Code of the West

by Aaron Latham

  The new son and his new father surveyed the tribe’s wealth, its horses. The great pony vault was a small box canyon that was an arm of the great canyon itself. They were a horse-rich village, which was the only wealth the Human Beings recognized. Jimmy could tell that his father took great pride in this valuable herd, so he took pride in it also.

  The Sun Chief led his son in among the horses, which shied and made way for them. Jimmy was a little nervous as he looked around at all the large animals. But his father was completely comfortable, and his calmness helped calm the son. The boy stayed close to the man. Standing at the center of the herd, the father made a sweeping gesture that took in all the horses.

  “Tuhuya,”he said in a deep voice that was almost reverent.“Tuhuya. . . Goddogs . . .Tuhuya . . .”

  “Tu-hu-ya,”Jimmy said hesitantly. God-dogs.

  His father nodded and smiled proudly.

  “Goddogs,” the red man said again.

  “Goddogs,” the white boy repeated.

  They kept saying the word over and over to each other . . . “Goddogs . . . Goddogs . . . Goddogs” . . . until the father was satisfied that his son had memorized this all-important name.

  Then the man led the boy up to a brown Goddog. The warrior patted the animal’s neck and rubbed its shoulders.

  “Dup-sik-ma”—the father pronounced the word slowly and clearly.

  “Dup-uh-uh”—the son tried and failed.

  “Dupsikma, dupsikma, dupsikma.”

  “Dup—sik—ma.”

  The boy said the word, but he had no idea what it meant, so he shrugged. The man understood and moved on to another Goddog, another brown one, and patted it, too.“Dupsikma.”

  “Dupsikma.”

  They moved on to a third brown Goddog, which reared as they approached.

  “Dupsikma.”

  “Dupsikma.”

  At last, the new Comanche thought perhaps he understood, but he wasn’t sure. He pointed to a brown Goddog, only a colt really, and tested his theory.“Dupsikma,” Jimmy said a little unsurely.

  The Comanche warrior nodded and smiled. Yes, yes, very good.

  Jimmy started pointing to one brown Goddog after another . . .“Dupsikma . . . dupsikma . . . dupsikma” . . . and his father kept nodding and smiling.

  When the boy’s enthusiasm for his new word finally wound itself down, his father led him to a light bay Goddog, whose neck he rubbed.“Ohaieka,” the red man said.

  “Ohaieka,”the white boy repeated.

  Looking around, Jimmy saw another light bay. He pointed in its direction.“Ohaieka?” he asked.

  The father hugged his son, lifting his feet off the ground. When his moccasins touched the earth again, the boy pointed at other bay-colored Goddogs . . .“Ohaieka . . . ohaieka” . . . over and over as if it were a new game. He was having so much fun that he almost forgot that he only had one eye.

  They moved on to a reddish-brown Goddog.

  “Ekakoma,”said the father.

  “Ekakoma,”echoed the son.

  Then the boy pointed to several other reddish-brownekakomas and pronounced the new word carefully.

  Then the father selected a yellow Goddog to pat.“Ohaesi.”

  “Ohaesi.”

  The father and son worked their way through the herd, the man teaching, the boy learning, the many words for the many kinds of Goddogs. At the same time, the new Human was learning how important Goddogs were to his people. He was coming to understand that one name wasn’t enough for such valuable godlike creatures. They deserved and had been given many names,dupsikma, ohaieka,ekakoma, ohaesi, dukuma, dunaki . . .

  Jimmy could tell that the Sun Chief was proud of his new son who was beginning to sound like a Human Being.

  One cool autumn afternoon, Jimmy knew the time had come for him to learn one more name of great importance. His own. The naming ceremony took place inside his father’s crowdedNumu-kahni, his Human-house, his tepee.

  Jimmy thought his new parents looked proud and handsome on this special day. Both his Human father and his Human mother were letting their hair grow once again, and so they looked more Human with every passing day. Now Jimmy knew that they had cut their hair to mourn for a son who had died of a fever. To compensate in part for their loss, they had a new son who was about to receive a new Human name. His blond hair was growing out, too.

