by Paul Telegdi
Chaiko looked at his brother and asked straight-out, “What is eating you?”
“This Gathering is not going right, that’s all,” Baer said dissatisfied. “Corrigan is posturing like a vain peacock and the Council of Leaders has now taken it into its collective head to elect a Chief. As if one spoiled brat weren’t enough. Two of them would be constantly fighting for supremacy. I don’t like it.”
“Uhhmm,” Chaiko murmured not knowing what to say. The problem of Corrigan suddenly doubled.
“Maybe you would get elected Chief,” Tusk offered a happy solution.
But Baer just shook his head. “I don’t want the position. Besides, a Chief would need to be more central so other clans could communicate with him easily throughout the year. Standing-Rock is too far off at the edge of things.” He then looked at Chaiko waiting for him to respond.
Chaiko did not let himself be hurried, chewing on a tough strip of meat as he struggled with the problem. “You know we might not have much choice. Depends who would come into question. We certainly would not want another Corrigan. So it might have to be you.”
Baer’s face darkened. “We were fine until now. I do not see why we have to change. This way all the clans are equal, one leader, one vote. A Chief would unbalance the whole council.”
“Hhhumm,” Chaiko thought. “Wisdom is knowing which battle to fight; hunting is selecting the right prey; choosing is selecting from the right alternatives. Let’s wait to see how things unfold first.”
Ushi said wistfully, “Would it not be something if Baer were to be Chief and Chaiko here the Head-Shaman?”
“That would be terrible,” said both brothers simultaneously, shocked to the core.
“We might not have a choice there either,” Ushi said turning Chaiko’s own words against the brothers.
For a while there was a deep quiet as they all considered the possibility. Both brothers shook their heads no. Still it lightened their moods as such an improbability pushed the present preoccupation with food into the background.
Nearby the Standing-Rock women were considerably more cheerful than their men. Tanya, Ile, Dawn and Fire-Dancer sat on skins, keeping the children safe within their circle. Ile was conscious that she had no infant of her own, but with Dawn’s twins, there was more than enough to go around. Yael and Wild-of-Wind were quite a handful by themselves.
Tanya was preparing for the day and as Head-Woman of the Sisters-of-the-Moon, she was thinking of an upcoming ceremony. She smiled, content that two of her First-Sisters were beside her to help. The Sisters-of-the-Moon was an old society and the original reason for its inception had been lost. All Tanya was sure of was that it had little or nothing to do with the moon. It was just a name. She had been struggling to give it a new focus, but most members were only conscious of who belonged and who did not. An applicant had to bring something for the society’s consideration. With Tanya it had been rank; as a clan head-woman she was welcome. Ile was also an asset, because of Cosh’s reputation as a scout and tracker. Dawn as a mate of a shaman, as well as being from an exotic background, more than sufficed.
Tanya chuckled and the others turned to her curiously. “I was thinking we should form a new society.”
“Not another society!” Ile groaned.
“What kind of society?” Dawn asked frowning. It seemed to her that the clans were overrun with societies as it was.
“I don’t know,” Tanya said starting to laugh, then burst out with, “Welcome to the grand Society-of-Pleasure.” The others, guessing her meaning, looked taken aback for an instant then joined in her laughter. The naughty thought grew in gaiety and they were struck helpless, shaking.
“You mean of... Prolonged Pleasure... surely?” Ile struggled to get out between fits.
“But of course! The longer the better…” and they rolled helpless with a fresh wave of hilarity.
“Don’t the men have some secret society, the Longest-Club or such?” Ile asked, still giggling.
“Yes, I heard it rumored, but Baer won’t admit to anything of the sort,” Tanya replied, her voice a little breathless. Who would be in such a group, and who not? they secretly asked themselves.
Fire-Dancer did not understand the subtlety of words but recognized the giggling. Dawn had to translate for her sister, but she could not appreciate the humor of it as the Ekulan were very open in this respect. “Girth is more important than length anyway,” she said in Ekulan to her sister.
