White Buffalo had advised that the first time or two in the herd, he should merely get the feel. The skill of moving them would come later. For now, he found that despite the uncomfortable position, he was actually beginning to enjoy this experience. It was a spiritual uplift, a feeling of power, to be able to move through a herd of the great animals at will. If he was perceived as a human, he could be in great danger instantly. But the smell of the calfskin, as well as the scent-killing herbs that White Buffalo had rubbed on him, seemed to prevent identification.
He skirted around the edges of the herd, pleased at his success and looking forward to the time when he could advance to the next step, trying to manipulate the herd’s movement.
A flash of motion caught his eye on the side away from the herd, and he turned curiously. Alee! Here was a thing he had not foreseen. A wolf, one of the gray ghosts that follow the herds, was creeping through the short grass. Always ready to pull down a sick or crippled animal, a straggler or a stray calf, the great wolves were always circling and ready. It took a moment to realize that while the calfskin might fool the buffalo with their poor eyesight, the wolf would perceive it quite differently. Here was a calf which was not quite right, which appeared misshapen, which moved oddly—aiee, he had suddenly become the quarry!
It was tempting simply to stand up, jerk the calfskin aside, and flap it at the wolf to drive it away. Surely, it would not attack a man standing upright. But there were some doubts. What effect would this action have on the buffalo? He must do something quickly. The hunter was so close that he could see the glitter of the yellow eyes as it crept forward on its belly. At any moment now, it would make its rush.
Then the idea came. He was pretending to be a calf… what would a calf do? There was no time to stop and consider. He raised his head toward the herd and let out a bleat of terror as he began to scramble away.
The effect was, to say the least, startling. At least six or seven cows answered his bleat with a protective motherly call, even as they charged forward. For a moment, Elk was sure he had made a fatal error. Even if he escaped the wolf’s rush, he seemed in danger of being trampled by the defensive action. He turned toward the wolf, who now seemed confused. It appeared about to rush at him but seemed to reconsider, then turned to retreat. The cows thundered past Elk on each side, brushing close and kicking up dirt in his face but avoiding injury to him.
The confused wolf barely made its escape, turning on an extra burst of speed to elude the horns of the leading cow. Elk watched it retreat over the hill, tail between its legs. He in turn retreated, before the return of the cows, to rejoin his father on the rise.
“Aiee!” greeted White Buffalo, his eyes bright with excitement. “Elk, you have done well. You will be a great medicine man!”
Small Elk untied the thongs, removed the calfskin, and stood erect, working the stiffness out of his back.
“Thank you, Father!”
It was the greatest compliment his father had ever given him.
“Of course,” White Buffalo added as they turned toward home, “you take too many chances.”
Part II
The Winds of Change
19
In later years, it would be referred to as the Year-of-No-Rain. There was no apparent reason, though there were many theories. The older members of the band were only too ready with accusatory explanations, with much clucking of tongues and wagging of heads. No one was certain exactly what taboo had been broken. As far as could be determined, no one had committed such a blatant transgression as eating bear meat. Surely the breaking of personal, private vows would not bring misfortune on the entire band, though that was a possibility.
The greening was not satisfactory. White Buffalo studied the sparse growth day after day, shaking his head and muttering to himself. The People grew restless and complained against the holy man. The prairie burned, though White Buffalo warned that it was not good. It was never determined how the fire started. It may have been from natural causes. It was possible, some pointed out, for sparks from the stones in the grass to ignite the grass. However, that usually occurred only under the trampling hooves of running animals, and there had been few. More commonly, spears of real-fire would ignite the dry prairie grasses, but again, Rain Maker had not come, with or without his spears of real-fire.
There was one frightening theory that Rain Maker was dead and would never come again. This was discussed only in whispers because it was apparent that without rain, the grass would not grow, and the buffalo would have nothing to eat, would disappear. Then the People would die.
Regarding the fires, most people suspected that someone, tired of waiting for the holy man’s proclamation, had fired the dead grass on his own. That too was seldom discussed publicly. It was a serious infraction, if true, and the council must decide punishment. It would be far preferable if the rains would come, greening the prairie and restoring the season to normal. That would remove the problem and the council’s need to act.
But the rains did not come. Neither did the buffalo. The People were reduced to hunting rabbits and squirrels. They had already made great inroads on the dogs, having eaten far more than would have normally been consumed by the Moon of Growing. There were barely enough dogs left to carry or drag the baggage when the time arrived to move the camp.
There was an increasing mutter of discontent against the medicine men for their inaction. It was tempting to perform the rain ceremony, but White Buffalo was quite definite in his stand: It was not the time to do so.
“Tell me, Elk,” he asked his assistant privately, “have you seen any of the signs of rain?”
“No, Father, but maybe…”
“Ah, this is one of the hardest things,” White Buffalo said sadly, “to wait until the right time. Look, Elk, we burn only when the signs are right?”
