The Rock Child

by Win Blevins

  Then Daniel swung into Chopin and the dancers sat. He played two nocturnes. They sounded lovely, especially with the bigger sound of the grand piano. The applause was enthusiastic, and after a hesitation the Indians joined in it, looking at their hands and funny expressions on their faces.

  Maggie brought a second round of dessert. Everybody piled into the big, comfortable chairs and ate.

  “Who’s your crew?” Sir Richard asked Daniel. He was always picking up information for those journals of his.

  “Two Paiutes,” Daniel says, “who are good carpenters, and several Washos, who are learning. Two whites, Splinter and Andy; Splinter’s the foreman. Maggie is Andy’s wife. She’s Washo, does the cooking and cleaning.”

  I pondered that Maggie and Andy being married meant there were going to be some in-between children, like me.

  “How do the Washo feel about having the Paiutes here?” In his interviewing mode, Sir Richard didn’t miss a trick.

  Daniel favored him with a small smile. “Lake Tahoe,” he began, “is the center of Washo country, center for food, religion, everything. Normally they’d fight anyone who came in here. I’m paying them for the right to use their land.” Daniel had some pride here, I could see. “I’m also paying the U.S. government a little for a preemption entry, courtesy of Mr. Lincoln’s Homestead Act.”

  “So what do you mean to accomplish here?” Sir Richard kept his voice amiable.

  Glancing over the rim of his coffee cup, Daniel said, “I am investing the fruit of my financial shenanigans in my personal dream.”

  I looked around and saw that everyone was interested. Paiute Joe was signing to the Indians.

  “For a while this will be a wood ranch,” Daniel went on. “The forests of the eastern Sierra Nevada are disappearing into the mines of the Comstock Lode,” he said. “For more than a year the principal obstacle to shaft construction has been shortage of timbers. Thus Pray’s mill at Glen-brook, across the lake.”

  He looked particularly at me. “You can’t see it from this shore. On the east side, cuts ten thousand feet a day. They haul the boards to the divide on the east and flume them down to Carson City. A splendidly profitable enterprise.

  “My location is excellent. Timber for miles and miles, untouched. This winter we’ll cut. In the spring I’ll float across to the mill. Success is assured.”

  Sir Richard said dryly to me, “Again, every man in Washo has a get-rich-quick scheme.”

  “Riches were never my dream,” Daniel replied evenly. “I want to create a school.” He got up and walked to the wide windows facing the lake, looking into the evening darkness. “The summer after next,” he said carefully, “we will open for business as a music conservatory.” He paused, and as he went on, pride filled up his voice. “There is culture in San Francisco, and will be in Virginia City. Within five years the transcontinental railroad will put us close to both. This a wonderful locale in the summer, inspiring. I’m confident we can draw young musicians. I hope we can draw serious players and composers, not mere amateurs.”

  We had all fallen silent. No one’s mouth gaped, but I figured we all felt the same about it. We were looking at a dreamer.

  “We will be a residence camp,” Daniel went on, “for students in their teens, performance and composition. Every kind of music, classical, dance music, shaped-note music, Negro music, Acadian music—everything.

  “I want to help create a real American music. Not copies of the European stuff but something that grows out of all our peoples and all our musical traditions. Something new.”

  I felt awed by his idealism, which was both beautiful and mad. I asked myself if he’d succeed, and answered myself, It doesn’t matter.

  “If you should fail?” said Sir Richard softly.

  “Then I will have a marvelous home on the most beautiful lake in the world,” he said, “where I can live far from the defilements of humanity and play the piano to my heart’s content. And friendly Indians for neighbors.”

  “You don’t expect other commerce on Lake Tahoe?” he queried.

  “A few other madmen like myself, perhaps, in search of loveliness and solitude,” said Daniel. “Otherwise, it’s far too remote.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  1

  The rock was the size of a house, maybe a three-story house. The Rock Child sat on its lap, and we had to climb to get there, and that was part of the story.

  “We never come here,” said Second Goat in signs as we stood at the bottom. “Not even the oldest people remember using this rock, if we ever did.” Otherwise, he seemed to be saying, there would be a ladder.