  The village’s wizened old shaman lit a red sandstone pipe with an orange coal from the fire. He blew pale smoke up to heaven, down to earth, and then in the four directions. Then the chief spoke solemnly in the Human tongue, but Jimmy understood only the occasional word. The old man repeatedtumarumoa, meaning “much,” so often that Jimmy wondered if his new name might be just that: Much. He was already familiar with this word because the Humans used it almost too much. Much long, much short, much pretty, much ugly, much good, much bad. Jimmy had already decided that this constant repetition of “much” was very much in keeping with Human nature: for the Human Beings were an exaggerated people who did everything much—rode much, hunted much, warred much, hated much, and now loved much a white boy.

  The shaman lifted Jimmy so that the old face with two eyes stared directly at the new face with only one eye. They were nose-to-nose. And now the new Human did at last hear his new Human name for the first time. It was a much mouthful.

  “Yake-Ohachahnakatu.”

  Jimmy had learned thatyake meant “crying.” He knewoha was “yellow,”chah was “under,” andnakatu was “forelegs.” So Jimmy Goodnight had become Crying Yellow-Under-Forelegs. But what in the world did that mean? He was much puzzled.

  The old shaman lifted Crying Yellow-Under-Forelegs up over his head. He held him balanced there for a moment. Then he lowered the boy, who thought the ceremony was over. But the chief lifted Crying Yellow-Under-Forelegs up again, high over his head again, then lowered him again, then raised him again, three times, the magical number. The pointed Human-house was filled with happy voices as the Humans merrily congratulated the newly named Human Being and wished his Human father and Human mother well. The boy with the new name was proud but still puzzled. He didn’t have forelegs or even yellow armpits.

  The Human Beings filed out of the Human-house to form a great gyrating circle around the bonfire. Jimmy’s father led him into this throbbing ring. Soon the boy began to dance, trying to copy the leaps and struts of the other dancers. He felt that he now belonged to the Human circle. In the midst of the dancing, his father took hold of him and hugged him off the ground.

  The circle of dancers was loud with ritual cries of joy and thanksgiving. The white Human Being let out a cry himself, trying to sound the way the others sounded, and everybody laughed.

  82

  Jimmy Crying Coyote—who by now had learned the meaning of his own name—tried to wipe the stinging sweat out of his one eye. It was spring again and an unseasonably hot day. The eleven-year-old boy wished he could sit down and take a break, but he had to try to keep up with his yellow-painted father: not the Sun Chief but the Sun Shaman. When he had first been adopted, he had imagined that his father was a chief, but now he knew better. His father’s power flowed from another source. He was a spiritual rather than a political leader. Now that the old shaman who had named Crying Coyote had died, his father was the village’s highest-ranked medicine man. The boy wondered if the Sun Shaman even knew it was hot. Maybe not. Did the sun feel its own heat? The boy sure felt it.

  Crying Coyote wasn’t even certain what this long, hot hike was all about. After a year in the land of the Humans—it was spring again—he spoke the Human tongue fairly well, but he still didn’t understand everything. He was sure he had misunderstood what his Human father told him just before they set off on this walk. They couldn’t actually be going out to talk to the plant tribes. When the Sun Shaman finally did stop, Crying Coyote sank down gratefully on the hot red earth. His father smiled at him warmly.

  “We almost there?” asked the boy, still not quite at home speaking the Human
tongue.

  “We are there,” said his father.

  Crying Coyote looked around. He didn’t see anything that looked like a destination.

  “Where there?” he asked, still not grammatical. “I not see nothing.”

  “These plants,” said the Sun Shaman. “We call them friends-of- the-childless-woman. That is because they can help a barren woman become pregnant.”

  “Not understand,” the boy said.

  “If a woman cannot have a baby, she makes a tea from the leaves of this plant. She drinks it. It helps her plant a baby in her stomach.”

  Crying Coyote looked embarrassed. He lowered his gaze. Then he looked up to study this weed with sexual prowess. Upon closer examination, it looked to him like an ordinary horehound plant. Going a little closer, he noticed something else: these horehounds were alive with bees. Crying Coyote hated bees more than anything in the world. He had once climbed a tree and disturbed a swarm of bees, which stung him dozens of times. He fell out of the tree and writhed on the ground until his mother found him . . . but he tried not to think of his white mother these days. He touched the patch over his eye—and the Dipper beneath it—as he so often did when he felt un-comfortable or threatened.

