The Changing Wind

by Don Coldsmith

  “Heads Off, the men want you to become the new chief.”

  “What? Oh, no, Uncle, I could never do that.”

  “But the young men follow you already,” Coyote pointed out.

  “No! I only teach them. No, Uncle, both of you… I could not do this. I do not know the customs of the People… I…”

  “But you have learned much, my son,” White Buffalo reminded him. “You speak the tongue. You have married here, sired a son. No one knows all of the customs, and we will help you, Coyote and I. Your wife too.”

  The three argued for a long time, Heads Off resisting.

  “Could this really be done? You would advise me closely?” he asked finally.

  They nodded eagerly.

  “How is this done, the choosing of the chief?”

  “We call a council.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Aiee!”

  “No, wait!” Coyote suggested. “Talk to Tall One. Ask what she thinks.”

  Yes, of course, thought White Buffalo. An excellent plan! The girl could present the situation in a proper light.

  “Of course! Speak to her,” he urged. “We will talk later.”

  When the council of the Southern band was held two days later, there was little discussion and no argument. The journey continued, but now there was a sense of direction, of pride in belonging. The People began to look forward to the Big Council, to the telling and retelling of the story of their victory in the Great Battle. Their entire mood had changed. They had a new leader. He might be a good leader or not—only time would tell. But he was a leader, and the band responded with purpose.

  Meanwhile, White Buffalo, Coyote, and the women worked to prepare Heads Off for his appearance at the-Big Council. Tall One and Big-Footed Woman worked tirelessly to create new buckskin garments with embroidered quillwork. Heads Off’s hair was trimmed and replaited.

  “He needs something around his neck,” Coyote observed.

  “His medicine?” White Buffalo asked.

  Without a word, Tall One took down the bit, the marvelous artistry in metal, whose medicine controlled the elk-dog. She hung it on a thong around the neck of the confused Heads Off, where it dangled and bumped gently against the white buckskin of his shirt.

  It was worn so a few days later when the Southern band proudly followed Heads Off to his seat in the circle of the Big Council. There was pride in their eyes when he in his turn rose to address the Council.

  “I am Heads Off,” he announced in a ringing voice, “chief of the Elk-dog band of the People. My brothers, this has been a very big year for us.”

  48

  White Buffalo shifted comfortably, scratching his shoulder against the backrest as he lounged in the sun. Life had been good the past few summers. Fourteen in all, he counted, since Heads Off had become band chief, and much had happened.

  The entire tribe had prospered with the expansion of the use of the elk-dog. In these few years, the People had become a major power on the plains. Other tribes, even, sometimes referred to this tribe as the Elk-dog People. There had almost been a split in the tribe as everyone became more affluent through greater ease in hunting. A small, militant splinter group of young elk-dog men who called themselves the Blood Society had withdrawn from the tribe entirely. At least for a time. They had returned to assist in another battle with the Head Splitters and were now welcome again. This had resulted in not two but three Warrior Societies with slightly differing interests and motives but mutual respect.

  The People, able to kill and skin more buffalo and to transport heavier lodge covers, now made their dwellings larger and finer. Some were constructed of thirty skins. Wealth was expressed in this way and in horses. Children learned to ride before they could walk. It was common to see a toddler, tied to the back of a trustworthy old mare while she was turned loose to graze. The sons of Heads Off and Tall One had been raised so and were fine riders. Especially Eagle, the older boy. Coyote, in a surprise move at the First Dance, had given the child the nickname he had borne all along. It had seemed to fit, as the boy matured and soft fur appeared on his upper lip only a few seasons ago. The young man remained Eagle, and as Coyote said, the youth’s eye carried such a look, the look of eagles. This one would earn fame.

  The other child was called Owl. Two years younger, he had never seemed quite as aggressive or as popular a child as his brother Eagle. But his name fit well. This child had arrived in the world wide-eyed, as some infants do, eager to see and to learn. His large dark eyes, much like his mother’s, seemed to glow with an inner curiosity as well as wisdom. Yes, Owl was well named.

