The Changing Wind

by Don Coldsmith

  “He has shown us much, Mother,” Black Bear said. “He gives us of his strength.”

  “He is a good leader,” added Small Elk.

  The two young men were still with Cat Woman when a wail of anguish came from below the cliff. The first of the People had made their way down to evaluate the extent of the kill.

  Small Elk stepped to the edge and peered cautiously below. He could see a jumble of brown bodies. A few animals that had survived the fall were crippling away, and a few hunters pursued to finish them. Elk could not see the area from which the wailing came. There were trees that obscured the view of that sector, where the ravine opened below.

  “What is it?” he called, dreading the answer.

  “Broken Horn!” came the reply. “He is dead. He went over the edge with the buffalo!”

  At Small Elk’s elbow, Cat Woman gave a long shriek of grief and began to chant the mournful cadence of the Song of Mourning. She had feared the worst, and her fears had proved true.

  The immediate family of Broken Horn quickly received the ill tidings, and began to chant the Mourning Song. Others joined in, for Broken Horn had been a good leader for a long time and would be missed. Close friends assisted in the retrieval of the body, and the traditional mourning continued.

  But life goes on. Even as the mourners paused for their sad tasks, others began to skin and butcher the buffalo kill. The immensity of the food supply that had come to the People was beyond imagination. It was apparent that some of the meat would be wasted, even with the cooperation of every pair of hands, down to those of the smallest child. However, it was important to salvage as much as possible. Any dried meat, pemmican, and robes not immediately needed for the winter could be traded to the Growers for corn, beans, and pumpkins.

  The work was beginning. Those most adept at skinning assisted others by slitting the hides up the belly and down the inside of each leg. Then the removal progressed, and the fresh skins were spread, flesh-side-up, on the ground. As meat was removed from the carcass it was piled on a skin to be transported, as time permitted, back to the village. In anticipation of a feast, some of the men hacked out chunks from the humps of some of the choicest animals. Fresh, crisply broiled hump-ribs, with their extra layer of flavorful suet, would be a treat that the People had not enjoyed for many moons.

  “Small Elk!” someone called. “Over here. We need you to make the apology!”

  Three men stood waiting with the severed head of the largest bull. This would be an important ceremony, the most important for generations, for this hunt had provided the kill that would enable the Southern band to survive. Small Elk walked over to the three.

  “White Buffalo should do this,” he explained. “I am only his assistant.”

  “We asked him,” said Black Bear. “He said to find you, that your skill made the big kill possible.”

  “Is this true?” Elk asked the others. “White Buffalo said this?”

  “Yes, of course, Elk. We would not say untruth about such a thing.”

  Elk stood for a moment in stunned astonishment. It was the greatest honor his father had ever granted him. He would have gone to White Buffalo to talk to him, but time was passing. The ceremony must be completed, and the hard work of preparing the meat must go on.

  “It is good,” said Small Elk. “Bring it over here.”

  There were those who said that this was the beginning of a new era in the history of the People, when Small Elk made the apology for this hunt. Others said no, it was at the dance ceremony later, and still others recalled the election of the new chief. But all agreed that this occasion, the most successful hunt at the end of the worst season in memory, was an important time. Small Elk faced the buffalo head, while those nearby watched reverently.

  We are sorry, my brother, to take your

  lives, but upon yours, ours depend….

  Even as the People worked, the smell of roasting hump-ribs began to drift across the area. Several fires were kept burning downwind of the butchering. Someone would pause in his or her task, step to a fire, and cut a piece of meat to chew, even while the work continued.

  Necessarily, much of the heavier skinning and rolling of the carcasses was done by the men. Some of the men withdrew and stationed themselves as lookouts as soon as possible. There was every possibility that any Head Splitters in the area would also be aware of the presence of buffalo. This was no time to be attacked, when the winter’s food supply depended on the tasks at hand.

