The Sacrifice

by Diane Matcheck

  When they came to a grove of aspen, she made signs to the hatchet owner and the old scar-throated one that she needed to pass water.

  The party halted and dismounted. Some spread robes and sat down to eat. Strong hands hoisted her from the roan to her feet. The scar-throated man followed her into the trees and untied her hands.

  He said something to her in a startling voice that was really two voices at once, a sort of squeak above a deeper, gritty voice.

  She squatted and worked her breechcloth aside.

  They did not stop again until long after dark. For sleeping, they tied one of her wrists to the two-voiced man, and the other to the hatchet owner. She was awakened what seemed an instant later to push ahead in the darkness.

  On the second night, as they were saddling their horses, the animals began to whimper and tremble. The leader’s mare and a paint gelding collapsed to their knees and rolled in agony. The girl saw Bull straining his head back to chew at his saddle, and she walked toward him.

  The two-voiced old man followed on her heels and with a hand on her arm pulled her around.

  “The saddle is hurting him,” she said in Apsaalooka.

  The other warriors watched warily. Apparently none of them understood Apsaalooka, but Two-voices was trying.

  They are in pain, she signed, nodding her head toward the other horses. The men looked at her and one another. “Take the saddles off,” she demanded. “It will not hurt your buttocks to get a little sore.”

  The sudden pinched expression on Two-voices’ face told her he did understand Apsaalooka. She blanched, expecting a blow, but he turned to consult with the sharp man. The leader was obviously displeased, but he shouted something at his men, and to her amazement, the saddles were removed. She wondered if these men somehow understood that she was someone to be respected.

  They kept the same grueling pace for days, stopping rarely except for a brief rest at night. Two-voices never left her side. Traveling by day, by night, by night and then again by day, with so little sleep, she lost track of time. One landscape blurred into the next, and she began to pick out one big landmark for every stretch they traveled during light, something that could be seen from a distance—a river, a mountain. She would wait until they had passed it and crane her neck around and look at it until her eyes burned.

  The warriors must have guessed what she was doing, but they made no attempt to stop her—perhaps because the notion was so ludicrous that she would escape to see that mountain or river again.

  Soon the mountains and trees gave way to long, flat hills, spiked with tough grass, cactus, and sage. They rode for two or three days through this barren land, along a shallow river. Then the scrub turned to long prairie grass, and that evening she spotted a huge rock formation. As they approached, it took the shape of a big bluff, thrusting out of the plains. Beyond it a tall spike of rock jutted into the sky like a giant lodgepole. These cheered her, for they could be seen at least half a day away, and could never be mistaken.

  That evening, she realized how important those rocks would be to finding her way home, when they turned away from the river, past the bluff and the giant lodgepole, away from all landmarks.

  Dawn revealed only an endless prairie of grass, waving in the wind, rolling as far as the eye could see. All she had to guide her now was the direction of travel: toward the rising sun.

  The horses were tired, and the heat and lack of water added to their discomfort. The next night the sharp-faced leader allowed the party to sleep almost until sunrise.

  They were riding again by the time the Morning Star began to fade. Although she was exhausted, the warriors’ manner snapped her fully awake. Something was about to happen.

  Not far into the morning the leader slid off his horse, and lifted the pipe he always carried in his left hand. The other men also dismounted, and two of them kindled a flame and held it to the grass. The fire licked across the prairie for a time before withering out, leaving a swath of charred ground.

  The men thrust their hands into the still-smoking grass and smeared charcoal on their faces. Then they sprang onto their horses’ backs, and with a great shouting raced off with her on the trail of the fire. This could mean only one thing: the Pawnee village was over the next rise.

  15

  Out of big, round lodges that looked like hills the Pawnee people streamed, shouting as they ran. The warriors trotted their horses into the center of the village.