When things settled down again, Ile asked innocently, “We would have to invite males, would we not? To this new society of ours?”
The rest chorused “But of course!” That started the laughter up again. With the women so distracted, Yael took the opportunity to make a dash for freedom. Dawn had to run to chase him down. Csama also made a rush in the other direction and so would have Wild-of-Wind but his mother grabbed him just in time.
The morning was well advanced and people started to drift toward the close, looking for something to hold their interest. A great many things were going on at once, and it was sometimes difficult to figure out where to go next. Most often the thing one really wanted, one missed and only found out about it later from some smug friends.
As always, there were some races being organized by the lake. Today a foot race of medium distance was announced and a large crowd collected as two premier runners, a Sharp-Owl and a Blackfoot, were to vie with each other. People were seen to carry possessions of all sorts, a good indication that heavy betting was likely, a good way to add to the excitement.
Chaiko went as Crow was running, as well as Makar, the two representing the Standing-Rock Clan in this competition. When he got there, the crowd was already sizeable and to one side the contestants gathered, sizing up each other. Fleet-Fox the Blackfoot looked every inch a runner, having long sinuous limbs with spring in every stride. He was said to possess an awesome sprint at the end and able to overtake opponents with ease. Sundown the Sharp-Owl, however, did not look like a runner at all, being short of stature, barrel-chested, and with solid legs that made him look more like a wrestler, which he in fact also pursued with a fair degree of success. He was reputed to have amazing stamina and would stick with his opponents like a leech, sucking confidence and strength from them. This was indeed going to be good race. The betting was already furious, but risky. The two had never run against each other, so there were no existing results to help the bettors. One had to wager on one’s intuition and the evidence of one’s eyes. Sharp eyes examined each of the runners, looking for flaws in the play of muscles or in the bravado of their stance. Both were of course posturing, but the popular choice favored the Blackfoot on account of his looks. Some found comfort in his name Fleet-Fox, enough to wager on him. The rest of the field was ignored. Why waste a wager on nonentities?
Chaiko went up to Crow and patted him affectionately. His friend reflected back a tight smile and Chaiko knew he was intending to win. The shaman took a tell-mark from his neck and placed it around Crow’s, saying, “This will help you.” Crow took the piece and looked with great reverence at the unremarkable stone. It had been Bogan’s, that came to Chaiko through his mother, and having worn it before, Crow had great confidence in the powers it was supposed to have.
“Thank you,” Crow said, his voice full of emotion, and the spring in his step increased.
The stables started to push the crowd back with cross-staves extended to make room for the runners, and a marshal lined up the racers. Taragon, a racer of past repute, addressed them all. “This is a race once around the lake. The first one to touch that tree will be declared the winner. May the fastest man win.” A tense stir passed through the spectators and racers, as every muscle tensed, waiting to be released. “Get ready — go!”
The cry “Go!” unleashed the runners as they all sprinted forward, arms and legs flailing, trying to find some running room. The crowd surged to a better vantage point, their yelling growing to a deafening roar. A few steps out a runner went down. He was o
bviously tripped and the rest ran through him. He staggered to his feet and made his way to the tree, collapsing under it. “Lame-Duck,” someone said, twisting the man’s name, Tame-Buck. The rest were long gone, disappearing into a cane field, with Fleet-Fox in the lead.
A fresh, frantic round of betting ensued. “Fleet-Fox to win;” a man was waving a sable pelt but found no takers. “I give two to one on Fleet-Fox,” got some interested, but then incited a new argument as to what two-to-one really meant.
A third of the way around the lake there was an open section where all eyes were now riveted awaiting the runners. At the moment the runners were hidden by dense cane fields and waving reeds; only the eruption of birds into the air marked the runners’ progress. “They are past the Old-Willow,” a man called out excitedly. Some years back he had run the course and was well versed in its twists and turns. It was sad to have to grow old.
A flight of geese suddenly rose into the air in great noisy alarm and everybody’s breath froze in anticipation of the runners breaking into open view.
