Still Water picked up an aspen leaf, spit on it, and chanted a few words. He put the leaf on the palm of his right hand and held his palm in the air. “Press your hand against mine. Push hard.”
All the boys stared at Still Water’s raised palm. A hint of fear crept into Running Elk’s eyes as he complied with the command. “I didn’t know your father had taught you any of the healing ways.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know. Keep your hand against mine until I tell you to release it.”
While the boys’ attention was focused on Still Water’s right hand, he used his left to surreptitiously snatch Running Elk’s one arrowhead and add it to his own pile. He waited a few seconds, then said. “You are healed. Blood no longer flows from your wound.”
Running Elk pulled his hand away as if it had caught fire. He looked at his palm, shook his head, and showed the rest of the group the bloodless wound. He nodded his head at Still Water. “It is as you say.” His voice was soft, like a child speaking to a respected elder.
The boys hooted in surprise, slapping Running Elk and Still Water on the back before returning to their task. A moment later, Running Elk stood and searched the ground around him.
“What?” Still Water asked.
“My arrowhead is gone.”
Still Water shrugged. “Sometimes the spirits want a gift for healing.” He reached down, plucked Running Elk’s arrowhead from his own pile, and handed it to him with a smile.
Running Elk examined the stone tip and jerked his head up in surprise. “This looks like my arrowhead.”
Still Water smiled. “The healing spirits can be tricksters.”
Pressing a wound and keeping it above the chest were my first lessons.
He thought about the meaningless chants he’d uttered and his use of the aspen leaf. He knew no healing words, and the leaves of the aspen were not medicine.
More valuable was my father’s lesson about the the power of mystery. Running Elk may suspect I tricked him, but he and the others will believe in their hearts that I spoke with the healing spirits.
The boys settled back to their work. It was a crisp day in the mountains, a reminder that their band would soon leave for the winter grounds in the basin to the west, where they would remain until winter left the land. Many mornings they found ice on the surface of the water pots and the shimmering yellow leaves of the aspens tucked among the surrounding evergreens rivaled Father Sun.
“Do you think you will go on your vision quest before we leave?” Running Elk asked. He asked the same question every day, often more than once.
The quest was how the Apsaalooke passed into manhood and was the obsession of every boy as he approached the transition. As Shaman, Still Water’s father determined when each youth was ready. Still Water had wanted to begin his quest the day he woke with changed eyes, but his father had only looked at him and said, “You are not ready.”
“Does your father share his thoughts with you?” Still Water asked.
Running Elk shook his head.
“Neither does mine.”
When Running Elk didn’t respond, Still Water looked up from his work and found his friend staring toward the fir forest at the eastern edge of the meadow. “Someone comes.”
As one, ready to flee, the boys stood and stared toward the woods.
Still Water shielded his eyes from Father Sun with his hand. The Apsaalooke had enemies among other tribes, but this was a solitary figure, walking beside a small horse. The man was wrapped in a buffalo skin and two misshapen bundles were secured to the horse’s sides. Still Water recognized the man’s limping stride.
A friend, not a threat. His horse is loaded with beaver pelts.
He glanced at Shining Light, the youngest of their group. “Run to camp. Tell our mothers that Five Scalps has returned.”
Five Scalps had been trapping in the Bighorns and visiting their summer camp as long as Still Water could remember. The Apsaalooke had first called him Cut Nose, because his nose was scarred from an encounter with a grizzly that had also mauled his right leg. He’d earned his new name when he killed five Blackfeet, bitter enemies of the Apsaalooke, in battle. Five Scalp’s father had been a white trader, his mother Cherokee. The stories he told both thrilled and terrified the band’s youngest children.
Father Sun’s last light poked through holes in the dark clouds that hung low in sky, spilling flakes of snow and swallowing the mountain tops. The band had gathered in a wide circle around a fire that had been built in the center of the camp. Still Water sat on the ground behind his mother, facing his father and the chief, who sat on the other side of the fire. Five Scalps also sat next to the chief, in a place of honor. The gathering was small, mostly Elders, women, and children. Three warriors were guarding the horses, which had been hobbled for the night on the far side of the meadow. Another half-dozen warriors were on a hunt and wouldn’t return for two days.
Still Water pulled a buffalo robe tighter over his shoulders. Not much of the heat from the fire reached him and the cold wind had picked up as the day ended.
In addition to the beaver skins, Five Scalp’s horse had carried the carcass of a deer, which the trapper had given the clan. The women organized the fire and a feast to celebrate the arrival of the clan’s friend and his unexpected gift. Still Water shivered under the robe, but he could still taste the burned fat of the animal on his lips and his belly was full.
His mother looked over her shoulder at him. “Five Scalp’s stories will last until the moon sleeps. Sit next to me so that you can stay warm.”
He scooted forward and laid his head against her arm.
There is no shame in a mother’s love, even for a warrior.
