Little else happened that day. Elk’s distant vision seemed improved, and he watched a doe and her fawn in the far distance, so far that he could barely have seen them at all without the clarity of the fasting. They tiptoed along a distant stream, searching for pools which still held water. Another doe joined them. The deer were better off in such a season, he noted, than buffalo. Deer were normally browsers, preferring brushy areas to grass. The buffalo were more dependent on the grasses.
Even so, he noted, the deer he watched now had only one fawn between them. In a good growing year, each of these does might easily have two fawns. How useful is their medicine, he thought, to tell them these things. This year you should have only one, for it is a poor season, or this is a year of plenty, so all deer should have twins. His clarity of thought seemed to make him understand all these things. It was a thrill, an excitement beyond description, to know of these things, part of the plan of Creation, if even for a short time.
He watched the smooth circle of a buzzard, riding on fixed wings high above him—searching, searching. Ah, my brother, he thought, your hunting must be good this year. But do not look at me; it is not my time yet. As if the bird understood, it suddenly lifted a wing and shot away to the northwest on a puff of air known only to itself. Elk watched it go. Ah, to have such vision and such power to fly high above and see the distances. He recalled his vision quest, its sensation of flight, and all the strange creatures he had seen a few seasons before. That had been odd. He had seen the strange creatures, had dreamed of the turtle-footed one twice more over the ensuing moons, and had then forgotten them. Aiee, much had happened. With a sort of surprise, he recalled how vigorous and domineering his father had seemed then. Now the medicine man seemed old and tired. When had it happened? How had he failed to notice?
Small Elk slept that night and dreamed—not the mystical, exotic dreams of his vision quest but real and believable nonetheless. He found himself walking through a herd of buffalo, not in his calfskin disguise, but upright, as a man, and the animals did not react to his presence. He recognized the visionary nature of the dream, because he was inside the heads of the animals, feeling the collective thoughts of the herd. It came to him as a low, comfortable hum, like distant conversation, without individual words. Yet the thoughts were clear, comfortable and comforting. They grazed calmly, and it was good, the way of things as they should be. A calf approached to butt playfully at him, and Small Elk laughed and patted its head.
“Run and play, Little Brother,” he murmured quietly. He was aware even as he did so that the youngster perceived his thoughts, though not his words.
Ahead of him loomed a giant bull, and it took Elk only a moment to recognize it.
Ah-koh, Grandfather, he thought at the creature, wordlessly.
The bull raised its head, fixed understanding eyes on him, and stood quietly.
Ah-koh, my son, the thought came quietly back at him.
The large dark eyes shone with intelligence and understanding. And calm… Elk had never experienced such a feeling of calm confidence.
Grandfather, he began in the strange, wordless conversation that seemed perfectly reasonable. We have seen none of your people. It is a season of no rain.
Yes, that is true, his spirit-guide acknowledged.
Small Elk waited a moment, but there was no further message.
We… we will die, unless…
Yes, came the answer, before Elk had even finished, some of you. Some of my people too. But some will live. It is the way of things.
But… but how? What can I do?
The great shaggy head now turned and lowered to crop grass again.
You will know, the thought came as a parting farewell. Watch for the signs that you know.
The dream vanished, and Small Elk was awake, standing alone on the top of his hill. He was sweating profusely, and his body was cold in the chill of the night breeze. He picked up his robe and drew it around him. The black of the sky was dotted with an endless number of tiny points of light, like the campfires of a mighty tribe. There was beauty in it, and a calm reassurance. But what am I supposed to do? he asked silently. I have no answer. The children are hungry.
From somewhere out in the vastness of the dark prairie came a thought, wordless, a mere awareness of an idea.
You will know.
Small Elk was still at a loss, but more confident now. You will know. He had received the same thought in two ways, both in the dream and in reality, though he was not always certain which was which.
Now he watched the sun rise and realized that his present mission was finished. He had contacted his spirit-guide and had received a most frustrating answer to his question regarding what he should do: nothing. Nothing but wait. At least he had been assured that he would know when the time came. He picked up his water skin, tossed the robe over his shoulder, and set out for the camp of the Southern band.
Though it had been chilly when he started, by midmorning the suns rays were causing sweat to run in rivulets from his face and body. He paused to rest on the top of a low ridge, hoping to catch a stirring of air. The prevailing breeze from the south should be present. Its breath had been hot this season, blistering the skin and sucking moisture from the lips as it dried the whole world of the prairie. But, Elk reasoned, he was wet with sweat, and in the drying, he would cool a little. He faced south, and lifted his sweating face to catch any stirring of the air. But, it was still.