“That is true, Father.”
“You would not dance the ceremony for the buffalo when there is snow on the ground?”
“Of course not.”
“Ah, and we do not dance for rain when there is no chance at all. Our ceremonies must be within possibility, or we fail and lose our respect.”
“But, Father, we are losing it now.”
“Yes, my son, but when the rains do come, it is restored. If we say now, It will not rain,’ the People will be angry, but they will know we are right. Then, when times are good again, they will say ‘Aiee, the medicine of White Buffalo is good! He was right about the rain!’”
Small Elk nodded, not totally convinced.
“Our visions,” White Buffalo continued, “must tell things as they are, not as we wish them to be.”
Early in the Moon of Roses, the council decided not to attend the Sun Dance and the Big Council. The Southern band was tired, frustrated, and weak from lack of supplies. It was doubtful that they could make the journey. A runner was sent to take the message to the other bands, and returned in due course, tired and thin. There would be no Sun Dance, he reported. All the bands were in trouble because the drought was widespread. The Mountain band had not been heard from, but it was assumed that they too were experiencing problems. It seemed likely that their solution would be to pull back farther into the mountains instead of coming onto the plain as usual.
Later, many of the People tried to blame the problems of the Year-of-No-Rain on the fact that there was no Sun Dance. That, of course, confused cause and effect. There was no Sun Dance because the People were already suffering from the worst season in the memory of the oldest of the band. Still, in later years, the story became confused with the retelling.
There was one puzzling question that was never really resolved. Where had the buffalo gone? If they were not here or in the areas of the other bands, then where? Again, fanciful explanations suggested that they had gone back down the hole in the earth, from where they came at the time of Creation.
The Southern band did move, in the Moon of Thunder, though in truth there was no thunder. There was no rain, and the water dried up in
the stream on which they were camped. Despite the fact that the People were really too weak to make the move, they must find water or die.
There were several favorite springs in the Sacred Hills, but it was unsure whether they would remain productive in a year that was worse then any other in memory. White Buffalo studied the yearly paintings on the old Story Skins, and found no record of a worse year. He recommended that rather than risk the reliability of the springs, it would be safer to travel in the other direction, a bit farther, to reach one of the larger rivers. Though he said nothing at the time, he confided later to Small Elk that in part, he had considered the possibility that the People could eat fish.
“Aiee! Fish?” Small Elk exclaimed.
It was known that some of the tribes who lived along the streams ate fish regularly, but it was not an acceptable thing for the People.
“We may not have to,” White Buffalo explained, “but it would be good to be where they can be found. People can eat many strange things if they are starving.”
Even the river ran low before the end of the summer. There was much sickness, especially of the stomach and bowels. Thick green scum formed around the edges of stagnant pools as the stream’s flow slowed to a trickle. There were many who despaired that times would ever return to normal. For the first time, Small Elk saw the beginning of a change in his father.
The holy man had always been vigorous and cheerful, kind and gentle, though a strict teacher. He had always been noted for his intelligent, quiet good humor and his optimism. When times were hard, White Buffalo could always be counted on to furnish calm reassurance. “Of course things will be better,” he always advised. “Has it ever been otherwise?” He was the solid footing on which the Southern band relied for reassurance. That help, and the traditional habit of taking one day’s problems at a time, had served the People well for many seasons.
“Of course it will rain again,” White Buffalo assured the first serious questioners in the Moon of Thunder, which held no thunder. “It always has.”
The Red Moon, always parched and dry, was even more so this year. The muttering and rumor increased, and there were whispers. Even though Rain Maker might not be dead but only sulking, there was certainly something wrong with the medicine man. Maybe his power was weakening. White Buffalo seemed tired, discouraged, and unconvincing when he gave his predictions that Rain Maker would return. Something seemed to be drawing the strength from his body, and this too became a topic for rumor and whispered suspicion.
There was a great sense of dread. Already, the People were hungry. Seldom was there hunger in summer. That was bad enough, but the implications that it carried were terrifying. It was time for the coming of the herds, time to be preparing and drying the supplies for the winter. Yet there were none to prepare. The Growers had few crops and none to barter, even if the People had had meat and skins to offer.
“The Moon of Starvation will come early,” someone observed.
“Hush! Do not talk so,” an older woman warned.
Small Elk sought out his father to discuss the possibilities.
“Of course it will rain,” White Buffalo repeated his longstanding advice.
Now it seemed that he only half believed it himself.
“It will rain,” he went on, “but it may be too late.”
“What do you mean, Father?”
“Elk, we must say nothing of this. It would cause great alarm. But look at the lateness of the season. The wind has not changed yet. There is no sign of rain, and it is late. Soon, Cold Maker brings frost, and there will be no growth.”
Small Elk began to understand. There was presently nothing for the buffalo to eat, and that was why they had gone elsewhere. The People longed for the rain that would make the grass grow and bring back the buffalo, but now… The time for growing was becoming short. If there was no growth, there would still be no grazing for the herds, and they would not come.