Five Scalp’s voice carried in the thin air as he asked about the success of the band’s summer hunts, new births, acts of bravery, and the chief’s plans to move to their winter pastures. Still Water understood him easily; he spoke Apsaalooke as if he’d been born among them and claimed to know the languages of three other tribes as well.
The chief held up his hand and the many conversations dancing around the fire subsided. He lit his pipe, took a deep draft, and passed it to Five Scalps. “You’ve asked about the People and we’ve told you what we know,” the chief said. “Now we would like to hear the latest tales from our trapper friend.”
Five Scalps took a deep breath. “I bring sad news, my brothers. This will be my last visit. I’m leaving this country.”
There were murmurs of surprise, but they quickly settled into silence. The chief gazed into the fire and waited. It would be disrespectful to ask questions.
“The last time I took my pelts to the trading post on the Big Horn River, I heard stories that a half-dozen white farmers had set up homesteads down river. I decided to see for myself and took a little hike. Sure enough, I found their log huts where the Big Horn flows into the Elk River. They were friendly enough folks. Told me that more were coming and that a trading company in Saint Louis is planning to cut a wagon trail through these mountains so that more whites can settle here. It’s getting so that I can’t go a day without stumbling over another trapper. Beaver are becoming scarce. There are too many white people in these parts and more will be coming. I will trade my pelts and move north, into Kanata, where the trapping is still good.”
Still Water’s father had told him that he’d seen his first white man when he was a boy. Now it wasn’t unusual to see one every few days, even in the remote summer hunting grounds. Many more visited with the tribe when they were in their winter grounds. The Apsaalooke were friendly with the whites and traded with them. Some of the Apsaalooke’s enemies killed every white man they met.
“There are those in our tribe who believe more white men would be good for our people,” the chief said. “They think we should welcome them and don’t feel we need to leave our lands.”
The question of the whites and what to do about them had become more urgent as more of the intruders settled near the mountains. The band was div
ided and heated arguments were becoming common. Still Water’s father believed the whites should be welcomed, but the whites in Still Water’s dreams were demons that brought evil to the land.
Five Scalps shook his head. “Trust me, my brother. I know the white man. He will be your friend as long as he needs you, but he thinks you are no different from a beaver. And, like the beaver, he will hunt you until the Apsaalooke are wiped out. It is a mistake to think the white man can be your—”
“RAIDERS!” The cry of alarm came from the far side of the pasture, where the horses were being kept for the night. The warriors around the fire leaped up and were running toward the tipis for their bows when four painted devils on horseback attacked out of the growing darkness, screaming and brandishing clubs.
Women and children scattered away from the invaders in panic, like the water pushed aside by heavy stone thrown into a lake.
Still Water was knocked away from his mother by a fleeing woman. He stumbled, caught his balance, and turned toward the screams that came from behind him. One of the attackers, his dull-red face paint glowing in the light from the campfire, bore down on him, club raised high. Still Water leapt from the path of the horse and threw himself to the ground. The club brushed the back of his head as he fell. He lay stunned, aware only of the warm wetness spreading from the stinging wound.
He pushed himself to his knees, trying to clear his mind. The screams of women and children filled the night, but the raiders had disappeared with the last of Father Sun’s light, as if they had been swallowed by the earth.
A strong voice—his father’s—filled the dark, pushing the madness away with calm confidence. “Bring wood for the fire and water for the injured.” He called the names of three braves and sent them to check the horses and the men who had been guarding them.
Still Water got to his feet, breathing hard but no longer feeling as if he would die, and stumbled to help. He dragged a branch onto the fire and jumped back as the flames shot above his head. He walked back to the place where he and his mother had been sitting. She wasn’t there. When he turned to look for her, he noticed a dark form on the ground a dozen paces away. His knees wobbled and he felt like he was going to vomit, but he walked over and knelt beside his mother’s body. The side of her face had been crushed. He cried out for his father and slumped to the ground as the darkness claimed him.
A cold flood filled Still Water’s mouth and nostrils, like he’d been dropped in the middle of a mountain stream. He sputtered awake, fighting for air and sat up to get away from a sharp rock that was stabbing him in the back. His father was squatting beside him, his face grim, an empty water gourd in one hand.
“Did you vomit after receiving the wound?”
Still Water had to think for a moment to realize what his father was talking about. The events around the fire came flooding back. “No. Just when I saw—”
“It is a minor wound, one that you can carry with pride. I applied herbs to help you heal.”
Still Water’s eyes filled.
Herbs my mother gathered.
He cried and his spirit ached. Images of his mother danced through his mind: her laughter when he fell into a stream; teaching him how to sew hides and how to build a tipi; her warmth as he sat beside her at the campfire. He pushed the thoughts from his mind and wiped his cheeks. His people needed his help and death was a way of life.
“We will send your mother’s spirit to the camp of the dead with morning’s first light.”
Still Water nodded. “Who were the raiders?”
“They wore the paint of the Blackfeet, but we won’t know until we find them and take our vengeance. They stole six of our horses.”
“How many were—?”