  The climb was an effort. I only cared about getting up, standing there, seeing the Rock Child, touching it, finding out…

  I followed Second Goat, paying little heed to Sun Moon, Sir Richard, or Daniel. I knew that it was hard for Sun Moon to get up, but she wanted very much to be there.

  Second Goat walked over and put a hand on the Rock Child. He was Giver’s grandson, lent to us as a guide. Probably the old man thought that ten miles or so each way was more than he wanted to walk. Or ride.

  Second Goat didn’t talk much. Hadn’t said a word all the way up. Now he just looked at us with a glint in his eyes, hand on the big piece of granite called the Rock Child. It was nearly as tall as a man, and wider than it was tall. A giant muscling up full strength couldn’t have done what Second Goat did now. He pushed gently with one hand and the boulder rocked.

  Though he didn’t permit himself a smile, his eyes were wild with gleam. He stood back.

  I tried it, with a ridiculously soft touch. The Rock Child swayed in my hand.

  My mind swooped around in a whirl once and came back to the boulder. I pushed again, hard. The Rock Child swayed again, neither more nor less.

  When I backed away, the Rock Child responded to Sir Richard’s touch, to Daniel’s, and to Sun Moon’s.

  “Tell us about it,” I said.

  “There is a story,” said Second Goat, “I don’t know about it. Many winters ago some people came here to hunt and fish and gather berries during the summer. Seeing this big rock with steep sides and a flat top, good for storage, they laid their meat and fish here to dry.

  “One day when the hunters were away, a big flock of birds carried all the meat away.

  “Fearing a hungry winter, the chief had a fire built on the rock. The people danced around it and prayed for mercy.

  “Soon the wind began to blow, and storm clouds gathered. Encouraged, the people danced and prayed and beat their drums harder. Thunder and lightning answered the beat of the drum.

  “Suddenly lightning bolted down from the sky and struck the flat top of the boulder.

  “The people fell to their knees and wailed forth their supplications. As the smoke cleared from the boulder, they saw this new boulder, smaller, like a child. And in the wind, visibly, it swayed.

  “The people gave thanks, and they soon discovered that the Rock Child, swaying in the slightest breeze, scared away the birds. So once more they had a place to dry their food, and store it.”

  When he fell silent, I asked, “Do people still store food here?”

  “I know of no one who does,” said Second Goat.

  I wondered why the people neglected to use the gifts of the gods, but didn’t ask.

  We climbed down with scarcely a word. In silence we ate a picnic lunch fixed by Maggie, and rode home.

  What the talk was I couldn’t say. I was overwhelmed with my own thoughts. Was I named after this rock? Born near this rock? Was I a Washo?

  The questions felt so big I couldn’t open my mouth and let them out.

  The next day I went hunting. I asked to spend the day in the Washo camp, but Giver siganed that I must hunt deer. He sent Second Goat with me, who was also married to one of Paiute Joe’s granddaughters, and His Sweetness, Paiute Joe himself.

  Sir Richard loaned me his Enfield carbine. I wasn’t keen to hunt. I did think, though, Seems like it’s what
I’m supposed to do.

  Starting at first light with Maggie’s biscuits in our pockets, we rode up into higher country for a couple of hours, heading for a place Goat knew, the foot of a little canyon. When we got there, Joe said, “Shoot, me,” pointing with his battered Sharps rifle, and set out to climb the ridge to the head of the canyon. Goat and I staked the three horses and waited for Joe to get into place.

  The view from where we sat was considerable, and I was curious but nervous. I took a deep breath and asked Goat in signs, “Where all do the Washo live?”

  He pointed to the east and signed, “Sun Mountain.” The mountain was a bump in the distance there beyond the ridge east of Lake Tahoe, and Virginia City difficult to imagine. The Comstock Lode has naught to do with the life of these people, which seemed like good news.

  Goat swung his arm around to the south, toward some deserty hills. He signed, “Headwaters of Carson River.” He pointed west and signed, “Summit of the mountains.” Last he pointed north and signed, “Honey Lake,” which meant nothing to me. Then he signed, “Center Lake Tahoe.” As yet I had no idea how true that was, but I figured any people making Lake Tahoe their center had good sense.

