Raven Mocker

by Don Coldsmith

  Now supplies were to run short, unless the spring thaw came early to allow a hunt. Yes, she could see that there might be a problem.

  The cold continued, with more snows. Everyone, at least the adults, began to eat less and less. On several occasions Snakewater would pretend not to be hungry, and would share her own portion with the children. She saw the others do the same, and supposed that similar events were occurring in the other lodges.

  Those who were trapping no longer discarded the flesh of the fur bearers they caught, but brought them home to feed their families. Surely spring would come soon ….

  “We could eat the horses,” suggested Far Thunder.

  But so far no one had done so. That was a matter of prestige. And so far no one was actually starving.

  “I am told,” Swan told Snakewater, “that this was once called the Moon of Starvation, before the coming of the Elk-dog—the horse. Now it is only the Moon of Hunger. At least so far.”

  There were a few days when it appeared that the snows might be over. A little melting actually occurred. But then Cold Maker mounted one last thrust in defiance of Sun Boy’s now brightening new torch.

  Dark clouds rolled in, the temperature plummeted, and once more it began to snow. People withdrew again into their lodges, carrying what firewood they could. That, too, was becoming scarce.

  As Snakewater entered the lodge, she heard the sound of singing and turned to look back. There, walking straight and tall, was an old man carrying his weapons and marching straight into the teeth of the storm.

  “What is he doing?” Snakewater asked in surprise.

  “He goes to fight Cold Maker,” said Swan, a little sadly.

  “But … why is he singing?”

  “That is the Death Song,” Swan answered. “Our warriors ride into battle singing,

  The earth and the sky go on forever

  But today is a good day to die …

  and his family will live. He will have beaten Cold Maker.”

  “Has he gone crazy?”

  “No, no. There will be one less mouth to feed… more food for the children—his grandchildren. And life goes on.”

  37

  At last the bright rays of Sun Boy’s new torch began to show some results. Each day became visibly longer than the one before, as Cold Maker began to withdraw in defeat.

  Cold Maker did not concede defeat gracefully. He never does. He retreats, snarling and snapping like a wolf at bay, striking out at his tormentor with a vengeance as he slinks back toward his ice caves in the northern mountains. He may even turn to attack another time or two. But it is easy to see, by the Moon of Awakening, what the outcome will be. Sun Boy will triumph again, bringing back the grass and the buffalo.

  The people of Far Thunder’s band had come through the winter thin and hungry, but alive. They had fewer dogs, but that would be quickly remedied. They had not had to resort to eating the horses.

  One old woman had succumbed to pneumonia, and her body was ceremonially placed on a burial scaffold, to remain there when the band moved on.

  “You do not bury in the ground?” asked Snakewater.

  “Sometimes,” Swan explained. “Maybe when we come this way again, there will be a few bones left. Those we would bury.”

  The body of the old warrior who went into combat with Cold Maker singing the Death Song was never found.

  But the Moon of Awakening had arrived. The bare branches of the willows along the stream now began to show a bright yellowish color. Buds were swelling on the maples. On southern slopes the snow began to melt, the water trickling in little rivulets, joining other trickles to ripple downhill with increasing volume, flowing faster and faster to plunge into the swelling torrent of the stream.

  Back on the newly exposed south slopes, sprigs of green began to push through the reddish soil and the dead foliage of last year’s growth. The grass was returning.

  There was a restlessness among the people, an urge to do something. The men began to hunt again, ranging farther from the camp.

  The old urge to move was stimulated by the long lines of migrating geese high overhead. They were now returning northward, honking in derision at Cold Maker’s retreat as he fled before the advance of spring.

  “When will we move?” asked Snakewater.

  “Ah! You are impatient! You are becoming one of us!” laughed Swan. “But it will be a little while—it is too muddy to travel yet. Soon, though!”

  Snakewater was startled one afternoon by some sort of disturbance in another part of the camp. There were yells and people running.

  “What is it? Are we being attacked?” she asked.

  “No, I think someone is hurt,” answered Swan.

  There was a general rush toward the source of the disturbance. Some carried weapons, just in case.

  A young man lay on the ground in front of the lodge, bleeding from a wound in his upper arm. Another, about the same age, was talking rapidly, babbling almost incoherently.

  “Wait!” said an older man. “Slow down! Tell us what happened.”

  The young man paused for a deep breath and began to talk more calmly.

  “We were hunting,” he recounted. “Red Dog, Lizard, and I took our horses and rode to the east, looking for deer. The timber is heavier there, and we were made to think—”

  “Go on!” an older man interrupted.

  “Yes …Well, Dog killed a doe and we were deciding how to pack it back here, when we saw some men watching us.”

  “Osages,” interrupted the wounded youth on the ground, gritting his teeth as a woman, probably his mother, bound up his wound.

  “Yes, they were Osages. They told us that we should not be there, that it was their hunting ground. This was in hand signs, of course. We were polite and agreed to leave, but Dog wanted to claim the deer. They refused, and one of them shot an arrow. It missed Dog but flew on and hit the arm of Lizard there. We ran, leaving Dog’s deer.”