“Your mother, Five Scalps, and two of the warriors guarding the horses were killed. Five more were injured when they were trampled by the horses, including two children. I must go tend to them.”
“I can help.”
His father stared at him for several moments. “Good. The clan chief was knocked senseless by one of the horses, but awoke soon after. After we tend to the injured, I’m going to his tipi to talk about what has happened. You will come with me.”
This was the first time his father had asked him to be present when he met with the Chief.
I’m ready to learn the healer’s secrets, so that I may one day become Shaman for our band.
He stood and worked beside his father as they moved among the injured. They bound wounds, applied herbal pastes to bruises, and set the broken leg of a girl not yet three.
When they finished, he followed his father to the far side of the encampment. White smoke drifted from the apex of the chief’s tipi, drifting east in the night breeze. Still Water suddenly realized that the sky had cleared. Uncountable numbers of glittering lights looked down on him. In a silent prayer, he begged the Great Spirit to help him protect his People.
His father stopped next to the blanket that covered the tipi door. “Wait until you are called.” He bent, lifted the flap, and disappeared inside. Still Water stood by the door, shivering.
Perhaps the chief doesn’t want a boy to attend his council. My father will find me here, frozen to the ground.
“The son of Wise Bird may enter.” The chief’s voice was strong and stern.
Still Water’s heart leaped and he rushed inside. Buffalo robes covered the ground around the sides of the tipi leaving a circle of packed earth for the small fire. The blended scent of the skins and burning pine was familiar and comforting, the warm air welcome. He looked up and could see a handful of stars through the open smoke hole.
The chief and his father were the only two men in the tipi. They sat next to each other, his father to the chief’s right, on the other side of the fire from the entrance. Still Water stood silently inside the door and looked at his father for guidance.
Do I sit? Where?
The chief smiled. “I recall my first visit to my chief’s tipi. I tripped on my big feet and fell into the fire.” He held up his hand to show a scarred palm.
Still Water had wondered what caused the injury, guessing that it had been inflicted in a great battle.
“It is hard to know what to say to a young man when his mother has been taken from him. The tribe shares your sorrow. Her spirit will be with you always and you will become the man she wanted you to be.”
Tears filled Still Water’s eyes and he nodded his appreciation to the chief.
“Your father has taught you about the privacy of what is said here?”
“Yes.”
“Sit behind him,” the chief said. “That is your rightful place until the day you become Healer.”
Still Water nodded, stepped around the fire and sat behind his father, his back brushing against the skins of the tipi.
The chief stared into the fire. “I will hold a full council with the Elders to decide how we respond to the Blackfeet raid, but not for a day or so. By then our anger will have cooled and wisdom can prevail.”
Still Water’s father nodded, but remained silent.
The chief looked up from the fire. “I am troubled by the message carried by Five Scalps and the omen of his death. Should we treat white men as our enemies like we do the Blackfeet? Or should we welcome them? Not because they bring trade, but because they bring guns. If we become their friends, they can help defend us from our enemies.”
Still Water’s father scowled. “Five Scalps was an old man who lived in the mountains too long. I do not trust his dreams. The white man seems to care most about trade, which is good for the Apsaallooke. Our people have lived in harmony with the trappers. If other whites choose to live among us, we can live in harmony with them also.”
“Perhaps now and for a while longer, but what if many more whites come to our lands? Will they see us as friends?
“There are many Apsaalooke, many more of the People than whites. We should not fear them.”
Still Water’s thoughts drifted to memories of his mother. His eyes fil
led and he struggled not to cry and draw attention to himself. He was startled when her laughing face was replaced by images from his nightmares, the pale white monsters on horseback slaughtering not just the Apsaalooke, but all the People.
The chief frowned, unconvinced. “What are we to make of the tribes that once lived on the edge of the far eastern sea, who have been pushed out and forced to live away from the land that gave them life? Why won’t that happen to us?”
“Those are the stories of children and the People who hate whites because they are white. Have you dreamed that the whites are a danger to the People? Have we seen a sign from the earth mother or her spirits that warns us about them?”
Still Water wanted to answer the question, but he was there to listen and learn, not to speak.
“Perhaps tonight was such a sign,” the Chief said. “If you believe so strongly that the whites are our friends, would you recognize a contrary sign if one were offered?”
Still Water thought his father looked uncertain for the first time. “It is true that men see what we want to see. I must think about this.”
The chief smiled. “Good. We will talk of this again. I fear that the fate of our people, for good or ill, will be decided in the next handful of seasons.”
Still Water stared at the ground as the chief finished the ritual ceremony for his mother and the two warriors who died in the raid.
His mother had been wrapped in a ceremonial blanket, along with her favorite knife and bone needle, and placed atop a burial platform that had been built from aspen saplings. The three platforms sat on the banks of a small stream, next to the fir forest that covered the mountains. Five Scalps, not one of the People, had been buried in a separate place, in a shallow grave covered by rocks.
The Ebony Finches: A Transition Magic Thriller Page 20