The Changing Wind

by Don Coldsmith

  There was a stirring in the air now, a breathlike movement that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, and to have no direction. White Buffalo pointed to a distant line of timber to the north. The trees were writhing in the grip of the changing wind, like a great green snake, their tops twisting to show the silvery undersides of the leaves.

  “It comes,” he said softly. “The changing wind.”

  He turned back down the ridge toward the camp.

  “Come,” he said over his shoulder. “I will make the announcement.”

  Small Elk was puzzled.

  “That it will rain?”

  “No. They can tell that, and it is coming soon. I will tell them of the buffalo.”

  “But Father! We saw no buffalo!”

  “No. But things are right. All the signs. This is the season. I will dance the Buffalo Dance and bring them.”

  “But… what if they do not come?”

  “Ah!” said White Buffalo. “Sometimes they do not, and the dance does not work. Then the People will say someone broke a taboo, or the buffalo are displeased with where we camped—or maybe, even, White Buffalo is getting old, and his medicine is weak.”

  He paused a moment to catch his breath and continued. “But most of the time, Elk, they will come this way. Then, the People say, ‘Aiee! White Buffalo’s medicine is strong. He has brought the herds back again!’”

  Small Elk was astonished at this revelation.

  “Then your medicine does not really?…”

  “Ah, did I say that? Who knows, my son, why they come. When I see that everything is right, I say, ‘the herds may come.’ It would be foolish to say that when things are not ready. The medicine is strong, but I must help it, by knowing when to use it. Now, I am made to think, is the time to do the Buffalo Dance. Maybe they come, maybe not.”

  “But more likely than not?” Small Elk persisted.

  “Of course. If the herds were more likely not to come, I would not try the dance.”

  “And in the springtime?”

  “Ah, you will learn that later. That is a matter of firing the grass at the right time. You have much to learn before then. Come, we must hurry.”

  They approached the medicine man’s lodge, and he called to Dove Woman. She unrolled the bundle and shook out the white buffalo cape with horns attached, the symbol of office. White Buffalo swung it across his shoulders and tied the thongs under his chin and across the chest. He settled the horned headdress portion on his head and nodded to Dove Woman. She began a rhythmic beat on the small dance-drum as White Buffalo picked up his rattles and eagle-fan and began to dance.

  Small Elk had watched this ceremony all his life, but now he seemed to see it for the first time.

  “Watch the cadence,” Dove Woman whispered. “Next time maybe he will let you try it.”

  People were coming to watch the ceremony, and in the distance came the mutter of Rain Maker’s drum in answer to the one held by Dove Woman.

  16

  The buffalo did come, and the People were loud in praise of the medicine man’s skill. Small Elk was mildly confused. He was not certain whether the skills included causing the herds to return or skillfully predicting the event.

  “Does it matter?” his father asked with a quiet smile. “They are here. Either way, it was successful. Maybe both are true.”

  On one point White Buffalo was absolutely correct. Either way, it was a successful season. After a day of rain, which freshened the prairie and brightened the green of the grasses, the sky cleared to a bright autumn blue. Days were warm, nights cool. On the third day, the scouts spotted the first of a large herd, grazing as they came and moving slowly southward. It was soon enough after the ceremony for White Buffalo to take credit for the herd’s appearance. He modestly accepted the praise and the attention that fell to his office and his buffalo medicine. He conducted a ceremony for the hunt, and it too was an outstanding success. White Buffalo was riding high on a crest of prestige.

  “Will you use the calfskin to move the herd, Father?” Small Elk asked.

  “No, it is not necessary. The buffalo already come where we want them. Anyway, that works better in the spring hunt.”

  White Buffalo and his apprentice watched this hunt from a low ridge overlooking an isolated meadow. A few animals, some twenty in number, had detached themselves from the main herd and grazed into this meadow. It was formed by a loop of the stream which meandered past, partly enclosing this level spot of choice grass. It was a long bowshot in diameter, making it ideal for the hunters, hidden in the brush, trees, and rocks around the perimeter. Short Bow would loose the first arrow.

  This was the first time that Small Elk had had the opportunity to watch a hunt as an observer. He could see the entire sequence unfold. The animals moved, unhurried, into the loop of the stream, past the narrowest part of the opening. Short Bow waited until they were well into the meadow and chose a fat yearling as his quarry. The animal jumped as the arrow struck, staggered a few steps, and stopped, sagging slowly to the ground. The others milled around nervously, now catching the scent of the hunters. Another animal stumbled and fell.

  This could go on only a few moments before the herd began to panic and run, but now there were at least three kills. A fourth animal was struggling along, probably with a fatal wound. A hunter, unable to restrain himself further, let out a yell of triumph, and the buffalo started to run. They were deterred on three sides by the creek and its screen of timber; it was by no means a barrier, but by nature the buffalo saw the open plain as their path to safety. They turned to rush back to the plain, where they had come from.