  “There were too many of them,” said Red Dog. “Five or six.”

  “That was wise,” said Far Thunder. “You would have been killed over a deer.”

  “I told them we would be back!” said Red Dog angrily.

  “Ah, that was not so wise,” Far Thunder said. “What did the Osages say?”

  “That they would be ready.”

  Thunder nodded. “They could not do otherwise. Now, how is Lizard? The arrow went on through?” he asked the woman who was cleaning the wound.

  “We pulled it through,” said Red Dog.

  “It missed the bone,” said Lizard’s mother. “I will wrap it.”

  “I have some medicine,” offered Snakewater. “I will get it.”

  “It is good,” said Far Thunder. “Let it be so. But now we need a council. What is to be done?”

  “Punish them!” called an angry man. “Kill an Osage or two.”

  “That is one plan,” said Thunder, “but let us consider…. Let us meet at my lodge in a little while.” He glanced at the sun. “It is too late today to start a war.”

  “They will start a war?” Snakewater asked Swan.

  The woman chuckled. “No, I think not. Thunder does that to make them think, and gives them a little time. Always somebody talks big.”

  When the men gathered in front of the lodge of Far Thunder, there were some who spoke with anger and demanded vengeance—mostly young hotheads who were not directly concerned.

  “We should make them know that we are not to be treated so!”

  “Of course,” said Thunder easily, “but let us smoke and then plan.”

  Very quickly the formal circle was formed and the pipe lighted. Far Thunder blew smoke to the four directions, to the sky and the earth, and passed the pipe to his left. It progressed ceremonially around the circle and back to the band chieftain. Thunder knocked the dottle into his palm and tossed it into the fire.

  “Now,” he began, “our young men have met the Osages, and blood has been spilled. What is to be done?”

&nbs
p; “Kill them!” blurted a young warrior. “We must not be treated so!”

  Far Thunder nodded thoughtfully. “We could easily do that. Then, of course, they would have to even the score.”

  “Let them try!”

  “We could defend ourselves, maybe,” agreed Thunder. “But there are other things to consider. We will be leaving soon, for summer range. The Osages will stay here.”

  “And it must not seem that we were frightened away!” insisted the other.

  Now an older man spoke. “It is hard to defend a moving column against attack. We will have women and children, all our possessions.”

  “We can fight them!” insisted the militant young warrior. “Let them know our strength.”

  “But they know this region better than we do,” spoke a calmer voice. “We would have dead and wounded.”

  “And so would they. They must be made to suffer! Even the score!”

  “Let us think now,” said Thunder, “about ‘evening the score.’ To do that they would have to give us one deer carcass, and let us shoot somebody through the arm, no?”

  There were quiet chuckles.

  “Now,” he went on, “if we kill one or two Osages, then they must kill three or four of us. In the middle of all this we must move anyway. And that will look like retreat ….”

  There were nods of agreement.

  How clever, thought Snakewater. It is no wonder that Far Thunder is a respected leader.

  “Let us show them that we are not afraid,” Thunder continued.

  A murmur of agreement went quietly around the circle, mingled with a trace of doubt.

  “And how is this to be done?” asked a middle-aged warrior. “If we move, we look like cowards, unless we kill some of them.”

  “Then how can this be done?” mused Far Thunder. “Maybe we could tell them.”

  There were gasps of astonishment.

  “Tell them?”

  “But—”

  “Yes,” Thunder said thoughtfully. “A few of us go to them. That shows we are not afraid. We explain that we were preparing to leave, and that we mean them no harm.”

  There were thoughtful nods of agreement, more conversation, and by the time the matter came to a vote, there was no need for a vote. This was a plan.

  Snakewater was not privileged to be present at the meeting with the Osages, but she heard the details later. Everyone did.

  Five leading warriors, guided by young Red Dog, returned to the place of the deer kill, and then moved in the direction from which the Osages had come. It was soon apparent that they were being observed. To a dimly seen figure in the shadows Far Thunder openly raised a right hand, palm forward, in the sign for peace.

  It was nearly midday when they saw and smelled the smoke of a village’s cooking fires. They rode on, following a trail that was now plain to see.

  They were met by a party of six well-armed warriors, who blocked the entrance to the town. Far Thunder and the others raised hands again in peace.

  What do you want? signed a big man in the middle of the Osage party, apparently their leader.

  We would smoke and talk, Far Thunder answered.

  No, signed the other. Your hunters kill our game.

  But our young men did not know, answered Thunder. One of them is wounded.

  His own fault.

  We have come, Thunder continued, to say that our hearts are heavy for this, but we understand. We are preparing to leave anyway.

  There was a snort of contempt from one of the younger Osages. He was quieted with a gesture from their leader.

  We do not leave because of fear, Far Thunder continued, but to avoid any killing. We can kill if we must, of course.

  The Osage chieftain pondered a long while and then laughed aloud.

