The Sacrifice

by Diane Matcheck

But then her eyes caught a quivering about his eyelids. The left side of his mouth was also trembling.

  He was trying not to laugh. The boy was awake; he had been all along. What a fool she had made of herself! She raced back across the big lodge and dove onto her pallet.

  The boy did not rise. She burrowed into the covers and struggled to collect her dignity. She had been rash, she told herself, she was not ready to escape yet; she would need more food than one day’s bread, and in any case, after the hard journey she must build up her strength. Her injuries were almost healed, but best to wait until she was completely fit. Food and rest were what she needed. Yes, she needed more time. She scraped around the dirt floor and her bed robes for the thong pieces, tied them back together, and then worked at retying her wrists. She lay back, wondering why the boy had feigned sleep, when he might have humiliated or even killed her. Gradually exhaustion swept over her like a blanket laid over a sleeping child.

  Next morning not a crumb remained on the floor by the boy’s bed. When the boy untied her hands for the day, he acted as though he did not notice that the thong was now several knotted pieces. At the morning meal he said nothing to her, simply carried on a banter with his family, delighting the grandmothers and the young children with his jokes. She was relieved that none of his jokes seemed to be about her. Not until they were alone, walking out to meet the sunrise, did he speak to her. She could barely make out his hands forming signs in the dimness to explain his Pawnee words.

  You are thinking of escape, he signed, still walking. It would be impossible—unless one of us were to help you. He stopped and gazed into the brightening horizon, where the Morning Star blazed low in a green sky. He turned to face her. If you try it, they will hunt you down.

  She flinched. With a smile, the boy began walking again. You will like it here in our village, he signed, as the red sun peered over the horizon and shimmered on the river.

  16

  That day the people began preparing for a buffalo hunt. Men took bundles of dogwood shoots to the arrow makers. Women cut elm and willow saplings at the river for their tents, and began to sew new moccasins.

  Pretending not to, the girl watched the bustle. Nearly everyone seemed to be planning to go on the hunt, except the very old and the wives and children of some poor families who had too few horses to take them along. In Two-voices’ family only the good-natured woman and the boy Wolfstar did not appear to be packing their things.

  This was good. It seemed she had been not married, but adopted into the lodge of Two-voices, and Wolfstar was to be her keeper until she lost the will to run away. Her hands were usually untied during the day, although the boy was careful to tie them as soon as the daylight began to fade, before darkness made escape possible. Always Wolfstar was with her; and everywhere he went she was made to go also. If he was staying home from the hunt, the girl was certain that she was staying, too. That meant that when the hunting expedition left, probably before the next moon, only he and a few women and children would stand between her and freedom. She could wait.

  Wolfstar led her about the village, pointing out things and people, talking about them in sign language as fast as his speech. She paid little attention, occupying her thoughts instead with escape and the details of her glorious return to her village. But Wolfstar was always with her, always talking, disrupting her thoughts.

  He had been adopted so long ago that he could not remember ever not being Two-voices’ son. The good-natured woman was his adoptive mother, Her-corn-says-so.

  Wolfstar did not call her Her-corn-says-so, he explained. He called her atira, because she was his mother, but others called her whatever kin she was to them. She had a personal name that had a special meaning, something only she knew. The Pawnee kept their personal names to themselves.

  Vaguely listening, the girl thought about her own personal name. It still had not presented itself. Perhaps it would spring from something yet to happen, something about Pawnee scalps or horses …

  Reading her expression, Wolfstar asked her name again. But she did not answer.

  * * *

  Every dusk, Wolfstar bade her collect her wooden bowl and buffalo-horn spoon, and took her to the sharp man’s lodge for the evening meal. The sharp man had a striking young wife, and a long name the girl did not understand, but mostly he was referred to simply as Dreamer.

  Wolfstar did not eat much, but passed the time watching his hands twist the leather lace of his moccasin. He exchanged few words with Dreamer, and when he did his voice was like the edge of a stone blade. She wondered why Wolfstar disliked Dreamer.