  As the crowd closed around her, she half expected to be jerked from her horse and killed, but no one touched her. They stood back slightly and fell silent, as if in fear or awe. All eyes followed her as she passed. Perhaps they were staring at the sight of the grizzly-claw necklace hanging on such a slight girl. She straightened her shoulders, trying not to show fear.

  The party advanced through the village and halted before the lodge of a man with a slight leering smile on his lips. They dismounted, and the sharp man draped the grizzly robe across Bull’s back and led the horse forward. The leering man looked Bull and the robe over as if he had just bought them. The girl watched helplessly, but sure of at least one small satisfaction as the man bent to tether Bull by his lodge. The man let out a most undignified yelp as Bull’s teeth sank into his buttock.

  The sharp one and Two-voices escorted her through the tunnel-like entrance into the dark lodge. Bull’s new owner followed, carrying the robe, still leering in spite of the bite. When he walked up and stood nearly touching her, she realized that he was not smiling at all. Something was wrong with his face that made his lips curl upward.

  He sent away several women and children who were inside. The lodge was strange to her; it was a big dome, like the night sky, much larger than a tepee, large enough for thirty or forty people to live in. Except for a pillar of light in the center pouring through a smoke hole onto a fire pit, the lodge was dark.

  She watched her robe as the leering man set it on a bench against the wall. He knelt by the fire pit, scraped away the ashes, and with his breath awakened the coals into flames. He stoked it into a large fire, and the girl now saw that the fire pit was surrounded by a ring of tree trunks reaching to the roof. Many more tree trunks circled around the edge of the lodge, supporting a ceiling of woven saplings and thatched grass.

  All were silent. With long fingers the leering man unwrapped a large hide. The sharp man handed him the pipe he had carried. The ear of corn and the hawk were cut off the sharp man’s shoulders, the hair rope untied, and all placed reverently on the hide. The leering man tied them into a bundle and placed it on a platform against the wall opposite the entryway. It was a sacred bundle, she realized. The man who always seemed to be smiling must be a priest.

  The men seated themselves around the fire, waiting for something.

  A boy burst into the lodge. Two-voices gave him a stern look and said something in his odd-sounding way. The priest stood, lit a bowl of buffalo fat and sweet grass, and held his hands over the smoke. He beckoned her with spidery fingers to move forward through the smoke to the sacred bundle. Then he bade the boy walk through the smoke.

  Was she to be married to this boy? It seemed the only explanation. But why had all those men journeyed for so many days to capture a bride for this boy? Why didn’t he marry one of his own kind?

  Perhaps there was something wrong with him. He was about her age and, like her, tall, though not as thin. Like the men, he wore his hair almost completely shaven—nothing was left of it but a stripe sticking straight up in a roach from his forehead to the nape of his neck, where it grew gradually longer and hung like a crest of feathers. His large, long-lashed eyes looked girlish and frightened, she noticed disdainfully. He smiled out of the corner of his mouth at her. She looked away.

  The two-voiced old man might have been the boy’s father or uncle, for he came and stood next to the boy with a hand on his shoulder and seemed to be reassuring or instructing him. The boy looked up at the old man with pride.

  The priest opened the sacred bundle and
removed a pot of red powder. He mixed the powder with fat and, using a hide dauber, rubbed this grease-paint on her arms. She struggled angrily, but the sharp man and Two-voices held her firmly. The priest reached out to smear the red over her face and she squirmed, trying to turn her face away, but the sharp one gripped her tight by her hair. As the priest daubed down her nose and around her mouth, she sank her teeth into his hand. The sharp man jerked her head back and hissed something in her ear. She did not understand most of the words, but his meaning was clear. She stood still.

  The priest reached into the bundle and pulled out a calfskin dress, the twisted-hair belt, a breathfeather, and a pair of black moccasins. He untied her wrists so she could remove her clothes and pull on the dress from the sacred bundle. Rubbing her sore hand, she did as she was bidden. The hair rope was tied about her waist, the moccasins put on her feet, and the downy feather laid on top of her head.

