One shocking incident occurred during the Moon of Long Nights. A group of young men, hunting in the area near the winter camp, had discovered a cave. In the course of the exploration, they had roused a hibernating she-bear and her two cubs. In the melee, one of the hunters had been horribly mauled, and they had killed the bear and one cub. The other cub had escaped.
The hunting party returned in triumph, and to Owl’s horror, a feast of bear meat was planned. Among the People, the bear was a forbidden animal. After all, did not bears walk upright like a man? To kill a bear, except in self-defense, was very bad medicine. To actually eat the flesh was, in the mind of the young man, the equivalent of cannibalism.
Equally revolting was the spectacle of one of the hunters, he who claimed the kill. The man walked around the camp, flauntingly wearing the skin of the cub around his shoulders as a cape.
Owl was completely repulsed by this defiance of decency. Nothing in his captivity had he found so distasteful, except, of course, the abuse of the girl.
He watched from a distance the celebration and the dance reenacting the kill. He was sick, spiritually and physically. His strict training in the ways of the medicine man made the situation even worse for him. The deliberate infraction of a medicine taboo was beyond his understanding.
Willow, watching the dejected Owl, was sympathetic, but not touched so deeply. She observed the custom of the People by refusing participation in the feast. However, she was able to be more objective about the situation. Medicine taboos, she realized, were different for different tribes—for different individuals, even. She remembered a man of her own tribe whose taboo had been antelope. From some vision or vow of long ago, he avoided the flesh of the animal entirely. He had been called “Eats-no-Antelope” behind his back by the children, she recalled whimsically. At any rate, Willow decided, the medicine taboo of others is their own concern. She could be much more tolerant than the strictly disciplined Owl.
Despite such cultural clashes, the seasons moved on. The Moon of Snows was considerably milder than the People were accustomed to further to the north. There were only a few days when the snow lay on the earth. Likewise, the Moon of Hunger brought no major hardships. A few families fell back on the eating of dogs, the ever-present provision. Basically, however, enough meat and pemmican had been prepared and stored to supply the winter. Those who ate dogs did so by choice, or to enjoy a meal of fresh meat for variation in the diet.
When the warm south breezes of the Wakening Moon began to bring the smell of moist earth, Owl became impatient. He thought that the decision to move north, back to more familiar territory, would never come. But at last, late in the Greening Moon, the Head Splitters began to prepare for the move.
Owl was elated. He already felt that he was starting home. The details of planning an escape were secondary, compared to the fact that they were now headed for familiar territory. He wondered if White Buffalo had fired the grass yet. It was hard to tell. The plants in this arid region were so different. The young medicine man needed the familiar grasses of the prairie to make his estimate.
After the travelers reached the grasslands, there was one frustrating incident. The band was spread in a straggling column across the prairie when suddenly an excited murmur rippled down the line. Owl caught the word which he had learned the Head Splitters used for the People. His father’s own band, perhaps? If there were fighting, there was the possibility of escape. He looked around for Willow, but did not see her.
The band moved quickly into a compact group, children in the center, then the women, with warriors around the outside. Owl, with a few others who were captives of a sort, and potential troublemakers, were herded near the center of the circle. He felt a sharp prick on the side of his neck and glanced around. The old woman, the mother of Bull’s Tail, he now knew, showed him the point of her skinning knife.
“You will be silent,” she signed. “If there is fighting, you are the first to die!”
“Of course, Mother,” answered Owl, also in the sign language.
He knew fighting was unlikely. Both groups would have their women and children; and would avoid conflict. He had seen such chance meetings almost annually, and had watched, fascinated, from the center of the circle. Now he did so again, peering around and between the horses carrying baggage or pulling pole-drags.
A column of travelers began to file over the hill, heading in a generally northerly direction, but at a slightly different tangent from that of the Head Splitters. Three men moved their horses out from the Head Splitters’ band, and riders from the approaching group slowly moved out to meet them.
Owl recognized old White Bear, chief of the People’s Red Rocks band. The Red Rocks had frequent contact with the Head Splitters because of geographic location. The chiefs of the rival tribes pulled their horses to a stop and sat calmly in discussion. Owl could see the sign language fairly well. They would, he knew, comment on the weather, the availability of game, and the general condition of the grassland. There would be a few derogatory taunts by both sides, but no open conflict. He wondered if the Head Splitters would use the obvious taunt: the capture of the son of a chief of the People. He could see no such sign, and decided that he had not been mentioned. After all, this was not his father’s band.
The two enemy columns cautiously circled and parted. Owl watched the People file over the hill with a deep longing. If only he and Willow could escape within the next few suns, they should have little trouble finding protection with the Red Rocks. Even though neither of them belonged to this most southwestern band of the People, they were, after all, the People. Owl had many acquaintances in the Red Rocks band. He knew that they would be welcome in the lodge of White Bear, who was his father’s friend of long standing.
Yes, he mused, as the column started off again and he shouldered his packs. The time for escape must be soon.
7
Despite the feeling of urgency, the escape opportunity did not present itself immediately. The captives were closely watched. Owl finally realized that the possibility of protection by the Red Rocks band would be as obvious to their captors as to himself. He irritably resumed the routine chores required of him.
