He looked down at the broken white king, and then, impulsively, knelt beside him and threw his arms around his neck. “I love you, my brother,” he cried. “Why must you leave me? You are scarred on my heart forever. I shall never forget you.”
He stood up and sang the stallion’s death song. His voice, lamenting, echoed clearly, word for word, off the cliff. “My brother, you are gone. Go then. Depart. Tell them of the other world that I loved you. You were my god. But now you are dead. Why did you die? You have broken my dream. You have destroyed my vision. You have confounded my helper. Now I am nothing. I have said.”
He wept.
After he had wept a sufficient time, he arose and took his knife and cut off part of the scarlet mane between the ears as the white mare of his vision had commanded him to do. As he cut, he noted that under the coat of white hair a strip of black skin ran down the stallion’s back. It reached all the way to his tail.
“Ae, the sign of the First One. Now I see. Now I know. It tells why he was the father of so many spotted ones, perhaps even of brave Black One.”
Next he slit open the belly of the stallion and took away the heart. It was still filled with blood and he drank therefrom. Then he cut a few slices off the heart and ate them.
“This I do to bring our spirits together. Now I can die a brave one.”
Again he looked down at the broken white one. Slowly a glittering white-gray look of death stole up the horse’s muzzle. Watching it, a feeling of revulsion passed over No Name. He shuddered.
“Horse, I give you to Wakantanka. I shall let you lie upon the rocks. I do this that the elements may take you back: the spirits your white coat, the air your lungs, the earth your blood, the rocks your bones, the worms your flesh. It was from all these that you were formed and it is to all these that you must return. Life is a circle. The power of the world works always in circles. All things try to be round. Life is all one. It begins in one place, it flows for a time, it returns to one place. The earth is all that lasts. I have said. Yelo.”
PART FOUR
THE FATHERS
1
He stood up, listening in the evening air.
A new voice spoke to him. It seemed to come from the piece of scarlet mane he held in his hand. The voice spoke in the manner of his father Redbird, quietly, with a sweet gentle air. “Where is your wife Leaf?”
“I have lost the white horse that was promised me. My heart is on the ground.”
“Find your wife Leaf and it will be given you.”
“The white mare of my vision said I was to catch the great stallion. Yet he is dead.”
“Obey the voice.”
“The white mare of the silver tail has tricked me. Perhaps she means to trick me again in the second part of the vision. Perhaps my father need not die at last.”
“Live inward. Grow inward. Pass into that place where there is nothing but joy which makes life good. Do this and it will be given you.”
“I love my father dearly and do not wish to kill him. What shall I do?”
“Obey the voice. Where is your wife Leaf?”
“It is fated. I cannot weep. I must do that which is asked of me. Yelo.”
He made a circlet of the piece of scarlet mane and thrust it under the belt of his clout. Then, rolling up his war bridle, he crossed the sticky ground and went in under the fallen cottonwood and entered their cave.
The cave was empty. He stood stunned for a time.
At last his eyes moved and he began to see. The dirt floor underfoot was slimy with mud. The fire was out. The store of dried meat was gone. Only the new clothes which Leaf had made were left, hanging from a peg driven high into the wall.
“The flood has driven her out.”
He looked for footprints in the entrance. There were none. The waters had washed them away.
He stepped outside. “Surely she would not have gone down into the flood. She would have gone in the other direction.” He got down on hands and knees and crawled further under the cottonwood and worked his way up the ravine. In a few moments he climbed above the high-water mark. Searching, eyes glittering, he found her footprints. He followed them to where they led to a sheer wall. Glancing up, he saw where she had scrabbled to the top. Bushes hung down, half-torn out by the roots. A swallow hole had been ruptured open by a handhold. A snake hole had been widened raw by a toe.
He hurried back down the ravine, and going around, climbed to the top of the cliff. He found the place where she had gained the precipice. It was almost the same place from where the stallion had taken his final leap. Rain had nearly obscured her moccasin prints in the wet ashy soil. “Ah, the flood forced her out before the storm was over.”
