Code of the West

by Aaron Latham

  “Kee!”commanded the Sun Shaman. “No, do not, not yet. You must first give the tribe of plants a gift, an offering. If you want something from them, you must first give something to them.”

  Crying Coyote thought a moment. “What I give? I no bring nothing.” He shrugged.

  “Pull out one of your hairs. Give them a golden hair from your head, and then they will give you their leaves.”

  Crying Coyote pulled out a hair. Ouch.

  “Lift golden hair up to the sun.”

  He obeyed.

  “Now place it solemnly on the ground.”

  He laid it down gently on the earth.

  “Now gather your leaves.”

  Crying Coyote reached out slowly, tentatively, and took hold of one of the chief’s leaves.

  “Kee,”said the Sun Shaman, “not him. Not the chief. You ask the chief’s permission, but you collect the leaves of less exalted plants.”

  The boy turned to a plant on the chief’s right and began plucking leaves. He went about his work cautiously, deliberately, solemnly.

  “Taste one,” his father said.

  Again the son hesitated. He didn’t really want to put a weed in his mouth. Overcoming his reservations, he bit off the tip of a hairy leaf and started to chew. He made a face.

  “Do not worry,” his father laughed. “You will not get pregnant. I promise.”

  Crying Coyote tried to smile. The horehound leaf tasted musky and bittersweet, with just a hint of mint. The boy thought it tasted like medicine. His tentative grin changed to a frown.

  “You do not have to eat any more,” his father smiled, “because you are not sick or barren.”

  Crying Coyote went back to picking leaves while keeping a watchful eye on the bees. “No hurt,” he chanted in a soft voice. “Help us. No hurt. Help us . . .” He took a few leaves from one friend-of-the- childless-woman, then moved on to another friend and took a few more leaves. And each time he changed horehounds, the bees politely got out of his way, moved to the back of the plant, and shared with him.

  “All of nature is talking all the time,” the Sun Shaman told his son and apprentice. “And all of nature is listening all the time. We must try to understand nature, and we must try to make nature understand us. We owe it to each other.”

  While Crying Coyote went on gathering leaves and calming the bees, he began to daydream about all the other animals he would like to talk to . . . horned toads . . . rattlesnakes . . . prairie dogs . . . coyotes . . . eagles . . . and those great, shaggy, humpbacked beasts that he had learned to call Human cattle . . .

  “You can even talk to rocks,” the Sun Shaman said. “And rocks can talk to you.”

  Crying Coyote dreamed of conversations with quiet boulders and noisy brooks, with proud mountains and mean anthills, with echoing caves and calm canyons. He wondered what he would say to them, how he would introduce himself, how he would start the conversation . . .

  “You talk to them the way you talk to bees,” the Sun Shaman said, as if he read his son’s thoughts. “The way you talk to horehounds. It does not make any difference whether it is a sunflower or the sun, you do it the same way. You talk the best you can and they will do the best they can. Hurry up. I want to go home.”

  83

  On or about the second anniversary of Crying Coyote’s coming to live among the Humans, he sat with his Human mother in their Human-house which at the moment served as a one-room schoolhouse. They were hard at work on an important task: the passing of the Human traditions from one generation to the next.

  The mother’s name was Wekeah. She had grown prettier as her hair had grown out and her face had gradually softened. And he had a sense that he was partially responsible for the change. Many Human females got fat in their middle years, but she still had a girl’s figure. The twelve-year-old boy was proud that his mom had not let herself go. It was an almost perfect spring day.

  “Tell me,” Wekeah said, “what is the Human body made from?”

  “From the earth,” said Crying Coyote.

  And so they rehearsed once again the Comanche catechism. It was also an opportunity for the boy to practice speaking the Human tongue. He knew much words by now, but he still had an accent, which he was trying to conquer.

  “And Human bones?”

  “From stones.” He heard his accent again and winced, so he tried again, “Stones.” No, it still didn’t sound quite right.

