by Gayle Rogers
Around her was talk of the hunters. When would fresh meat from the hunt be brought to camp? Had they not found the herds yet? Dried meat and stews had lost their taste; the feasts of the running days when fresh steaks could be broiled over coals, or meat could be roasted, were one of the main delights of the village.
Like the Indian women, Maria went to the river for wood and got coals for their cooking fire; she gathered the prairie turnip, cow parsnip, wild potato, onion, smart weed, and bitter root; she slept upon an Indian couch and spoke the Pikuni tongue.
Maria used the Indian rooting stick and wore the little buckskin bags of balsam fir or meadow rue berries for their fragrance. Anatsa had taught her how to sew skins, for these were necessary for clothing and shelter, for the men’s pipe bags, paint bags, tobacco paunches, knife cases, and the parfleche bags used for the storing and carrying of food. Thread was sinew or dried tendons pushed through holes made in the skin with a bodkin, and Maria had her own sewing kit of bodkins, shredded sinew, and a sewing knife all in the traditional bag of buffalo skin.
Maria was also taught the Blackfoot art of fashioning bowls and dishes of sheep or buffalo horn by boiling, splitting, fitting, and sewing them together with sinew. She had learned to make spoons and ladles by scorching a horn over a fire, shaping, then boiling and shaping again.
With Anatsa, she gathered the herbs used by the Blackfoot for healing. She could identify bear grass used to stop inflammation, purple loco weed chewed for a sore throat, the wind flower burned upon coals for headaches, black root for coughs, sixocasin and grape root to stop bleeding of the stomach, and big larb used by the men in their ceremonial smoking.
The land around them was raw and wild and the Blackfoot lived upon it and cherished its wildness, but it was hard for Maria to accept. There was no cultivated field, no orchard planted in stiff design, no road filled with the dust of moving wagons and carriages. There were only the narrow paths through the tall meadow grass, the vast and quiet prairie, the towering shadow of the west mountains. There were no church bells to peal on Sunday, the sound sending birds scurrying from the belfry, no humming of barter and trade, never the whistle of a boat or a lonely train. Instead, in Indian land, the geese, ducks, and swans returned silently from warmer regions and heralded the time of the great Sun Dance.
There was sweetness for the body: wild rhubarb to be roasted over hot coals, the pulp of the cottonwood tree, not unlike maple syrup in flavor, the sweet camas gathered and baked in the earth in the fall. But there was no milk and no salt and no sugar.
As Maria walked on through the village a woman called her name. It was Sikapischis, the widow who lived with her blind father and her little son. Maria went over to where they sat in front of their lodge.
“You look like an Indian woman now,” Sikapischis said to her kindly.
Maria smiled and sat upon the ground with them. She noticed that Sikapischis’s father held a deerskin flute in his lap. “We have other music besides the drum,” Sikapischis explained. “My father teaches my son the skills that he has known. He teaches Siyeh how to hunt and to fish and to approach an enemy unaware, with no sound at all. (Maria smiled, for the boy could not have been over eight.) And when they have finished with these things that a man must know, they come back to my lodge in the evenings, and my father teaches Siyeh how to sing with the flute. Siyeh can play the flute, too, and now when one plays, the other sings the flute’s song.”
“What is your father called?” Maria asked looking toward the blind old man. “I am sorry,” she said, remembering that this information was never asked of one Indian by another, but was always volunteered. Sikapischis smiled.
“My father is called Mequesapa, and I am glad to tell his name to you. He was a Mutsik and a very great warrior known deep in Crow land for the number of his coups. It was in fighting a Crow that he lost one eye, and then a growth came to the other and left him blind.”
“I know my grandfather’s coups!” Siyeh interrupted. “I know them all! Would you like to hear them?”
“No, Siyeh,” his grandfather said quietly.
The round little face and shining black eyes lost none of their eagerness. “I am proud to walk with my grandfather,” Siyeh said.
“Of course you are,” Maria answered, looking at the little boy affectionately. A beautiful light came to Sikapischis’s eyes as she looked at her son. “I am deeply blessed,” she said. This was the second time Maria had heard the word today. “I was blessed with his father, and I am blessed with our son.”