He followed the footprints down through the meadow and up over the tops of the three bluffs. They ended in a cut where the fire had missed some green grass.
He was about to part the leaves of a gooseberry bush, when he heard the cry of a baby. It was a cry strong with protest.
“It is a man child,” he whispered. “Already he knows there is much to overcome.”
He peered through the three-eared leaves.
Leaf was handling a pink infant in a loving manner, washing it with the palm of one hand while holding it with the other. The baby had fat arms and legs, and it wriggled and kicked rhythmically as it cried. Its black hair lay slicked back, and where she had not yet washed its body the skin had a glazed shine. Its navel cord had been neatly tied back with a buckskin thong. Plainly to be seen too was the spot of the Ancient Ones, a purple darkening in the skin at the base of the spine which always denoted the true Yankton. Beside Leaf on the grass lay the afterbirth, a puddle of silken flesh. The baby had just been born.
With delicate regard for her privacy, he withdrew a few paces. Then, to let her know someone had come, he coughed lightly.
The crying of the baby was instantly shut off.
Afraid that she might harm the baby, he quickly cried out, “It is your husband. I am coming.”
The moment she removed her hand from the baby’s mouth it began to bellow again. “Wait, my husband.”
Over the baby’s howling he heard rustling behind the gooseberry bush, then heavy breathing.
“I am ready, my husband. Come see your son. Our firstborn has arrived.”
He stepped into the enclosure. The afterbirth had vanished, buried in the earth. The infant was covered with a robe and lay in her arms. The moment No Name loomed over it, a shadow, the infant fell silent. It stared up blinking, unseeing, its bluish-black eyes slowly sliding off to one side. Leaf looked down at it, then smiled a wide white smile up at No Name. The skin over her high cheekbones shone a healthy rose-brown. Her eyes were milky with mother love.
He examined the infant point for point. “The skin of the child is like the inside of a lip. Pink.”
“The skin will darken in a few days in the proper manner. It is the way of all fresh-born.”
“Its hair also has some red in it.”
“Have you forgotten, my husband, that we are related to the buffalo? They also are born red into the world and then turn brown after a certain time.”
“His nose seems fallen.”
She glanced down at the nubbin nose with its two small holes. Smiling, she gave it a tug. “All Yankton mothers know that a child’s nose must be given a pull every morning until it has passed four winters. By then it will begin to rise.”
“Its eyes have a strange color.”
She pretended to be dismayed at his remarks. “Does he not please you, my husband?”
“Have you presented him to the great directions?”
“Even unto the earth and the sky.”
“Remove the robe. I wish to see if he is perfectly formed.”
She slipped the robe aside, shyly. The baby lay a moment with its fat arms and fat legs outspread. Its tiny phallus stood up like the opening curl of a wild turnip. She saw the risen flesh and after a moment modestly covered it. “Is he not a whole child?”
> “He will make a fine son.” No Name toyed with his rolled up war bridle. “I am glad he has come. You are well?”
“When I finish clothing the child I shall be ready to leave for our home beside Falling Water.” She gave him a most winning look, her face flushed with love and trust. “Does he not please you, my husband?”
He reached down and touched the child’s plump belly with a forefinger. “When we return to our home I will bring a horse to my uncle Moon Dreamer and ask him to give our firstborn his name.”
Her face filled with joy. “I am glad, my husband. Thank you, thank you.”
Then shyly, quietly, she began to dress the baby. She laid him in a soft calfskin clout, hair against the skin, and poured fresh sand under his feet to catch the excess urine. Next she wrapped the fur robe tightly around him, placed him on a cradle board, and, pulling the halves of the quilled cover snugly together, laced up the thongs. When she finished, all that could be seen of him were his luminous liquid-blue eyes and a shiny ruddy face. The baby remained quiet. He seemed to like the touch of soft fur on his skin.