The Head Splitters established a summer encampment, and the easy-living activities of the Growing Moon and the Moon of Roses moved along. Hunting was good, and the prisoners were kept busy with the associated drudgery.
It was not until the Moon of Thunder that the escape came. The night was warm and the air fragrant. Owl was tired, and had rolled into his robe outside the lodge of Bull’s Tail without a thought of anything but rest.
Just past the setting of the partial moon, when the time of darkness was at its blackest, a soft voice whispered in his ear.
“Come quickly, man of the People! Here, carry this.” He took the bundle, tossed his robe over his shoulder, and sleepily stumbled after the graceful shape ahead of him in the night.
They threaded their way among the lodges, once pausing to threaten a restless dog. Soon they were on the open prairie, circling cautiously to avoid the guards at the horse herd. At last they stopped, breathless, and Willow swept into his arms in a warm embrace. Owl would have prolonged the moment, but she gently disengaged herself.
“Come,” she murmured, “we will stop later.”
They moved rapidly in a northerly direction, guiding on the real-star. For the first time, they were able to converse freely, a luxury beyond belief. They chattered happily as they traveled.
She had, Willow told him, been secretly building a supply of food to be used in the escape. That was the bundle Owl was now carrying. She had waited until the proper time, when Many Wives was exhausted from amorous activity, and the night was pleasant enough for Owl to be sleeping outside.
The constellation of the Seven Hunters had moved for some distance around the real-star when the girl stopped suddenly. They were in a small starlit meadow, the musical sound of a cold spring tinkling from the slope above. She moved to a level spot near the str
eam, and spread her robe on the soft grass.
“Here,” she announced, “we will spend our first night together.”
The young people were faced with a certain conflict. Both had grown up in the strict moral and ethical ways of the People, regarding marriage customs. Yet both realized the urgency of the situation. They must take whatever opportunity offered to cling together. By morning, they might both be dead.
They solved this minor dilemma simply and beautifully, by enacting the ritual of the People. Taking the corners of Owl’s ragged robe, they drew it around their shoulders, enveloping both in a single cloak, to signify the marriage bond.
Owl’s amateurish ineptness was offset by his gentle and considerate nature. As for Willow, her experience, although more extensive, had been totally without affection. Never was a marriage contract consummated with more sincerity and devotion.
Some time later, in the dark before the dawn, she whispered in his ear.
“Wake, my husband, we must travel.”
Sluggishly and regretfully, the two prepared for departure. A last look around the little meadow where their life together had begun, and they started northward. They struck a good pace, chewing strips of the dried meat Willow had brought as provisions. By dawn they had greatly increased the distance from the enemy camp.
But not enough, Owl was afraid. Looking ahead, he could see several days’ travel over the rolling plain. There was very little opportunity for hiding, as there would have been in more broken country among the rocky hillsides. Their captors were sure to follow, probably on horseback. They had made a major error in judgment in not stealing horses for the escape.
Owl was certain that the girl realized their situation too, but neither voiced doubts. They traveled as rapidly as was practical, trying to ignore the fact that behind them somewhere was a pursuing party of angry Head Splitters.
Owl first saw them from the top of a low ridge. There were six riders, intent on the trail of the refugees. They were closer than he had hoped, and would probably overtake the couple before Sun Boy’s torch stood overhead.
He looked ahead over the plain. There could hardly have been a worse area for hiding. In many places, gullies and small canyons would have furnished at least some help, but here there was nothing. A small stream wandered across the flat, and he motioned in that direction.
Their pace necessarily slowed as they attempted to conceal the back trail by stepping on rocks in the stream bed. Owl, with a sinking feeling, realized that this ruse, the only one available, would be obvious to the pursuers.
Then, like a gift in time of need, he saw a possible hiding place. A few hundred paces away, in the open grassland, lay the rotting carcass of a buffalo. An old bull, by the size of it. Probably one of the aging outcasts that followed the herds, gradually becoming weaker with advancing infirmities until pulled down by wolves. The fugitives turned aside, attempting to leave as little sign of their passing as possible.
Hurriedly, they approached the remains. As Owl had hoped, the dry air of the high plains had preserved the skin somewhat. Coyotes and vultures had stripped a good portion of the meat from the skeleton, but the massive rib cage was intact. The drying skin was pulled tightly across the bones like a lodge cover, and the huge body cavity was empty, cleaned out by the carrion eaters. He peered inside, making certain there was no real-snake or other creature of harm. Then the two squeezed through.
The quarters were cramped and smelly, but secure. The more exposed portion of their little retreat was camouflaged somewhat by stuffing Owl’s ragged robe up against the inside of the opening. The fur blended well with that of the dead carcass, or at least Owl hoped so.
He peered through a jagged hole in the skin, and soon saw the horsemen, intently following the trail in the stream bed. They had not been deceived in the least. He identified Many Wives, and a couple of his friends. Bull’s Tail was also present, and this proved encouraging to Owl. At least, he might be able to furnish them some protection from the excesses of the hot-tempered Many Wives.