  The man praised and fawned over his young wife, Hummingbird-in-her-hair, but he seemed to cherish not so much her as the admiration and envy she could bring to his household.

  And certainly she could bring much of those. She had melancholy eyes and the elusive beauty of an antelope—graceful and gentle but untamed. She was not quite plump. Her long black hair fell in a thick braid down her back, fastened with a shiny clip. She weaved among them silent as smoke, refilling bowls, and signing to the newcomer with hands like butterflies. She could not have been older than thirteen or fourteen winters, but her eyes were the eyes of an older woman.

  The girl had never cared much for others of her sex, yet she felt a kinship with the Pawnee girl that she could not explain. Hummingbird-in-her-hair was her enemy; and certainly they were as unalike as could be—she herself was rough and rawboned and as tautly strung as a hunting bow—yet somehow, it seemed, they were alike. She found herself looking forward to the evening meal.

  Often Wolfstar would go out to tend one of the women’s crops, and she accompanied him to the fields, which lay in strips beyond the village, separated by fences of tall flowers with big, round heads and yellow petals like the rays of the sun. She had never seen the Pawnee plants before. In her country they did not exist; here they stood in great crowds. But after the first moment they were nothing to look at. They did not give her the special feeling that colors or mountains or the Land of Boiling Waters gave her. Wolfstar, however, never tired of looking upon them or telling her about the different kinds of food that would grow from them, like a proud father expecting grandchildren. Whenever he rested from working the soil or hauling water from the river, he contemplated these fields as if they were the Great Mystery itself, and when he spoke the names of the plants he seemed almost to sing.

  One morning the girl awoke late. She sat up, squinting at the brilliant light pouring down through the smoke hole, and rubbing her eyes with her tied hands. She had slept until the sun was high, and Wolfstar had not awakened her. Her gaze darted around the big lodge for Wolfstar, but he was gone. Her-corn-says-so noticed that she was awake, and ambled to her bed.

  As soon as her hands were untied, the girl signed jerkily, Where is Wolfstar?

  A puzzled frown creased the woman’s face; then her eyes lit up. My son will return soon, she signed. Come, bring your bowl.

  The girl sat cross-legged at the edge of the fire ring with her cold soup, ignoring the children cavorting around her, and jabbed her spoon at the layer of fat floating in it. She was irritated with herself for missing Wolfstar.

  A shadow fell across her soup and legs, and she looked up in astonishment. Peering into the sunlight, she saw a black figure leaning over the smoke hole, wriggling its arms. Wolfstar’s voice called down, but she could not understand. If he was making signs with his words, she could not see them; the sun stung her eyes. Her-corn-says-so signed across the fire pit to her: He says, guess what he has.

  I don’t care, she signed back.

  He says it’s your bear, and if you don’t catch it, it will land in the ashes.

  She looked up to see Wolfstar lowering the robe through the smoke hole as if to drop it. She leaped up into the fire pit, knocking soup and bowl across the floor, and throwing her hands out in front of her. The grizzly robe thudded so heavily across her arms that she staggered backward and stumbled over the fire-ring stones and fell on her tai
lbone. Laughter rang out around her. She collected the robe and limped with as much dignity as she could back to her bed.

  But clutching the thick red-gold fur in her hands made her embarrassment fade, and after a moment, when Wolfstar appeared in the mouth of the tunnel, she allowed an almost friendly feeling to show in her face. He strode over, children chattering and jumping like crickets around him. The girl held the robe up and buried her face in fur, breathing in the bear scent.

  Wolfstar spoke, and she lifted her head to see his hands. Every time we pass the priest’s lodge your eyes are searching for this, he said. So I talked him out of it.

  She said nothing, and he did not seem to want a reply. He sat on the bed robes beside her, tickling a shaven-headed toddler.

  After a moment she spoke. He turned to her, laughing. Why are you kind to me? she formed hesitantly.

  He thought about this, then replied, That is my job. Eyes sparkling, he added, I also was afraid you might kill the priest in his sleep to get that robe.

  She did not know whether to be angry or to laugh. She pretended not to understand.

