The Changing Wind

by Don Coldsmith

  He knew that it was past because the aching of his joints on cold mornings reminded him. His step was not as quick and sure, though he could still perform the ceremonial dances. It was frustrating to have a young mind in a body that was beset by the ravages of time. Crow Woman, who was now past her child-bearing years, was still beautiful to him. The woman who had warmed his bed in their youth still did so. The sensation of shared warmth under the robes was still thrilling and exciting. For a little while they were young again, their blood racing faster and making them forget the tragedy and disappointment that life had brought.

  White Buffalo thought sometimes about passing on the heritage of the buffalo medicine. The knowledge, the skills, the cape itself, as his father had done before him. It was easy to postpone such things. In the early years, he had expected to pass the calling to his son. Or, perhaps, to his daughter. There were respected holy women among the People. White Moon had shown promise… but that was gone now. White Buffalo wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. He was sitting alone on a hill near the camp, where he loved to go and meditate. He thought again of the years when he and Crow had thought, Surely this year there will be another child.

  In that way, year after year, he had postponed the decision about his medicine and who would be the next holy man of the Southern band. Now it was time to face the question. There was no single event which had brought him to this way of thinking but a series of things. He had finally accepted that Crow could not bear another child. He refused to consider a child by a new wife. And now, while he still had some good years, he must find a successor. There was time to do so, but the seasons flew past much more swiftly now than in his youth. Yes, he must begin his search.

  He told Crow Woman of his decision that night as they settled in, snuggled under the robes against the crisp autumn chill.

  “I am made to think,” he observed casually, “that I should find someone to learn my medicine.”

  She looked at him seriously in the flickering light from the fire.

  “Are you not feeling well?”

  “What? Oh, yes… I am well. But we are no longer young.”

  “We are not old, either.” She cuddled against him suggestively. “I will show you.”

  He smiled at her.

  “Sometimes my bones tell me otherwise.”

  Both chuckled.

  “But, Crow,” he went on, “it takes time to learn the dances, the ceremonies, the medicine of the plants.”

  “Yes, I well remember,” she mused.

  “So,” he continued, “I must find an apprentice.”

  “What will you do?” she asked.

  “I do not know. What do you think?”

  “You could watch the Rabbit Society.”

  “Yes, that is good. You watch too. First, the child must have the gift of the spirit. But it is also necessary to have the interest. Also, most important, he must be willing to make the sacrifice… take the responsibility for the demands of such a life.”

  “He… or she?” Crow Woman asked mischieviously.

  “Well, yes. But a young woman would have even more sacrifices to make. She would have to take avow of chastity or wait until her years of child bearing are over.”

  This was a delicate area, and he hated to go into it. Crow’s fertile years were barely past, and he thought the subject might be painful to her. Then he saw the mischief in her eyes. He seized her and tickled her in places that he knew would provoke a response.

  “Stop!” She giggled. “I only meant that—”

  “Of course,” he said more seriously as they settled back down. “I should look for women also who would make good apprentices.”

  “There is a girl I have seen,” Crow said thoughtfully. “She seems wise beyond her years. She reminds me…” She paused a moment. “No! I know! Do you remember a young man called Mouse? I think he is a nephew of Stone Breaker, on Cattail’s side.”

  “Maybe,” White Buffalo answered. “A thin, muscular boy, big ears and a sharp nose.”

  “Yes,” laughed Crow. “Mouse!”

  “I remember him. A quiet young man. It is good, Crow. We will watch him.”

  “Could I ask Cattail about him?”

  “Of course. But do not say why. No one must know what we are seeking.”

  “Not even Cattail? Stone Breaker?” Crow asked in wonder.

  “No. It must not be. Would I try to choose an apprentice for Stone Breaker?”

  “No, my husband. But, he already has one. Their oldest son.”

  “Oh? I did not know. Well, it is good. Stone Breaker too sees the need to choose an apprentice.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. But he is no older than you, and you can still warm my bed,” Crow said seductively.

  She cuddled against him, and White Buffalo forgot the urgency to select an apprentice. They were young again, and in love.

  31

  Mouse seemed a likely prospect. White Buffalo observed the youngster in the activities of the Rabbit Society. It was easy to do. There were always a few adults watching the instruction, cheering the children on. As they learned the skills of the hunt, the use of weapons, and the simple athletic skills of survival, it was possible to observe and estimate the potential of each.

  And the potential of the one called Mouse did seem great. He was calm and mature in his approach, well liked but not an obvious leader. His range of skills was impressive, from his use of the bow to his well-coordinated speed in swimming. Yes, thought White Buffalo, this one will do to watch. Whenever opportunity offered, the holy man made his way to the activities of the day and sat to observe. Sometimes he chuckled to himself at a particularly clever triumph of someone, especially Mouse. Each day he was more certain.