Siyeh began to fidget. “Grandfather, would you play the flute?” he asked. The old man hesitated. “Please,” Maria asked, and for the first time Mequesapa’s sightless eyes turned toward her.
“The white woman’s voice is a gentle one,” he said to his daughter.
“She is a gentle woman,” Sikapischis answered.
“But it is still that Nakoa is foolish,” he said sadly, and Maria looked away from them all. In the long silence, the old man finally picked up his flute and began a haunting tune. “It is filled with sorrow,” Maria said. But she was held spellbound by the music, and Siyeh’s young face shone in rapt worship. Others in nearby lodges came to gather around Sikapischis’s tipi. As the last note slipped away, it seemed to end more than just a melody. “It is like a prayer!” Maria breathed. “Are there words for it?”
“Yes,” Sikapischis answered. Her father began to play the tune again and Sikapischis sang its words.
I accept.
The love and the pain; the sunlight and the rain,
I accept.
The day and the night; the blindness and the sight,
I accept.
The love and the glory; the end of the story,
I accept.
From winter’s deep snow, spring waters must flow,
The body and the heart, is the beginning and the start,
I accept!
I accept!
Sikapischis finished. “It is an old song,” she said. “It has been sung in Blackfoot camps as long as their tipis have been pitched upon the prairie.”
“It is beautiful,” Maria said. “I thank you, deep from my heart,” she said to the old man. “Your notes have given me peace, and so did the words they carried.”
“Can you be given peace?” he asked her softly.
“I have found peace this morning,” she answered.
“Are you a beautiful woman?” he asked her.
“I don’t know!” Maria stammered.
“She is beautiful,” Sikapischis said.
“She is very beautiful, except her eyes are a different color!” Siyeh added and then flushed in embarrassment.
“I have asked the white woman!” Mequesapa said sternly. “She is the only one who can answer this!” His sightless eyes were seeking her, one eye a hollow pit and the other covered with a white growth.
Maria met the dead eyes. “I would like to be beautiful!” she said.
The old man’s face softened. “When a woman asks for beauty and does not think she has it, she wants it for a gift, and the woman who gives is the rich woman and blesses the earth!”
Maria said nothing. Why did they all talk in such a strange way?
“Would you like your beauty for a man?” Mequesapa asked. “Would you trade its heart away?”
“Yes,” said Maria. “I have! I have!”
Mequesapa closed his eyes. “There has been no light for me so that I could have sight for Siyeh. But I have had as much for him. Without the light of the sun its warmth is as great. Beauty is a small gift, but if given in trade, becomes a great one.”
Maria looked warmly at the three of them, at all of the Indians who, when the song was finished, had begun to go back to their own lodges. “I do not know all of your words,” she said, “but this morning has been a rich one for me. Good-bye,” she said, rising, and thinking that she would go to the inner lodges and seek Anatsa. The two of them could walk to the lake and swim and sun the rest of the
afternoon.
“Talk with us again,” Sikapischis said. “You are always welcome, even to share our food.”
“Thank you,” Maria replied. Sikapischis was her friend; Anatsa and she were becoming as close as sisters. Natosin may not have wanted his son to marry a white woman but he liked her; Mequesapa liked her too. Her only enemy in the Blackfoot camp was Atsitsi, and on Atsitsi Maria did not waste one thought.
Another Maria she did not know had come to her out of the shadows, and she was strong and could bear anything. She loved Nakoa and would be his wife, and from the Indian prairie would come milk and honey. Near the inner tipis, Maria began to hum happily:
The love and the pain,
The sunlight and the rain,
I accept!
I accept!
Atsitsi was talking to Anatsa and Apeecheken. “Anatsa, you are good girl, but how could Apikunni sleep with you?” She had respect for Anatsa and watched the usage of her words.
Anatsa smiled. “If you have love for someone the eyes see differently,” she said.
The talk turned to Apeecheken’s baby. Apeecheken smiled. “I hold my food now. I do not believe that I will lose my baby.”