  Now came a crucial and dangerous part of the hunt. A few men, the bravest and most daring, would jump out from concealment among the trees to try to turn at least some of the animals back toward the other hunters. Small Elk saw Short Bow leap from behind a clump of willows, flapping a robe and yelling at the top of his lungs. This signaled the others, who seemed to appear like magic to confront the running herd. The leading buffalo paused and shied away from the noise and the threat of danger. Some tried to turn back uncertainly; others dashed ahead toward the blockers, who leapt nimbly out of the way. One man, Elk thought it was Bluejay, was tossed high in the air by a large bull as it thundered to safety. That unusual sight itself seemed to turn back some of the herd.

  Now those remaining in the meadow seemed to feel trapped. In a panic, they crashed through the brush and small trees to reach the streambed. There they were met by another rain of arrows from the hidden bowmen as they clattered and splashed across the stream to safety. In a short while it was all over. Dead or dying buffalo were scattered across the meadow. Men poured out of concealment to identify their kills and congratulate each other.

  “Come, White Buffalo, make the apology for us,” someone called.

  The medicine man and his assistant made their way down the hillside. The hunters had already selected the largest bull of the day, and one was busily chopping off the head. Then two men carried the massive trophy aside, placing it in the spot indicated by White Buffalo.

  “There,” he said, pointing. “The nose to the east.”

  The head was propped in a more lifelike position with stones, and White Buffalo took a pinch of some powdered plant material from a pouch to sprinkle over it. He sang:

  We are sorry to kill you, my brother

  but your flesh is our life, as the grass is yours.

  May your people be numerous and prosper.

  The women were now beginning to straggle over the hill, preparing to start the butchering. They were chattering over the success of the hunt. “Aiee, the medicine of White Buffalo is powerful!” Elk heard one say.

  As the butchering began, Bluejay came hobbling up. His left arm hung limp, and pain lined his face.

  “Ah, Bluejay!” one of the other hunters exclaimed. “You will do anything to avoid the butchering!”

  There was general laughter, even as several helped the injured man to lie down and
White Buffalo came to help with the broken arm, a mixture of concern and relief that the injury was no worse. The man could have been killed, and fatal injuries were not unusual in such a hunt. That Bluejay’s was the only injury and not a life-threatening one was a cause for joy and laughter. An arm would heal. In the importance of things, anyone would prefer a broken arm to being gored in the belly, would he not?

  The band moved into winter quarters, choosing a favorite area in the southern portion of their range. There were thickets of scrubby oaks, which would hold their dead leaves for most of the winter, to provide an effective windbreak. The campsite itself was bordered by such a thicket on the north and west, leaving the east ceremonially open to the sun. This location also had a major advantage in that there were no trees to the south for perhaps a hundred paces or more. The rays of Sun Boy’s dying winter torch would strike the camp unimpeded. Beyond that open space was the river, clear and swift over white gravel. Their water supply would be convenient and reliable.

  Another advantage to this location was the presence of numerous squirrels. In a hard winter, a few of these could make the difference between survival and death. There were also signs of deer in the thickets, drawn by the same acorns that sustained the large population of squirrels. In the dark moons of winter, a change to fresh meat might prove a refreshing diversion. Not that there was any threat of starvation this year; the fall hunt had gone well. Aiee, how well! Every lodge had a store of dried meat and pemmican, stored in rawhide packs behind the lodge-linings. Even the arm of Bluejay, the only casualty of the fall hunt, was healing well.

  The People utilized the long still days of the Moon of Falling Leaves to prepare their lodges against the onslaught of Cold Maker. Some, whose locations gave more exposure, carried brush and sticks to build a small snow fence directly northwest of their own lodges. Everyone cut and carried armfuls of dry grasses to stuff in the space around the bottom of the lodge. Between the outside cover and the lodge-lining, which hung like a vertical curtain of skins, was a dead space for storage. Supplies would keep well, away from the heated inside of the lodge. But in winter, stuffed with dried grasses, any remaining space became an important part of the winter preparation; it was insulation against Cold Maker’s howling winds.

  By the first frosts, late in the Moon of Falling Leaves, most of the lodges were ready. Even then, there would be a period of perhaps half a moon of fine open weather, cool at night and pleasantly warm by day, the Second Summer. Some called it Spirit Summer. It was a happy time, a time of excitement but no urgency, a time to enjoy the pungent smells of autumn and rejoice in the beauty of Earth.

  Long lines of geese trumpeted their way south, and in the distance, the challenge of the young bull elk resounded across the prairie. It was the rutting time for the deer in the thickets, and the clash and rattle of their antlers in the battle for a harem of does was frequently heard. It was a good time to hunt, the bucks more concerned with rutting than with caution, but few men bothered to hunt. There was enough stored already.

  It was discovered that a half-day’s travel downstream, there was a village of Growers. This led to an increase in hunting for a short while. Surplus meat and hides could be traded for corn, beans, and dried pumpkins. There was brisk trade for half a moon before Cold Maker put a virtual stop to travel.

  During the pleasant time of Spirit Summer, Small Elk worked and studied as never before. It seemed that his father would never finish with the gathering of plants, seeds, and flowers. Bunches and bundles of herbs hung from the lodgepoles to dry, bringing the pungent smells that Elk’s memory always associated with autumn. As they gathered the plants, Elk received instruction in identification and habitat.