  There were also indications that the young man might have the gift of the spirit; at least, he seemed to have wisdom and insight beyond his years. It was something that could be nurtured, encouraged as it grew. If, of course, Mouse wished to do so. The youth appeared to be about fourteen or fifteen summers. There were few things that were notable about his appearance. He was neither tall nor burly in build but rather short and slender. His muscles were well defined, however, and his strength was deceptive. The large ears and pointed features made him appear rather comical, and the name he bore was quite descriptive. However, White Buffalo soon saw that here was a young man who would some day be taken quite seriously. There were leadership qualities behind that seriocomic face. While the appellation Mouse fit his description quite well, it had no correlation at all with the youth’s spirit. Some day, thought White Buffalo, this one would outgrow that name and shed it as the snake does its skin. Little did the holy man realize that he would witness the event that caused such a change.

  It was a warm day, early in the Moon of Falling Leaves. The word had been passed that soon the band would move to a wintering area, but a specific day had not been chosen. There was still good hunting, the weather was uncommonly fine, and the temptation to stay a little longer was great. There had been no contact with the Head Splitters this season, so it was a great surprise when the enemy came.

  White Buffalo was sitting on the slope outside the camp, watching several young people practicing with the bow. Primarily, he was watching the quiet demeanor of the one he had begun to think of as his successor. The one called Mouse was active and skilled in this game. His arrows were usually in or near the white spot at the center of the grass-filled target-skin. Still he was quiet and unassuming, though confident. Of the six or eight others, two were young women. Naturally, there was some flirtatious courting going on, and White Buffalo smiled in amusement. He leaned back against a massive sycamore and closed his eyes, soaking in the comforting warmth of the sunlight. It seemed to help the stiffness in his joints to warm them in this way. He dozed off for a moment.

  “You are next, Mouse!” someone called. “See if you can beat Red Hawk’s shot!”

  White Buffalo stirred and opened his eyes. He wanted to see this shot and to take a vicarious pride
in the skill of his pupil. Of course, Mouse was hardly his pupil yet. He had not even approached the boy about such an apprenticeship. He must do so soon, maybe during the journey to winter camp. That would give Mouse a chance to consider as they traveled. Yes, he would speak to the young man soon.

  Mouse loosed his arrow, and the cries of approval indicated another successful shot. Several ran toward the target to retrieve arrows while Mouse followed, pausing to fit another arrow to his bow.

  At first, White Buffalo thought, in his sleepy state, that his eyes were deceiving him. But, no! There were shadowy figures flitting among the dogwood behind the target. He sat upright, wide awake now, ready to sound the alarm. Maybe it was only some of the dogs from the camp. Then he noticed the figure of a man crouching behind a bush only a few steps beyond the target. Even as his mind tried to interpret the message from his eyes, the man rose, part of a concerted rush. One of the girls screamed as a painted warrior sprinted toward her. Two other enemies were equally close, swinging the dreaded stone axes. More were visible among the bushes.

  There was complete confusion. Some of the young men of the People had actually left their weapons behind when they ran to the target. One of the most arrogant braggarts, a popular youth called Red Hawk, turned with a squeal of terror and ran like a rabbit. An arrow came searching after him but missed.

  Amid all of the terror and danger there was one who seemed to remain calm. Mouse dropped to one knee, took aim, and calmly drove an arrow into the chest of a charging Head Splitter. Surprise was evident on the man’s face as he fell forward from his own momentum, driving the arrow on through, to jut upward from his lifeless back. Mouse roared a slightly high-pitched version of the gutteral war cry of the People and reached for another arrow. The Head Splitters paused. They had not expected resistance from these mere children.

  “Fight!” yelled Mouse to his companions. “Shoot!”

  He released another arrow, wounding a warrior who turned to cripple away, clutching at a bleeding arm.

  A slim girl stepped forward to pick up the ax dropped by Mouse’s first victim and turned to defend herself. The man who had almost reached to seize her now stopped, confused. His hesitation was his undoing. An arrow from the bow of one of the other youths struck him in the side. As he turned, trying to pluck away the offending shaft, the girl stepped forward and swung her captured ax.

  “After them!” cried Mouse.

  The fleeing youths turned to join the pursuit. Mouse sounded the war cry again. Now there were answering war cries from the camp, and warriors came pouring out to assist. The Head Splitters were in full retreat, leaving three dead and others carrying arrows in wounds of varying severity.

  “Enough!” shouted Hump Ribs as he and the others caught up with the fight. “Do not go farther. It is too dangerous.”

  The young men began to withdraw, talking excitedly.

  “We did it! We drove off the Head Splitters!”

  “Is anyone hurt?” asked Hump Ribs.

  Quickly, they looked from one to the other.

  “No, we are all here,” Red Hawk announced.

  “Good,” Hump Ribs answered. “What happened?”

  “They came out of the bushes!”

  “That one nearly grabbed Oak Leaf!”

  Everyone was talking at once. White Buffalo had made his way down the slope in time to hear his impressions verified.

  “Mouse killed that one,” Oak Leaf said admiringly. “He turned the attack on them.”

  The others nodded.

  “Who sounded the war cry?” asked Hump Ribs.

  “Mouse,” said several at once.

  Hump Ribs looked over at White Buffalo, who nodded agreement.

