The Changing Wind

by Don Coldsmith

  White Buffalo waited, restless and impatient. He had not heard from Coyote. The chief’s messengers had reported daily on the progress of the gods, and the holy man had talked in turn with Hump Ribs about their observations. The approaching column of gods was traveling rapidly, now only two days away. It had become apparent that it would be futile to break camp and run. The People would be even more vulnerable while traveling. Besides, they might remain unnoticed if they remained quietly where they were now camped. Hump Ribs and White Buffalo discussed the situation, and the chief announced that they would stay, remain alert, and avoid all contact if possible.

  “Could your medicine be used to stop them?” asked Hump Ribs.

  “I do not know,” White Buffalo answered thoughtfully. “Maybe. I must think on this.”

  It was a truly important decision that White Buffalo found thrust upon him. At first he had been startled that Hump Ribs would even suggest such a thing. Then he realized that the chief did not fully understand what he was asking. In the scheme of things, a holy man was given powers of the spirit to use as he saw fit. Sometimes his ceremonies and visions were successful, sometimes not. But one basic premise remained true. The medicine of the holy man must be used only to help, not harm. Medicine used for evil, even against an enemy, was very dangerous, possibly fatal, to the holy man who invoked it.

  In the present situation, if White Buffalo attempted spells to harm the invading column, even to save the People… aiee, he had no desire to die, unless that seemed the only way. To complicate his narrowing choices further, the nature of the invading gods was quite unclear. They tortured and killed, it was said, so maybe they were bad gods. Still, the torture was, so far, merely rumor. If these were indeed gods and not evil, any attempt to injure them would surely be fatal.

  If only he had more information! Why did Coyote not return? Coyote’s keen insight might easily provide the information he needed.

  Meanwhile, White Buffalo sought solitude to commune with his spirit-guide. In anticipation of such a need, he had begun his fast earlier. Now he prayed and chanted, and waited for his guide to join him. He had great difficulty falling asleep, and even then, he woke several times, having had no visions.

  It was nearly morning before he reached the strange mystical state between sleep and awakening and found himself approaching his spirit-guide.

  Ah-koh, Grandfather, he greeted.

  The great bull rolled an inquisitive eye at him, but there was no answering thought.

  Grandfather, I have come for help. I am in great need.

  Yes?

  Ah, at least there was an acknowledgement of his presence.

  There is a large number of godlike persons approaching my people. It seems that they mean us harm.

  This may be true, came the answer.

  Ah, so the gods are dangerous, White Buffalo thought.

  It has been suggested that I use my medicine to try to stop them.

  There was no response for a little while, and White Buffalo began to be afraid that he would get no answer. Finally the bull rolled an eye at him, and the mind-talk continued.

  That is yours to decide.

  The vision started to fade, and White Buffalo felt the grip of panic.

  Wait! Don’t go… Grandfather, I need you!

  The bull was moving away now, but paused to look back.

  It is yours to decide, came the spirit-message. Maybe they will turn back.

  White Buffalo awoke, shaking and in a cold sweat. He had never before totally lost his composure in the presence of his spirit-guide. And he felt that he had never received less help in time of need. This was probably the greatest danger to the People in White Buffalo’s lifetime. He had been able to serve them well, but now he had grave doubts. He was angry that he had received little help. Yes, angry at his spirit-guide.

  In desperation, he was ready to use his gift to do harm to the approaching gods. If, of course, it was possible. But what else could he do? There was so little time. Tomorrow might be too late. He hurried back to the village, already planning his ceremony to invoke harm to the gods.

  Crow’s face was anxious and drawn.

  “How is it, my husband?” she asked.

  “Not good, Crow,” he said as he began to search among his herbs and medicine things.

  “You did not find your spirit-guide?” she asked in astonishment.

  “Yes, but it was no help.”

  “No help? How can this be?”

  “Crow, I have no time to explain. I will perform a ceremony to try to stop these strange god-beings.”

  Crow’s eyes were wide with wonder.

  “But, Elk, is that not dangerous?”

  He hesitated, wondering if his wife knew how dangerous this could become.

  “Elk,” she persisted, “is this good use of your gift? You have said that if a holy man uses his power for evil, it will kill him.”

  “That is true,” White Buffalo agreed, “but is this evil, to try to save the People? Maybe these gods are bad gods.”

  “And maybe not,” retorted Crow. “My husband, you could be in great danger. I wish you to think carefully about this.”

  “I know. I have thought, Crow. I must try to use my medicine to stop them.”

  “As you must,” Crow Woman said sadly. “Ido not understand, though, why your spirit-guide would not help.”

  “Nor do I. The only message was that maybe the gods will turn back.”

  They looked at each other, and a great light began to dawn on both.

  “Elk!” gasped Crow Woman excitedly, “that is it! They do not have to be defeated!”

  “Only to turn aside, to pass our camp, without discovering it. I can use my medicine for such a purpose, Crow, because it would not be evil!”

  “How can I help?” she asked.

  “The drum cadence. Let me prepare my ceremony, and we will begin. Bring my facepaint.”

  “Will it work against gods?” Crow asked.

