Dances Naked

by Dani Haviland

  “You like?” Marty asked, grinning just as much his friend.

  “I like,” Red Shirt replied then slipped off his horse. He reached for the two bags of food Marty was carrying then threw them over his own shoulders. He nodded to Marty: you ride.

  “Me?” Marty asked although he knew without a doubt, that was what he meant.

  Red Shirt grunted: ‘Don’t make me offer again.’

  “Okay, okay, thank you,” Marty babbled then put his hand on the stallion’s mane and made a valiant attempt at mounting him. “Um, he’s a bit taller than most and I’m used to stirrups and my legs are a bit wobbly…” Marty carped, half seriously, half in jest and totally embarrassed.

  Red Shirt sighed and stood next to him, squatted down a little and cupped his hands to give Marty a boost. As it was, it still took two attempts to get the worn out and undernourished old man onto the now skittish stallion’s back. “I got it, I got it,” Marty announced when settled with the leather reins in his hands. “You lead and I’ll follow,” he said as he looked to his friend and nodded to where he thought they were going.

  The chief set a double time pace which was easy for the horse and easier still for Marty but had to be taking its toll on the proud red man. After about an hour, Marty noticed his pace slowing. “Eh, hmm; eh, hmm,” Marty vocalized loudly to get Red Shirt’s attention. It worked. Both of them stopped and Marty started right in with his excuse. “I need to, um, make water, so can we take just a moment here?” he said, and then slid off the horse without waiting for an answer. He made sure he held onto the reins then turned his back and relieved himself. He took an extra minute; presumably, to make sure all was taken care of, but actually allowing a bit more recovery time for the two-legged porter of the provisions. When he turned back around, he saw that Red Shirt had set down his bags and was taking a long drink of water from the canteen. He finished his refreshment then offered it to Marty.

  Marty accepted it, took a couple of gulps, and then handed it back. “I got a little something to take care of the sour stomach,” he said then loosed a few stitches in the bag of beans and retrieved the little paper wrapped parcel of peppermint candies. He knew nothing had been said or inferred about bellyaches, but the candy he had eaten at the store had quelled his fire—maybe his friend was suffering from the same malady. And, a little sugar coated calorie cube might help make the last leg of the journey a little easier, too. He would have offered to swap places with Red Shirt but figured that would probably be an insult to his proud companion.

  Red Shirt took the white and red rock-shaped piece he was offered. He knew Dances Naked wouldn’t present him with bad food or insult him in any way. The food he had shared with him when they first met, a strange nut, was good. He’d try this, too.

  Marty saw the look on Red Shirt’s face, suggesting that he take one, too. “No thanks; I already had one. It’s a peppermint. Don’t bite it,” he mimed crunching down on the candy then shook his head, “just suck on it.” Marty puckered his lips and swished his cheeks around, making an exaggerated gesture to elicit a slight grin from his traveling buddy. Red Shirt sniffed the candy then ventured a quick lick to prepare his mouth. The nut was salty—would this be, too? Nope—this tasted like the green plant that grew under the trees near water. Yes, it was good for a sour belly, but this food was sweet, too. He plopped the whole piece in his mouth, involuntarily smiling at the sweetness, and then nodded to Marty: get on the horse.

  Marty had stopped at this site on purpose. There were boulders littering the landscape and one was sure to be just the right height to use as an equine mounting apparatus. He walked the steed to a likely platform, climbed the rock, and brought the horse closer to him. He had to take a little leap but still made it astride the steed without Red Shirt having to act as his footman. Next stop: his new, albeit temporary, home.

  Ж

  This time Red Shirt was confident, not leery, as he approached the almost-a-village site. He was returning as a victor, not empty handed and with three more mouths to feed. This should shut up Old Woman.

  The matriarch exited her little twig and hide castle of prominence to see what her grandson had brought to share. He had embarrassed her last time. Hopefully, he wouldn’t do it again. He was her son’s son, tall and intelligent, but too meek and forgiving to be a real man. And, he was not a very good hunter, either. Their tribe would perish under him if she didn’t intercede. He had convinced his father that he should learn the white man’s tongue. The months he was away, learning the white men’s ways, were the ones when he was needed the most, when the red belly sickness came. It would have been better if he had died of the measles and his father had lived. Yes, if his father had lived, maybe he could have sired another son, one who was a strong warrior, who listened to his gut and not his heart like her grandson whom she secretly called, ‘My Shame.’