  As meat became available, women began the jerking of strips of muscle, to strip them away from the larger joints. These were sliced thinly and draped over willow racks to dry. Children were stationed with leafy branches to shoo away flies and an occasional enterprising bird.

  The festoons of drying meat grew as the carcasses shrank to piles of stripped bones, but it was apparent that the hard work of salvaging the meat would go on. Before midday, most of the better-quality animals had been selected, bled, and gutted. Even the pile at the bottom of the cliff had, for the most part, been pulled apart and sorted for quality. A few animals had fallen into inaccessible places, in crevices or among the rocks. Some were in the water, in places too shallow to float but too deep to work in. These were abandoned as unsalvageable, at least for the present. One yearling cow hung grotesquely in the crotch of a tree above the stream. The unnatural posture suggested that it had died in the fall, probably from a broken neck or back.

  Some of the People worked on by the light of the fires. Others slept for a little while, to rise and begin again. Out in the darkness, beyond the circle of the firelight, coyotes quarreled over the leavings of some of the butchered carcasses.

  “Little Brother wants his share,” a woman joked as she worked.

  “Maybe he would come and help us,” her friend suggested, laughing.

  “Not likely. He is good at sharing the kills of others.”

  “Are not we all in time of hunger? Aiee, whose kill is this?”

  She pointed to the fat cow they were butchering. Both laughed.

  “You are right,” the other agreed, turning to call into the darkness. “You are welcome, Little Brother. Take all you need, for we have plenty. We are fortunate this night.”

  She paused, and there was a chuckling chorus from the unseen guests in the darkness.

  “Their cries sound like laughter,” observed one of the women, who was heavy with child. “It is pleasant to hear. Maybe I will call my child that.”

  “What? ‘One-Who-Laughs’?”

  “No! ‘The Coyote.’ He is clever and cunning. Already, he runs a lot.”

  She pointed ruefully to her swollen belly, and the others laughed.

  “Aiee, he will be hard to catch when he comes outside!” one suggested.

  “No, I think not,” said the expectant mother seriously. “He moves much, but quietly. He would rather not run if he can walk. So, I think he knows much, and saves his strength. Like the coyote.”

  “Does he also laugh, like the voices out there?”

  The others laughed.

  “I have not heard him yet,” admitted the swollen one, “but I think he will!”

  The work continued. There was good reason to hurry the preparation of their winter supplies. In only a few days, all the meat not processed would spoil. It was dangerous to eat tainted meat. Only two winters ago, a young hunter of the People had eaten a few bites from a dead elk that he found and had died before Sun Boy’s appearance the next day.

  Aside from that easily avoided danger, there were other problems. The buffalo killed in the fall from the cliff were upstream from the village. Their water supply would soon be fouled by the rotting carcasses, and a move would be necessary.

  In addition to that, the nuisance of flies and the odor of rotting flesh would soon become intolerable. Already the sickly-sweet odor of blood and death was beginning to be noted. It was good that the nights were cool now, to retard the decay.

  By the third day of hard work, it was decided to ho
ld a celebration. The event that had been the turning point in the survival or death of the Southern band must be commemorated. The period of mourning for the dead would be past. There had indeed been mourning, despite the other demands. The songs had been sung, the bodies carefully wrapped in fresh buffalo-skins and placed in tree scaffolds. Cat Woman had mourned her husband by slashing her forearms and tossing handfuls of ashes on her head. Broken Horn had been a good leader.

  Along with the ceremonial festivities, at some point the council would meet to select the new chief. There was, of course, much speculation. Some scurried around, promoting favorite candidates, but no clear choice had yet emerged. It should be one who had exhibited leadership qualities. Some men who had achieved a high degree of respect in the band were still not eligible for consideration. Small Elk was riding high on a swell of popularity because of the success of the buffalo hunt. But his area of expertise and knowledge, his priestly function, held a place of its own. The situation was much the same with Stone Breaker. Popular and successful, still his skills were not those of leadership, even without the handicap of his crippled leg.