  “And Human blood?”

  “Mother,” Crying Coyote interrupted the lesson, “when will my father return?”

  “When the hunt is over. Now let us continue our study.”

  “But I feel-missing him.”

  Crying Coyote used the verbwusuwaruki, which he had come to understand was a combination of the verbs “to feel” and “to miss.” Humans found it one of the most moving words in the Human tongue. Crying Coyote missed his father, but he secretly enjoyed playing the man of the Human-house in his father’s absence.

  “We all feel-missing him,” she said. “A family should not be apart. But let us go on. What is Human blood made from?”

  “From dew.”

  “Hand,” she said, meaning “good,” and she raised her hand to underscore the compliment. Wekeah’s strict schoolmarm’s expression softened. “Now what are Human eyes made from?”

  “From deep, clear water.”

  “And the light in Human eyes?”

  “From the sun.”

  “And Human thought?”

  “From waterfalls.”

  “And Human breath?”

  “From the wind.”

  “And Human strength?”

  “From storms.”

  “And Human beauty?”

  “From the Great Mystery.” Now his expression changed, softened into shyness, and he looked down. He told his mother: “The Great Mystery was hand to you.”

  “Thank you,” said Wekeah, flattered but also slightly embarrassed.

  “You are much beautiful,” Crying Coyote said. He wanted to tell her that she was the most beautiful mother in the world. No, not just the most beautiful mother, but also the most beautiful woman in the world. But he couldn’t because the Human tongue did not possess superlatives. He appreciated that this quirk of the language reduced competition, but he nonetheless missed being able to say “most,” being able to bestow the ultimate compliment. All he could say was: “Mother, you are much, much, much beautiful to me.”

  Wekeah looked down, but she smiled. Crying Coyote smiled, too. Yes, it was good to be the male Human of the Human-house. Maybe it would be all right if his father continued his hunt for a while . . .

  But a distant cry interrupted his reverie.

  “The Writers are coming! The Writers are coming!”

  Soon other Human voices took up the cry and spread the alarm.

  “Writers! . . .Taibos! . . . Writers! . . .Taibos! . . . Writers!”

  Crying Coyote had originally been amused when he learned that Human Beings called white people Writers. Having studied the invading race of pale men and sallow women, the Humans soon realized that what made these inhumans strange and different wasn’t their skin color. Who cared about shades of coloring? What made the new inhumans really different was their habit of writing things down. Hearing the name now, shouted over and over, Crying Coyote was no longer amused but terrified. Because he knew the Writers were savages when they took to the warpath.

  Forgetting his manners, neglecting to take leave of his mother, Crying Coyote rushed out the flap door into the bright sunshine, which momentarily blinded him. He sneezed. When his eye adjusted, he saw Human women and children running.

  “Writers!” screamed the lone lookout as he rode into the village. “Writers! Writers! Writers!”

  Crying Coyote saw an army of Writers crest a small rise east of the village. Unfortunately, the Humans had forsaken their canyon fortress in order to follow the Human-cattle herds, so they were vulnerable. Aboveground, on the High Plains south of the cany
on, their tepees could be seen for miles. And they were vulnerable in another way also, since the men of the village were absent, off hunting the Human-cattle. The women and children had been left undefended because Writers did not normally come this far north. These onrushing Writers weren’t dressed as warriors. They wore no uniforms, no paint on their faces, but rather looked like simple cowboys.

  Crying Coyote didn’t admire their war dress, but he was impressed by their handguns that could be fired over and over without reloading. He was terrified for himself and for his mother. He had never felt-missing his father more than now. His mother grabbed his hand and the two of them ran together. Looking back, he saw the savage Writers making war on women and children. They shot them in the back as they fled.

  Then Crying Coyote heard the cavalry riding to the rescue, the Human cavalry, led by the Sun Shaman. This band of warriors rode their Goddogs into the gap between the Human women and children and the Writer rangers. Outnumbered, the Writers turned and fled. They werepihisichapu, running-hearts, cowards.