  Once, they spent an entire day lying on the ground, painstakingly scraping and brushing dirt from the roots of a gourd vine. The root was branched and convoluted, and when it was exposed, it was apparent that it could be interpreted as the likeness of a human figure. This, said White Buffalo, was especially good, but even more dangerous.

  He explained as he scraped and brushed. This gourd, whose dried fruits were used for rattles and whose root was powerful medicine, was different from many plants. It would die each autumn but come to life again in the spring and so live forever. The silvery blue color of its vine and leaves identified it. The danger in digging the root was accidentally breaking it. That would be very bad medicine. No one but a medicine man would ordinarily even attempt this dig, and even he was in jeopardy. White Buffalo told as he worked of a medicine man who broke such a root and returned to his lodge to find that his son had been bitten by a real-snake. Another had broken a root such as this human-shaped one, destroying one of the legs. On the way home, he had fallen among the rocks, badly shattering his own leg, which never healed properly.

  By this time, Small Elk was having second thoughts about his apprenticeship. His father read his face and chuckled.

  “Is the responsibility too heavy?” he asked teasingly.

  Small Elk was more serious. “I think not, Father. Are there many who are offered the gift but refuse it?”

  White Buffalo wanted to laugh aloud, but saw that his son was serious. “There is no way to know,” he answered. “I am made to think that in some generations there are many who are offered the gifts of the spirit, and sometimes only a few.”

  He scraped a few moments in silence.

  “Elk,” he said seriously, “if you have doubts, if you want to refuse, it is no disgrace.”

  Small Elk took a deep breath. “No, Father, it is not that,” he said slowly. “I was only wondering if I am worthy of such responsibility.”

  Ah, thought White Buffalo, pleased beyond measure. What better evidence that this boy is worthy? Again, he felt the strong suggestion that Small Elk would somehow become very important to the People. Just how, he was unsure. But there was much to suggest it. Those strange visions at the time of his quest…

  “Here, Elk,” he said, handing him the slender digging tool, “you scrape a little while. But be very careful.”

  The shadows were growing long when they returned to the lodge, but Small Elk proudly carried the root of the gourd-that-lives-forever. More importantly, the root was unscathed. Small Elk’s pride was well justified but was no greater than that of his father. It had been a day well spent.

  17

  “We have hardly seen you this fall!” Stone Breaker protested.

  It was the Moon of Long Nights, when Sun Boy’s torch nearly goes out. There had been no extreme weather yet. Cold Maker had blustered and bluffed occasionally, and several times the grasses had been powdered with frost when the sun rose. Once there had been a light dusting of snow, which soon disappeared.

  “I have been busy with White Buffalo,” Elk explained.

  “Yes, we know,” Stone Breaker said. “But now, you are here, and welcome to our lodge! Both of you.”

  It was a chilly overcast day, and White Buffalo had decided that it was a poor day for instruction. Elk was quite willing to take a day’s respite from his learning to be with his friends. Such a day was good for socializing. Many of the people were visiting in one another’s lodges, smoking, visiting, or gambling with the plum-stones or the stick game. Crow and Small Elk had decided to call on their friends, and were warmly welcomed to Stone Breaker’s lodge. Crow Woman was holding the baby, a fat, happy child that Cattail called Little Bear. The name seemed to fit quite well. Crow Woman was thoroughly enjoying cuddling and rocking the infant.

  “How motherly she looks!” Cattail teased. “Elk, could you not do something about this?”

  Everyone but Small Elk was amused; he knew there was no answer for the present. At that moment the infant, rousing, turned his head and attempted to nurse at the buckskin-covered breast of Crow Woman. Disappointed, he wrinkled his small face and stuck out his tongue in disgust.

  “Aiee!” shouted Stone Breaker with glee. “He is used to better food than leather!”

  “Here, you take him!” Crow Woman handed the
child to his mother. “I cannot help him.”

  Cattail loosened the front of her dress to uncover a breast, and Little Bear began to nuzzle hungrily.

  “Your learning goes well, Elk?” asked Stone Breaker.

  “Yes, but there is much to learn. Sometimes I think my head cannot hold it all.”

  Stone Breaker nodded understandingly.

  “I think it would be very hard.”

  Small Elk shrugged. “Maybe. But, I could not do your work.”

  “Oh, you could.” Stone Breaker held up his work-hard hands. “But it takes a long time to grow such calluses. Aiee, my blisters were so sore when I started!”

  “But now, my friend, I hear people speak very highly of your work.”

  “Thank you, Elk. What are you working on this winter?”

  “Many things. Plants, preparing them for use; also the rituals and dances. When the Moon of Greening comes, I suspect that White Buffalo will have much to show me about the grasses.”

  “Is that not when the burning takes place?” Stone Breaker asked.

  “Yes, but I have not yet learned how to tell when the time is right.”

  “What if you choose the wrong time?” Cattail asked.

  “Maybe the buffalo would not come back.”

  “Then everyone would starve,” suggested Stone Breaker. “What a responsibility!”

  “Except for Little Bear,” said Crow Woman, pointing at the noisily feeding infant.

  Everyone laughed.