As the search party came to a point opposite their hiding place, one rider reined his horse around and cantered easily over to examine the dead buffalo. The fugitives crouched, hardly daring to breathe, as he circled the carcass. Finally, he thrust a spear into the body cavity, as if to satisfy his curiosity, and then, with scarcely a backward glance, turned and loped away.
Owl had felt the girl flinch against him when the spear thrust came. He looked questioningly, but she smiled at him.
“It is nothing, my husband.”
He saw a narrow trickle of blood down the shapely calf.
“It is only a scratch,” she reassured again.
The search party had now drawn away and were nearly beyond the shoulder of the next hill. Owl was pondering their next move. The cramped; odorous quarters were becoming unpleasant.
As soon as the Head Splitters were out of sight, they crawled from the hiding place and moved to the thin shelter of the willows along the stream. The girl limped only a little.
No sooner had they reached the dubious concealment, however, than voices were heard again. The warriors were returning. The man who had investigated the dead buffalo was leading the way, gesturing and pointing. They headed straight for the carcass. Owl caught the words “blood” and “spear,” and realized the unfortunate quirk of fate. The man had noticed fresh blood on the point of his spear, and realized that a dead and dried buffalo carcass does not bleed.
They circled the carcass, and one man, apparently a skilled tracker, discovered a drop of blood on the grass. He straightened, glanced around, and then pointed directly at their hiding place.
In a moment the two were surrounded, seized roughly, and thrown to the ground. Many Wives, livid with rage, stood over the helpless Owl, as others tied his hands.
“I will stop this offspring of a dog from stealing men’s wives,” he shouted.
He grasped the thong holding Owl’s breechclout and quickly severed it with his knife. His hand grasped at the young man as Owl struggled helplessly.
A blood-curdling scream from Willow caught the attention of Many Wives. He straightened to see the girl twist free from her captors and spring across the prairie. Two men leaped back on their horses in pursuit as the others watched, laughing.
In horror, Owl saw the horsemen approach the running girl. He realized that she had attempted to save him by drawing attention to herself. She dodged between the horses and they wheeled to catch her. One man swung his club and the girl was tossed into the grass like a broken doll. They turned and trotted back.
Owl did not care what happened now. He felt that his life had just ended. An argument developed between Many Wives, who insisted on revenge, and Bull’s Tail, who claimed ownership of the prisoner. For a moment the two nearly came to blows, and then Many Wives petulantly struck out at the prisoner with the handle of his war club. It caught the helpless Owl along the temple, and merciful blackness descended.
8
When Owl regained consciousness, it was because of a continuous jarring motion which caused his head to throb. Even then, a thought flitted through his mind. He was thankful that it was his head and not his groin that throbbed. Cautiously, he attempted to reassure himself that his anatomy was intact, and found that he was bound, his hands in front of him.
He was riding on a pole-drag, and his companion was the old woman. Slowly, he realized that he had been brought back to the camp of the Head Splitters, and that the band was now on the move again. He wondered how long he had been unconscious. More than a sun, he thought. He was still quite confused and snatches of memory kept returning unexpectedly.
The memory of the beautiful Willow tormented him, and for a time he wished that he had been killed, too. The ecstasy they had shared had been all too brief. Gradually he began to realize that the girl would want him to keep his courage. She had never wavered. He would owe it to the memory of this courageous woman, his wife of one ecstatic night, to keep his spirit. He m
ust try again to escape.
The direction of travel was southwest, bending gradually more westerly. The band marched as if a long journey was anticipated.
He was treated harshly, though he was given reasonable amounts of food. Never was there a time when he was not watched closely by at least one of the women. His hands and feet were constantly tied except for very brief periods. The wrists and ankles became chafed and raw. Owl stopped struggling to free his bonds for the simple reason that the attempt was too painful.
As his strength returned, he was sometimes allowed to walk, with hands still tied, alongside the old woman’s pole-drag.
The journey continued. They were much further to the west than in the previous season. Further west, Owl believed, than any of the People had ever been. At least, none had ever returned to tell of it.
One day, with Sun Boy’s torch directly overhead, a murmur of excitement flickered down from the front of the column. Apparently they were nearing a destination of some sort.
Owl raised his head and peered forward, to see a village ahead. It consisted of lodges that were permanent in appearance, like the pole and mud lodges of the Growers. The People often visited tribes of Growers along the larger streams of the plains. Skins, furs, and meat had been traded for products of the farming tribes for many generations.
This permanent-appearing town, however, consisted of lodges of a type Owl had never seen before. They were taller than those of the Growers, flat on the tops instead of arched, and were squarish rather than round. Strangest of all, there seemed to be no door-skins. In fact, Owl could see no way at all to enter these lodges. Door-skins on lodges of the People always faced southeast. Owl thought at first perhaps all the doorways were on the other side.
As they passed among the strange dwellings, however, it became apparent that there were no openings on any side. He finally realized, after seeing some small children standing on top of the lodges, that this must be the mode of entry. His observation was verified by noting a young man climbing up the outside of a lodge on a device made of poles tied together.
Buffalo Medicine Page 4