Stone Song

by Win Blevins

  So he was pleased that the woman of his desires was named the opposite of the sacred canupa bearer—Black Buffalo Woman. Yet in the story Black Buffalo Woman was one of the forms of White Buffalo Woman. When she walked away after making the people the gift of the canupa, White Buffalo Woman turned first into a red buffalo cow, then white once more, and finally black.

  Black he associated with the west, the home of the wakinyan, an immense, destructive power, and with the black road, the way of difficulty and strife, the opposite of the good, red road.

  He felt blackness in himself and relished it.

  He had wanted Black Buffalo Woman for a long, long time. When he was first a man, but she was not yet a woman, he used to watch her playing with the other girls. He liked the coltish way she walked and ran and walked and skipped. She was small but seemed more graceful than the other girls. She liked silly tricks and surprises and trinkets like beads and bells. Mostly she liked cavorting around, sprinting, jumping, tumbling, even doing cartwheels. The way she moved reminded No Water of a creek running downstream fast, bubbling and leaping on its way.

  When he gave her little things, she squealed with delight. She never seemed to notice him much, though. No one gave any thought to the overgrown boy with the big, thick, clumsy body. Not so clumsy now—his muscles had caught up with his bulk—but still thick, heavy, rocklike. He wanted to possess her. She would submit.

  He touched the hide bundle again. He had waited patiently for five winters, since the day of her buffalo ceremony, or at least since he had stolen this bundle. Everyone knew she was fully a woman now, with many suitors. She was ready for marriage. It was time. Even if that ring said she was waiting for Light Curly Hair. No Water sniffed his amusement at that.

  He thought of what he would do when Black Buffalo Woman was his, all his. He would plant himself in her like a tree trunk. The two of them would put deep roots into the soil of the band, roots made of children, family ties, village cooperation, leading and following, and many other good things. He would grow big in the tribe, a man everyone admired, a chief, finally a chief of chiefs. Under him the Bad Faces would be a great people, the troubles of the past forgotten. In the end Black Buffalo Woman wouldn’t even wonder about her wispy pretender to glory. He would be insignificant and No Water great.

  At midafternoon the two women picked up their sacks full of turnips and headed back toward the circle of lodges. As they passed, Black Buffalo Woman spoke softly. Her mother nodded and went on. Black Buffalo Woman turned into the bushes, as though to relieve herself, and then stepped straight toward No Water.

  He rose, uncertain, from behind the dead tree. Had she known all along that he was watching her? Today and other days? She came on challengingly, swaggering a little, perhaps intending to upbraid him for… she would call it spying on her. But he had the answer. When she got close enough to see perfectly, he simply held out the bundle.

  She snatched the hide and threw it open. The cloth was in pieces, the middle area that held her blood missing. She glared at him.

  “Red Rock made it into a potion,” he told her simply.

  It took a moment to register. No Water had dared to take her bundle out of the plum tree, risking the wrath of the tonwan that guarded it. He had taken it to the bone keeper, who must have purged him later of the evil influences. The bone keeper had made her first flow into a love potion, an instrument of seduction. People said no woman could resist such a potion.

  She slapped him with the hide. It made a satisfying whap!

  He grabbed her wrist. She felt how easily his massive hand could break her bones. She dropped the bundle. It was powerless now.

  No Water’s big face was impassive. He didn’t care what she thought. She liked that about him, always had. He went forward like a buffalo bull, too strong to care. “I put it into the stew last night. You ate it.”

  Her heart quailed. She knew some powers were stronger than she was. Still, the words shot out. “I will never be your—”

  He stopped her mouth with a hand. “Your brother wants me for your husband.” Her brother had the right to give her in marriage. Of course, she could object. “Your father wants me,” No Water went on relentlessly. “Your mothers want me. Your uncles want me.”

  All this might be true. No Water was a rising man.

  “I will possess you.”

  He put his arms around her and pulled her close. For a long moment they just looked into each other’s eyes. She felt his big hand on her left breast and nipped in her breath a little. Was he going to force her? Right there?