  * * *

  Though the days were hot, she took her grizzly robe everywhere. She was glad when Wolfstar drove the horses to pasture with the other boys, for then she could see Bull, and Wolfstar tolerated her tending the horse’s saddle sores and brushing away the flies. The boys would herd the horses across the river in the morning, then lean back on the riverbank and talk, sometimes thoughtfully, sometimes boisterously. She did her best to shut them out, but, forced to sit there with Wolfstar, she had nothing to do but watch his hands and listen. Gradually she began to understand more of their talk in spite of herself.

  Wolfstar made many jokes; sometimes he joked about her and would look to see if she understood, but she pretended not to, though she did more and more. His words were beginning to penetrate to the same guarded place within her that Laughing Crow’s words once had; but not like arrows, rather like threads of light. It gave her a strange feeling. She never spoke or joined in the laughter, or showed in any way that she understood their language.

  But when Wolfstar challenged her to a horse race one morning she could not resist. Around that willow and back. Choose any horse, he offered. I’ll ride the little buckskin—she’s the fastest in the village.

  The girl squinted at the willow far in the distance. Then I choose her, she signed, stifling a laugh. Wolfstar’s friends laughed, too.

  All right, he answered in good humor. I will see how your big gelding runs.

  He untied her hands and fetched the horses. Stepping into a friend’s hands, he climbed onto Bull’s back and swung him around. Her palms dampened as she suddenly thought of fleeing.

  Wolfstar nodded and she vaulted onto the buckskin and kicked hard. Wolfstar bolted after her, leaving the boys cheering behind them.

  She approached the willow with a wide lead. To turn, or keep running? At the last instant, she pulled the mare up sharply, rounding the tree. She pounded up to the finish five lengths ahead.

  Your gelding is slow, complained Wolfstar when he reached the heckling crowd. You ride him.

  She willingly traded mounts, and they raced off again. This time she did not hesitate at the turn. The little mare was tired now, and Bull, making up in stamina what he lacked in speed, beat her.

  You win, Wolfstar conceded with a smile as he slid from the buckskin’s back. He wiped dust from his eyes. You’ve proven what they say about Apsaalooka horsemanship. But is it not also true that your own legs are lazy from riding everywhere?

  Let us see, the girl replied with great pleasure, and, stepping beside him, coiled her muscles to sprint.

  Wolfstar gave her an approving look. He leaned over and tensed beside her.

  One of the boys started the race with a shout.

  She ran across the long grass as hard as she could. Wolfstar trailed by a stride or two until after they had rounded the willow, then she could hear him gaining, until he surged past her. He burst past the cluster of boys far ahead.

  She bent with her hands on her knees, panting, as the boys slapped Wolfstar on the back, laughing and shouting, setting up more races among themselves. After a moment she nudged Wolfstar and signed, Once more.

  Wolfstar was still breathing so hard he could not speak, but he shook his head. He had lost something, he signed: a little yellow bag from his belt. He searched for the missing pouch until the sun was hot overhead, but he did not find it.

  17

  The corn was just high enough to brush a horse’s belly the day the camp began the trek to the buffalo grounds. Dreamer was smeared from head to foot with red grease-paint and pranced about on a horse with eagle feathers braided into its mane and tail. From across the crowd of travelers Hummingbird-in-her-hair met the girl’s eyes in a way that seemed to say goodbye.

  The girl caught sight of the priest astride a paint pony, trailing Bull behind him. It grieved her to escape the Pawnee village without Bull, especially to leave him among a people who honored horses so little. But she had few choices.

  Tears streamed down many faces as families parted. Without warriors, the Stay-at-homes would be in grave danger should enemies attack. But Her-corn-says-so embraced the members of her family one by one without sign of fear or sorrow. Her homely face was quiet and soft. From his horse, Two-voices laid a hand on the side of his wife’s face and kissed her. Then he spoke to Wolfstar in his gritty and squeaking voices.

  “Take care of your mother.” He tossed his head toward the girl. “Take care of her,” he said, and something else that she could not understand.

  “Yes, Father,” Wolfstar answered quietly. Two-voices clapped him on the shoulder.