  That evening by the light of a campfire, Crying Coyote watched a Human woman open her buckskin dress, expose her breasts, and approach the flames. She carried a flint-blade knife. The Humans within the glow of the flickering light all fell silent. The woman dangled her breasts over the fire, and orange flames reached up eager to fondle them. She used the flint knife to slash her breasts over and over again. She began to wail. Crying Coyote knew she was mourning her eight-summers-old daughter who had been shot in the back by the inhumans.

  Soon other grieving women approached the fire and rained down blood into the flames. Their anguished cries grew louder and louder in the still night. Men also walked up to the fire, cut off their braids with knives, and threw them into the blaze. They grieved for sons and daughters, wives, mothers, sisters. All of the dead were women and children.

  The Humans were already making plans for revenge.

  84

  The seventeen-year-old Crying Coyote felt a new and welcome surge of energy and purpose in the village. The Humans were once again preparing to send off their warriors to prey upon their enemies. The braves painted their faces black, the color of death. And they dreamed of captives, scalps, blood, rape, and glory.

  Crying Coyote dreamed these dreams, too. He had long dreamed them in vain because he was too young to fight. So year after year, he had watched the warriors go off while he remained behind with the women and children and old men. But now at long last, he had been given permission to live the dream. He would be going on the warpath for the first time in his life.

  When all was in readiness, the warriors mounted their Goddogs and pointed them south. Crying Coyote rode beside his father the Sun Shaman. They rocked along near the middle of a long column that moved across the Staked Plain like a centipede crawling across God’s open hand. This column of warriors would converge with other columns at the base of the Double Mountain that rose at the edge of the plains.

  But Double Mountain was an illusive destination. In the mornings, Crying Coyote could faintly see the twin humps, pale and blue in the distance, like two giant Human-cattle grazing side by side. But these great, blue Human-cattle were ghost-cattle who disappeared by noon. Morning after morning, Crying Coyote’s journey seemed almost over, the end in view. But noonday after noonday, the end seemed to flee before him, to hide from him. This miracle of the mountains occurred because those peaks were magic. They had medicine. Of course, the whole world was magic. Everything in the world had medicine. But some things had stronger medicine than others. Double Mountain had medicine in proportion to its size.

  After a week of pursuing the Double Mountain, the Human war party finally caught up with it—or rather them. But the warriors never did catch the great blue-ghost Human-cattle that had been drawing them on. For as they drew near, these mountains turned back into normal, solid mountains, which were much too heavy to float in the air. And they changed from blue to brown. The newest warrior realized that he had lost the magic mountains by getting too close to them. Did all magic work the same way?

  Crying Coyote and the Sun Shaman rode into a huge instant city that spread itself at the feet of Double Mountain. The new warrior was stunned by the size of this metropolis. It was four or five times larger than his home village, which itself seemed large to him. He was sure this encampment must be the biggest city in the world. It had a population of almost 500 Human Beings: warriors, warriors’ wives, and even a few warriors’ daughters. The Sun Shaman’s band hadn’t brought their women, but many other bands had. This fabulous city sprawled on broken ground that rose and fell on all sides as the plains crumbled away into geological chaos and wasteland. Crying Coyote found it much, much beautiful.

  To celebrate the arrival of this new band of warriors, the city proclaimed a dance. The newest warrior Coyote dressed carefully and nervously. He owed his care and nerves to all the strange young Human females whom he had seen milling about the biggest city in the world. He had never seen so many girls in his life. He hadn’t been sure there were that many girls in the whole entire world. So he was excited, apprehensive, and anxious to see what would happen. He had finally been allowed to go on the warpath and that path had led him to this unexpected capital city of girls.