  “I was on the slope there,” he told Hump Ribs later. “Aiee, that one is a fighter! He saved us from losses today. Our Mouse, it seems, speaks with a loud voice.”

  There was a celebration that evening in honor of the victory. The dances reenacted the events of the day—the first arrow from Mouse’s bow, the turning of the fight, and the defeat of the Head Splitters. There was no immediate danger of counterattack. It was well known that Head Splitters avoided fighting at night. Their fear was that a spirit crossing over as it left a dying body would become lost in the darkness to wander forever. Thus there would be no attack tonight. Probably not at all. The attackers had been severely punished.

  The hero of the day, of course, was Mouse, who was rather embarrassed by all the attention, though proud. Partway through the celebration, Hump Ribs stood by the fire to make a proclamation.

  “We will move camp in two days. But for now, we celebrate.”

  He beckoned Mouse forward, and everyone shouted approval.

  “Our young Mouse,” Hump Ribs announced, “has done well. He has shown bravery and gathered honors. Ours is not a timid mouse, but a Mouse That Roars!”

  The crowd shouted with approving laughter.

  “Mouse Roars!” someone cried.

  The young man had acquired a new name, one that honored his bravery and would commemorate his deeds forever.

  “It is good!” stated Hump Ribs. “You shall be Mouse Roars!”

  The celebration continued, but White Buffalo and Crow Woman made their way back to their lodge.

  “You were right about this young man,” Crow said as they prepared for sleep. “He is a leader.”

  “That is true,” acknowledged White Buffalo.

  “Then why do you not seem more pleased, my husband?”

  White Buffalo did not respond at once.

  “Is something wrong?” Crow finally asked.

  “No, not really,” he answered wearily.

  He was tired from the excitement of the day and the celebration. The throb of the dance-drums still sounded across the camp, and the chant of happy, triumphant songs echoed the cadence. He had been excited, but now in the aftermath he felt old and tired again. There was a disappointment that he did not quite understand in the thrill of victory.

  Grow Woman snuggled close to him under the robes.

  “Elk, is there something that the others do not know?”

  “Maybe. Gray Wolf was one of those I saw. He tried to get his warriors to turn and fight.”

  “But that is nothing new.”

  “Yes, I know. But, today was not the end, only another fight.”

  “Yes, my husband. It has always been so.”

  “That is a bad one, that Gray Wolf,” he said, almost to himself.

  “But what…”

  “I do not know, Crow. I am made to think he will become more of a problem than ever, and for a long time.”

  “Is there something we must do?”

  “I think not. This is ours to live with.”

  “But what of Mouse? Mouse Roars.” She chuckled in the flickering firelight. “Aiee, he has proved himself!”

  Suddenly, White Buffalo realized what it was that was bothering him, causing his depression.

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “He has proved himself. But now I cannot ask him to be my apprentice.”

  “Why not?” asked the astonished Crow Woman.

  “I saw him today, when he ‘roared.’ Aiee, that was something to see! The others were running in fear, and he turned it into victory.”

  “But then—” Crow interrupted, but he waved her to silence.

  “That is it, Crow. He is a leader. But that sort of leader. He might make a great medicine man, but the People need him as a warrior, a chief who can stand and fight the Head Splitters. Mouse Roars can do that.”

  He fell silent, and Crow was silent too for a little while. Finally she spoke.

  “Then we look some more.”

  “Yes.”

  Mouse Roars never knew that he had been considered, and the dejected White Buffalo continued to search in the Rabbit Society for the next holy man.

  32

  The girl was tall and well formed, and moved with a confident grace. Her walk reminded White Buffalo of the gentle sway of willows in
a summer breeze or perhaps the nodding of heavy seedheads on the real-grass in the Moon of Ripening. It was not a seductive walk. At least, not intentionally, he thought, as he watched her at the games and contests. But it would be difficult for any man to watch her and not see the beauty of her body. Part of that beauty was that she appeared unaware of its effect on men. She used her long legs well in the contests of running, jumping, and swimming. She handled the bow with equal skill.

  White Buffalo found it necessary to overlook her grace and beauty, and concentrate on her spirit. That, after all, was the thing which had caused Crow to notice the girl and to suggest that she would be one to observe.

  Crow seemed determined to see that a woman would at least be considered. Certainly White Buffalo had no objection. His only reservation was that it would be a greater sacrifice for a woman.

  He was impressed immediately with this young woman. Big-Footed Woman, she was called. Not that her feet were exceptionally large. True, they were ample, but a tall woman must have long feet to carry her longer frame. The reason for such a name, it appeared, was her skill in the athletic contests. Her strides, her accomplishments, were great, bigger than most. Her feet carried her well. As a thinker might be said to have large thoughts, so were this young woman’s feet in deeds of speed and skill. Yet her deeds were also those of spirit and thought, White Buffalo noted. He recalled that it had been Big-Footed Woman who had grasped the fallen Head Splitter’s ax and helped to repulse the invaders. A cool head. And confidence. Not over confident but secure in the knowledge of her own skills. Mature, that was it. The girl seemed to hâve wisdom beyond her years.