The Changing Wind

by Don Coldsmith

  “How are you called?” he asked. “Gray Wolf?”

  “Yes,” the other signed. “Remember it.”

  “You are the chief?” Stone Breaker signed innocently.

  “The war chief,” Gray Wolf answered.

  “Ah, yes. Your chief, what is his name… Bull’s Tail?”

  He had managed to remember.

  “Bull’s Tail was killed last season,” signed one of the others. “He gave his name to his son, but that one is a child. White Bear is chief.”

  Stone Breaker had been thinking quickly; “… killed last season…” It must have been an accident in the fall hunt. He could take a guess, and…

  “Bull’s Tail was killed by a buffalo?” he inquired casually.

  “How did you know?” came the astonished rejoinder.

  Stone Breaker shrugged.

  “Our buffalo medicine is strong,” he signed. “Our new holy man has great skill.”

  An expression of wonder and doubt came over the faces of the Head Splitters. Then Gray Wolf reacted suddenly.

  “Enough of this! That is nothing to me. Now, Lame One, is there any reason I should not kill you?”

  Stone Breaker swallowed hard and tried to maintain his dignity. He hoped his captors would not notice his sweating palms and his near-panic.

  “You wish to take the risk?” he asked in signtalk.

  Gray Wolf reached for the stone war club at his waist. His swing had actually started when one of the others stepped in to seize his arm and stop the blow.

  An argument broke out among the Head Splitters. Stone Breaker could not understand a word of their language, but the content was obvious. The others objected to killing the prisoner because of his boast about the People’s medicine man. It was too great a risk. Gray Wolf was angry and destructive, and was arguing his right to kill the prisoner.

  Stone Breaker edged away, out of the reach of the wildly swinging weapon. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of motion above him. He looked up and was astonished to see, on the rocky ledge overhead, the figures of Hump Ribs, White Buffalo, Short Bow, and several others. The warriors were looking down on the squabbling Head Splitters, and Short Bow appeared ready to shoot if there was danger to Stone Breaker.

  “Ah-koh, my friends! It is good to see you!” Stone Breaker said as calmly as he could.

  His captors stopped squabbling and looked up. They had no way to escape, no place to run.

  “Go ahead, kill us!” one of the Head Splitters signed arrogantly.

  Another began to chant a mournful wail that was apparently their tribe’s version of the Death Song.

  Short Bow readied an arrow.

  “Wait!” said Stone Breaker. “It is better to let them go.”

  “Let them go?” Short Bow was indignant.

  Quickly, Stone Breaker explained his dialogue with the enemy. He had, without much thought, planted the seeds of doubt in the Head Splitters’ minds. He had boasted of the medicine of White Buffalo, its strength and help to the People.

  “If we let them go, they will carry this story to their tribe, and they will fear us,” he explained. “Besides, I think their band is near.”

  “Yes,” agreed White Buffalo. “We see them, over there. The People are near too.”

  “But they have killed Turtle, here,” Short Bow protested. “Let us kill two and let one escape with the story.”

  “No, let them live,” Hump Ribs interrupted. “But let us count honors first. There is time.”

  The young chief walked around and down into the gully. Solemnly and with dignity, he slapped Gray Wolf across the cheek, then repeated the gesture with each of the others. Gray Wolf looked as if, at any moment, he might burst into a mad suicidal rage, but he managed to keep his dignity.

  One by one, the other warriors walked past and counted honors as the Head Splitters stood stoically.

  “Go now,” Hump Ribs signed. “No, leave your weapons.”

  The other warriors started up the canyon slope, but Gray Wolf held back a moment. He looked from one to the other of his captors with a dark, malevolent stare. It was as if he wished to fix in his mind the men who had shamed him, for future vengeance. The approach of the People could be heard now, the busy hum of conversation, the yipping of a dog, and the cries of children at play as they traveled.

  Gray Wolf climbed the rocky slope and stood on the gully’s rim to look back.

  “You have made a great mistake,” he signed insolently.

  “You made the mistake,” Hump Ribs answered. “You should not have killed our brother here.”

  He pointed to the still form of Turtle-Swims.

  “No,” Gray Wolf answered. “You should have killed me. You will mourn over that mistake.”

  With one final obscene gesture, he turned and was gone.

  There were those who said that the medicine of the People was still strong. In an encounter with the Head Splitters, only one man had been lost. In addition, they had counted honors on the enemy and shamed him.

  But some were uneasy. Among them at first was Short Bow, who favored genocide for Head Splitters when possible. Hump Ribs, White Buffalo, and Stone Breaker were uncomfortable with the results of the encounter but could not decide what would have been a better path of action.

  Much later, it was agreed that this marked the turning point toward a period when good things did not happen to the People. Many times White Buffalo would remember the bitter remark of Short Bow at the camp that evening.

  “That Head Splitter Gray Wolf was right.”

  “How do you mean, Uncle?” Hump Ribs asked.

  The old warrior shrugged simply, as if the answer were apparent.

  “We should have killed him.”