  He donned a breechclout, dyed blue, which hung to his knees. He stepped into leggings that were dyed red and decorated with remarkably long fringes in the Human manner. These decorative fringes were in turn decorated with beads, shells, bits of silver, and deer’s teeth. He put on his dancing shoes, buckskin moccasins, made more handsome by skunk tails attached at the heels. He felt handsome, then ugly, then manly, then too young, then brave, then scared. He was a teenager.

  At the center of the village, the older Human Beings formed a great circle. This ring surrounded two parallel lines of younger Humans, one row of males, the other of females, facing each other. As the drums began their mating thunder, the braves stepped forward to choose their partners.

  Crying Coyote cautiously approached a girl who appeared to be about his age. She wore a pale yellow buckskin dress decorated in the Human fashion with extraordinarily long fringe at the sleeves and seams. Her teenage breasts seemed to sprout long fringe tassels. On her dancer’s feet were beaded moccasins. She had gotten dressed up, too. The boy moved quietly, as if he were stalking the girl, as if walking silently would keep her from noticing him bearing down on her, as if she might become deer-frightened and run away at any moment. He was painfully aware of having only one eye, wondered if she found his patch ugly, would have liked to reach up and touch it, but didn’t want to draw more attention to his deformity. Did she see the small purple stars on his cheek?

  Reaching the girl, Crying Coyote designated her as his chosen partner by placing his hands around her waist. Those hands were shaking. He scolded himself for being such a timid warrior. Maybe he wasn’t ready for the warpath after all. She accepted him by placing her hands around his waist. He was as thrilled as he had been when he killed his first Human-cow. Well, it was a calf really. Soon the couple were swaying together in a savage quadrille. Crying Coyote danced well. His partner was even better. For a moment, he forgot he had only one eye.

  “I am called Crying Coyote,” he introduced himself.

  “I am called Lifts Something,” said the Comanche girl.

  “You have a much pretty name.”

  “Thank you much.”

  While they danced, they studied each other with quick but curious glances. She saw that his nose turned up slightly. He saw that her nose was straight. He saw a girl with hair the color of the night. She saw a boy with hair the color of the moon. He saw that she had two lovely brown eyes. She saw that he had one blue eye and a patch. He saw that she saw.

  “You are beautiful,” Crying Coyote said.

  “Thank you,” said Lifts Something.

  “You are much beautiful.” He had almost stopped thinking in terms ofmost. “Much, much beautiful,” he added.

  “Thank yo
u much.”

  “You are welcome much.”

  Crying Coyote could see her trying to think of a way to compliment him in return. She obviously couldn’t say he was much beautiful, not even handsome, not with that ugly patch.

  “You dance the Human dances much hand,” she finally said. But the tone of her voice conveyed more. It could not help revealing that she had not expected him to dance so well.

  “Are you surprised?” he asked.

  “Well, yourpui are—is—I am sorry—is blue.”

  “My eye is Human,” he said angrily. “All of me is Human!”

  Crying Coyote stopped dancing. He turned to leave the dance circle, but Lifts Something placed her hands on his waist. He stopped, tried to think clearly in spite of the anger and hurt, then turned back around. They danced.

  Afew nights later, they danced their war dance. Crying Coyote stared at the largest Human circle he had ever seen. It was made up entirely of women, as if it were some giant symbol for Woman. The men danced inside this great circle of womanhood.

  Yellow-haired Crying Coyote and his yellow-painted father made their way into the circle and joined the war dance. The boy searched the circle of women. He was looking for Lifts Something, but there were so many that it took him a while to find her. When he did, he danced in front of her. He jumped, he gyrated, he showed off. And inside he was jumping and gyrating and twisting, too, because he wasn’t sure whether she liked him or not.

  The next morning, over half a thousand Comanches rode south toward the land of the inhumans. Crying Coyote and Lifts Something rocked along side by side. He thought: She likes me! It was a miracle. The warpath was a wonderful place to fall in love. His face was painted black, the color of death. Her face was streaked with black. But their smiles belied the somber colors.