“It is Fleet-Fox in the lead!” the jubilant cry went up.
“There is Sundown right behind!” answered a chorus. Indeed the two runners were within an arm’s length of each another, exchanging furious blows, for running here required the use of fists as well as legs. Even at this distance it could be seen that Fleet-Fox was bleeding from his nose and that bruises covered the other’s cheeks. “What a race!” someone called out enthusiastically, for the injuries proved that both runners wanted badly to win.
“Look, Crow is third,” Chaiko cried out, pointing out the obvious to Lana beside him. She squealed in delight, grabbed onto Ido and jumped up and down in unfettered excitement. Crow was running well, with a loose easy stride, arms pumping slightly. “He’s got a good rhythm going,” Chaiko observed. He thought back how a few short years ago, he and Crow had run the race of their lives against the Great-Fire bearing down on them. “Hold on, just one more step,” he whispered to his friend, willing him on, just as he had then.
Still fighting, the leaders disappeared again, and the rest passed in review. “Look, there is Makar,” Lana pointed out and she and Ido waved across the waters.
“He cannot run,” Ido said, giggling behind her hands, “but he wanted to take part to experience how it felt, so he can make a poem about it. He wanted to taste the strain of effort and the exhilaration.” The two girls hung onto each other with the excitement surging around them.
“Fox to win! Fox to win!” A man was brandishing an item to wager, but found no takers. The crowd started drifting to a higher spot to see the runners rounding the far corner. The tension was high. Chaiko found Baer, Tusk, Cosh and the rest of the Standing-Rock males beyond.
“They have rounded Mossy-Rock and are on the Path-of-Snails,” a spotter jammed into the crotch of a tree yelled from above. Kids were hanging from the lower branches like ripe fruit. The crowd jostled again trying to wedge itself into the best view. The press was intense and Chaiko and the girls stayed well clear of it. Thus they were last to see the runners emerge into the open. Still ahead was Fleet-Fox with Sundown just a step behind, both running strong. Astonishingly Crow was just a stone’s throw behind them. The noise of the crowd again swelled to deafening, as the runners approached.
Within sight of the finish, Fleet-Fox suddenly broke into his famous sprint, but Sundown had anticipated the attempt for he made a leap onto the other’s back and wrapped his arms around the man’s head.
“Foul! Foul!” yelled those that bet on Fleet-Fox to win.
“There are no rules! No disqualification!” their opponents gleefully replied. That Sharp-Owl was sure a canny competitor.
Fleet-Fox stumbled then fell doing a neat shoulder roll, divesting himself of his opponent. He was up in a flash and running, but Sundown was again right behind him step for step. Crow was nearer, gaining a few strides because of their tumble. People were jumping up and down, willing their champions on, inciting them, meanwhile pummeling each other. A young man who bet everything on the race wet himself in this great excitement but was unaware of it.
The rest of the field broke into view but they were out of the running. First was Fleet-Fox, Sundown then Crow, just a few steps behind. The three faces were contorted into painful grimaces, the arms pumping desperately, trying to squeeze just a little more from the exhausted leg muscles. The fabled kick of the Blackfoot could not free him from the other two. Sundown, his face awash in perspiration, gritted his teeth to hold back the pain that was racking him. Crow was gasping for air, fighting for his life but hung on with grim determination. He too was remembering the fire, when his life was in peril. Still the tree of pain was far ahead.
The crowd roared its excitement, swayed and rushed to arrange itself close to the tree. Vainly did the stables try to hold them all back. An old woman was crying, having bet on the present leader, but could not see the race because of her tears. She was begging her neighbors to tell her who was winning. Like a wind scattering of wayward leaves, she was none too gently swept aside.