No Name watched in pride. There was nothing his mother Star could have found to criticize. Leaf had learned her lessons well from Full Kettle.
Her eyes were on him. “Is the white horse ready to ride?”
His face clouded over. “I have a sad thing to tell.” He dropped his rolled up war bridle to the ground to show he had no further use for it. “The white one did not want to live with his red brother. His spirit soul would not let him wear the Yankton war bridle.” No Name told her all that had happened. “Thus we have no horses. We will have to go on foot. It will be a long and weary journey. Will you be strong enough to carry both the papoose and the parfleches?”
“Do not worry, my husband. I am not one to complain.”
“It is not manly for a husband to bear burdens. A man must lead the way with his weapons and be ready to defend his family at all times.”
She laughed merrily at him. “How strangely you talk, my husband. Even after I have given our baby suck, neither he nor I will be any heavier than when I climbed the cliff to come here. Even with all the parfleches on my back.” She stood up and bound a wide leather belt tightly around her middle. “I am ready.”
“On foot we shall be at the mercy of those who have horses.”
“My husband, look behind you. Is that not our sorrel feeding on tree leaves?”
He turned slowly.
Looking down at them from the rim of the cut stood One Who Follows. A spray of hackberry leaves was in his mouth, while the cut lariat, still tied to his pad saddle, hung to the ground. The sorrel was so sharply outlined against the clear blue evening sky that No Name could see big humps over his back and shoulders where hailstones had struck him. The sorrel nickered at them. The nicker had in it quiet mild protest at being neglected so long.
No Name laughed, showing glittering white teeth. “Well, well, One Who Follows. I see your name still fits you. It is good. My wife and I were speaking of a horse we might use.” No Name whistled low, coaxingly. “Come.”
Lowering his head, pebbles rattling at his heels, the sorrel slid down the side of the cut and walked obediently toward him.
No Name removed the sorrel’s pad saddle and scratched his hide. He also stroked him under the flowing yellow mane. With tender fingers he soothed the lumps over his back. No Name said over his shoulder, “Wife, never have I had a more faithful friend in trouble or battle. Neither fire nor flood could tear him from me. He is a true Yankton.”
Leaf smiled a slow side smile. “Perhaps it is as my father Owl Above has said. A castrated horse is no longer loved by either the female or the male fourlegged and thus seeks the companionship of the twolegged.”
No Name sobered. He petted the sorrel some more. “Horse, when we arrive at my father’s lodge I will tell him about you. He will have an extra eagle feather to put in your mane.”
A low pathetic nicker sounded behind them.
No Name snapped around. So did Leaf. There above them, on the rim of the cut, exactly where the sorrel had appeared a moment before, stood Black Stripe, Leaf’s dun mare. Black Stripe stood with her head down, ears flopped forward, nose turned slightly to one side, as if trying to understand what was going on between the sorrel and the man. She was gaunt from the long ordeal of running.
The sorrel lifted his head with a jerk. He whinnied, loud and joyful, then broke away from No Name and ran for the mare. The mare in turn, at last sure she had seen right, that the sorrel was her lost chum, whinnied loud in reply. She slid down the embankment on all fours. The two met with a rough butting of bluff chests. They crossed their necks in affectionate greeting, began to nip at each other in love.
Tears came into No Name’s eyes as he watched them.
But Leaf laughed. “Ha-ha! so the silly one has returned, has she? See how she nearly falls down from thirst and hunger. It it good. It is what the old fool mare deserves. A maid of good sense never elopes. I have said.”
No Name then had a different thought. “Hi-e, perhaps the mare already carries the great white one’s child. Perhaps that will be the horse the white mare told of.” He cupped his hand to his left braid and set himself to listen to his charm.
Leaf broke in on his musing. “We will have to let the mare graze a few days before we can use her. Also, let us hope she will not have a white colt with a scarlet mane when she foals. We have had enough of the wild wakan one.”
