After a full morning spent digging on the hillside, the women gathered up their harvest in rawhide bundles to begin their short journey back to camp. Following the trail by the river, they rounded a wide bend, and on a broad upslope where the dense smoke blurred the hilltop they discerned a line of mounted warriors arrayed to attack. The mock battle about to ensue was a favorite entertainment. Always initiated by the men, but ever anticipated by the women. And giddy at the prospect, the women at once scattered to collect willow withes and dried dung. In a short while each stood prepared to defend her store of turnips.
A single wind-gust announced the event. Then the air stilled before the pending silence. Out of the mist-like smoke galloped the first wave of attackers, met promptly by a chorus of jeers and a merciless volley of horse dung and buffalo chips. These were the young braves as yet unproven in battle; some even tentative before the missiles hurled by women. Several horses shied and bucked, tossing their riders. But Spotted Tail held on, braving the insult and manure; he rode to a group of revered grandmothers, dismounted and dove into their midst. There he suffered a number of measured blows that even so drew blood before he managed to escape with a handful of turnips—then he remounted and rode, circling to display his prize, yelping with joy, having counted coup on the intrepid grandmothers, easily the most vicious of all defenders.
One of whom now stepped forth to shout her meager praise: “Ah Haih! There is one worth feeding. Spotted Tail may one day prove a warrior. But what of the rest?” She flung out her arms in disgust. “If you cannot steal a root from an old grandmother, who of you will ever steal a horse? Ho Hey! The enemy will wear your scalps! He will ride your horses and capture your women! And better that than be embraced by such weaklings!”
An unbearable insult; their courage so assailed, the young braves cast away all caution in a headlong assault. And while a few succeeded, emerging with a root to taunt the old ones in turn, most were rewarded with a good pummeling, only to stagger off bloodied, but with their honor restored.
Next, the young warriors rode down each to his sweetheart to take her captive then release her in proof of his affection. Except for those maidens not likewise swayed who just as certainly drove off their pursuers with violent effect. But as Wears The Wind approached, Falling Shadow lifted the hem of her dress to adjust the braided leg band from her knee to mid-thigh. The view struck him like a sudden blow; he back-rolled off his galloping horse, caught the tail and bounded back up, riding backwards now as the horse closed in ever-tightening circles. Wears The Wind leaned down and caught her by the waist, and with a skipping leap she swung astride, legs parted as they rode facing one another in sensuous rhythm with the horse. Thus Falling Shadow displayed to all, in the most direct manner possible, her intention to wed Wears The Wind.
In more subtle fashion but equal intent, Broken Wing Bird stood presenting herself proudly, chin thrust forward, arms motionless at her side, breathing with deep excitement as Running Hawk gracefully rode his prancing stallion in smooth sidling approach. Her breasts aptly defined against the soft elk-hide, like ripened pomme rouge buried beneath their earth-tone covering. Soon to be revealed to him; their sweetness gently uprooted. Tonight she would wear a beautifully quilled white deerskin dress, the upper portion tinted sky-blue for her eagle-plumed warrior who would carry her off to their mating lodge. She felt Cloud Walker’s hot breath on her neck, his soft nose, and she trembled. Running Hawk reined swiftly around and dismounted to take her captive. He bound her with his eyes and lifted her to his horse; she sat sideways, just back of the withers, her legs properly pressed together. But in the brief motion of smoothing her dress, she let him glimpse the white leg band she’d braided from Cloud Walker’s mane. Running Hawk had noticed the bristles of missing hair and wondered at the reason; he smiled as the dress once more covered the item that charmed his eye. He swung up behind and wrapped her gently as he took the reins. They locked eyes and rode before all; she felt his dancing spear prod her thigh and nestled her chin to his shoulder. The wind blew their hair as one, as their hearts were captive, one to the other.