  “No,” No Water said with a little smile, taking his hand away, relaxing his arms. “You will ask me to possess you. Because of the medicine. And because of your nature. It is a bad nature, perverse. You will want me.”

  He lifted her up easily, her head higher than his. He put his mouth to her breast through the thin antelope skin and sucked her nipple. She saw from the glint in his eyes that he knew she was aroused.

  He set her down. She felt weak-kneed and almost grabbed him for support.

  He took her face in both hands and spoke the words slowly and forcefully. “Stay away from Light Curly Hair. I know everything about the two of you. Everything. I have watched you. If you go with him again, I will kill you.”

  He stared at her balefully. “Not him. You.”

  She looked into his eyes and believed him.

  He let her go. She slipped to the ground like limp cloth.

  “Take off his ring. Don’t wear it again,” he commanded. He walked off without looking back.

  She picked up the hide of the bundle and watched his back disappear into the trees. She took the ring off.

  A NAME

  They prepared to march into the village formally, in the old way, as in the days before they had promised the wasicu to stop fighting other Indians. One man went ahead to alert the village of the procession of triumph.

  The others painted themselves. They tied their horses and sat on rocks and trees and adorned themselves with the utmost care. A warrior marching into the village after a victorious raid on an enemy told the story of his personal battle, and of his entire life as a warrior, on his body. Though all these men were young and none yet had a full eagle-feather warbonnet, they would make a fine show. These were the moments Lakota men lived for.

  Only Curly sat apart, observing quietly.

  He Dog mounted the white, black-tipped tail feather of an eagle upright in his scalp lock, meaning that he had killed an enemy. Since he did not paint it red, he had not been wounded. He Dog was the one Bad Face Curly liked a lot, a simple man of few words, big-chested and thick-bodied, quick to laugh, confident and courageous in war.

  Black Elk dangled a similar feather from the armlet at his biceps, a simple indication that he had fought with an enemy. Young Man-Whose-Enemies did the same.

  The two who had stolen horses suspended from their scalp locks eagle tail feathers colored green—the green symbolized Wakan Tanka in the aspect of Earth, mother of life.

  One man put yellow paint on his body, symbolic of God the Rock, the spirit of revenge, destruction, and violence.

  Another painted outside his left eye a half-circle of red with forked ends, symbols of spirits of lightning, a claim of being irresistible in war.

  The men who had struck first coups put miniature red bows into their scalp locks. They would now be entitled to carry coup sticks.

  The two wounded by arrows fastened small red arrows into their hair.

  Some indicated old wounds—red dabs on the right forearm for knife cuts, red dots on the left forearms for wounds from arrows or spears.

  Those who had danced the sun dance painted themselves red on the thighs, calves, and feet.

  Curly watched carefully as Hump decorated himself, the most elaborately painted and feathered of all the warriors. As the leader of a war party, he painted his hands red. Because the party had been successful, he wore the blue-painted tail feather of an eagle upright in his
scalp lock. The blue symbolized Wakan Tanka as wind motion, for He had lent the party swift and elusive movement. As one who had taken scalps in the past, Hump carried a chokecherry staff. The war club suspended from his right hand meant he was willing to go to battle whenever called upon. The black paint around his mouth and on his chin said he had returned bearing the scalp of an enemy killed in battle. He donned a scalp shirt with fringes of human hair at sides and arms. From now on Hump was entitled to wear it at will.

  Buffalo Hump was a man much decorated in war. Now everyone would recognize him as a leader. He fought fiercely, happily, a little recklessly. He led sensibly. Curly was proud to be his friend.

  But Curly sat apart, alone, feeling alien. He could not deck himself out with all this finery. He could not tell his exploits in paint and feather. Because of his vision.