“Ha!” No Name cried. “I have forgotten.” Quickly he got out the circlet of scarlet mane that he had hidden under his belt. He held it to his ear. “I have a new helper. It is from the wakan one himself. It will tell me if she carries a colt by him.” He listened closely.
Practical Leaf, however, picked up the war bridle from the ground where No Name had dropped it and quietly went over and secured the joyful sorrel and mare. She tied both of them to a sapling hackberry. Some tufts of green grass grew at the foot of it.
No Name continued to listen closely.
A heavy groan of a female in labor came from below them in the cut. The groan was profound, dolorous, sounding as if coming out of the last extremity of flesh.
No Name looked at Leaf, black eyes opening in big wondering circles.
Leaf also stood as one transfixed.
“Woman, it was not you?” he finally asked.
“Foolish man, our child has already come.” Then she added, her willow-leaf eyes narrowing in scorn, “Unless there is to be twins.”
His eyes wicked from side to side. “Perhaps it is someone caught by those of the underworld and calling for help.”
Leaf clapped hand to mouth. “I have forgotten. Only now I remember. When our son was about to break into the world, and I lay calling for help from the moon being, I heard a sad groan behind me. I thought it was my guardian spirit who had come to help me groan. But now I know.”
“What do you know?”
“My husband, I know it now as the groan of a mare giving birth.”
“Where do you see such a mare?” he demanded, looking around.
She flashed him a mischievous smile. “Has my husband suddenly become bashful that he cannot look upon a female giving birth alone? Look in the plum bushes below.”
He gave her a fierce look; then, head proud, started for the brush below. He moved on tiptoe, soundlessly, choosing the larger stones to step on.
Parting the branches of the plum thicket, narrow eyes glittering, he saw flesh shining on grass. He couldn’t quite see what it was, so he pushed farther through the stiff prickly twigs. Leaning down for a closer look, he finally made out a sack of pale diaphanous skin. Inside lay a curled-up colt. It was a bag of waters, unbroken, and the colt inside was dead. “Ahh-h-h,” he said, and sank to his heels.
After a moment, collecting himself, he picked up a stick and poked into the silken envelope. The envelope broke and syrupy fluid spilled across the grass. With his fingers he widened the rent for a better look at the baby ho
rse. It was a female. He drew out one of its rear legs. The leg was already cold, stiff. When he let go of it, it snapped back into place. He lifted the colt’s short plume of a tail. It was reddish. He opened the rent farther and saw that the colt’s hair was a light gray. Except for a somewhat thin rump the colt was perfectly formed.
“I do not understand, my helper.”
He looked up. Some ten steps away stood the white stallion’s favorite mare, the light-gray with the white hooves. Twinkling Feet looked even more gaunt and bony than Black Stripe. She stood trembling, as if about to collapse. Her flanks were spotted with shiny film and blood.
She heard him move and turned her head, nickering weakly.
Thinking she might be an easy catch in her weakened state, he approached a few steps, holding out his hand.
She let him come to within an arm’s length, then up came her head and her tail lashed twice against him.
He stood. He shook his head. “I can see you are not happy, favorite one. Well, I know another who is not happy. It is a sad thing to lose so fine a colt. It is all from the running. It was not good. Yet the gods told me to catch your master.”
He withdrew from the plum thicket and called back to tell Leaf that he had found another horse.
Leaf stepped out from the gooseberry bushes. “Twinkling Feet was one of the wild ones?”
“She was his favorite wife.”
“Can you catch her?”
“She is not worth catching. She will die by morning.”
“It would be a good thing to arrive at the door of your father’s lodge with three horses.”
“What would you have me do?”
She went back into the gooseberries and searched her par-fleches. After a bit she found what she was looking for, a small leather case and a rawhide strap, and brought them to him. “Sounds The Ground gave me a small gift of corn against an evil day on the trail. Here is also a strap I made while you were seeking the stallion.”
“Ho, now I see I have a wife who is full of pleasant surprises. What else have you hidden?”
Conquering Horse Page 30