  Marty stopped the horse with a stern, “whoa,” and a tug on the reins as soon as he saw they were just outside of their little village. He slipped down and ran to catch up with Red Shirt who had evidently gotten a second or third wind with the excitement of coming home. “Here,” he said as he put the reins in the hand of the man-who-was-probably-chief’s hand. “Let me take the bags. You’re the boss and I’m just the facilitator, I mean,” he stammered trying to figure a way to say in simple words that they needed to be politically correct in their presentation. He retrieved the bag of oats from a perplexed Red Shirt and put his shoulder under it. “You’re the chief, I’m not,” he said simply, then turned his unburdened shoulder to his friend, asking him without words to ‘load me up’ with the bag of beans. He’d come into town as a slave, or worker at least, not riding on the man-in-charge’s stallion.

  Red Shirt gave a quick chuckle of chagrin and nodded to Dances Naked. He was slightly embarrassed that in his exhilaration to be home with food, lots of food, he had forgotten his position. He already owed this white friend a favor for the food, maybe a trip to The Terrible Trees— but then again, maybe not. However, now he had also spared him shame in front of his family and most important of all, his grandmother. He nodded once more to Dances Naked and grinned. ‘Yes, you got yourself a guide to your Trees—I owe you that,’ he said without words.

  It was nice that this man could understand him. He had already used three of the white man’s words with him. His father had told him that when he had used ten of their words to any one man, it was time for him to go. Hopefully, no, he was sure, that did not pertain to a woman. He had already used more than ten words with his wife and that was in only two days. He was going to keep her no matter how many words he said to her, but he’d say them in private. She’d learn his tongue faster if he could teach her with shared words. He’d let her speak the English to their son when no one else could hear. That would help him when he grew to be a man, just as it had helped him many times in the last year. But, he couldn’t tell anyone about those times. They were secret and not to be shared with anyone.

  The six-legged grocery store strode through the micro village, both men, and even the horses, holding their heads high in pride. Red Shirt knew it would be proper to acknowledge Old Woman first, but she had tried to humiliate him in front of his tribe. There were only ten of them left, no, twelve with his new wife and son, but he still should be respected and not ignored. He would have counted Dances Naked as the thirteenth member but he wouldn’t be staying. He would like to have him remain—he was dependable, clever, and made him smile—but he knew the man needed to be back with his woman and child. Yes, he’d take the food to the loyal members of his tribe first.

  The men and the horses passed in front the old crones’ hut without stopping, heading straight to the heart and core of his tribe.

  Then he saw it.

  Red Shirt’s golden glow of pride exploded into a red rage of anger striped with green lightning bolts of jealousy: Number Two was sitting next to his wife, looking at her and, it appeared to be, touching her as only a husband should touch a wife.

>   Red Shirt dismounted and hit the ground running, ready to tackle his brother-in-law for improper advances toward his wife. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” yelled Marty as he quickly pulled in his shoulders to drop his dry goods, unabashedly chasing after his new best friend to stop him before he did something rash. “It’s not what it looks like, I’m sure it’s not!”

  Marty literally stood between the two men, his arms held out straight to separate them, one hand on each man’s shoulder. “Rachel, button up,” he commanded. “You,” he glared at Red Shirt, “wait to do or say anything until we find out what’s going on here. And you,” he ordered Number Two, “take your son and daughter and sit down over there,” Marty nodded to a neutral corner. He knew there would be less chance of fisticuffs, or anything else, if the man was holding a baby and had his daughter at his elbow.

  “Rachel, did Number Two touch you inappropriately or,” Marty saw the confused look on her face and spoke as if to a six-year-old, “Did he touch you in a way that made you feel bad.”