  There had been other changes as the People adapted to the new affluence that the elk-dog provided. Time formerly spent in the quest of food for survival could now be devoted to things of the spirit. More elaborate decoration of simple garments and household things, more songs and ceremonies. There was a surge of interest in the throaty melodies of the courting flute, which in turn led to seasons of romance.

  And, all in all, it was good. White Buffalo could hardly believe that at one time he had resisted such change, had even considered destroying Heads Off to stop it. Heads Off had been a good leader. He had made mistakes, as all leaders do. But people forgive their leaders for honest mistakes. Only one thing people find unforgivable in a leader, White Buffalo observed—indecisiveness. A wrong decision is forgiven more easily than no decision. And Heads Off had never been guilty of that. True, he could never, as an outsider, be more than a band chief, a subchief in the structure of tribal politics. But, the Elk-dog band was still the strongest and most prestigious of the bands of the People. That had been the function of Heads Off.

  White Buffalo filled his nose and mouth with the fragrant smoke from his pipe and blew it out gently, savoring the mixture of tastes. Tobacco, sumac, the roasted bark of the red willow, and other favorite substances lent their fragrance. Everything, he now believed, had its function, its place in the world. As Heads Off did. As every person does, maybe. His own position, that of interpreter of the change for the People. Only after the fact had he known. His entire career as holy man had been shaped by forces of the spirit-world, to help the People take this great leap forward as they changed to accept the medicine of the elk-dog.

  He thought of Coyote, who had changed not one bit in the past seasons. A little grayer, a little fatter, maybe, but the same likable buffoon. White Buffalo had been irritated, angry even, when Coyote had refused the gift of the spirit and had taken another path. Now he realized that that too had been part of the entire plan. Coyote had been used as a go-between, to help bring together the medicines of the buffalo and the elk-dog. As he looked back, White Buffalo could see many things that had not been apparent. All the events that had taken place in his lifetime had come to rest in proper perspective. From his earliest feelings of the spirit, his strange visions on his vision quest, the dreams of the elk-dog as a youth… Now it all was seen as a part of his mission, his life’s work.

  It was satisfying, this feeling that he had been permitted to be a part of so great a change. But there seemed to be one thing that still did not fit. It had begun to bother him many years ago that no young person had come forth to become his apprentice, to learn the medicine of the buffalo. He had realized, in light of the sweeping changes brought about by the elk-dog, that there had been a reason. The lives of Coyote, Big-Footed Woman, the other possible holy ones, had all held other purposes. Parts of the pattern, which had been fitted together like the multicolored quills of decorative embroidery on a ceremonial shirt. But there was still a flaw. Somehow, the purpose of his own life seemed incomplete. So far, it was full, satisfying, overwhelming almost in its scope, but what now? There was an emptiness, a regret, in this, the autumn of his career. It was not difficult to identify, of course. It was a feeling of concern, of failure almost. Disappointment. There had still never been a young person to accept the gift of the spirit, one to whom he could teach his skills, his medic
ine.

  He had tried to put it away, to crowd it back in his thoughts, but it was difficult. It was much like the disappointment that he and Crow had never had another child. That had been pushed aside, accepted, but was still a deep hurt sometimes. He did not understand it, any more than he understood the lack of someone to carry on the medicine of the buffalo. Was he to die with no successor? Was that too part of the plan?

  His reverie was interrupted by the approach of Coyote, who had with him his grandson Owl.

  “Ah-koh, Uncle,” Coyote greeted him, “we would speak with you.”

  Coyote’s tone was serious. This then was no idle visit. What was it? The holy man motioned for them to sit.

  The youngster, of maybe twelve summers it seemed, appeared uneasy and a little frightened. Coyote was quick to assist, explaining that Owl had questions about his background and why his father, the band chief, was considered an outsider. The boy had been teased and bullied, it seemed, by a couple of ne’er-do-wells.

  White Buffalo thought it over. He could see the young man’s dilemma. At twelve summers, one does not wish to be different. He had seen the older boy, Eagle, successfully adjust to the fact, but this child seemed to have more misgivings.

