The Changing Wind

by Don Coldsmith

  The memorable event of the day for Small Elk, however, was not the swimming party. It happened on the way back to the camp. He and Crow had lagged behind the others to watch a shiny green dung beetle roll an impossibly big ball of dung, larger than itself.

  “What do they do with it?” asked Crow. “Where is he taking it?”

  “To his lodge, maybe,” Small Elk suggested.

  He hated to admit that he had no idea what a dung beetle does with balls of dung. He would ask his father later. White Buffalo, who knew all things, could surely tell him about dung beetles.

  The children rose to move on. It was just at that time that the rabbit sprang from a clump of grass beside the path and loped away ahead of them. Small Elk was startled for a moment but then reacted almost without thinking. He was still carrying his throwing-stick from the earlier lessons of the day. The missile leaped from his hand, whirling toward the retreating animal. His throw was wide and should have missed completely except for unforeseen circumstances. The whirling tip of the stick struck a sappling beside the path and was deflected, bouncing crazily end-over-end. Even so, the rabbit would have escaped harm if it had continued in a straight line. But rabbits do not run in straight lines as a custom. They sometimes zig and zag, taught to do so at the time of creation to escape the strike of the hawk or the lunge of the coyote. In this case, the escape trick proved the rabbit’s undoing. It bobbed to the left just as the whirling stick bounced to the right. There was an audible crack as the hard wood met the skull of the animal.

  “Aiee!” exclaimed Crow softly.

  Small Elk rushed forward to grab the kicking creature, wriggling in its death throes. He picked it up and watched the large brown eye lose its luster and become dull with the mist of death. It was his first kill, and he should have felt good. It should have been a glad and proud moment, but that was not what he felt. There was a letdown, a disappointment. The rabbit had been more pleasing to look at in life than it was now, its eyes glazing and a single drop of blood at the tip of its nose. He was confused. Why had he wanted to kill the rabbit? For meat. Yes, for its flesh, he thought. That is the way of things. The rabbit eats grass and in turn is eaten by the hawk, the coyote, or man. That is the purpose of a rabbit. He watched as a flea crept into sight from the thick fur of the rabbit’s cheek and burrowed into another tuft.

  Then he remembered watching his father at a buffalo kill early in the spring. The medicine man had stood before the head of a massive bull… yes, of course. He would perform such a ceremony. He placed the rabbit on the ground, arranging it in a natural position. Then he stepped back, faced the head of the dead creature, and addressed it solemnly.

  “I am sorry to kill you, my brother,” he stated, trying to remember his father’s words of apology, “but I am in need of your flesh to live.”

  He felt a little guilty for such a statement, because he was not hungry or in need at the moment. What had White Buffalo said next?

  “Your flesh feeds us as the grass gives your life to you.”

  Yes, that was it. Small Elk felt better now, and forged ahead. How was it?…

  “May your people be fat and happy, and be plentiful,” he told the rabbit.

  Feeling considerably better about the incident, he picked up his kill and moved on toward camp. In his preoccupation, he did not notice the expression in the eyes of the girl beside him. It was an intense look of surprise mixed with admiration and approval.

  A similar expression might have been noted on the face of the man who had watched the whole scene from behind a thin screen of willows. White Buffalo waited, perfectly still, until the children had moved out of sight. Then he rose, a satisfied smile on his face. He must share this with Dove Woman.

  “It is good,” he said quietly to himself. “And Small Elk performed the apology well.”

  3

  It was in their seventh summer that the Head Splitters came. Among the People, youngsters were warned against this threat from the time they were small.

  “Don’t go too far from the lodges. The Head Splitters will get you.”

  Sometimes, even, it became a tool for discipline.

  “If you don’t behave, the Head Splitters will get you!”

  Usually that sort of threat was not used because it was not necessary. The loosely organized instruction of the Rabbit Society was carried on by nearly all adults. The shared parenting made all adults responsible for the welfare of all children, and after all, the future of any group lies in its children. On the other hand, such a system makes all children responsible to any adult, and misbehavior is difficult. So the threat of the Head Splitters was rarely used for discipline, except perhaps in a joking way.