“When you have your baby, big Maria?” Atsitsi asked, spitting out the meat she didn’t want to swallow. “When you get big belly with big red Indian baby inside?”
Maria shuddered. “You even make having a baby horrible!”
“Having baby horrible!” Atsitsi said. “Big price for big passion!”
Maria suddenly saw Edith Holmes dying, and she bowed her head. Edith had been so pretty and proud of her little body.
Atsitsi’s shrewd little eyes read Maria’s face. “Ah! Big Maria see bloody kicking of birth and wonder if it so good to let Nakoa between…”
“Atsitsi!” Anatsa said, shaking in anger. “We—are women!”
“Fool white woman think she different! Big Maria think she get baby from cloud in sky!”
“Atsitsi, why should you care what she thinks!”
“Because she think me fool! That is why! She think me big fool like big Maria, and Atsitsi not fool! Atsitsi fat, and Atsitsi whore, but Atsitsi not fool!” The old woman’s face was lit with passion, her voice shaking.
Maria stood up to leave, her face pale. “Anatsa,” she said, “would you go the lake with me?”
“Little bird song go to wash nasty Atsitsi away!” Atsitsi jeered, helping herself to more stew.
“I hate that woman,” Maria said to Anatsa as they walked away. “I hate her!”
“You are too close to her in your heart to hate her,” Anatsa said. “Hate is heat, and not the coldness of indifference.”
Maria was thoughtful. She had hated Meg passionately too. Was she ever close to her heart? What did this mean, close to your heart? Was it the bitch in her that was close to these two women? She had thought of sleeping with Nakoa, and the thought of Edith Holmes dying had driven the desire from her. “Why do you keep Atsitsi in this village?” Maria stormed. “Why don’t you drive her away, and let her die a…” She stopped.
“Atsitsi is unclean,” Anatsa said quietly. “She bears the shadow of the rest of us, and this is a sad burden for her to carry.”
“I don’t understand! I never understand!”
“Atsitsi is dark, and she makes us look lighter, and cleaner, and more gentle. She is unwashed, and she makes us look clean. She is ugly, and she makes us look beautiful, even when there is no beauty at all! Mothers can tell their daughters to stay clean, or be like Atsitsi! Wives can tell their husbands that if they become unclean they will be Atsitsi, and the men will look upon Atsitsi scratching and Atsitsi belching and be thankful in their hearts for their wives! I am sorry for Atsitsi’s words to you, but I like Atsitsi, and I feel in my heart that Atsitsi bears my burden.”
“All things feed the earth,” Maria said softly. “And it is the earth that feeds us, so that when we stand on the ground, we can reach toward the sky.”
Anatsa looked at Maria strangely, in the manner that Natosin had studied her that morning when she had told him that she did not know where she walked. “Where did you hear these words?” she asked Maria.
“They came to me this morning, and they frightened me, and I walked through the village, a stranger to myself. I met Natosin, and he saw my tears and stopped and talked with me.”
“This is strange for Natosin. He does not talk with many people.”
“I told him why I wept; that strange words and thoughts unknown to me before had made me see that I was changed; that the old Maria was dying—destroyed by Indians!”
“What did he say?”
“He said that I should not weep, but feel blessed! And his words made me feel blessed. Anatsa, I love him,” Maria whispered. “And I love his son.”
Anatsa smiled, her face radiant. “We both love, and have never lived before!”
When they reached the lake it was deserted. Surprised that it was so late, Maria felt uneasy because they were alone. They had not met one Mutsik upon the trail.
“There is no one here,” Maria said. “Perhaps we should not go in the water.”
Anatsa smiled. “It is so peaceful and will be warmed with the day’s sun. I will bathe in it.”
They bathed quickly, Maria watching the rapidly darkening shores. As they were dressing a wood thrush called out from the trees near them. “That was the voice of a man!” Maria whispered, frightened.
“No,” replied Anatsa.
Maria shivered, sensing danger.
Anatsa looked around them. “I would know of a presence that would destroy me,” she said confidently. “I would feel the coldness of the burial grounds, and the light of the day would change.”
“It is changing,” Maria said tersely.
