The Changing Wind

by Don Coldsmith

  Most of this, it was said, was due to the powerful medicine of a new holy man of the Southern band. In a time of starvation and drought, he had caused rain to fall and an immense herd of buffalo to appear from a hole in the ground.

  “But is White Buffalo not their holy man?” someone asked.

  “Yes, of course. White Buffalo gave away his name to this, his son, and then crossed over. His wife too, the medicine woman Dove, also crossed over. Aiee, my friends, this man is good! He has the medicine of both parents. Did you hear of the event with the calfskin, when he drew the buffalo over the cliff’s edge?”

  “Only a little part. How did he escape, himself?”

  The teller of the story paused a moment, unsure. His listeners were so intent… it would be a shame to admit that he did not know.

  “I have heard,” he half whispered, “that he leapt into the air and flew, while the herd passed under him.”

  “Aiee! The holy man can fly?”

  “Well, maybe not. But the calfskin cape… it would let him float a little while, you know, with the help of his medicine.”

  “But I have heard that the death of their chief, Broken Horn, was caused by the buffalo. Is this a doing of the new holy man?”

  That was an obvious suspicion which caused ugly rumors for a day or two. Could the young chief and the holy man have plotted to kill Broken Horn and take control of the band?

  This was quickly proved untrue by the members of the Southern band themselves. First, the death of Broken Horn had occurred before the young medicine man had taken his father’s name and prestige. White Buffalo the Elder was still powerful at the time. Next, young Hump Ribs did not seize the leadership. He was persuaded, after older and more experienced men had refused. He had been nominated, in fact, by the respected subchief Short Bow, after refusing the honor for himself. The final argument: Cat Woman, widow of the greatly respected Broken Horn, strongly supported the young chief and the holy man.

  All in all, the members of the Southern band, when such questions were raised, became quite indignant. It was apparent that they would tolerate no suspicion over the events of the season. The rumors dissolved like wisps of fog on a sunny morning and were gone. They were rapidly replaced by admiration and even envy for the band that had most successfully weathered the Year-of-No-Rain. The Southern band had never been a great political power in the tribal council. Now, however, even the Real-chief spoke with respect. The Big Council sought the opinion of Hump Ribs when the time came to choose the site for next year’s Suri Dance. Suddenly it was a matter of prestige to belong to the Southern band.

  When the tribes separated after the events of the annual festival, the Southern band had grown by perhaps ten families. Of course, some of these were not the most desirable of members. Some people were constantly changing loyalties, looking for the reflected glory belonging to the most affluent band. However, it was still of some advantage to the Southern band. Sheer weight of numbers tips the balance of prestige, and the other bands noticed the swing of loyalty and were envious.

  It was a good season. The grass grew lush and tall; the children were fat and the women happy. There were no more encounters with the Head Splitters. Hunting was good, and the Southern band settled in for the winter, quite comfortable and secure.

  In fact, when White Buffalo unrolled the story-skin to record the year’s events, there were few worthy of mention. It was somewhat frustrating to consider that in this season, his first of recording the pictographs, there was little to record. He decided on a successful hunting scene in tall grass, depicting several hunters of note killing buffalo. Above these, and slightly larger, was a figure identified as Hump Ribs, presiding over the scene. He was not pleased with it, but Crow assured him that he had done well.

  “It is a good problem to have,” she joked, “a season so successful that there is no event unusual enough to note.”

  Good omens continued, and the Southern band prospered. It was a mild winter, with little illness and practically no hunger. It seemed that the existence of the band was charmed, governed by the powerful medicine of White Buffalo and led by the skill and diplomacy of Hump Ribs.

  White Buffalo knew that it was false. Things were going too well, and someday it must end. He was concerned that when it happened, there would be much dissatisfaction, and the people would begin to blame Hump Ribs.