As alarming to Small Elk as this threat was, it was no worse than the change in his father. In his dejected state, White Buffalo seemed to shrink, to lose stature, and to become indecisive. His posture, his walk, and his attitude became hesitant.
Some of the People began to seek out Small Elk for advice and counsel. Elk was unprepared for this; he was not yet skilled enough in the ways of the holy man.
“But you are skilled,” insisted Crow Woman as they talked one night. “You have studied with White Buffalo for four winters now. Did you not make the decision when to burn last season?”
Their baby girl stirred restlessly, and Crow Woman rose to pick up the child and put her to breast.
“I made the decision, that is true,” Elk answered. “But, Crow, it was with his approval.”
“Of course. But your choice was right. You always choose as your father would.”
Small Elk was still uneasy. Even after the years of instruction, with Crow Woman by his side, he relied on the thinking, the experience, of the older man. Sometimes he wondered when his status as apprentice would change. Maybe this was how it would happen. The People would gradually come more to Small Elk for their spiritual counsel and less to White Buffalo as the strength of his medicine ebbed with the strength of his body. Elk was not ready to see this happen. He wondered if his father had ever suffered from this sort of insecurity about his medicine.
Elk had gained confidence through the years of instruction, but there was always the knowledge of White Buffalo to sustain him in indecision.
“But you never rely on it,” Crow Woman reminded.
“True, but I could if I needed it.”
Crow smiled and touched his arm, showing her confidence.
“Ask your spirit-guide,” she suggested.
Small Elk was embarrassed. He should have thought to do so before, should have been trying to make that contact. He had been preoccupied with the troubles of the People and with a new baby in the lodge. Three years they had tried without success, while Stone Breaker and Cattail had produced two more children, now three in all.
Elk looked at the sleeping infant, now cuddled in Crow’s arms. White Moon they called her, after the full moon which shone at the time of her birth. It had been the Moon of Awakening, just before the onset of the Never-rain season. It had been a happy time, a time of beginnings. The child began to grow and thrive. She was doing so even now, though it was proving a drain on the strength of Crow to nurture the child.
“It is nothing,” Crow had said as she adjusted her dress over hipbones that had become more prominent. “I will be fat when the buffalo come.”
His preoccupation with all these things had prevented Elk from seeing the obvious: He should be in touch with his spirit-guide in this season of emergency. Now that Crow had brought the matter to his attention, he wondered why White Buffalo had not mentioned it. Could it be that his father was failing more rapidly than he realized?
The next morning he declined to eat, informing Crow Woman that he would fast for a few days while he attempted to make contact with his guide.
“I will be back,” he assured her. “Three, four sleeps, maybe.”
He kissed her, cuddled White Moon for a moment, and left the lodge. This would not be as intense a search as his vision quest. He need not remove himself as far from the camp. He carried only a water skin and stopped to fill it at a clear spot in the stream above the camp. There were a couple of women gathering nuts among the trees, and they nodded to him. Normally, the People gathered few nuts, and those only for variety and flavor. This year, every possible source of food was being utilized, even the acorns from the giant oaks along the river. Though they were bitter and inedible, they could be leached in water to remove part of the bitter taste. He waved at the gatherers and moved on up the slope and away from the village.
By noon he had reached the hilltop that he sought and settled down by the symbolic fire that marked his camp. His belly was beginning to protest, and he took a sip of water. The pangs would pass. Now there was nothing to do but wait.
/> 20
The fasting experience was difficult to describe, as always. There were the initial pangs of hunger, but that was a familiar sensation this year. After the first day, his discomfort was forgotten as the brilliant clarity of all the senses began to dominate. It seemed to happen rapidly this time, and Elk wondered about the effect. The People had been virtually fasting from time to time all summer. Did that make it quicker?
One feature of the clarification process that Small Elk now noted was that his thinking became clear. He sat on his hilltop and watched the sun rise over the parched tall-grass prairie with a new understanding. It was almost as if he were a disinterested party, an outside observer with no real contact with the situation. What did it matter, he was now able to wonder. The People lived or died, and if they lived, their descendants would live in the Tallgrass Hills. If they died, someone else would live here. It did not matter. He thought of the Death Song:
The grass and the sky go on forever…
He considered chanting the song to himself to indicate his understanding but decided against it. After all, the next line carries a different connotation:
… but today is a good day to die…
That was a thought he was not prepared to approach. Not yet, at any rate. His purpose was to try to find a way to help his people. Besides, he reminded himself, the Death Song was used only when it had become certain that death was imminent.
He retreated from thoughts of death. He had an increased clarity of understanding about death’s place in the scheme of things but must not dwell on it. It was not appropriate now, and he moved his thoughts away from thoughts of death, almost reluctantly.
The Changing Wind Page 11