  A strong swell of opinion favored Short Bow, and this movement seemed to grow. He was renowned as a leader of the hunt. Short Bow was quiet and reliable, and had helped many youngsters perfect their skills through his teaching in the Rabbit Society. That alone would carry the weight of many votes.

  Soon it appeared a foregone conclusion. Short Bow had few detractors. However, no one had consulted Short Bow. When someone finally mentioned the possibility to the candidate, he was astonished.

  “No!” he said firmly.

  “But you are a respected leader,” his friend pleaded.

  “In the hunt, yes. But not in politics. Besides, I am too old. There are many young men.”

  “But who? None stands above the others.”

  “Aiee, I cannot choose one. That is the task of the Warrior Society.”

  His gaze fell on a popular young man who sat a little distance away, avidly devouring a slab of broiled ribs. His ability to eat was legendary. It seemed to require huge quantities to fill this young hunter’s large frame. It had earned him a nickname which by this time had become permanent.

  “What about Hump Ribs, there?” asked Short Bow. “None other is more capable at the hunt. He is respected by all. He would be a good leader.”

  “Aiee, maybe so,” commented another, chuckling. “None is more skilled at eating, either.”

  In this way, almost by accident, the ground swell of opinion began to settle on this candidate. Mention of his name brought a smile, and there were none who had a bad thing to say. By the time of the meeting, most of the People were convinced that there was very little doubt. The new chief of the Southern band would quite likely be the likable young man with the voracious appetite, Hump Ribs.

  24

  As expected, the selection of a new leader for the Southern band was quickly accomplished. There was simply no opposition to the elevation of young Hump Ribs to the position. It was one of those fortuitous situations which seems so obvious once it has been accomplished. Everyone realized how appropriate the new leader was in this position and wondered that it had not been recognized earlier. Of course, there were those who claimed to have said so all along.

  The new chief, quiet and mild-mannered, could be criticized by no one. He had simply never aroused any animosity in anyone. One possible danger, that he would not lend firm leadership, was quickly dispelled. The first public act of Chief Hump Ribs was to announce the day of departure, three days hence. Wise heads nodded. It was a good decision and met with the approval of the council Some would grumble, feeling that there was not enough time to finish preparation of the bountiful provisions that had fallen to them. Most, however, realized that the move was urgent. There were an increasing number of flies, invading the lodges and clinging sleepily to the inside of the lodgecovers in the chill of the autumn nights.

  The odor of rotting flesh was also becoming objectionable. Yes, it was time to move to winter camp, and the first pronouncement of the new leader was a good one.

  Small Elk was pleased. Hump Ribs was a year or two younger than he but of the same generation. It was a bit startling to realize that the power and prestige of leadership was passing to this generation, but it was good. Elk resolved to seek out the new chief and offer him congratulation and support, but the evening was too busy and exciting at the moment. Fires were lighted, and the drums began to sound in preparation for the dance.

  There is something in the beat of the drum that stirs a primeval spirit in the heart of mankind. It may be a racial memory of the pounding of the surf on beaches where life-forms that became our ancestors first crawled onto the land and breathed air. Or perhaps the echo of the beating mother-heart that sustained us in the womb. Maybe, even, the reassurance of the pulsing throb of the living planet that sustains all life. In answer to its rhythms, our feet become restless, our bodies begin to respond to the cadence of the drum. The pulse quickens. We find ourselves answering to the urge to join in the magnificent celebration of Creation, of Life.

  In this case, the occasion was one of thanksgiving for the events that had provided survival. First, young men draped in buffalo robes enacted the role of the herd, moving slowly, swaying, mimicking the grazing motion of the animals. Then other dancers joined, reenacting their own parts in the drama, reliving deeds of valor. The dancers who represented the herd were crowded to one side of the arena and finally began to collapse. The front ranks first, simulating the spectacular rush of the buffalo over the rim of the cliff. Excitement reached a fever pitch, the drum cadence quickened, and more dancers joined in. The buffalo dancers cast aside their costumes and rejoined the others, now no longer buffalo but participants in the joyful thanksgiving.