  After retying her wrists, the priest fetched a buffalo robe and held it out to her. She hesitated, pointing at her grizzly robe and then at herself.

  The priest’s gaze was flinty.

  She burned inside, but reached for the buffalo robe.

  The priest handed the boy a small bowl and buffalo-horn spoon, and spoke to him as though instructing him. The boy held them out to the girl, but she refused to take them, so he carried them himself. The priest turned away and spoke with the sharp man, as if he considered the others dismissed. The two-voiced man whispered to the boy, and the boy silently took the girl’s arm in his hand and led her out of the lodge.

  He had a weak grip and his hand was probably sweating so much she would feel it through her sleeve in another moment, she thought. She could easily have broken away and run, but there was nowhere to run to. All around them moved curious people, offering what seemed to be encouragement or congratulations as they passed. Beyond the people and their earthen lodges lay nothing but the river and endless prairie.

  The boy took her into another lodge that must have been his own. They were alone. He looked at her uncomfortably. He untied her hands, and asked in sign whether they hurt, but although they did hurt her, she only glared straight ahead.

  The boy pointed to a platform against the wall piled with robes, and motioned for her to sit down. She thought he would try to touch her, and wondered what to do if he did. But he did not touch her. He filled her bowl with stew and set it and a piece of red corn bread in front of her, then stood back.

  She was hungry, but she did not want to show it. She kicked the food away, sloshing stew over the boy’s moccasins. He pursed his lips, but did nothing. The girl sneered at his weakness. He sat down across from her and nervously smiled his crooked smile. For some reason it enraged her.

  Pointing to himself, the boy said something in Pawnee that must have been his name, then signed, Question—you called? She ignored him. He slid an arrow from a quiver that hung on the wall behind her, and knelt down and began drawing in the hard dirt floor. He talked freely as he carved out figures.

  He is friendly because he does not want trouble with his new wife, she thought. But trouble is exactly what he will get. When I leave this village I will take his scalp with me.

  A big-boned woman, sturdy and peaceable-looking, appeared in the doorway. She stopped short at the sight of the newcomer, and a shadow crossed her face. The young children who had been swept in with her clung to her legs. She shooed them to the far side of the lodge, where they entertained themselves with husk dolls.

  More people followed—three young men and old Two-voices, and children, and several women carrying water in leather bags swinging from saplings across their shoulders.

  The same shadow of discomfort darkened the face of everyone who entered, but just as quickly it was gone. The older women fell to preparing the midday meal, while the young women looked after the men and the grandmothers looked after the children. Pleasant chatter hummed through the lodge.

  The sturdy woman handed her a disc of fried bread as casually as if they were mother and daughter. She took the steaming bread automatically. The woman gave the boy a disc of bread, too, and he bit into it with a show of pleasure, which made the woman smile. She nudged him in the ribs with her foot before walking away.

  The boy said something after her that made everyone in the lodge laugh. He tore off another mouthful and chewed as if he had never tasted anything so delicious, surely for the stranger’s benefit. She was disgusted. Still chewing, he motioned to her to put the bread in her mouth.

  Instead she dropped her bread on the bed and ignored it. The boy frowned, but picked up his arrow again and began drawing where he had been interrupted, babbling in Pawnee.

  She paid no attention. She thought only of escape. After a time, reasoning that she would need energy for the journey ahead, she reached reluctantly for the bread and what was left of the stew. It was a concoction of crunchy corn kernels, sweet, with leathery orange strips of something and dried buffalo stomach lining, and though it tasted strange, it seemed to light a flame under her hunger.

  The boy was pleased she had decided to eat, and he fetched her two fresh helpings and a new disc of pan-fried bread. As she slurped up the stew she tore off chunks of red corn bread and fried bread and pretended to eat them, too. But whenever the boy looked down at his pictures she tucked the bits of bread between the robes of the bed.