  Well, why not start at the beginning? A trifle bored by the entire thing, the holy man nevertheless wished to help the grandson of his friend Coyote. He brought out the story-skins, and spent some time showing the pictographs of Heads Off on First Elk-dog, the buffalo hunts on horseback, the Great Battle with Heads Off defeating the Head Splitter Gray Wolf. The boy had heard the story before, but now seemed to be searching for new meaning.

  “Your father is now one of us,” the holy man concluded. “Heads Off is well honored by the People.”

  “But what of his own tribe, Uncle?” the boy asked. “Their medicine?”

  An odd question, White Buffalo thought.

  “His medicine is very powerful,” the holy man said. “As strong as my own, in a different way.”

  He warmed to this, a favorite topic.

  “Mine is the medicine of the buffalo. My visions tell the People where to hunt, how to find the herds. Your father’s medicine is that of the elk-dog. With this medicine, he controls the elk-dogs, so that men ride upon them to hunt or fight.”

  He pointed to some of the pictures with the metal bit worn as an ornament on the chest of Heads Off. The boy nodded. He knew that talisman well. All his life it had hung in the place of honor over his parents’ bed.

  “Tell me, Uncle,” said the boy suddenly. “How do you know where to find the buffalo?”

  White Buffalo almost gasped. This was a much more complicated question than it appeared. It involved the very heart of the holy man’s expertise and was not a question to be taken lightly. It implied deep soul-searching questions by the young man. White Buffalo shrugged.

  “The visions, of course.”

  He could tell that the youngster was deep in thought, but he was completely unprepared for the next question.

  “Uncle, how does one become a holy man?”

  Like a wave of water moving down a dry wash in the time of flash flooding, the answers came flowing over White Buffalo. Of course! Why had he not seen this before? A sensitive young man who carried the blood of two gifted ones, Coyote and Big-Footed Woman, besides that of Heads Off himself. Of course this one might receive the gift of the spirits.

  The holy man looked across, over the boy’s head, and his glance met that of Coyote. The little man’s face was squinted in his good-natured half-smile, but his eyes reflected more. Coyote understood what was happening. How long had he known?

  The pieces were falling together too rapidly, though they seemed to fit so well… he must have time… to pray and think, and seek visions.

  White Buffalo tried to assume an expression of serious dignity, though he wanted to leap and sing for joy.

  At last he was finding the answer he had sought so long. He turned back to the boy, trying not to speak too gruffly.

  “Come back tomorrow. We will talk.”

  There was satisfaction in the boy’s face, and in Coyote’s. And White Buffalo’s heart was very good.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Don Coldsmith was born in lola, Kansas, in 1926. He served as a World War II combat medic in the South Pacific and returned to his native state, where he graduated from Baker University in 1949 and received his M.D. from the University of Kansas in 1958. He worked at several jobs before entering medical school: He was YMCA Youth Director, a gunsmith, a taxidermist, and for a short time a Congregational preacher. In addition to his private medical practice, Dr. Coldsmith has been a staff physician at the Health Center of Emporia State University, where he also teaches in the English Department. He discontinued medical pursuits in 1990 to devote more time to his writing. He and his wife of thirty-two years, Edna, operate a small cattle ranch. They have raised five daughters.

  Dr. Coldsmith produced the first ten novels in the Spanish Bit Saga in a five-year period; he writes and revises the stories first in his head, then in longhand. From this manuscript the final version is skillfully created by his longtime assistant, Ann Bowman.

  Of his decision to create, or re-create, the world of the Plains Indians in the early centuries of European contact, the author says: “There has been very little written about this time period. I wanted also to portray these Native Americans as human beings, rather than as stereotyped ‘Indians’ As I have researched the time and place, the indigenous cultures, it’s been a truly inspiring experience for me. I am not attempting to tell anyone else’s story. My only goal is to tell a story and tell it fairly.”

  Look for Don Goldsmith’s novel, RUNESTONE, available in paperback from Bantam Books.