  “No, he touched his son’s head when I was nursing him. He mumbled some words but I don’t know what he was saying. But, he didn’t touch me at all. I think he was just saying, ‘Thank you.’ At least I think that’s what he was trying to say.” Rachel finished her explanation with a sad, scared, and repentant look to Red Shirt that said, ‘Nothing was going on, I promise. I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression.’

  Marty looked to Number Two. “You don’t, um, want her,” he asked, then gave a crude gesture with his right index finger entering his left, curled fist, indicating sexual intercourse, “that way, do you?”

  Number Two’s head pulled back in shock, shaking it rapidly, his body language screaming, ‘No! That’s my brother-in-law’s wife! What, do you think I’m crazy?’

  Marty looked at Red Shirt to see if he saw the reaction. “Hmph,” was his monosyllabic response. ‘Yes, I see now; just don’t ever do it again.’

  “I think he was thanking you for the milk. I don’t think he’ll get that close to say ‘thanks’ again,” Marty said with a sigh then added a stern look to Number Two.

  Big Sister stood up and ran to Rachel, squatted next to her, and touched her hand to the blouse covering her new aunt’s breast. “Thank you,” she said clearly, then ran back to her father and baby brother. She’d speak for her father if he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, use the white man’s words. Sometimes men were so stubborn.

  “So we’re all cool here? I mean, it’s good, right?” Marty said, nodding his head to each one in the little discussion circle. Each person nodded in agreement so Marty changed the subject, ready to get back to the main program. He tipped his head to Red Shirt in introduction, “Everyone here ready to eat? Red Shirt here managed to get us a lot of food. He’s a great provider.”

  Red Shirt grabbed the reins of his mare and walked her forward, patting the bags of food on her back then pointing to the two calico bags on the ground that Marty had dropped, totally ignoring the near fatal collision caused by his jealous rage at the apparent Lothario. He turned his back on the familial gathering, untied the cord, and turned back to present to them the best of the best: a ham.

  Marty peered around Red Shirt and his horse. He could see that his friend knew what was going on behind him—he wasn’t deaf. The thunk, thunk of the wooden staff was unmistakable: Old Woman had come to him and his outcasts for food. She glared at her grandson—he hadn’t stopped to pay his respects to her before coming to his other family.

  Red Shirt took it in stride. She wouldn’t embarrass him ever again. Her vicious words still hurt even if they were many months old. She blamed him for the death of his father, wife, son, and everyone else, telling the others that he was the one who brought the red belly sickness to them. She knew it wasn’t true: he had already been gone for one month when the first one died. How could he have brought the disease if he hadn’t yet returned? Only the other old women believed her. He’d let them eat, too, but he’d feed his faithful family first.

  Red Shirt carved into the widest portion of the ham, extracting a half-inch steak, then held it up for everyone to see. He raised the meat to the sky and proclaimed bold, strong words in his language. “Thanks, Lord,” Marty offered softly at the same time, loud enough to show God he wasn’t embarrassed to praise Him, but low enough to be respectful of Red Shirt and his words of thanksgiving to his Great Spirit. They were the same, he surmised, but he wasn’t the chief, Red Shirt was, and this was his ceremony.

  Red Shirt cut the filet into small strips, handing one to each member of his tribe, the first one going to Number Two, the man who he was ready to kill just moments earlier. All was forgiven—you are still my second in command. The Young One got the next slice and then, Marty was shocked, he got the third piece. He noticed each one held on to his share of the sacrament, waiting for the chief to serve everyone. Red Shirt gave Rachel her portion next, then Big Sister, and on down the line until last, and apparently least, Old Woman got hers.

  Each person raised his share to the sky and joined in the ‘blah, blah’ to say thank you for the bounty. Red Shirt bit into his strip of ham and chewed slowly, his glow of satisfaction unmistakable. He wouldn’t have any more problems with his grandmother and the other old women. If anyone died this winter, it wouldn’t be his fault.

  Red Shirt took the honor of unloading the bounty, passing the bags to his braves who ferried them to the empty dugout cache. The stone and timber shelter carved into the side of a hillock was for smoking meat but would be fine for keeping the food cool and safe from predators. Marty neared the trio pensively, not knowing if he would be out of line if he volunteered to help. ‘Hmph, they never seemed to resent me before,’ he said to himself. “Need a hand there?” he asked the men without reservation.