  “Plants are like Humans,” his new father explained. “They live in families and tribes.” He pointed at a friend-of-the-childless-woman in the middle of the patch. “That one, you see, he is the chief.”

  Crying Coyote studied this chief. It stood about three feet tall, which made it about the same height as the other friends, no bigger, no smaller. The chief’s branches were crowned with small white flowers, but all the other plants wore similar crowns. Its oval-shaped leaves were downy and wrinkled, just like the leaves of its neighbors. The chief was not particularly handsome, but he wasn’t any uglier than his subjects. Crying Coyote couldn’t see any evidence of high rank, and wondered what his father saw, but he took his word for it.

  “This plant is also good after the baby comes,” the Sun Shaman said. “It can help mothers who cannot make milk. They make a salve and rub it on their breasts.”

  Embarrassed, Crying Coyote looked at the ground again. This weed didn’t look sexy, but it must be.

  “It is also good for colds,” the father continued. “For coughs.” He coughed to demonstrate, to make sure his son understood. “So a woman could take it for a cold and wind up getting pregnant.” The Sun Shaman beamed. “A good joke on her, do not you think so?”

  Warmed by his father’s sunny smile, Crying Coyote managed to overcome his embarrassment enough to grin.

  “Before we gather the herbs,” the Sun Shaman said, “we have to talk to them. We have to explain to them what we are going to do. We have to tell them that we need some of their leaves to help the Humans, but we will not take all the leaves. We will not kill any plants. Once they understand, they will be willing to help us. If they are not willing, then no amount of leaves will do our people any good. We must obtain their permission. So talk.”

  Crying Coyote just stared dumbly at the ugly horehounds and the frightening bees.

  “What is the matter?” asked his father.

  “I not know how talk the plant tongue,” the son said.

  “Just talk to them the way you would talk to a Goddog.”

  “I no talk Goddog either.”

  “But you still talk to Goddogs. You tell them to calm down. You tell them to speed up. You tell them to be good. The Goddogs do not understand your words, but they understand your tone of voice. They understand your meaning. You talk to them soothingly and they quiet down. Right?”

  “Hai.”Yes, that was right.

  “You must talk to the friends-of-the-childless-woman in the same way. You just explain simply and directly and sympathetically, and they will understand. The worthiness of your cause will be in your voice. Go ahead.”

  Crying Coyote looked at the horehounds and hesitated. He was still worried that he didn’t know how to talk to plants.

  “Go on,” his father said. “Get up close. Go among them. You must talk to the chief face-to-face.”

  Crying Coyote reluctantly moved a couple of steps closer to the friends-of-the-childless-woman. Then he stopped.

  “You are still not close enough.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Why not? I do not understand.”

  “Bees sting me.”

  “Kee, they will not.”

  “Hai,they do. They did before. They like me much good. I afraid.”

  “Then you must talk to the bees, too. You must tell them that you will not hurt them, and ask them not to hurt you in return. You must ask them to share the friends-of-the-childless-woman with you. And you must promise them that we are not plant-killers, just leaf- borrowers. Speak simply and directly and sympathetically.”

  “Which one chief bee?”

  “These bees have a woman chief, but she is not here. She is back at the bee village. So you must talk to all the bees in general.”

  Crying Coyote cautiously approached the bee-covered plants as if he were stalking an elusive prey. But he wondered who was actually going to end up being the hunter and who the hunted. He felt like a rabbit stalking a coyote. The horehounds were alive with bees from “head” to “foot.”

  “Do not be afraid,” his father said. “Bees can smell fear.”

  When Crying Coyote reached the first horehound, he stopped and tried to think what to say.

  “Keep going,” said his father.

  Crying Coyote moved on into the patch of horehounds swarming with bees. “Bees, I no hurt you,” he mumbled, “so you no hurt me.” He sucked in a breath. “I hope.”

  “Louder,” called his father. “They cannot hear you. Talk loud enough so they can hear you, but not so loud that you threaten them.”