Too still. It took him a little while to realize that. There was a heavy, muggy stillness. What… were the signs present? He looked to see how the insect-hunting birds were behaving. No, that was no good. The swallows were gone, having moved south for the winter already, so their flight could not be observed. He looked around again. It was nothing he could identify specifically, but something… in the stillness there was expectation. The sky was a brilliant clear blue, beyond all reality. It appeared that he could reach his hand upward and thrust it into the blue of the sky, as one could thrust it into water. He reached but could not touch the brilliance that was there. Still, there was something… an air of expectancy. There must be… yes, there was a change of some sort in the air. And with the expectation of change, should he not dance the ceremonial dances for rain, and…
Elk was already tossing the robe aside and reaching for his fire-sticks. He had no drum, but the cadence of the chant would suffice to set the tempo of the dance. He had prepared his tinder and readied the fire-sticks when a thought came to him. White Buffalo had often said that much of the effect of a ceremonial was through the spirits of the observers. Elk had sometimes suspected that part of the task was to impress those observers and increase the prestige of the medicine man. But no matter—there was no question that there was more excitement, more suspense, and emotional uplift where people were gathered together to participate. Was that not the purpose of the gathering of all bands to celebrate the Sun Dance?
Quickly, Elk put away the fire-sticks and picked up his robe and water skin. He glanced at the sky. There was nothing apparent yet, other than the feel of impending change. Yes, he should be able to reach the camp before anything remarkable occurred. He started off at an easy trot, pausing frequently to walk, to rest and conserve his strength. By midday, he jogged into the village and paused at his own lodge to speak to Crow Woman before continuing to the lodge of his parents.
“Father,” he called, “it is time. The change is coming, and the buffalo will return.”
His mother lifted the doorskin and held it aside for White Buffalo. Elk was startled at his father’s appearance. The old medicine man was stooped and bent, and appeared to have aged in the few days they had been apart.
His spirit is dying, thought Elk. He has given up.
“Father!” Small Elk began excitedly. “The change is coming! I feel it. We must dance the Rain Dance, and the Dance of the Buffalo!”
“No, my son, it is not time. Look, do you see clouds? Has the wind changed?”
It seemed that W
hite Buffalo considered the conversation at an end. He started to turn away.
“Father!” Small Elk spoke sharply. “You must listen to me. I have fasted, have seen visions, and I am made to feel that it is time!”
There was not the least spark of interest in the old man’s eyes.
“No,” he said wearily. “It will happen, sometime, maybe. Not now. Go back to your lodge.”
Small Elk took a deep breath. He had never defied his father before, but White Buffalo was refusing to listen to his own medicine.
“Father,” he said with a voice tight with emotion. “I am going to dance the Rain Dance.”
The old man stood, his mouth open in astonishment for a moment. Elk stood transfixed, afraid that his father would challenge his right to do so. A few curious onlookers waited expectantly. Was this to be a clash of the medicines of the two? A contest, to see whose gift had greater strength?
Finally, White Buffalo threw up his hands in resignation. He turned and shuffled feebly into his lodge, jerking the doorskin closed behind him. Small Elk turned to speak to his wife.
“Crow, this is our most important ceremony. Are you ready?”
She nodded. “I have your paints ready. Come, we will prepare you for the dance.”
It was quickly done, the face-paint that would honor Rain Maker and draw him closer. The two proceeded to the center of the village, the council area, and Crow Woman began to tap softly on the drum. Elk danced a few tentative steps, and Crow steadied the cadence. The voice of the drum began to speak with authority, and the People began to assemble.
“Small Elk does the Rain Dance!” The excited murmur ran through the crowd. “The Dance for Rain!”
21
When Small Elk began his ceremony, there were many doubters—this despite the fact that there had been grumblings all summer because the medicine men would not perform the Dance for Rain. Now there were grumblings that the young apprentice did not know what he was doing.
Word had spread quickly that the two medicine men had quarreled. Or at the very least, there had been a disagreement. It had been a public thing, right in front of the lodge of White Buffalo, and a number of people had seen and heard it. As the story spread, it grew, and the seriousness of the quarrel was exaggerated.
“I thought White Buffalo would strike him,” reported one witness.
There was a gasp of disbelief, but before long, the rapidly moving tale related that Small Elk had been slapped across the face by his father. This was a very serious breach of custom. To strike another was practically unknown among the People. Such an act would be reserved for, perhaps, a captured enemy. A Head Splitter, for instance, might be subjected to such an act as part of the ridicule and demeaning treatment that he must suffer before he was killed. But to strike one’s own son… aiee! There were those who suggested this as evidence that White Buffalo’s mind was gone, that he was insane. Others insisted he could do nothing else in the face of open revolt by his apprentice.
But, countered the other faction, Small Elk has studied the skills of their craft for four, maybe five seasons now. He has the knowledge, the right to disagree. The argument became partly a generation- or age-related split, but not entirely. There were young people who supported the authority of White Buffalo and oldsters who supported Small Elk’s right to challenge.
There were a substantial number who took neither side but took great glee in observing the clash of power and prestige. There were bets within this group on whose medicine would prove the stronger.
Small Elk was largely unaware of all this as he began the ceremony. He concentrated only on the drum cadence and the song. The sun’s rays beat down, and soon sweat was pouring from his body. He was still in his fasting state, not having taken time to eat. Consequently, he was still experiencing a bright clarity of the senses and of the mind. This was a great advantage in the spiritual part of the ceremony. However, it led to a disregard of reality. Elk was largely unaware of the gathering tension in the crowd that quickly assembled to watch the ceremony.
“He does do the steps well,” admitted an old woman who had watched a lifetime of Rain Songs.