  This also put White Buffalo in an untenable position. It would be difficult to overcome the complacency of the People, whose existence was basically day-to-day, hand-to-mouth, anyway. In his position as a prophet and seer, he should warn that change would come. The problem was, when? If he issued warnings of dire misfortune and nothing happened, he would lose face, the People would chuckle behind his back, and his effectiveness would be impaired. On the other hand, if he did not voice a warning, when trouble came, he would be blamed for lack of vision. He wished that his father were here, so that they could consult. He tried casting the bones, but that was little help. The patterns that had seemed so clear when his father was the holy man never quite materialized.

  Crow Woman sensed his unrest.

  “What is it, my husband?”

  There was little that he could keep from her or would wish to. He shared his concerns, and she nodded understanding.

  “The question is, when?” he finished. “When shall I try to tell them?”

  “How do you know when to announce the coming of the rains or the buffalo?” Crow asked.

  “That is simple. A change in the wind, the other signs. But in this, there are no signs!”

  “There must be signs, sometimes.”

  “Yes, Crow, but I do not know what to look for because there is no way to know what form the changing omens will take.”

  “Could you warn that there will be misfortune someday?”

  “Maybe. But I should be able to support that with a sign, and I have none. The casting of the bones… aiee, maybe their power is gone, with my father’s passing.”

  “No, surely not,” Crow said. “Have you asked Grandfather Buffalo?”

  “No. That would be wise,” he agreed.

  He fasted, went out alone, and achieved contact with his spirit-guide, but he felt that it was little help. There were more questions than answers.

  You will know, he was advised, when the time comes, how to proceed. You cannot foresee everything. It is a gamble.

  How odd, White Buffalo thought, waking from the vision. His guide had seemed almost flippant about it. The comment about gambling… that seemed completely inappropriate. He tried to reason it through. It was true, of course. When the medicine man observed the signs and predicted rain or announced the time to burn, he was sometimes wrong. It was a matter of close observation, an attempt to be right more often than wrong. The holy man’s skill and the power of his medicine were judged not by whether he was correct every time but most of the time. But in this case, he should have something to go on. This time it was important that he be right. There had been no major pronouncement since the Great Hunt. None had been necessary. His prestige still depended on the memory of that event. Prestige had a habit of fading, like the daylight when Sun Boy slips beyond the edge of the earth. White Buffalo needed something to reinforce his position, to solidify prestige.

  And he must predict correctly. Aiee, if there were only some way, when he cast the bones, that he could know how they would fall. A gamble…

  He was walking through the village one day, late in the Red Moon. Plums were ripening along the streams, and the People were gathering the fruit to dry or to eat. This always resulted in a seasonal gambling fever, with the plum-stone game. He paused to watch a group of young men, rolling the plum-stones on the smooth flesh-side of a robe spread on the ground.

  The man who held the stones shook them between his cupped palms and with a triumphant flourish, cast them on the flat surface. The seeds skittered and bounced, and came to rest. There was a shout of glee from the man who had cast them. Of the five plum-stones, th
ree displayed a red dot. The player swept them up to cast again. Three more times he tossed before the stones betrayed him, and he passed to the next player.

  White Buffalo stood, deep in thought. The plum-stone game was an old one, highly favored among the gamblers. Any odd number of stones would be used, usually five or seven. All would be painted with a red dot on the side. The gambler’s win or loss depended on whether there were more of the red dots exposed when the stones came to rest or the plain yellow of the natural stone.

  What had caught White Buffalo’s attention as he watched the game was one particular plum-stone. He could identify it at each throw because it was slightly larger than the others. It was considered best to have complete uniformity, of course, but sometimes a little variation occurred. The peculiar thing about this plum-stone was not its size but that it almost never came to rest with the red dot facing upward. He watched, fascinated. Apparently this plum-stone was flattened slightly on the one side, which affected its tumbling motion. The players seemed not to notice. They would probably lose these stones or throw them away before the next game anyway. White Buffalo watched a little longer to verify his impression, then slipped away. His heart was good because he might have found an answer.