  After she had eaten her fill, the boy took her outside and led her across a hill into a big flat, talking all the while. Eight or ten other boys were playing at throwing dull-headed lances through rolling hoops while they ran alongside. They glanced at her uneasily, but swarmed around the boy and laughed and pressed their lances into his hands. Next to his friends he seemed even taller. He did not want to play the hoop game, but the boys cajoled until he took up a lance.

  He threw about fifteen times, never coming near the little hoops the other boys gleefully rolled for him. Finally he launched a shot so wild it sailed into the crowd. Amid howls of laughter a chubby boy staggered forward, holding the knobby end of the spear against his belly, and fell on his back.

  She was appalled at such horrendous shooting, but the tall boy showed no embarrassment. He marched over, pushed a foot down on the “dead” boy’s chest, and, pulling the lance, made a very stern, proud face. Amid cheers he tugged a beaded armband off the “dead” boy and swaggered away, thrusting his chest and his lower lip out, admiring his booty. The “dead” boy scrambled after him, but he skipped out of reach.

  Just as his victim was beginning to grow truly angry, the tall boy laughingly tossed the armband at him, and they kept walking. She wondered at the tall one’s undignified behavior.

  A third boy caught up to them, and the tall boy signed to her, We are going to guard the horses. They followed a path through the grass and splashed across a shallow part of the river to a plain where the horses were grazing. The boys lay on the riverbank. She stood peering out at the herd to see if Bull had been turned out with them. She felt a tug on her skirt.

  The tall boy was pointing down the flat to an isolated gold blur with its legs and head buried in the grass. He had to be staked away from the other horses, the boy signed with mischief playing around his mouth. I hear he bites, like his owner.

  Blood rushed to her face and she quickly sat on the ground, trying to maintain a cold expression.

  The boys talked and laughed the rest of the day away. Sometimes she saw them looking at her while they talked in low voices, and she knew they were speaking of her.

  She worried as she watched the sun set. What would happen when they lay down that night and her new husband tried to touch her? She imagined untying her buffalo-hair belt, slipping it around his gawky neck, and strangling him. The thought crept to her lips in a smile. The boy mistook her smile as meant for him, and smiled back at her. She punctured him with a scornful glance.

  But that evening, after the fire died down and the people in the lodge drifted off to their beds against the walls of the great dome, the boy did not li
e down with her. He retied her hands for the night, then went to his own bed along the wall.

  Her pride stung. If she was not this boy’s bride, what was she? His sister? Remembering the carvings on the floor, she rolled over in bed and peered down at them by the moonlight from the smoke hole. For each new picture the boy had scraped away the previous one to clear the floor. The only remaining drawing was of a wolf and a star, connected by a clean curve. It was well drawn; she could see that the animal was not a coyote or a dog, but a wolf. Wolf star. Perhaps it was the boy’s name.

  It meant nothing to her. The aroma of fried bread sifted through the robes as her face pressed against them. I could leave now, she thought. No one is watching. Despite her exhaustion, energy swelled in her. She peered around the lodge; no one stirred. The boy’s knife hung in its sheath on the wall over his bed, beside the entrance tunnel.

  Yes, she could do it now. She would strangle her keeper, take his scalp, and escape. Noiselessly she rose and slid an arrow from the quiver hanging beside her bed. Kneeling, she clenched the shaft between her knees, hooked the thongs that bound her wrists under the arrowhead, and slowly sawed them through. She slid a hand under the bed robes and clawed out every morsel of bread, stuffing it down the front of her dress. No sound or movement came from the others. The corn bread scratched at her belly as she picked her way across the big room, to the boy.

  She stood over him. Her fingers trembled as they loosened the knot in the hair rope cinched around her waist, and slowly slipped it off to wrap around his throat. Suddenly an avalanche of corn bread tumbled from her dress onto the boy’s chest and face. Foolish dress! She was not used to the things. Amazingly, the boy went on sleeping.