  28

  It was not that there was so very much bad luck. The hunting was adequate. The winter was, if not mild, at least tolerable. But there seemed an absence of anything especially good. Maybe, after the extremes of the Year-of-No-Rain, followed by the great buffalo kill, an average year or two, either moderately good or bad, seemed uneventful.

  But no, that was not the case. Beginning with the death of Turtle-Swims, things did seem to change. There were those who said that perhaps Turtle had caused it, that he had done something to displease the spirits. Stone Breaker, the only one of the People present at the young man’s death, was certain that that was not it. Turtle-Swims had been careless and had lost his life as a result.

  There were other things, however. A young couple, meeting outside the camp that summer for a romantic interlude, were standing under a giant cottonwood when it was struck by a spear of real-fire, the boom of Rain Maker’s thunder-drum, and a spatter of rain. Then the storm was gone, leaving the two dead and their families to mourn.

  An old woman was bitten by her own dog, which had been acting irrationally for a day or two. The dog was killed by her husband, but not before the woman became ill did the event take on ominous proportions. Then it was remembered that a smell-cat had walked boldly into the village about half a moon ago. It had been a source of much amusement, and the dogs had killed the animal. This dog, it was now remembered, had been scratched or bitten.

  White Buffalo did his best with chants, ceremonies, and herbs, but he knew that it was useless. The old woman went mad, as her dog had done, and died in agony, convulsing and frothing at the mouth. There was no recovery from the Fears-Water Madness.

  Hump Ribs announced a move, which was good. The madness might be restricted to this area. Meanwhile, children were instructed to avoid any animals, dogs or wild animals, which seemed to behave strangely. There were no more cases of the madness.

  All of these things seemed to increase the prestige of the young medicine man. Had not White Buffalo foreseen these evils? He was, the People said, probably the most skillful of all holy men; his medicine was strong and his visions accurate.

  White Buffalo saw all of this with misgivings. True, he had predicted evil things with the black stones, but now a gnawing doubt assailed h
im. He would dream at night of the skittering plum-stones, dancing on the surface of the spread skin and coming up black, relentlessly, time after time. He would wake with a start and find it difficult to fall asleep again. The doubts grew larger. Could it be that his manipulation of the answer he sought in the stones was improper? Was it evil to try to cause a certain result as he had done? He considered burning the black stones, but could not bring himself to do so. He was afraid to use them again, so they remained in his medicine pouch. He confided in Crow Woman.

  “You mean, you caused the plum-stones to behave that way?”

  Her eyes were wide with amazement.

  “Well, yes, in a way,” he admitted. “I chose stones that would do that.”

  “That would all come up black?”

  “Yes, they will most of the time. I painted them that way.”

  Crow Woman rocked with laughter.

  “Aiee, my husband, you are clever. May I see them do it?”

  “I… I think not, Crow. I have thought of burning them. Maybe they are evil. I am a little bit afraid of them.”

  “Afraid? I do not understand.”

  He was not certain that he could explain it, this question in his mind that he might be abusing his gift. He sighed deeply.

  “Do you think, Crow, that I have caused these misfortunes with the Black Stones?”

  “I think not, my husband,” Crow answered thoughtfully. “They would only predict.”

  “Maybe I should have painted them the other way,” he mused. “Make the yellow sides come up more often.”

  Crow thought a little while.

  “No, that would not work. It would predict only good things, and bad things do happen. You wanted to tell the People that, and you did. They trust you more than ever.”

  “But if I had not cast the black stones, would the lovers have been struck by real-fire? Or old Bird Woman have gone mad?”

  Crow put her arm around him.

  “What did you wish to tell them, my husband?” She went on, without waiting for an answer. “That there will always be evil times ahead, that the good times we were having must not be expected to last. You have done that, done it well. They understand. Do you see bitterness? No. Mourning for the dead, but respect for your skill.”

  “Then you think I should not burn the plum-stones?”

  Crow Woman laughed.

  “Of course not! Aiee, it was clever, Elk.”

  She called him that, sometimes, when they were alone. It was a pet name, the name from their childhood.

  “But it may not be wise, to try to control such things,” he protested.

  “You said you do not control them,” she observed. “It is only that you know more about what they will do. Is that not also true of the grass, the storms, the buffalo? You do not question that knowledge.”

  “That is true,” he agreed reluctantly.

  “Then, your use of such things is not wrong. It is one part of your knowledge, your skill as a holy man.”

  Somehow, he always felt better after he had talked to Crow Woman.

  It was that fall when a young hunter came running into camp, bleeding from a dozen minor wounds. His left ear was gone, and blood still gushed from the side of his head. He was almost hysterical as he related a horrifying story.

  He and three others had been hunting, some distance from the village, when they were attacked by Head Splitters, some nine or ten in number, White Owl had been killed instantly in the first onslaught, struck down by an arrow. Red Dog had watched while the others, one at a time, were tortured, mutilated, and finally killed after many honors were counted. Then the skull of each had been crushed with a stone club, after their deaths. It appeared that this blow was symbolic, solely to identify this as the work of the Head Splitters.