  Red Shirt patted the coarse burlap bag, trying to figure out what the lumps were. They weren’t heavy enough to be rocks and didn’t feel hard like a gourd. He looked at Marty, ‘What are these?’ he asked with his scowl.

  “Oh, these are potatoes,” Marty explained as he took the coarse sack from him. He paused at the campfire before taking the spuds to the food locker. “You know how to fix these, don’t you?” he asked Rachel who had been watching the proceedings with a baby on each knee, not quite sure what she was supposed to be doing to help.

  Rachel nodded and said, “I put them in stew,” then added in a whisper as he set the bag down next to her, “but I didn’t see any pots around here, just earthen bowls. I don’t know if they have any.”

  “Well,” Marty said assertively, “then we’ll just have to have baked potatoes. We don’t need anything but fire for that, and since you already have one going, let’s just rub the dirt off of these, hmm…” He was telling her to rub off the dirt then stuff them under embers and more dirt. “Oh well, just scrub them up a bit, poke them a few times with a sharp stick then bury them under the coals for an hour or so. Pull one of them out when you start to smell them and see if it’s soft. If they are, just pop ‘em open with a knife and toss a bit of salt on them and manga! I mean, and then eat them when they’ve cooled off enough so as not to burn your fingers or tongue. They’d be even better with a big dollop of butter, but salt will be just fine for now.”

  Rachel pulled eleven of the fair-sized spuds out of the bag and began rubbing off the caked mud. Big Sister saw what the task entailed and hurried over to her new aunt’s side, eager to be of assistance in preparing food. She’d never eaten anything like this but was willing to try. She had only eaten dried fish and cornmeal for months. The smoked meat, ham Rachel called it, was good, but made her thirsty. That was okay. Water would take care of that. At least she was drinking water for thirst, not to fill her belly.

  Marty looked around and noticed that something was different. The old women had decided that they would stay and make sure they got more food beyond the sliver of ham. Either that or they were too weak to return to their little hovel. Nah, they wanted the food. Old Woman was still at it, clamoring away in her
choppy tongue, by the rhythm of the chatter, complaining about something. Marty looked over at the three braves. Yup, by the glower on all three of their faces, she was carping about how long it was taking for the meal to be readied. Well, she’d just have to wait like everyone else.

  After about an hour, Marty noticed the men’s noses wrinkling up, and then he noticed it, too: the potatoes were done. Rachel was right on top of it and used a stick to pull out one of the spuds, using her skirt as a makeshift plate. “Let it cool a couple of minutes,” he advised. “It’s still cooking on the inside and will give you a steam burn if you cut it open too soon.” He walked over to her impromptu dinner table and lightly tapped the potato. It was soft enough but not too mushy. “Go ahead and pull the others out—they should be done, too.”

  Rachel lifted her skirt to keep the first of the spuds contained then neared the fire and used her stick to pull out the others. “Just set them out on the ground next to each other. We don’t want you catching your skirt on fire,” Marty said. He was pretty sure that wouldn’t happen, but didn’t want her to be chance it. She’d have to start wearing clothing more appropriate to her new status as wife of the chief.

  After ten minutes, Marty remembered the seasoning. “Did you happen to keep out some salt?” he asked. Rachel seemed to have become the woman in charge, even if she was white. By the look of relief on Big Sister’s face, she was glad to have someone else take over the role.

  “I got a bowl of it right here,” Rachel replied as she held up a brown earthen bowl. “Um, how much longer do we have to wait?”

  Red Shirt looked to Marty for the answer, too. Marty touched the top of a potato and left his finger there for a moment then pulled it back: it wasn’t too hot. He picked it up and tossed it from one hand to the other, smiling as he remembered playing ‘hot potato’ with James when he was about Big Sister’s age. He started to toss it to her then remembered his place in this society. Handing out the food was Red Shirt’s responsibility and right. He replaced the spud and stepped back. “They’re ready, sir,” he said reverently to Red Shirt then bowed to him respectfully.