The smoke vanished from the hill like a lifting fog; the sky shone a perfect blue. Just below the crest Dog That Smiles—long disdainful of the game for its mockery of war and its deference towards love—witnessed in stern silence. While among the older men mounted alongside him, most were greatly amused by the antics staged below and shouted encouragement with lusty verve and stout pride.
A withered old warrior sang out in a raspy voice: “Hear me! Let your hearts sing! Take glory in love! Take glory in war! Today, before winter lowers your lance forever!” Many laughed and nodded as Awoke In Winter echoed him: “Yea! He spoke truly! Yea! He spoke well! Ho! Sing your heart song!”
The Dog glanced to Black Hand, attempting to read him. But saw no sign in his grave expression. In truth the Chief wished for all to play as rehearsed below; but his heart wavered before the Dog’s conspiring breath. Would he cast his lot, perhaps the fate of all, in heedless quest for Broken Wing Bird? And lay with Slim Walking Woman? Would he outdistance his lust or race to destruction? His mind clouded, the white clarity of age darkened by resurgent passion; his spirit at odds with his flesh—drawn from the True Road, the Red that ran north and south, by temptations of the Black Road, followed by the mass of Vehos, running east and west.
XII. Drummed Away
A single drum beat reverberated through the evening twilight; then another, and yet more, as if to force the sun’s red shield beyond the rim. Soon the day’s last arrow followed in decent. Then the Heemaneh, the man-woman who directed all ceremonial dances, began his rhythmic chant, calling all to gather where the great fire blazing center of the camp. Along the surrounding circle that opened to the east, tepees stood like tall conical lanterns aglow from the small fires kept burning within. The taut skins grew translucent with age, and shadows of occupants making their final preparations danced upon the surface, granting an eerie lifelike shimmer to the various figurative scenes of the hunt and battles and spirit visions painted thereon.
Broken Wing Bird groomed her hair with a quill brush then carefully braided its mint-scented length; finished, it fell past her waist. She knelt seated on her haunches, hands folded, head and shoulders held erect—bathed by her mother’s warm scrutiny. Smiling to her daughter, Willow That Sings adorned her loveliness with a polished elk-tooth necklace.
“This is a night your heart will sing forever.” She clasped her daughter’s hand. “The morning sky should blush before such beauty excelled only by its virtue. And when your husband unties the rope, no maiden will deserve her pleasure more. Oh, Young Bird, how your brother honors you. How he honors us all.”
Broken Wing Bird lowered her eyes overflowing with happiness. She reflected on what her brother had said before leaving the lodge. Since it was taboo to directly address a sister beyond the age of puberty, he’d spoken to their mother. “I have announced to my fellow warriors,” the Dog declared with unrestrained pride, “that tonight I give away my sister on the drum. And my mother should tell my sister to have no concern. The stick I toss will hit the one desired.”
To strike the drum was a common means of divorcing a wife—and a woman so “thrown away” felt disgraced. The husband danced alone before the members of his warrior society and sang his “throw away” song, at the end of which he struck the drum and said “I throw her away,” then cast the stick among his fellows. Whomever it hit took her for wife; if none wanted her, they stepped aside. But for a sister to be thrown away on the drum was a great honor; a brother’s tribute to her virtue.
Broken Wing Bird left the lodge flush with expectation.
Usually when a war-party returned with any of its number missing, there was no scalp dance, and all scalps taken were considered bad luck and left along the trail. But the fight against Tall Hat With Long Tail proved an exceptional case, for even though they hadn’t returned with blackened faces that signified an unblemished triumph, they had secur
ed the bands survival by re-capturing the horses so desperately needed for the summer hunts; they had in large part avenged Little Wolf; and finally, the loss of Red Feather, killed in the ambush, while sorely felt, was in essence negated by the Dog’s daring rescue of Running Hawk. For one so staked had meant to die and was as good as dead. Yet he lived. So the council sanctioned the ceremony and the single scalp granted to the Dog—judging all honors rightly due.