  “Bees, I no hurt you,” Crying Coyote said a little louder, hoping it wasn’t too loud, “so you no hurt me. Please.” His skin felt cold, then it itched, then it ached in anticipation. “You no hurt me and I no hurt you.” He heard the bees buzzing louder and louder, working themselves up into a frenzy. He looked back at his father, frightened.

  “They are talking it over,” said the Sun Shaman. “You must explain to them why they should not go on the warpath.”

  “Please do not go on warpath,” Crying Coyote implored.

  “Don’t worry. Keep going. Go to the center of the plants where the chief lives.”

  The trip to the center of the horehound patch seemed longer than the long hike that had brought them to this dangerous ground. Crying Coyote was sure the bees were doing a war dance. And now he had bees in front of him, bees behind him, bees on his left flank, and bees on his right. He was cut off from any escape route.

  “Bees, you no hurt me, I no hurt you. We be much friends.”

  “Hurry up,” said the shaman.

  Crying Coyote tried to hurry, but he was still uneasy about all those bees feasting on horehound nectar.

  “Is that the way you hurry? Before you were a slow turtle. Now you are a fast turtle. Just have faith and go do your business.”

  Crying Coyote quickened his pace so that he covered the ground like a very fast turtle. When he finally reached the leafy chief of horehounds, he bowed his head and said nervously: “Excuse me—”

  “Sit down,” his father called. “Show respect.”

  Crying Coyote could think of nothing he wanted to do less than sit down in the middle of a war party of angry bees. Nonetheless he lowered himself slowly to the ground. He was sure he was going to sit on a bee. “You no hurt me, I no hurt you, you no hurt me . . .” The bees answered by buzzing louder and louder. Was it because he was now down among them? Or were they getting madder and madder? Glancing up, he saw bees buzzing directly over his head. Now he had stingers on all sides and even above him. The very air seemed to have turned to bees. What if he breathed one into his lungs?

  “Talk to the chief,” the Sun Shaman called. “Tell him what we want and why we want it.”

 
Crying Coyote took another deep breath. “Excuse me, Chief of the Friends-of-the-Childless-Woman, I ask favor. Human Beings need some leaves.”

  “Tell him why.”

  “We need leaves to not cough.” And the boy coughed to demonstrate. He was making every effort to help the chief of the horehounds comprehend his message. “Use leaves. No cough. Understand?”

  The plant chief swayed ever so slightly in a gentle breeze, and the bees buzzed.

  “Tell him what else,” his father called.

  Crying Coyote took an even deeper breath. He had been dreading this part. Now his tongue felt as though it were coated not only with danger but also with embarrassment. He coughed again.

  “Excuse me,” he began, “our no-child-women need leaves.”

  “Why?” called his father.

  “Leaves make them have babies.”

  “Tell the chief and tell the bees that Humans do not have enough babies. Tell them much Human women are barren. Tell them that is why we adopted you. Because we do not have enough babies of our own. Tell them we need much babies.”

  Crying Coyote wished he could speak the Human tongue as well as his father did. “Chief, Humans need more Humans,” he stammered. “Bees, you listen too, please? Much no-child-women. No much babies. You understand?”

  “That is right,” his father said. “But make your voice more gentle. Chant to the chief. Sing to the bees.”

  “You no hurt, I no hurt,” Crying Coyote said soothingly. “I no take all leaves. No hurt. I no kill plants. No hurt. I leave much flowers. No hurt. They make much seeds. No hurt. Much friends-of-the-childless-woman next year. No hurt. We share. No hurt. No hurt. No hurt.”

  Crying Coyote was struck dumb by what he saw: the bees began moving away from him.

  “Keep chanting,” his father reminded him. “Keep singing.”

  “Humans need Humans,” the son sang. “No hurt. Childless women need babies. No hurt . . .”

  He chanted on and on, repeating himself over and over, amazed at the behavior of the terrible bees, growing more confident all the time. He wondered if the bees could smell confidence the way they smelled fear. The swarm of bees did not abandon the patch of horehounds, didn’t pick up and move on, but they got out of his way. The insects nearest him moved to the backs of the plants, allowing him the front leaves, offering to share. The boy reached out to pluck a leaf—