  The dance continued until everyone was near exhaustion. But there was yet one more event to occur, one unique not only to the People but to this band. The Southern band, more specifically its medicine man, was custodian of the White Robe. It had been handed down for generations. The exact story of its acquisition was by now indistinct with antiquity. It was known that a young medicine man of long ago had returned from a special fast carrying a magnificent buffalo-skin of pure white. He had tanned and prepared it as a ceremonial robe, complete with the horned headress that was part of the cape. The medicine man had, at the same time, taken the name White Buffalo. This name had been handed down through the generations, the cape with it.

  There was thought to be something supernatural about the cape. Around the story-fires, its origin had been told and retold, and had grown with the telling. It was popularly believed that the original White Buffalo had received it as a direct gift from heaven. Small Elk had once studied the story-skins to find out, but without success. The first record was a pictograph of many winters past. A man stood holding a white robe up to heaven. Nothing more, except this consecration.

  Through the other pictographs, there was an occasional indication of someone with the White Buffalo name. That was handled differently. The figure of a man or woman would be depicted in whatever action was worthy of entry into the story-skin. The name was indicated by a small picture in a circle above, connected to the figure by a line. It was difficult to tell one generation from another in the story-skins. The White Buffalo name appeared, but there was no way to tell when it had been handed down. Small Elk had been frustrated, and his father had chuckled to himself in amusement.

  The big dance-drum was quiet now, after the reenactment. Dove Woman began a slow, solemn cadence on the smaller medicine-drum, and the crowd quieted. Small Elk, who had been dancing with the others, now seated himself to watch the medicine dance of White Buffalo.

  As the old man danced into the circle of firelight, the crowd parted to admit him to the arena. The change in the holy man was apparent immediately. A moon ago he had appeared old, feeble, and small. He was beaten, by the years and the Never-Rain summer. This did not appear to be the same man. He looked tall
er, confident, radiating his priestly authority. The white cape was as impressive as always as it swung and fluttered in the motion of White Buffalo’s medicine dance. Onlookers were spellbound with the beauty of the ceremony.

  Three times, White Buffalo circled the arena, his steps quick and precise, while the People watched in fascination. At the finale, he stopped, facing the fire, while the drum fluttered to a climactic rumble. White Buffalo lifted his arms to heaven and chanted thanks for the bountiful hunt.

  Then the old medicine man did a thing which had never been seen before by anyone present. As the medicine-drum fell silent, White Buffalo called to his apprentice.

  “Small Elk, come!”

  Surprised, Elk scrambled to his feet and approached his father.

  “Let it be known,” the old man announced to the assembly, “that the success of this hunt was due to the medicine of Small Elk.”

  There was a murmur of approval.

  “He has learned well,” White Buffalo continued. “His medicine, that of the buffalo, has become strong and sure. His time has come.”

  There was a gasp as White Buffalo loosened the thongs at his throat and removed the headdress. With a dramatic flourish, he swung the cape and headdress and allowed it to fall across Small Elk’s head and shoulders.

  “My son, I give you my name,” he intoned solemnly. “You are no longer Small Elk, but White Buffalo, medicine man to the People.”

  Elk stood numbly, caught completely by surprise. In his ears echoed the shouts of approval from the crowd. He was dimly aware that his mother’s medicine-drum was beginning the cadence again. He turned to look, and Crow Woman was seated beside her, joining with her own drum in the celebration of the rite of passing the authority. Crow smiled at him, and he wondered if she had known.

  “Let us begin the dance,” his father said. The weathered old face was serious, but there was a gleam of pride and triumph in the medicine man’s eyes.