  Actually, the danger was quite real. For many lifetimes, past the memories of the oldest of the band, these enemies had staged sporadic raids against the People. Both tribes hunted buffalo, and both were partial to the Tallgrass Hills, so their paths occasionally crossed.

  Small Elk had seen them, as the People moved from one camping area to another. They would encounter a similar band of travelers moving across the prairie, carrying their lodgecovers and baggage or dragging it on poledrags behind the dogs. There was a time-honored ritual for such a meeting. The two columns of travelers would halt, perhaps a long bowshot apart, and wait while two or three chiefs from each band approached one another in the no-man’s-land between.

  It was understood that there would be no fighting. It was too dangerous. Both groups were vulnerable, with women and children and all possessions exposed to the enemy. So the principal chiefs of the two groups would make small talk, using the universal handsigns of the prairie. They would discuss the weather, the quality of the summer’s grass, and the success of the hunt. Sometimes there would be veiled threats and insults, but it was only talk. No chief would risk his family’s safety by initiating a skirmish.

  Even knowing this, the heart of Small Elk always beat fast when such a meeting occurred. He watched the confrontation from his mother’s side, seeing the prominently displayed stone war clubs that were the trademark of the Head Splitters. Even at a distance, the suggestiveness of these weapons was a chilling thing.

  “What do they talk about?” he whispered to his mother.

  Dove Woman placed a hand on his shoulder reassuringly.

  “Small things. The weather, the hunting, where we will camp this season.”

  Small Elk was alarmed.

  “Broken Horn will tell them where to find us?”

  Dove Woman smiled.

  “Yes, and they will tell us. You see, if they mean us harm, they can find us anyway. And hunting will be better if we are not too close together. So, the chiefs exchange that knowledge.”

  The conversation was finished now, and the chiefs parted. The two columns resumed travel. It was a relief to have the meeting over. Looking back later, it had been an exciting diversion on the long trip to meet the other bands of the tribe for the annual Big Council.

  A raid by the Head Splitters was a different matter. It would be carried out by a surprise attack, a ruthless strike by a force of strong, heavily armed warriors. They would quickly kill and plunder, taking supplies and robes, perhaps weapons, anything easy to carry.

  And children. The threat of abduction by the Head Splitters was not an idle one.

  “But what happens to the children?” Small Elk asked in wonder as he and his playmates discussed the situation.

  “Maybe the Head Splitters eat them,” Bull Roarer suggested with a horrible grimace.

  “No, that’s not true!” scolded Crow. “They just keep them forever. Besides, they want mostly girls.”

  “We will ask someone,” suggested Small Elk. “There is Short Bow.”

  The children approached the subchief, who was reclining on his backrest nearby.

  “Uncle,” began Bull Roarer, using the customary term of respect for any adult male, “could you tell us of the Head Splitters?”

  Short Bow puffed his pipe a moment.

&nb
sp; “What of the Head Splitters?”

  “Why do they steal children?”

  “Don’t they want mostly girls?” asked Crow.

  Short Bow nodded seriously.

  “Yes, that is true. Our women are prettier than theirs. They want them for wives.”

  “Aiee!” exclaimed Crow. “To be the wife of a Head Splitter!”

  “You are safe,” teased Bull Roarer. “They want only the pretty ones.”

  Crow made an obscene gesture, and the boys laughed. The girl had not yet started the spurt of adolescent growth that would make her long-legged and shapely like other women of the People. It had been known for generations that Head Splitters coveted these girls as wives. Their own racial stock was slightly different in bone structure, and the lanky athletic build of the women of the People was greatly admired.