  “I do not know, but it is all we have. Anyway”—he paused long enough to smile at her—“we do not know that these are gods. That is only the word of the Caddo.”

  Inwardly, he wished that he knew more about these strange beings with shiny skins and dogs that could carry a man. He wished that he was younger, so that he could have gone with the wolves instead of sending Coyote. Aiee, what had happened to that one? Why did he not return or send word?

  White Buffalo busied himself with preparations for his ceremony, now with greater confidence. He still might offend the gods with his attempts to turn them aside, but at least he would not run the risk of death from his own medicine.

  The drumbeat began just after sunset. The dances, prayers, and chants, with intermittent ceremonial incense burning, continued throughout the night. It was a private ceremony, carried out within or just in front of the holy man’s lodge. The People knew that something was going on, possibly something important. It was assumed that it had to do with the advancing column that was being observed by the wolves of the People. Consequently, there was a curious scatter of onlookers who came and went during the night, discussing quietly these events.

  Sun Boy was lifting his torch above earth’s rim when White Buffalo finished the last chanted prayer of supplication, and the drum fell silent. Half-stumbling, he made his way to the lodge and almost fell into his sleeping-robes. Crow Woman covered him with a robe and lay down near him, watching with concern as the holy man fell into the deep sleep of complete exhaustion.

  It was nearly evening when White Buffalo awoke. He lay there a moment, becoming oriented to the day. Crow Woman lay sleeping. He knew that she too must have been exhausted. Quietly he rose and slipped outside.

  He was just relieving his bladder behind the lodge when he heard a shout. One of the wolves was returning. White Buffalo hurried to the lodge of Hump Ribs, arriving at almost the same time as the messenger.

  “Come in,” the chief beckoned to the holy man, as he held the doorskin aside for the m
essenger.

  It was apparent that the scout had news of great importance. He had the appearance of one who had been running, striving to reach the village before dark. But was his news good or bad?

  “My chief,” the runner panted, “the gods have turned back. This morning, they broke camp and moved away to the west, or southwest.”

  A broad smile broke the stern countenance of Hump Ribs. The crisis, the threat to the Southern band, appeared to be over. He nodded approvingly.

  White Buffalo sat numbly, listening to the more detailed description of the messenger. His prayers and ceremonial chants had been successful, but he found that he had mixed feelings about it. It was over, and he had not had the opportunity to see the gods, to try to fathom their secret powers. And it was too late. He had been born at the wrong time. If only this had happened when he was young, so that he could have been with the wolves, could have seen for himself the wondrous god-beings. His mind wandered for a moment and then was sharply jerked back to reality by the words of the scout.

  “One god was left behind,” the man was saying. “He appears to be lost. He rides one of the elk-dogs.”

  “Elk-dogs?” asked Hump Ribs.

  “Yes, my chief,” the messenger chuckled. “Coyote calls them that. These dogs are as big as an elk. We have not seen one closely. Oh, yes, holy man, I have a message for you. Coyote says to tell you he will watch this lost god today and come to you tonight.”

  “They are that close?” asked White Buffalo in amazement.

  “Oh, yes. The lost one has continued this way. I do not know, since I left, but they should be very close tonight.”

  “It is good,” said Hump Ribs. “I will go back out with you.”

  36

  “Uncle, I am made to feel that this is very important,” Coyote said wearily.

  His fat round body was not well suited to hurried travel.

  “Yes, yes, go on!” White Buffalo urged impatiently.

  “Well, they told you that the gods have turned back?”

  White Buffalo nodded.

  “But there was this one who appeared lost,” Coyote continued. “We followed him. Uncle, the shiny skins that we have heard of… I do not think they are skins. A garment, maybe…”

  White Buffalo exhaled a sigh audibly and impatiently.

  “Forgive me, Uncle.” Coyote hurried on. “There is so much… This lost one is apparently abandoned by the others. Maybe they expected him to rejoin them, but he is injured.”

  “Injured? How?”

  “He fell from his elk-dog.”

  “Wait. It is true, then, that they ride on the backs of these animals?”

  “Yes, Uncle, and some carry burdens. But this one was startled by a real-snake. When it rattled, the elk-dog jumped, and the shiny god fell. We thought he was dead and came near to see. A long time he was dead, but then he rolled over and woke up.”

  Ah, thought White Buffalo. A god is immortal. He cannot die.

  “But then,” Coyote continued, “the god vomited. Uncle, would a god crawl on all fours, and grovel in his own puke?”

  Before the holy man could answer, Coyote hurried on.

  “Forgive me, Uncle, there is so much… the god then sat and seemed to remove his head.”

  “His head?”

  Coyote giggled at his little joke and continued.

  “So it seemed to some. There was a headdress, round and shiny. He removed it and appeared to take his head off. Some of us had seen that it appeared to be fastened with a leather strap or thong, so it was not really his head, but…”

  “Go on, Coyote,” White Buffalo urged.

  “Yes… well, he is called Heads Off because of this and how it appeared. Hump Ribs called a council to decide what to do.”

  “Hump Ribs is still out there?”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  Coyote paused, seeming reluctant to relate his own part in these events.