  Set in the first years of the eleventh century, RUNESTONE tells the story of two sturdy, swift-moving longships that have set sail from Norway with their handpicked crews, and are venturing across the great sea to Vinland and the colony of Straumfjord. But the real journey will only begin when a group of sailors pushes on into the waterways of the vast, uncharted continent itself—and into a historic rendezvous with a native culture unlike anything they have ever seen.

  Combining the grandeur of Norse adventure with the lush, lyrical atmosphere of Coldsmith’s tales of the People that form his towering Spanish Bit Saga (“Devastatingly assured writing, commented The New York Times Book Review), RUNESTONE is Don Coldsmith’s magnum opus: a novel with unsurpassed reach and range, one of the most satisfying reading experiences of the year.

  Turn the page for a preview of RUNESTONE by Spur Award-winner Don Goldsmith.

  Runestone

  1

  Nlils Thorsson stood in the foredecks, watching the other ship cleave her way through gray-green water. A white curl of foam spewed out of each side of the prow as she ran before the wind. Running with a bone in her teeth, the old men called it. It was a glorious feeling, the free-flying run of a well-built ship, looking alive as a bird in flight.

  It was easy, as he watched the Norsemaiden’s trim lines and the nodding of the tall dragon’s head on her prow, to see her as a living thing. The red-and-white sail bulged full-curving, filled with the wind’s push.

  The two sister ships raced forward, running parallel courses. The Snowbird, on whose deck he now stood, was slightly ahead.

  It had been a good voyage so far. Only once since they left Greenland’s south coast had the men been forced to turn to the oars. Even then, Nils thought, it might have been unnecessary. He suspected that the commander, Helge Landsverk, had ordered the stint at rowing only to test the mettle of his crews. Thirty-two oarsmen the ships each boasted, all hand-picked for the voyage. They had done well, and soon a freshening breeze had made it possible to unfurl the sails again to run with the wind.

  He could sense the shudder of resilient timbers under his feet when they struck a slightly larger wave. The ship seemed to raise her head for a moment, and then plunged back to her task. Again he felt the life within her slee
k hull. She was a living, breathing creature with a spirit of her own that seemed to communicate with his. Nils wondered if everyone felt this affinity for a good ship. Probably not. Some did, though. He could tell by the glow in the eyes of the old men when they told their sea tales of long ago.

  Why, too, did one ship have a different spirit, somehow, than another? These two, for instance. The Snowbird and the Norsemaiden were as nearly alike as the shipbuilder’s skills could make them, yet everyone knew they were different. Neither was better nor worse than the other, only different. As two women may be different, perhaps, he thought. Both beautiful and desirable, yet different.

  The Snowbird always breasted the swells as if she challenged the sea, asking for the contest, daring the legions of the sea-god Aegir to do their worst. She savagely reveled in the struggle. Perhaps it was only something in the painted eye of the dragon’s head above the prow. There was definitely a proud, aloof expression. But no, it was more than that. She did have such a spirit.

  Norsemaiden, on the other hand, was more sedate. Perhaps her responsibility as the flagship of the commander gave her a more mature dignity.

  Nils could see the arrow-straight figure of Helge standing in the bows. He had known Landsverk since they were boys. It was because of this friendship, in fact, that Nus now commanded the Snowbird.

  It was a great adventure that his friend had sketched out for him. Helge Landsverk, skilled as he was at navigation, had been eclipsed by the dazzling exploits of an older relative, Leif Ericsson. Leif had already led an expedition on the course they were now following, and had founded a colony on the new land. Vinland, Leif had called it, for the myriad of grapevines he found growing there.

  There were some who thought it a new continent, as large as Europe, perhaps. It was on this precept that Helge based his ambition. Let Leif explore the seas, establish colonies in the islands and extend the new religion that so obsessed him. He, Helge Landsverk, would push into the western continent itself, this Vinland that seemed so exciting. If grapes could grow, so could other crops. He spoke with admiration of Thorwald Ericsson, Leif’s younger brother, who espoused similar ideas.