  On the day that the Head Splitters came, the three friends had been playing along the stream. It was a warm, sunny afternoon in the Moon of Growing. The children had been watching minnows and trying to catch the small spotted frogs that hid in the grass along the shore. They watched a muskrat pull himself out of the water and shuffle along the opposite shore. It was a narrow path that the creature followed, because a rocky bluff rose almost from the water’s edge.

  “Let’s try to climb the bluff!” Bull Roarer suggested.

  They made their way upstream to a point where they could cross and started back along the bluffs base.

  “Look! A path!” Crow pointed.

  It was a narrow ledge, rising from the water’s edge and angling upward against the face of the bluff. It was far from being a path, but it did appear to have been used by small animals. The three crept upward, clinging closely to the rock. They were nearly back to the point where they had seen the muskrat when there was a sudden flash of motion ahead.

  “A fox!” Small Elk pointed. “Look, there is his lodge!”

  The fox had disappeared, but they found that the shelf widened to perhaps a pace across and several paces long. The opening to the fox’s den showed evidence of recent use.

  “Maybe there are pups inside!” Bull Roarer said excitedly.

  The boys were trying to peer into the dark hole when there was a sudden gasp from Crow.

  “Aiee! Head Splitters!”

  The others whirled to look. They were about a long bowshot from the camp and high enough on the bluff to see over the tops of the newly leaved trees. A dozen warriors, painted for combat, slipped quickly among the lodges.

  “They have not been seen!” Small Elk exclaimed. “Should we?…”

  His question was interrupted by a scream of terror from the village, immediately answered by a chorus of yipping, falsetto war cries from the attackers. It was the first time any of the three had heard the terrifying war cry of the Head Splitters. Small Elk felt a chill up his spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood erect in his terror.

  “Get down!” he mumbled.

  The three crouched on the narrow ledge, watching in fascinated horror. There were few men in the camp; most of them were gone for the day on a spring buffalo hunt. It was decided later that the Head Splitters must have watched and waited for such an opportunity.

  They saw Sits-in-the-Rain, who often told tales to the children around the story-fires, start up from his backrest in front of his lodge. The old man reached for his bow, but age had slowed his reflexes. The Head Splitter who struck him down hardly bothered to break stride as he moved on.

  A lodge toppled, and greasy smoke began to billow out from under the collapsed lodgecover as its own cooking fire began to devour it. The invaders seemed everywhere. People were running in all directions, a few standing to fight and being clubbed down where they stood.

  Bull Roarer was crying as he saw his mother’s lodge fall. They could not see whether she was trapped inside as it began to burn. His sister scrambled out under the edge of the lodgeskin and ran for the bushes, pursued by a yipping Head Splitter. This was too much for Bull Roarer. He jumped to his feet, the others trying to pull him back out of sight. The boy jerked away, lost his balance, and fell over the edge. His scream was unheard in the village because of all the noise, death, and destruction there, but it was heard by his friends on the ledge.

  “We must help him!” Crow gasped.

  They peered cautiously over the edge. Bull Roarer lay below, partly in the water, his left leg crumpled under him, jutting out at an unnatural angle. His big dark eyes, full of agony, looked up at them helplessly.

  “Lie still; make no noise!” Small Elk used the handsign talk.

  Bull Roarer nodded.

  “We will help you as soon as we can,” Small Elk continued.

  There was another gasp from Crow. Directly across the stream, looking up at them, stood a Head Splitter. He moved a little to see what occupied their attention and discovered the injured Bull Roarer. Chuckling, the man took an arrow from his quiver and fitted it to his bowstring. Then he seemed to consider and lowered the “Weapon. Apparently he thought the crippled boy not worth an arrow; he would have to cross the creek to recover it. He looked up again at the two on the ledge and smiled as he pointed to them.

  “I will get you next time!” the man signed.

  He turned and trotted to join the others, who were withdrawing, laden with loot. Small Elk and Crow were already scrambling down the narrow path to help Bull Roarer. From the direction of the camp there now rose a mournful wail as the women began the Song of Mourning.

  4

  The children scrambled quickly down and along the ledge to where Bull Roarer lay, partly in the water.