  You must be speaking truth, he signed. No one could think of a trick this stupid. Come, let us smoke.

  He turned and gestured the way as they moved on into the village.

  The council was a success, and the two groups would remain allies, at least for now. The rights of the Osages to their hunting grounds were to be respected. Any of the Elk-dog People who found themselves in the area would try to contact some Osages to let their presence be known. They would kill for their own needs.

  They agreed to make their winter camps farther to the west in the future.

  How is your young man recovering? asked the Osage leader as they parted.

  He does well, answered Far Thunder.

  Good …. Boys will be boys, answered the other. When will you leave?

  Maybe three days, Thunder signed.

  The Osage nodded. We will send a party to escort you.

  Is it not necessary.

  It must be so, to honor our new friends.

  So, three days later, the Elk-dog People took down their lodges and moved northwestward. They were accompanied by a party of mounted Osages. It might have been interpreted as an honor guard or as a security measure, to assure the honesty of Far Thunder’s band. But at least for now there was no bloodshed.

  38

  It was the Moon of Roses now, June by the calendar of the white man. The Elk-dog People were gathering for their annual Sun Dance, the most important event of the year. Their nation was far flung, seven major bands in all. They camped from the timbered hills of the Ozarks to the eastern slopes of the Rockies, and from the scrub oaks where Far Thunder’s band had wintered, northward to the Platte River.

  The Sun Dance combined many of the qualities of religion, politics, patriotism, a massive family reunion, and the excitement of a country fair. The actual Sun Dance itself would last for five days, with prayers of thanksgiving, supplication and entreaty, personal vows and sacrifice, and reaffirmation of patriotism. For the Elk-dog People the celebration did not include a personal vision quest, as among some of the nations farther north. These would have a separate, a private quest, with fasting and solitary prayer. Often it would take place immediately after the Sun Dance, as the various bands parted until next season.

  Some of the more spectacular events associated with the Sun Dance were not really part of the celebration. They had grown out of opportunity. It would be impossible to bring together hundreds of the world’s finest horsemen and their mounts without races and contests. This logically led to wagers and to feats of skill and dexterity, encouraged by the onlookers. The entire encampment might last as long as half a moon, mostly before the Sun Dance itself.

  There were visitors from other tribes and nations, who came to watch the proceedings and sometimes participate in the excitement of the contests. Swan pointed out to Snakewater a few lodges of Cheyenne and Arapaho, a delegation of Kiowas, and even an Apache family who lived with the Kiowas.

  “Kiowas have their own Sun Dance, much like ours. It may be nearby this year.”

  “These are all allies?” asked Snakewater.

  “Not really. They tolerate each other. Sometimes they fight, steal horses from each other. But not here. All are guests, and it would be offensive to cause any trouble.”

  There was a natural limit to how long this gathering could continue. The hundreds of horses required an immense quantity of grass. Even with the lush new growth that was the occasion of the celebration, there would be enough forage for only a short while. This as well as the limited opportunity to hunt near such a big encampment placed limits on the size of the bands for the buffalo-hunting nations.

  Snakewater was enjoying the excitement and the pageantry. There had been a time not too long ago when she would have withdrawn, preferring to be alone. She had changed a lot in the past two years, she realized. She had been a bitter old woman. Now … A shadow crept across her thoughts as she thought of the Raven Mocker. Could she have actually changed that much without having assimilated the life-years of another? She thrust such thoughts away, resolved not to let this feeling confuse her. She managed to mostly throttle such sensations, and the buzz of activity helped a great deal.

  The announcement had been made that the
formal portion of the celebration would begin in three days. The announcement itself was very formal. The Elk-dog People’s highest-ranking holy man marched three times around the entire encampment, holding aloft a sacred bundle and chanting the announcement as he went, while his assistant beat the cadence on a drum. This brought some change in the quality of the activities, but not much. Some of the participants in the racing and gambling began to behave more soberly. But there were also those who seemed to put forth an extra effort to squeeze out every available drop of enjoyment before settling down to ritual.

  In the midst of all this excitement, with people coming and going and yelling and singing, Snakewater happened to glance across the creek to a long slope that descended from a low ridge a few bow shots to the north. A faint trail meandered down the slope, and along this trail toward the encampment came an odd procession: two people, several horses or mules, heavily laden with packs. Something familiar… Suddenly she realized ….

  “Fox! Rain Cloud!” she said aloud, to no one in particular.

  She had all but forgotten that the trader had suggested this occasion, the Sun Dance of the Elk-dog People, as a possible meeting place. She was delighted to see them, and stifled the urge to cross the stream and run up the slope toward them. Instead she moved in that direction, intending to wait at the ford of the creek. Ah, this was good! She could hear of their season’s trading, and of where they had wintered, and could tell them of all her experiences. She ignored one thought that whispered from somewhere deep within. Soon she would have to make some decisions. Would she stay with these people who had become almost family to her, or move on with the trader couple, who were also like family? She smiled wryly as she recalled that for most of her life, she had had no family at all. Now, for all practical purposes, she had two!