  For several days, well away from the camp, he studied hundreds of plum-stones. Thousands of times he tossed his selected specimens across a skin—choosing, discarding, selecting again. The stones must have an asymmetry, flattened on one side but not enough to be noticeable. Yet he must be certain that they would behave in a predictable way most of the time. Finally, he selected nine plum-stones which fit the requirements. It remained only to paint them. Not red… that was too familiar to the gamblers. Black. Yes, that would do. And for this purpose, black should be the favored side. Carefully he painted not just a dot but one entire side of each plum-stone. He could hardly wait for the pigment to dry, so that he could test his theory.

  Finally, he was able to toss the stones. On the first throw, seven were black, two yellow. The second resulted in six and three; the third, eight and one. White Buffalo was delighted. Many times he cast the black stones, and only once did they show more yellow than black, five to four. That was no problem. The ceremony of Black Stones which he intended could be based upon three throws. Now he had his predictable ceremony. A thought occurred to him. Could it be that the assortment of sticks and bones he had inherited from his father was such a thing? No, surely not. His father would have told him. But this new ceremony… it must be used very seldom and very cautiously. It would be easy to misuse. Maybe, when the time came to pass on his medicine to another, he would destroy the black stones instead. He wondered for a moment who that successor might be.

  Now his task was to decide when to use his new skill, and how. When the time came to move, perhaps. He conferred with Hump Ribs, though he did not mention the black stones.

  When the chief announced the day of the move, White Buffalo also announced his ceremony of prediction. It would be held that evening, after dark. The flicker of fire-light would make it more difficult to see the skittering plum-stones and determine how the thing was accomplished.

  There was much interest. The ceremony began with a dance. Crow Woman, who knew only that it was a new ceremony, beat the cadence while her husband established the mystic mood with the dance. When the time came to cast the Black Stones, White Buffalo explained that three tosses were required. The stones would tell of good or ill, depending on the showing of dark or sunny sides of the plum-stones. Palms sweating, he rolled the first toss from a painted rawhide box that he had crafted for the purpose. There on the skin, plain for the onlookers to see, were seven black and two yellow stones. There was a gasp from the crowd. The next throw resulted in a score of eight and one; the third, in nine black stones.

  Even White Buffalo was startled. He made a very formal ritual of gathering the plum-stones and storing them away in the little box. Then he spoke.

  “There is danger on our trail,” he predicted. “I cannot say what form it will take, but we must be ready when it comes. We have been blessed with good omens for many moons, but sometime it must end.”

  “When, holy man?” an old woman asked.

  “Ah, Mother, I cannot tell that,” White Buffalo answered seriously. “Even the Black Stones do not say.”

  27

  Stone Breaker bent over the vein of blue-gray flint, pounding and prying at the block of material he wanted. It was loose, shifting a little with each pry of the stick but still not breaking free. It was much like picking the nut meat from a cracked shell, he thought to himself. Yes, the fragrant oily meat of the walnut was equally reluctant to come free. It must be teased out painstakingly with a sharp wooden awl. Some of the old women were highly skilled at such things. It had been good, in the time of No-Rain, to have such skills for survival.

  The young man sitting near him gave a long sigh. Stone Breaker had taken a journey ahead of the band as they traveled, to secure some flint blocks. By moving a day ahead of the slower column, he would have an extra day to quarry the stone. The rest of the band would overtake him sometime today. One of the young warriors had agreed to accompany him for protection. He could also undertake any of the tasks that were difficult because of Stone Breaker’s handicap. The young man, Turtle-Swims, had no particular interest in Stone Breaker’s craft. This was only an opportunity to escape the boredom of the slow-moving band. Turtle had found the quarrying operation equally boring. He sat near the skin carriers on which were piled chunks and flakes of flint while Stone Breaker continued to work.

  Stone Breaker was aware of his companion’s disinterest, of course. His purpose was not to create an interest in the craft. Idly, he wondered if someday he should select a likely successor, as Stone Breaker the Elder had done. Ah, that should be a long time off. Maybe their child, now six winters old, would develop an interest. If not, so be it!