  He was entitled to lots of decoration. He had earned the right to wear two white tail feathers with black tips upright in his scalp lock for killing two enemies. He could have hung a piece of lead on a thong around his neck, the sign of being wounded by a bullet. Since his horse had been shot out from under him, he could have worn another eagle feather painted yellow with red stripes, symbolizing Wakan Tanka in His aspect as the sun, who had given Curly strength to escape. He could have carried a chokecherry staff like Hump’s. He was also entitled to paint a black horizontal line on his cheek for having killed an enemy who was not a Lakota, plus black crosses for being in battle on foot and a diagonal black slash for being in battle on horseback. He could have donned a collar with streamers for each battle he’d taken part in. Most impressive, he might have worn his hair unbraided but bound, the sign of a man who has done desperate deeds and was willing to do them again.

  Instead he sat quietly and braided his only hair long enough to braid, the left side. He pretended not to notice the pitying glances of his comrades.

  His plainness was good, surely, even if it was hard. He reminded himself: In his martial exhilaration, his throbbing excitement about achieving the invulnerability promised in his vision, he had forgotten the obligations that went with his powers. He had taken the two scalps. For this breach Power had sent a bullet into his calf. He had no intention of making such a mistake again, ever.

  Curly marched into the village behind the others. Keeping his face down, he watched in the corners of his eyes for the face of Black Buffalo Woman. What would she think, seeing that he walked at the back, apparently the one member of the party who had done nothing or even disgraced himself? Would she blush, humiliated? Would she even care?

  What would his mothers think? His married sister, his brother, Little Hawk? His friends. Some would know of his vision from Tasunke Witko, but…

  The women raised their trilling sounds to the skies for the victorious warriors.

  Two shield men led. The others came four abreast, their weapons glittering in the afternoon sun, feathers aflutter, their paint strong and virile. Behind them all stepped Curly.

  The crowd murmured. He kept his eyes down and his face expressionless. He felt humiliated. The only thing worse would be to let his sense of humiliation show. He heard muttered fragments of the words he knew too well. “Our Strange Man.”

  He wanted only to disappear.

  Dark was falling, and Black Buffalo Woman didn’t want to miss a moment of the dance. She looked one more time at the red part in her hair. She put the mirror into a parfleche, took out a tied bunch of sweetgrass, cut off just a little, and popped it into her mouth. She took some spruce gum in one hand. Before the first dance she would chew it to sweeten her breath. Then she put all her rush aside, stepped through the door, and followed her mother demurely to the big circle where the whole village was gathered.

  Oh, yes, she would have to remember to tell Curly that she had lost his ring. The word was already around the camp, and some did not believe it.

  The Hunkpatila and Bad Faces came together for this big dance. Victory dances had parts where sweethearts danced together—you told the winkte who you wanted your sweetheart to be, and he matched you. She wouldn’t dance with Curly, because he wouldn’t dance. True, he had a wounded leg now, but he never participated in dances anyway. He would stand away from the big center fire in the shadows with the others who didn’t dance, the old, the infirm, and the sour-spirited. It was what she liked about him least, the way he stood off from other people.

  To Black Buffalo Woman the drum was something larger and stronger than you. It throbbed through you, it took you over, it sent its pulse through your body and made you move as it willed. She loved it. Why would Curly disdain it? The word strange came up for him too often.

  She took a place in the big circle next to her mother. The singers and drummers grouped near the fire, the women on the opposite side. The winkte, the men who lived as women, stood in the middle. They directed the victory dance. Winkte understood matters of love and could give young men songs of seduction their sweethearts would find irresistible. But not as irresistible as the seduction songs of bone keepers. She shivered.

  The drum started its pulse.

  Across the circle she saw Curly watching her covertly. A lot of good it would do him tonight. Though he’d done something good, so they said, he’d marched into camp in that weird way, like a beggar to be pitied. And tonight he would act aloof. So her eyes were for her potential dancing partners. Who would she say would be her sweethearts for tonight? Probably one or two of the Bad Face young men who had been courting her, standing near her lodge with a blanket to wrap her in and hold her close and talk. Maybe Black Twin, who had an interestingly devious mind. Or White Twin, who was odd but just as good-looking. Maybe Pretty Fellow, who was beautiful, broken nose or not. Maybe He Dog, who might turn out to be a chief. Surely No Water.