  Red Dog had cringed in terror when they approached him. He had expected the same torture and ignoble death, emasculated and mutilated. Instead, they had all counted honors, slapping him and pricking his skin with knife-points. Then they freed his hands. As an afterthought, the Head Splitter who appeared to be the leader suddenly stepped forward and with a single sweeping motion, had slashed Red Dog’s left ear from his head.

  “The rest of your carcass belongs to me,” the Head Splitter signed, as he waved the severed ear before his quaking prisoner’s face. “Now, go!”

  He struck the youth across the face again and pushed him to the ground. As Red Dog rose to his feet to run, his captor signed once more.

  “Tell your people that Gray Wolf does not forget.”

  Red Dog finished his story and cried unashamedly, comforted by his family and friends.

  Hump Ribs called an immediate council. There was much anger and not a little fear. It was apparent that this had been a war party, specifically for this purpose. The general area of the Head Splitter camp was known; it was three sleeps away. Thus, this could not be a hunting party, far from home. It appeared to be a vengeance raid by the young subchief Gray Wolf. They had marked him as a dangerous man before.

  “He seeks vengeance for his loss of dignity at the flint quarry,” White Buffalo suggested.

  “But what of their principal chief, the one they called White Bear?” asked Stone Breaker. “Does he not keep the young men from such things? This is not usual, even for Head Splitters.”

  “Aiee, but sometimes the young do not listen,” said an old man on the other side of the fire. “This is a bad one.”

  “We should have killed him when we had the chance,” Short Bow offered.

  There were murmurs and nods of agreement.

  “That is behind us,” Hump Ribs reminded them. “We cannot go back and do it now. But we must decide. What will we do?”

  Some in the council favored immediate pursuit and reprisal. Calmer heads suggested that it was too risky. It was not known how many were actually involved in the enemy raiding party. Red Dog had seen nine, “maybe ten,” but were there others nearby? Maybe this was only a small portion of the party, and the whole event a trap to entice the People out onto the prairie for ambush. It was a sobering thought. The few hotheads who argued for immediate retribution were quickly argued down. Besides, it was pointed out, to go out with a large war party would leave the village poorly defended. Maybe that was the Head Splitter plan, to attack undefended women and children while the men were gone.

  “It is enough!” Hump Ribs announced finally. “We need to find a winter camp anyway. We move, in three days. We will go southeast, away from Head Splitter country.”

  There were a few voices of dissent, but not many. Hump Ribs’s decision could be rejected by a vote, but it was apparent to most that the plan was a good one. Preparations began for departure.

  The weather was uncommonly fine, with bright warm days and cool nights. It was the time of the Second Summer. They traveled into territory that was somewhat unfamiliar. There were fewer large expanses of grass and more trees. In some places, great groves of nut trees were prominent and oaks unfamiliar to the People. The world seemed brilliant as they traveled. The familiar clumps of scarlet sumac shone against the muted yellow-orange of the grasses. Large trees not familiar to the People produced a blaze of flaming red. It seemed that the whole world was aflame with beauty. Some became uneasy at the unfamiliarity of the terrain.

  “We are people of the prairie,” White Buffalo heard someone say. “We must not forget our beginnings.”

  “But the Eastern band camps in wooded areas,” another responded. “It is good for them.”

  “Aiee, the Eastern band!” the first man responded. “Are we to become as they are?”

  Everyone laughed.

  “I wonder,” observed a young woman, “if there might be worse enemies in the woodlands than Head Splitters.”

  “There are no worse enemies than Head Splitters,” an older woman answered. She had just finished the mourning period for a favorite grandson.

  That evening Hump Ribs sought out White Buffalo.

  “Tell me,” he asked, “what y
ou can of this matter, my friend. Is there danger here?”

  “There is danger anywhere,” White Buffalo observed. “But here, I do not know. I have never been this far south and east.”

  “It is beautiful country,” the chief observed. “I have never seen such colors in the trees. Yet I am made to feel that it is not for us. Can you seek a vision?”

  “You know that some are uneasy over this?” White Buffalo asked.

  “Yes. That is why I seek the help of a holy man.”

  “I could cast the bones.”

  “Good. A public ceremony?”

  “No, I think not. Come to my lodge.”

  Shortly after dark, Hump Ribs came to the lodge of White Buffalo and Crow Woman. Even such a private ceremony was very formal, and White Buffalo began with a chanted prayer. He burned a handful of powdered plant material on the fire, filling the lodge with aromatic smoke. Then he drew out the container of small bones, wooden fetishes, and stones, and tossed them across the surface of the spread skin with a dramatic flourish.

  “You do not use the black stones?” asked Hump Ribs.

  “No, they are for another purpose,” answered the medicine man.

  Not even the chief, who was also his close friend, would share the full story of the Black Stones. He was absorbed in studying the scatter of small objects, and the position in which they had come to rest.

  “There are good signs and bad,” White Buffalo announced. “Nothing unusual. It is like all other things—light and dark, hot and cold.”

  “But what does it mean to us? Is it safe here for the winter camp?”

  “No place is ever free of some danger, my friend. But I am made to think that we should seek a place to winter where there is some grassland, some woodland, some open prairie, and some woods, much like last season. And, as I said, I see both some good and some bad for the People.”