  “We will help you!” cried Crow. “Does it hurt much?”

  “A little,” said Bull Roarer between clenched teeth.

  His face was pale and sweaty, his eyes wide and bordering on panic. Small Elk knelt in the water beside the injured boy. He had seen his father examine such injuries.

  “Do not try to move yet,” he advised. “Now where does it hurt? Only your leg?”

  “Y—yes, I think so. Elk, it hurts a lot.”

  “Does it hurt in your belly?”

  “No. I don’t think so. My leg…”

  Small Elk was looking at the twisted leg. Something was definitely wrong with it. There appeared to be an extra joint, like an extra knee, between the real knee and the hip. This gave an odd zig-zag appearance to the leg and accounted for the awkward position of the foot, which could never be used if it pointed in the present direction.

  “Your leg is broken,” Small Elk said professionally.

  “I know that,” snapped Bull Roarer irritably. “Help me!”

  “It must be pulled straight,” Small Elk stated, “and I do not know how.”

  The crying and the wailing sounds continued from the camp. There was an occasional scream as a new casualty was discovered. People called out names of missing loved ones.

  “Bring your father,” Bull Roarer demanded. “He can fix my leg.”

  “He is not here!” Small Elk reminded. “He went with the men.”

  “Maybe we can pull him out of the water,” Crow suggested. “There is enough space here for him to lie more comfortably.”

  The two took Bull Roarer by the arms to drag him ashore. The injured boy screamed as the broken leg moved and bone grated on splintered bone.

  “It looks straighter now,” Elk observed.

  He picked up a small stick and handed it to Bull Roarer.

  “Here. Bite on this. We nearly have you out.”

  One more sustained pull, and they were able to drag the victim ashore to lie full length on the damp grass. Tears streamed down his face, but as the pain subsided, he removed the stick from his mouth, crushed and broken from the pressure of his teeth.

  “Aiee!” he whispered, his face still pale. “It hurts less when you do not move it.”

  “This leg is shorter than the other,” observed Crow.

  “Yes, and the toe points backward,” Small Elk noted. “Should we not turn it to the fron
t?”

  “No, no,” Bull Roarer protested, “you will turn it the wrong way! Go and get help!”

  “I will go,” Crow suggested. “You can stay with him.”

  She jumped to her feet and ran nimbly along the bank to the point where they had crossed. Small Elk sat down near their suffering friend.

  “Elk, I think I am going to die,” said Bull Roarer weakly.

  “No, you are not,” Small Elk snapped. “I will not let you.”

  “All right. But can you stop the leg from moving?”

  The damaged muscles, protesting this injury to their form and function, were twitching spasmodically. With each spasm, the uncontrolled motion created new waves of pain.

  “I don’t know,” Small Elk admitted. “I will try.”

  He attempted to hold the foot still against the paroxysm of muscles. It seemed to help some, but his own muscles quickly tired.

  “I am going to let go for a little while,” he told Bull Roarer. “I will get some rocks to prop around your foot.”

  This appeared to be the best answer yet and seemed to comfort the injured leg. Crow came splashing back across the shallow riffle, carrying a small buffalo robe.

  “No one can come yet,” she announced as she spread the warm cover over Bull Roarer. “Dove Woman says keep him warm. Someone will come soon.”

  “How bad is it for the others?” Small Elk asked.

  “Bad. Some are dead. Several lodges burning.”

  “I saw mine burning,” Bull Roarer said. “Is my mother alive?”

  “Yes. She is looking for your sister. Elk, your lodge still stands. Mine is gone, but my mother is safe.”

  “But I saw my mother’s lodge fall on her,” Bull Roarer said.

  “Yes,” Crow explained. “She hid under it, hoping the Head Splitters would leave before the fire reached her.”

  “How did your mother and mine escape?” Small Elk asked.

  “They were both in your lodge. The Head Splitters spared it because of its medicine, Dove Woman said.”