“The sun is setting.” Anatsa laughed. “And it is beautiful.” The orange sky was perfectly reflected in the tranquil waters. “It is such a peaceful time,” Anatsa said, “when the sun is gone and its light and warmth remains.”
“I hate it,” Maria said. “The sky bleeds with the blood it has drawn from earth.”
“Was it at this time that your wagons were destroyed?”
“Yes. And ever since, I have hated every sunset!”
“I am sorry for your grief,” Anatsa said.
Suddenly a scream came from the burial grounds across the lake. It was a horrible cry, too unnatural to be the cry of a human and yet too human to be the call of a wolf. “What was that?” Maria whispered.
Anatsa’s face became terrified. “It was the death cry!” she said. “Before night ends someone is going to die. Go back to the village quickly, Maria. Do not wait for me.”
“Anatsa, we will go back together,” Maria answered, and the two girls went back to the village as fast as Anatsa could walk. The darkly shaded trail seemed endless. In the deepening gloom hawks and owls called hoarsely and flapped away from them; a huge bird swooped down and momentarily touched Anatsa’s face with its shadow. “Tonight death rests in the trees where our dead lie upon the burial platforms,” Anatsa said.
Maria felt such relief when they reached the village that it was a while before she noticed the change there. There was no noise. No children shouted in play, no dogs fought and barked over meat scraps; there was not even the sound of low conversation. Men, women, and children stood in silent groups, and most of them looked off in the direction of the burial grounds. Upon every face was fright, unashamed fright, even upon the faces of the Mutsik warriors.
“Who utters the death cry?” asked Maria.
“It is one of our dead calling to us. Before the ending of this night, or the ending of another day, one of us will be over there—with her!”
“Oh,” Maria sighed, relieved. “Anatsa, the dead do not cry out!”
“That was the cry of Sokskinnie; there is not a person of this village who does not know the cry of Sokskinnie—and she is dead and buried, over there!”
“If she is dead, she can do you no harm.”
“What will be done?” Maria asked.
“The dead do not like light, and so outside fires will burn until sunrise. The medicine drum will beat. Though the dead cannot cross water, all of our doorflaps will be laced tightly closed.”
Apikunni strode rapidly toward them. “I will take you to Onesta’s,” he said to Anatsa. He looked at Maria. “First we will take you to Atsitsi’s. Stay in her lodge tonight. The Mutsik will keep the outside fires going.”
Near Atsitsi’s tipi, numerous fires had been lighted. Maria left Apikunni and Anatsa, and when she entered Atsitsi’s lodge the old woman almost knocked her down. “What is the matter with you?” Maria growled. Atsitsi put down her piece of wood.
“Close door and close mouth.” Atsitsi had a fire going inside of the lodge, and now added more wood to it.
“It is hot!” Maria complained.
“You like dark, go to burial grounds!”
“Well Sokskinnie couldn’t be worse than you!”
Atsitsi flung a piece of wood at Maria, narrowly missing her head. “You—not bring Sokskinnie to this lodge! No talk of dead. No talk of her!”
“Who was she?”
“No talk of dead when sun gone! Shut mouth or leave lodge quick!”
“You really are mad.”
Atsitsi looked at Maria, her little eyes gleaming like coals. “Sweet Maria no believe dead walk?”
“Sokskinnie isn’t going anywhere!”
Atsitsi grinned, and she looked as evil as any witch in a childhood story. “Open doorflap and say so Sokskinnie hear! Talk more of her with smart tongue!”
From outside they could hear the beating of the medicine drum. “See?” panted Atsitsi. “Whole village crazy! Only Maria smart, cause so fat on self. Why not fat Maria go to burial grounds and see if Sokskinnie make cry?”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Why not go to door and tell Sokskinnie that she dead and make no cry with her voice? Tell Sokskinnie to leave Indian alone and walk with smart Maria instead!”
“You cannot frighten me! And I will open your door! It is so hot in here, I can’t stand it!” Maria unlaced the doorflap and looked outside. The fires burning around them had already begun to die, and the tipis cast almost human shadows upon one another. Except for the medicine drum, the village was still silent.