  “There were those,” he said slowly, “who wished to kill the god and his elk-dog to remove the danger. But Uncle, I am made to think we must know more of this.”

  “What do you mean, Coyote?”

  “Well, there are many things. Could a god be injured in this way? His head is bloody, and the shiny headdress probably saved it from being burst when he struck. Then he was sick. Several times. I do not think… Uncle, I do not believe these are gods at all. They are men, from a far tribe, much different than ours.”

  White Buffalo had begun to suspect something of the sort.

  “How, different?” he asked.

  “He has fur,” Coyote said.

  “Fur?”

  “Yes. Black fur, which grows from his face. Not like ours, which we pluck with the clam-shells. This is black and curly, like that of the buffalo.”

  “Could it be a mask or a garment?”

  “No, Uncle. It grows directly from his face.”

  “Aiee, that is strange.”

  “Yes, and the shiny skins—as I said, I do not think it is their skin. It is of the same material as the headdress.”

  “You think the fur covers his whole body, like the bear?”

  “Maybe. I do not think so. His hands are not hairy.”

  “Did he speak?”

  “Nothing we understood. He moaned a lot and said words strange to us. Oh, and he does not know handsigns. They meant nothing to him.”

  “You have been close to him. It did not seem dangerous?”

  “Not really. He is sick and weak. My fear was that somebody would kill him before we could learn of his tribe. But they are not thinking so much of that now.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, he seems harmless. And I…”—Coyote paused to chuckle at his own cleverness—“I gave him a name.”

  “A name?”

  “Yes, Heads Off, as I said.” He giggled again. “It is harder to kill someone if you know his name.”

  Yes, that is true, thought White Buffalo. Coyote is clever, as always.

  “What is happening now?” the holy man asked.

  “Nothing. He has bedded for the night. We are watching him. The elk-dog stays near.”

  “The elk-dog? It did not run away?” White Buffalo asked in amazement.

  “What? Oh, no. It stays with him and eats grass.”

  “This ‘elk-dog’ eats grass?”

  Coyote giggled.

  “Yes, Uncle. Now it seems more elk than dog. But it has no horns.”

  “Tell me more of this elk-dog.”

  “Well, some wanted to kill it. It looks good to eat. But I thought it must, for some reason, be better to ride it than eat it. Otherwise, Heads Off would have eaten it already!”

  Coyote sat back, smiling, pleased with his reasoning.

  “So they will not kill it, you think?”

  “No. I talked to Hump Ribs, and he told them not to. We could kill it later if we really need the meat.”

  “Tell me more of this elk-dog.”

  “Well, it has a beautiful skin. Gray in color, like a gray wolf, but shorthaired, like an antelope. It eats grass, and its eyes look at us without fear. It is proud… a look of eagles is in the eyes… oh, yes, I nearly forgot—its hooves are not split like other animals’.”

  “What?”

  Coyote held up a hand, fingers apart, to demonstrate.

  “There is no cleft. The foot is solid, Uncle.” He paused to chuckle. “When we first saw it, it seemed to wear a turtle on each foot.”

  White Buffalo’s head whirled. He had been so preoccupied with the invading god-beings and his ceremony… but now… he had completely forgotten his vision of so long ago. A lifetime ago, it seemed. The strange creature of his vision, the one that had seemed so important but was never seen again. Was he now to learn of it, in this strange way? His heart was pounding, and his palms were sweating.

  “A turtle?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “Yes,” laughed Coyote. “Of course it only looked that way. The hoof was solid, not split.”

&nb
sp; “Yes,” said White Buffalo absently. “Coyote, I must see this animal. I will go back with you.”

  “There is no need, Uncle. It is just over the hill. You can see it in the morning.”

  “It is here? That close?”

  “Yes. Heads Off, too. Hump Ribs said we will watch him but not bother him, until we see what he will do.”

  “But, he is sick with a broken head?”

  “Yes, but it seems he will recover. We will see.”

  Coyote wandered off. White Buffalo was not certain whether he meant to return to the watch or to spend the rest of the night at home. The holy man turned back to his own bed.

  “Elk,” Crow Woman whispered, “did I hear right? Coyote spoke of the creature of your visions, the turtle-footed elk?”

  “Yes,” White Buffalo said thoughtfully. “Crow, I have never told anyone but you, and my father before his death. No one knew of this creature, that I had seen it long ago. Aiee, what can this mean?”

  Crow shook her head.

  “I do not know, but it must be very important.”

  “Coyote said that, too. Why is it important?”

  “Do you not feel that?” asked Crow.

  “Of course. But I do not understand it.”

  “Maybe it is not meant to be understood, my husband.”

  “That is true. We will go and look at this creature, the elk-dog, in the morning.”

  There was to be more than one startling development that next day. The People awoke to find that buffalo had come. For most, this news of immediate importance overshadowed any speculation about elk-dogs and gods who remove their heads. Here was food for the coming winter. Times had not been hard, and there was food, but at the Moon of Falling Leaves it is wise to make preparations. There may be very little hunting for the next few moons, and every lodge should have a season’s supply of dried meat and pemmican stored in the space behind the lodge-lining. Therefore, the arrival of the buffalo was an important marker in the trail of the seasons.