning in the clearing, but he could make no sense of it. Afterward she had walked down to the river and stripped off her dress and moccasins and bathed. He had watched her as she submerged herself, then came up, sputtering, tossing her short hair, wiping her face with her hands. She splashed water on her breasts and arms. She looked at him and smiled, and he realized that she was the first woman, other than Red Paint, that he had seen naked since becoming a man. And he felt no shame.

  Now, as he looked into the pale blue eyes, he noticed that something about her had changed. Her eyes had changed. He saw age in them, the watery flat eyes of an old one. He thought again of her splashing water on her breasts and how he had marveled at their firmness, and the flatness of her belly.

  “It is finished,” she said. She rolled up the yellow skin and laid it aside. She wiped her fingers with a strip of skin, then looked across at Fools Crow. “I am So-at-sa-ki.”

  At first Fools Crow didn’t make the connection. He had become used to the waiting, and the way she said the name seemed as timeless as everything else in her world. Then he felt the small prickles of sweat sting his forehead, and when he opened his mouth the words came out harshly: “Feather Woman!”

  She smiled faintly.

  “But you died—you died in mourning!”

  “It is true that I mourned the loss of my husband, and it is true that I died. There was much sorrow in me and I did not care to live. And so I left your world, a pitiful creature whom no one missed or mourned. But I did not go to the Sand Hills to join my beloved relatives. I came here—Sun brought me here—to live in mourning. Now he sends my husband and son here each dawn to remind me of my transgression.”

  “Morning Star and Star Boy,” murmured Fools Crow.

  “Yes, they come every morning, and every morning I beg them to take me back, but they do not listen to an old woman.” Feather Woman’s voice had lost the vigor that Fools Crow had come to enjoy. She spoke in a grave, flat rhythm. “You saw me in the clearing. You saw the yellow feather and the juniper bough with the spider’s web. These things were given to me that long-ago night Morning Star took me to live with him in Sun’s house. The web is the ladder I climbed. Spider Man built the ladder to the sky, and I entered my husband’s dwelling place and was embraced by his father and mother, Sun Chief and Night Red Light. We were very happy, all of us, and even happier when I gave birth to Star Boy, the one your people now call Poia. Sun and Moon beamed with pleasure each time they looked upon their grandson. Morning Star walked with great pride, and I—I was the happiest of all, for I was indeed blessed in that sacred lodge.”

  Feather Woman closed her eyes and smiled, as though she were reliving those happy times when she had lived with the Above Ones. Fools Crow sat in silence, for he was still stunned by her revelation. And he was suddenly frightened to be in the presence of one who had been sacred to his people and who had fallen so low that no one mourned her when she died. Yet when he looked into her eyes he saw only kindness and warmth.

  “One morning I went out to dig turnips. I had been warned by my mother-in-law not to dig the large turnip in the middle of the field, for it was a sacred turnip. I thanked her and told her I had no intention of doing so. All morning I dug, all the time coming nearer to the sacred turnip. The closer I came the more fascinated I became. I seemed to be drawn to it and then I was upon it. It was large and it frightened me and I ran away. I dug more turnips and soon I was near it again. Oh, I was frightened, but I had no control over myself. I dropped to my knees and started to dig. I dug deeper and deeper but to no avail. Finally, with all my strength I thrust my stick deep into the earth. I thought I would push back on the stick and pop the turnip out, but neither stick nor turnip would move. I had wedged the stick too tightly. Oh, I pushed and pulled, and then I became frantic because I was afraid
Moon would find me doing what she had warned me against. I worked with all my strength to free my stick, but soon I became exhausted and lay down to rest and weep. Then I spotted two cranes flying overhead. I called out to them to help me, and after several circles they landed. They began to sing sacred songs, one to each of the four directions, and after the fourth song Crane Chief took the stick in his bill and started to move it. Before long, the turnip popped out and left a hole in the sky. I thanked the cranes and they flew on. It was then that I looked down into the hole and saw my people. I saw my mother and father, my sister, our lodge. I saw my village, and the people were busy and happy. Women were working on hides, children were playing in the river, men were making arrows and racing their horses. It was so lovely and peaceful that I became homesick. I wanted to be with them. I wanted to tease my sister, to hug my mother and to braid my father’s hair. But I was so far away I could never be with them again. I cried and cried and soon Star Boy, who was an infant on my back, began to cry. After a while I overcame my sorrow and gathered up my sack of turnips and digging stick and returned to Sun’s lodge. Morning Star, my dear husband, looked into my eyes and knew what I had done. Moon exclaimed, ‘You foolish girl, you have done the one thing you were not to do.’ Soon Sun arrived home and Moon told him of my sin. He became very angry and told me I must leave his house, for I would never be happy there again. I would always miss my people. He gave me the sacred medicine bonnet and my digging stick. Then he wrapped Star Boy and me in an elkskin and sent us back to our people’s world.”