  Nothing to do but wait, so I asked more questions. “What time of year camp in the mountains, the desert, at the lake?”

  Our fingers established a picture worth thinking about. The Washo started their year hungry, after a winter living on stored pine-nut flour, grass seeds, and dried meat. Before the snow was gone the young folks, men and women, came up to Lake Tahoe to catch whitefish. At the same time the women, down in those foothills, gathered wild lettuce, wild spinach, wild potatoes, and Indian sweet potatoes.

  In the late spring everybody went up to Tahoe and fished the spawning creeks. “The fish is thick and many as grass,” Goat said with his hands. “Very easy fishing, even children scoop fish. Broil them, dry them, main food.”

  In the middle of the summer, when everything was all the way melted, they went to the high country. Up there the men did fishing that needed a lot of skill, with spears, taking males only. The women dried fish eggs and collected and dried plants—sunflower seeds for flour, cattail roots, shoots and seeds, wild rhubarb, wild strawberries, and wild onions. I was thinking how good it sounded when he added, “We take the sap of sugar pine for candy.”

  In late summer the whole bunch trekked down to the foothills, did a lot more gathering, and seined minnows with baskets.

  In the autumn all the people, all three branches of the Washo, Wel mel ti, Pau wa lu, and Hung a lel ti, gathered in the Pine Nut Hills east and south of the lake. They held a big ceremony for five days, and then spent a month or more gathering and preparing tah gum, pine-nut flour, the food that got them through the winter. Giver’s family would usually have been in the Pine Nut Hills now, but they came back after the ceremony—Daniel was paying them good to work on his lodge.

  They had to go down the mountain before long, Goat signed, the snow was coming. So far, the autumn was warm and dry, but Giver’s part of the Washo, the Wel mel ti, would camp down at Truckee Meadows.

  Of a sudden Goat stood up and motioned up the ridge. That seemed to mean Paiute Joe was in place. We started riding up the canyon, no more sign talk, like our silent fingers would scare the deer. I supposed that the autumn was given over, a lot of it at least, to hunting deer back up in the high country. I half hoped I’d need to use the Enfield, and half hoped I wouldn’t. I’d never shot it.

  I was worried by Goat’s statement that the Washo finished the winter in hunger. How hungry? I thought, mind in my stomach. I had reason to find out, for truth to tell, I had one eye on staying with the Washos and finding out if they weren’t my home. I was thinking maybe living with the Washos was what I’d been looking for since I washed out of that river. Where I come from.

  I’d been nervous about eats on account of that Donner party. Daniel said the place they half starved to death and half cannibaled each other was just up the creek from the Rock Child. The Washo got through that winter that year just fine, though, not far downriver, below the snow, minding their own business.

  My people. My home, maybe? Some folks say man’s home is where his mother comes from.

  I wondered why their talk didn’t sound familiar to me. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to understand it after all these years, but why didn’t it sound …? If I’d grown up with it. If even just my mother spoke it to me. I wonder if she did. Or did she figure it’s a new world and only talked English to me? I didn’t know, nor have any way to know, and it was irksome.

  Our job was to flush the deer out of the canyon where Joe would have a shot. All we had to do for that was stir things up, make some noise. But Goat rode silent, and I followed his lead. We pushed through the bushes along the little creek. Goat looked around like he was soaking up things with his eyes. I had the feeling he would be able to tell you about every blade of brown grass later.

  What kind of music do they have? I wondered. The sound of Daniel’s grand piano last night floated through my mind, and then I got a truly queer picture. I was sitting at the grand piano, fingers making music, but the sounds were Indian music, hi-yi-ing voices over a drum that kept banging at you and at you. I chuckled at my foolishness, and felt a chill.

  Boom!

  I jumped, scared out of my daydream by the shot.

  My horse jumped, too, and I thought how I couldn’t shoot off his back.

  Boom!

  Goat hurried for higher ground, where we could see. I kicked my horse after him, and when we got there, slid out of the saddle, and propped the Enfield on a rock for rest, just in case. It felt like playing a kid’s game, but Paiute Joe had needed to shoot twice.