And then the pounding footfall of the runners was felt, for surely it could not have been heard above the roar of the crowd. And then there arrived Fleet-Fox, whose hand extended toward the tree, touched it then collapsed, his momentum still rolling him forward. Then Sundown, flecks of foam dribbling from his mouth, touched and collapsed, his chest heaving with desperate need for air. Just two steps behind was Crow, touching, then falling and sliding along on the grass. He rolled onto his back and the air whistled in and out of him. The crowd surged in, touching and patting them, while the stables tried to drive them back, resorting to liberal use of their staves. But in their delirium, the crowd did not care. Chaiko and Lana could not get near Crow.
The rest of the race was by and large ignored. Runners arrived and collapsed, some unable even to reach the tree for the great press around it. Makar lay on the ground thrashing from side to side, struggling for air. Ido was over him, concerned. He tried to smile up at her and fought past his dried out throat, “I... sure... have... some... things... to... write... about...” His chest heaved painfully, pain piercing his sides, his legs muscles twitching spasmodically. “Shhh. Don’t talk. Breathe,” Ido admonished him, finding it painful to take a breath herself.
The stables finally restored some order to the proceedings, forcing the crowd back from the racers. Taragon the race marshal announced in a pleased voice, “Well, people, you have been witnesses to a great race. The best I ever saw.” Then he pointed to the winner and intoned, “The winner is the incomparable Fleet-Fox proving once again that he is as fleet of foot as he is a fox in running the race. I shall not forget how he rolled to get rid of a weight on his back. Congratulations to you.” Then he waited for the enthusiastic applause to run its course. His pronouncement made the result official and the winners went in search of losers to collect on their bets. There were a few disputes as to what was wagered, but on the whole the payout was accomplished smoothly, for honoring one’s bets was considered a great virtue. Betting, perhaps not, but keeping your word, definitely.
Then Taragon continued. “All throughout the race, the Blackfoot led, but his shadow was Sundown from beginning to end. At no point did he let his opponent get away, but like a leech he stuck and in the end was only a step behind. Well done.” The crowd applauded good-naturedly. It had been a good race. Both runners were bruised, showing that they had given everything to win. Wait till the next time, the supporters of Sundown let it be known.
“Then coming third is a young man we have not heard of before, but we shall not soon forget. He was a step or two behind second, just four steps behind first. A better showing in this race we could not have asked for. Let me introduce to you all, Crow of the Standing-Rock Clan.” The applause was fresh and without self-interest for no one had bet on Crow, except for a few of the Standing-Rock Clan. The crowd then surged in again and there was a great deal of back slapping. First place shook hands with the second, admi
ring each other’s injuries. “I thought I had you,” said Sundown. “So did I,” replied the first. “But wait till the next time,” the Sharp-Owl promised. Then they both turned to Crow and mustered him head to foot; obviously in the coming years they would also have to deal with him.
“Excuse me people,” Taragon shouted for their attention and reluctantly, the crowd turned to him. “We have an objection to the results. Tame-Buck claims he was first to touch the tree so the honor of the race belongs to him.”
For a heartbeat the crowd was flabbergasted but then found its voice, swelling ominously. What, where, who was this Tame-Buck? He was the runner who had been tripped and crawled back to the tree and touched it first. According to the rules set, once the race had been started the first to touch the tree was to be the winner. They looked in amazement at the man who was grinning impishly back at them. Those who had lost found his reasoning compelling, whereas the winners, not surprisingly, found his claim a travesty against the spirit of the race.
A large man, a stable, strode into the open and called out loudly as he brandished his staff of office, “Let me be the one to give him his prize first,” and he looked wildly around for the claimant. “Me too,” yelled a few others, while the rest broke into laughter settling the issue of the claim. All agreed it had been a great race that would be rerun in the coming years. Satisfied, the crowd dispersed to the marshal’s and the stables’ great relief, as in past years issues of the outcome had resulted in outbreaks of fighting and mayhem.
The crowd spread its satisfaction throughout the entire camp. It boisterously celebrated the outcome, embellishing on the epic struggle of the race. Those who had unhappily ignored the event, now clamored for details of the great happening. “You should have been there!” the witnesses gloated. Winners boasted about their winnings; losers boasted about their losses. Either way there was prestige to be garnered.