  The singers lifted their voices in a victory song. She watched the dancers, her body moving to the beat.

  Maybe she should choose Young Man-Whose-Enemies, who would one day be leader of the Hunkpatila. That would cause talk.

  Who would ask for her? When the winkte had two requesting each other, that was a real match. No Water would ask for her, for sure.

  She thought she would speak his name at least once. She was strangely excited about dancing with No Water. She couldn’t deny that he was attractive. He was so big and strong. Until a few days ago she had thought he was a little dull. But he had done so much to get her—that was intriguing. He had risked being possessed by the tonwan. And the way he had told her she would be his, so masterful, that still made her heart squeeze when she remembered it.

  He’d called her perverse. Intriguing.

  The potion? She didn’t know yet. Potions didn’t always work. But she couldn’t deny that she was fascinated.

  Curly made her heart squeeze, too, always had. She was eighteen winters old now, and she had been in love with Curly probably for half her life. She had made love only to him. She wondered if he had her ring somewhere on his person.

  A woman changed, though. She didn’t always take her girlish loves seriously. Sometimes she married another because it was wise or just because she felt like it. A young woman needed plenty of suitors. This was Black Buffalo Woman’s time before the responsibilities of a husband and children. She intended to take advantage of it.

  And tonight, as she danced with every man she could, her every movement would be flaunted in Curly’s face. And No Water’s face.

  It was time, the drums said. She stepped forward with the other women. When the winkte came near, she whispered, “No Water.”

  When the time came for the fighters to tell of their exploits, He Dog tried to push Curly into the big circle first. Curly refused wordlessly, standing his ground at the back of the crowd, next to his father. So He Dog chuckled low and shrugged and went out to show how he had killed one of the men of the unknown tongue. Others followed, gladly. They danced and mimed and chanted how they had killed or struck coup or stolen horses, and the women made their excited trilling. Strength and unity throbbed in the peopl
e. Then the young men and women would dance again, never touching, but their attraction tangible as the rays of the sun on a hot day.

  Curly watched Black Buffalo Woman. She was dancing opposite He Dog. Earlier, when she had danced with No Water, Curly realized they had spoken for each other. His skin prickled like he was poisoned.

  “Brother,” said Hump softly next to Curly’s ear, “you must dance your deeds.”

  Curly had not heard his hunka coming. Most of the others had strutted their bravery by now. Curly looked up into Hump’s eyes and shook his head no.

  “You showed great medicine,” said Hump. “The people need to feel your strength among them.”

  Curly shook his head again.

  “It is not his way,” said Tasunke Witko quietly.

  Curly felt a twist of pain. Difficult, in a world where the respect a man earned was almost entirely based on coups, very difficult not to be able to declare your deeds, to have to hide your accomplishments always. Yet he noted that Hawk was quiet on her perch, content.

  “It is not his way,” repeated Tasunke Witko.

  Hump padded off silently.

  Curly’s one moment came when the women danced in a circle with the scalps. His mother Red Grass led the way, the only woman with two scalps hanging from the top of her stick. She strode with pride, all the more fierce because her son had kept silent. The crowd murmured. He heard the words “Strange Man” for the thousandth time. Yes, strange—two scalps dancing at the end of the pole and nothing said about them.

  His medicine of invincibility would be an open secret, he knew that. The other warriors would tell their families, and tomorrow the tale would be all over the camp. They would say he was one of those rare ones, meant for desperate deeds.

  He was glad. Maybe that was weakness, but he was proud. Even if he didn’t get to dance his power before the world, he was a warrior, a true warrior.

  Without seeming to, he looked around the crowd. Black Buffalo Woman’s eyes gleamed hot, and maybe they were fixed on Curly’s mother. The Black Elk family, the Man-Whose-Enemies-Are-Afraid-of-His-Horses family, and other Oglala families looked exultant. They didn’t embarrass any of the fighters by looking directly at them, even their own.