Within the sacred circle of the gathered throng, the eight warriors danced their triumph. Dog That Smiles, Running Hawk, Wears The Wind, and five more stripped to their loincloths and painted for war, all re-enacted the river ambush, the recapture of the horses, and the brave rescue of the staked warrior. But the timely appearance of the Spirit Hunter, observed only by Running Hawk, was in no way depicted; the puzzling event left to drift like a ghost on the plain. The enemy scalp stretched on a willow hoop was waved by the Dog as he danced. Each warrior grimaced with frightful expression and leapt through the flames, displaying courage, strength, and agility to imprint these qualities and garner aid from the reigning spirits, the Maiyuns, and like a red dye rubbed deep in the soul, call it forth whenever needed. In their frenzy they seemed to recognize none of the onlookers, only the raging virility in which they communed.
Falling Shadow and Broken Wing Bird each took delight in her respective warrior, his physique and daring-do: Wears The Wind, quick, supple, and lithe; Running Hawk, tallest of all, of unequaled strength and grace. Tonight, Broken Wing Bird even smiled on her brother, felt honored instead of shamed by his sharp cunning and relentless will. When the drums silenced, ending the dance, the Dog presented the trophy scalp to Little Wolf’s father. Truly, his magnanimity bore the markings of a future chief. Then Spotted Tail, inspired by the gesture, abruptly pledged his flesh to the Sun Dance preceding the great summer hunt. The People affirmed his pledge with long cathartic cries. Truly, this was a rare and solemn act for so young a brave. Truly, he would soon bury the shame of his unvigilant eye.
Above the trees even the moon shone in full fertility—ripe on the twenty-eighth day. The People felt the pulse of life renewing without and within; children of Father Sky and Mother Earth, they were indeed blessed. Now came the series of courtship dances that would last till dawn. Again the drums beat forth, each made of stretched horsehide for greater resonance—thus the rhythm of the chase and the thrust of battle were wedded to ceremonial chant, dance, and feast. The Heemaneh first announced the Sweetheart Dance to acknowledge the prerogative of the old. During the interim the young warriors left and returned dressed in highly ornamental garb appropriate for the Matchmaking Dance, soon to begin. Presently, the Heemaneh, seeking assurance from the unwed men and women, assembled each before their expressed partner. The women danced shyly, retreating before the advancing male in a ritualized pairing. Then came the Round Dance, followed immediately by the Slippery Dance. And the women were no longer so coy, dancing face to face with the male, yet in no suggestive manner.
As late night embraced the scene, the Heemaneh called for the highly sensual pairing of the Buffalo Romp Dance. The maidens tied up their skirts, exposing their thighs as their bare feet beat the powdered dust in sync to the pounding drums; soon their racing thighs glistened before the lapping flames and fed their heat to the rapt eyes of warriors humped over like bulls romping behind. Herein their restrained urges were given symbolic release; but while they dreamed of such, no contact was offered, sought, or made. Still the natural movement of each maiden’s hips strictly translated her deepest instinct—reflected in the longing of each warrior to untie her rope and therein release the hard knot of his desire.
At last the Heemaneh halted their unsated torments and declared the final Round Dance, in which all participated in an exultant surge of primal harmony. Blessed were the People; blessed in unity and new life. Nearing dawn, the drums again silenced; the central space cleared of all but one. Dog That Smiles.
With the lark’s crisp song the first arrow of dawn shot over the eastern rim. A lone drum beat in slow rhythm to the Dog’s measured tread. Members of his warrior society pushed Running Hawk front and center, preparing him to accept the coup from the stick gripped by the Dog as he circled about the small shield drum hung from a pole near the dying fire. And thereby stood Broken Wing Bird; her beauty sweetened the morning breeze. The Dog slowly advanced, singing his “throw away” song.