  Pretty quick I caught movement in the bushes along the creek, something coming quick. I watched sharp. Damned if it wasn’t a black bear!

  The critter was running like hell and then stopping to scratch at its belly. Once it rolled over and scratched hard. I knew it for gut-shot. No telling how far it would run before it died.

  Goat took off sprinting, bow in one hand and arrows ready in the other.

  I took off sprinting to save his ass. A bow and arrow against a bear!

  When Goat got maybe a hundred yards off, he began to yell. “Hi-hi-hi, hi-yah!” and such as that, real loud.

  The bear stood up and took a look around. Then it acted like it got stung in the belly and rolled all around again.

  Goat ran closer. “Hi-hi-hi, hi-yah!” he bellowed.

  The bear sniffed. It sniffed another direction.

  Goat got on his knees in a clear spot and drew the bow. “Hi-hi-hi, hi-yah!” he bawled.

  The bear half stood, searching.

  I saw two glimmers.

  The bear grabbed at its chest.

  It roared terrible.

  Then it trotted toward Goat.

  My shot was not clear—Goat was half in the way.

  The bear was caterwauling, you could hardly believe.

  Goat raised the bow, still kneeling.

  The bear charged Goat hard.

  I saw two glimmers.

  I shot at its heart.

  The bear dropped like I’d blown its head off.

  It lay in front of Goat like a rug. It didn’t twitch or anything.

  I trotted up.

  Goat was just waiting for a little, maybe make sure the bear didn’t have one more swipe in it. He looked irked. In a minute, though, he lifted his face up and began to chant. Anybody could tell he was praying, but afterwards I didn’t have the heart to ask him why he prayed. Found out later no Washo would kill an animal without giving thanks and asking forgiveness for taking a life.

  “Did I hit it in the heart?” I babbled, knowing I did.

  Goat looked at me queer, and I remembered he didn’t speak English. He signed back, “The bear was dead.”

  I looked at him weird.

  He pointed at the gun and at his own head. “The bear was dead,” he signed. “I was alive.”

&nbs
p; Then I got it. Some gratitude, when you save someone’s life.

  He motioned to me to help and we rolled the bear over. Damned if there weren’t four arrows plumb center in that bear’s chest.

  Goat began to cut. He sliced the belly open, ribs to bottom, and motioned I should get the guts out. Then he pulled his arrows out, right back through the ribs.

  When I was done with the guts, we split the bear’s breastbone. Then I saw that three of those arrows were in the heart. So Goat would have killed the bear.

  That’s when I looked for my shot. And looked. And looked.

  Finally Goat signed to me, “You missed.”

  A thorough inspection of the inside of the rib cage confirmed that fact.

  Paiute Joe showed up pretty quick to help us quarter that bear out and get it on the horses. He was excited to get a bear—fat meat and lots of it.

  When we got to camp, everybody made over Second Goat. He went around camp giving big pieces away, first to old folks, then to relatives. Joe gave a fine piece of backstrap to Giver, who was his in-law. Turned out, according to Joe, the Washo hardly ever hunted bear. Neither did Paiute, said Joe, until they got rifles. Dangerous. That’s how come Second Goat was a big man today.

  I was invited for dinner at Giver’s lodge.

  Well, I thought, That’s the rabbit path. You go hunting, damn near shoot your partner, he kills a bear when you wanted a deer, and you’re all heroes.

  2

  I washed off in the river, which was cold, put on my best clothes, and Sun Moon and me got ready to go to Giver’s.

  Downstairs Daniel and Sir Richard were both dressed and freshly shaven.

  “Let’s walk,” says I. I wanted to put off getting to the camp. Tonight I was going to tell some folks they were my family, which was a way of asking if I could come home. I had the jitters.

  My friends looked at each other, and Daniel said, “Why not?”

  The way ran along the lakeshore a little, and then down the river. Though dark was a good while off, the sun was down behind the Sierra Nevada, huge above us to the west. One of the glories of this country is the long twilights the mountains give, day in day out, summer, fall, winter, spring.