  He was aroused from his thoughts by an exclamation of surprise from Turtle-Swims. Stone Breaker looked up to see three men standing on the canyon’s opposite rim. They were scarcely twenty steps away, had the ground been level. But between them was a rough and rocky cleft of the little canyon’s upper end. A man could, with no problem, walk down one rocky slope and up the other to the spot where Stone Breaker now worked in the quarry.

  The situation looked desperate. These men were obviously Head Splitters, obviously confident. Their main force must be just behind the ridge.

  Turtle had been negligent, Stone Breaker realized. It was his function to protect. Turtle should have been acting as a lookout instead of sitting in the canyon, bored with inactivity. He had depended too much on the approach of the rest of the band.

  Now, as if to compensate for the mistake, Turtle-Swims leaped to his feet and started to fit an arrow to his bow. He was still looking down at the bowstring, fumbling to adjust the arrow, when he was struck from above. Stone Breaker heard the soft thud and turned his eyes from the Head Splitters back to his companion. Turtle looked upward for a moment toward the warriors above, a startled expression on his face. Then his knees bent, and his body collapsed limply, his hands still clutching the bow as he fell. Stone Breaker saw the feathered end of an arrowshaft sticking from Turtle’s shoulder, near the neck. Horrified, Stone Breaker followed the estimated course of the shaft with his eyes and saw the head protruding half a handspan through Turtle’s back on the other side.

  He looked up in terror. The Head Splitters were chuckling. One was fitting a new arrow to his bow. Now the man raised his head to voice the yipping falsetto war cry that had struck such terror in the children so long ago. Stone Breaker felt for a moment that he was once again a helpless child, waiting for the death-dealing blow of the Head Splitter’s arrow. He held up a hand in the sign for peace, and the others laughed.

  “You, Lame One, what are you doing?” one signed.

  “Digging flint,” Stone Breaker signed back. “I do no harm!”

  The Head Splitter, whom Stone Breaker now recognized as the ev
il-looking warrior they had seen last season, now laughed. What was he called? Ah, yes, Gray Wolf.

  “That one does no harm!” announced Gray Wolf, pointing to the still body of Turtle-Swims. “I will decide who does harm.”

  Stone Breaker had given himself up for dead. The three men started across the gully, picking their way among the rocks. They paid little attention to Stone Breaker. What harm could he do? With a twist of the old hurt, he realized that he could not even run or try to escape. The enemy regarded him as harmless, a nothing. It was a long time since Stone Breaker had experienced bitterness over becoming a cripple, but now it returned. Along with it came the helpless feeling that he remembered from childhood, when he lay in the mud with the crippled leg under him, waiting for the Head Splitter to shoot.

  Then his brain began to work again. These men were not a war party. There would be more of them. They must be wolves of a larger group of Head Splitters. Wolves of a war party? No, he thought not. Such scouts would not travel in threes, but singly, not openly like this. The other possibility that occurred to him was that these men were the advance unit, the wolves, of an entire band, traveling as the People were. If so, their families were vulnerable. Maybe he could plant that seed of anxiety, play for time. Possibly, he could even postpone the inevitable until the People arrived.

  The Head Splitters approached now. Gray Wolf, who assumed the role of leader, walked up and slapped Stone Breaker across the face. Stone Breaker attempted not to show a reaction. This was a ritual, a counting of honors. It was a greater show of bravery to strike and thus insult a live enemy than to kill one. An idea struck Stone Breaker.

  “You are a brave man,” he signed, “to count honors on an unarmed cripple.” He turned to the others. “Is he as brave with women and children?”

  The other warriors laughed, and Gray Wolf’s face was livid with rage. Stone Breaker thought for a moment that he had gone too far. However, his bold insult might have saved him. Now, if Gray Wolf harmed the prisoner, he would face the ridicule of his companions, who would also carry the story back to the tribe. In these few moments, Stone Breaker realized, he had achieved the upper hand. Gray Wolf was now on the defensive. He must save face with his companions. The danger would be that the Head Splitter’s fiery temper would flare into a destructive act. Stone Breaker must continue conversation, keep the man distracted.