  She felt a pang in her chest, watching the old man’s eyes as he looked at the boy. The pang stayed until long after Two-voices and the rest of the travelers had dipped behind a distant hill and were lost to sight.

  Now the village was all but deserted, and the Stay-at-homes moved together into a single lodge for company and protection. The girl’s bed was farthest from the entrance tunnel, and there would now be twice as many people to avoid disturbing when she crept out during the night, but as most were women and children, she was not concerned. She took her time in preparation for the night of her escape, hoarding bread and corn balls and pemmican in growing lumps under the buffalo robes of her bed.

  Since Dreamer and his family had gone on the hunt, she ate all her meals in the communal lodge. Her walks with Wolfstar were strange now, with no one else about. His voice carved an oddly pleasing design through the empty village as he chattered at her, but though she understood more and more of his talk, she did not answer. He seemed content to ramble on, as she had often done to Bull.

  Two of Wolfstar’s friends, whose names she had learned were Yellow-tail and Sticking-his-tongue-out, had also stayed home, and although there were few horses to guard now, all four of them often went to tend the animals. It was a much cooler and easier job than hauling water to the crops.

  “I am bored with all this peace and quiet,” Yellow-tail said one misty evening as they leaned back on the riverbank. “I wish the Comanche would attack and give me something to do.”

  “If only Pretty-elk-walking were still here,” said Wolfstar with mock wistfulness, “there would not be so much boring peace and quiet. We would be listening to her yelling at you and to the sound of your courting flute breaking over your head.” The three boys laughed.

  Sticking-his-tongue-out was working a thin weed between his upper front teeth. “Pretty-elk-walking is good to look at, but I am more interested in a good cook,” he said. “Two-voices’ younger cousin.”

  Yellow-tail agreed that she was a wise choice. “What about you?” he asked Wolfstar. “You talk loud enough about my trying to court Pretty-elk-walking, but I don’t see you having great luck with women.”

  Wolfstar looked as if Yellow-tail had punched the breath out of him. He said nothing, only pursed his lips. Yellow-tail’s face turned ash
en as he realized his indiscretion.

  “Certainly he has,” Sticking-his-tongue-out said. “Have you no eyes? The Morning Star girl follows him around like a buffalo calf,” he teased. The girl wondered why he called her by this name. “What is she called again?”

  Wolfstar smiled thinly, and all three boys were relieved at Sticking-his-tongue-out’s quick thinking. “Danger-with-snarled-hair,” Wolfstar said. The boys laughed as though this joke were new to them, and fell into an awkward lull.

  “I am called,” she said icily in Pawnee, “Grizzly-fears-her.”

  Wolfstar’s companions were struck dumb. The girl’s speech, though sharply accented, was unmistakably their own language. Their eyes darted to one another’s faces in alarm.

  “I hope you’ve been careful with your tongue,” Yellow-tail snapped.

  Sticking-his-tongue-out raised his eyebrows so high the whole bald crown of his head wrinkled.

  It pleased the girl that she had disconcerted them. She was not truly satisfied with the name Grizzly-fears-her, but she could not wait forever. She rocked forward onto her feet and rose to leave. Wolfstar’s hand shot toward her wrist, but recoiled short of touching it, as if he had suddenly remembered something. She strode away so they would not see the smile on her face.

  Wolfstar did not follow—she could not go far. “A fitting name,” she heard him say loudly. “That must be how she came by such a fine robe and necklace—she scared the bear to death. Imagine a poor grizzly stumbling upon such a wild-eyed, snarly-haired creature. I would have dropped dead of fright, too.”

  Wolfstar’s companions burst into laughter. She tried to think of a scathing reply, but instead felt a laugh surfacing from deep within her.

  “I have called you Danger-with-snarled-hair to your face many times,” Wolfstar called after her. “Why do you correct me now?”

  Yes, why did she correct him now? She did not know. Nor did she know why, when she rose that night without waking a soul, instead of escaping, she stole a buffalo tongue from Her-corn-says-so’s things, crawled back under her covers, and secretly combed her hair.