“Yes, but he has no authority to do so!” snapped her friend who sat beside her.
The ceremony continued. From time to time, Small Elk looked to the heavens. Clear bright blue still pervaded the entire expanse. He would have been discouraged, except that the very brightness held excitement and promise. His energy continued to flow. He finished the cycle of the ceremony once, then repeated it. Crow Woman appeared tired. The physical strain of maintaining the cadence as the afternoon dragged on was wearing at her strength. Additionally, the excitement of the ceremony itself lent added stress, he knew. Cattail was caring for Crow’s baby, but…he hated to put her through this, but it might mean survival for the desperate band, now heading into winter unprepared. He nodded to her, and the drum cadence began again.
A mutter went through the crowd, a quiet ripple. It was apparent that there was a restlessness. There was a look of triumph beginning to show on the faces of those who had wagered against the success of Small Elk. Some of those not wagering were beginning to change loyalties. After all, had not White Buffalo been a wise leader in things of the spirit? Maybe it was unwise to side with the apprentice in this test of strength.
Small Elk danced on. He was tiring now, beginning to be discouraged. Had he been wrong? Was it only the exhilaration of his fast that had led him mistakenly to expect the wind’s change? He began to doubt, to wonder. What would be his father’s reaction? Would he now abandon his son? When this was over and Elk had failed, would his father refuse to teach him more, deny the validity of Small Elk’s gift?
It was the first that he had thought of failure. Now he realized that success too could drive them apart. White Buffalo might easily hold anger against the son who had shown his medicine to be stronger than his own. But that seemed unlikely now. He was nearing the end of the third repeated cycle of the chant, and nothing had changed. Surely his spirit-guide would not mislead him. There was only one explanation: He had misread the signs. In doing so, he had failed. He had failed his guide, his father’s teaching—yes, even his calling.
Elk finished the cadence, and the drum ceased to speak. He stood, swaying, defeated, his defeat like ashes in his mouth. He was exhausted, ready to drop. Three times he had completed the ceremony and… nothing.
His paint was dissolving in sweat, running down his face. The crowd shifted a little in embarrassment, and a few people, their eyes averted, began to move away from the scene of failure.
Small Elk’s older brother, who had had his own lodge before Elk was born, now approached angrily. They had never been close because of the difference in their ages.
“Let it go, Elk!” the older man hissed. “You dishonor your father.”
Elk looked around him for support. No one seemed willing to look at him. Across the circle he encountered the gaze of Stone Breaker. It was a look of friendship, of understanding, and he held and treasured it for a moment. But it was not right. It was a look not of confidence but pity. It promised friendship despite failure, and that was not what Small Elk needed. He needed the support that would come with the belief that he was right, faith in his skill and knowledge. He looked to Crow Woman. She sat, tired and discouraged, her hands limp on the skin of the silent drum. But in her eyes shone love and confidence. At least Crow was still with him in spirit.
“Come on, Elk,” his brother urged angrily.
Small Elk drew himself up proudly. He looked at the sky, the parched hills, and the trees on the opposite bend of the river a few hundred paces away. Their leaves hung limply in the afternoon heat. He must keep confidence in himself, in his ability to interpret the signs. He focused his eyes on those distant trees, and the wilted leaves seemed to shimmer in the heat. He wiped the sweat away to clear his vision, and looked again. Yes! There—the tired leaves in the tops of the giant sycamores were stirring. A stray puff of wind had put them int
o shimmering motion. Now it increased, bending the tops of the branches. Small Elk smiled and turned to his brother.
“You must get out of my way, Antelope,” he said gently. “I have work to do.”
“Look!” someone cried. “The wind changes!”
The cool breeze swept across the open meadow, stirring the seedheads of the grasses. The People watched it come like a flood of water sweeping across the level space toward them.
“The wind has changed!”
“Look! It comes from the northeast!”
There was no hint of rain, but as the breeze swept through the village, there was a feel, a smell, a spirit of change. An old woman gave a joyful shout.
Small Elk turned to Crow Woman. She sat, smiling her approval.
“Now is the time,” he said softly to her. “Can you beat one more cadence?”
“Of course!”
She did not look so tired now. Elk’s blood was racing as Crow began her measured strokes and the drum began to sing with authority. People cheered and danced, and those who had departed began to drift back.
Then there was a sudden silence. Someone pointed with a gasp of amazement. White Buffalo had emerged from his lodge and was standing there, observing the dance. His face was stern, but even the most unobservant among them could not fail to notice one fact. The holy man was wearing his ceremonial paint. A gasp ran through the crowd. Was White Buffalo going to challenge the authority of his son?
He strode over to the council ring, and it seemed to the onlookers that he had grown taller, more sturdy. There was a confidence, a strength, that no one had seen in a long time. He nodded to Crow Woman, whose beat never faltered as she nodded back. Now the old medicine man strode forward and fell into step with his son, dancing the cadences of the Rain Dance.
For a moment Small Elk seemed not to notice. Then he turned and came face-to-face with White Buffalo. Neither broke step, but Small Elk smiled and shook his gourd-rattle high for a moment. His father was more dignified, merely nodding a greeting as they passed.
The Changing Wind Page 12