“Ho! Bird of the Broken Wing who bravely called the predator from her nest. Ho! So I named her whose mercy was legend even as a child. Ho! Who never falters in the Cheyenne Way. Ho! Sister of unblemished virtue and one day soon a devoted mother. Ho!”—upon striking the drum, he turned from Running Hawk and sang—“I throw you to our father, Protector of the People!”
Black Hand snatched the stick from the air, startled with the many for whom the Dog had chosen—but eager, hungry to accept. The sacred war bonnet of twenty-eight eagle feathers crested his brow, draping his back as he raised his gaze to the moon at her zenith of twenty-eight days, her sacred light fading before the forceful dawn; he thought of the sacred buffalo’s twenty-eight ribs, the ceremonial lodge of twenty-eight poles, of his own sacred position as Chief and sinew of the band, and lastly of his fifty-six winters—the sacred number wedded. Then he feasted his eyes on Broken Wing Bird, saw the moon’s full ripeness reflected in her matchless beauty, and felt she was due him.
Blinded by the surface glow, he failed to see the life fading within. For her and Running Hawk this was a day of death; the sun’s harsh rays reduced their fond hearts to blackened embers as surely as the wind bore ashes from the smoldering fire. Both held in check by the will of the Dog. Running Hawk, beholden for his life, knew now that the gift of Cloud Walker had been a cynical ruse to hide the true motive and forestall a counter act—for had he guessed and the band been granted foreknowledge of what few would favor, the opposing hearts and their supporters could have over-ruled and quickly snuffed the Dog’s design. But once publicly declared in a sacred ritual all were bound like Broken Wing Bird, bound by tribal law and tradition to strictly adhere to her brother’s wish. And Awoke In Winter shared their anguish, his old heart, quickened of late by his nephew’s perceived happiness, now ached within, twice broken as he recalled the one denied him long ago. He cursed himself for not warning Running Hawk; he’d initially remained silent for lack of proof, fearful as well of the young warrior’s rash response to the presumed conspiracy; then with the passing of winter and the promise of recent events, he’d buried his suspicions altogether. Cursed himself for not abiding the heart…messenger of the spirit…source of truth.
Amid the dark silence that held the moment and ate at so many hearts came the sudden approach of a galloping horse. Before her father could trade her in turn, Falling Shadow tore from the encirclement and ran to her lover. Wears The Wind reached down and pulled her to his saddle, then rode swiftly for the trees where two more horses were tied in wait; one, her favorite Appaloosa, and the other, a pack-horse lightly loaded with provisions. Wears The Wind, doubtful of such an outcome, had nonetheless made preparations to allay Falling Shadow’s fear—now sadly confirmed. Their elopement was a fact, also unalterable. They exchanged smiles; so wedded, they rode off. They would live apart through the summer and fall, let animosities cool, then rejoin the band come winter. Elopements were frowned upon, but not uncommon.
Watching his prize escape, the Dog betrayed no emotion beyond his usual scowl. In the commotion that followed he took the opportunity to nix any further elopement. As he stepped to her side, Broken Wing Bird heard the only words spoken to her by her brother since childhood.
“Disobey me in this,” he growled through gritted teeth, “I’ll throw you on the prairie. And every man that so desires will have you. I promise you many. Know this, you’ll be bulled to death!”
For one so obedient, hopelessly trapped by events, the threat was unduly harsh; the worst insult a woman could suffer. No doubt the Dog was reacting to Falling Shadow’s supreme reje
ction. Still, the threat was deeply felt. Broken Wing Bird had known of a woman so treated; in part had witnessed the event as a child. The woman had refused to wed her sister’s husband; such marriages were customary as sister-wives proved most compatible. Some weeks later she was taken forcefully by the one she’d scorned and placed on the prairie, unbeknown to her family, beyond all succor. There, members of his warrior society massed about and raped her repeatedly. Those who participated were chided long after; many were ashamed, but the woman died. Bulled to death!
Willow That Sings, watching her daughter and son approach Black Hand, read the Dog’s snarling lips and could have seen him murder her outright and found it less cruel. Though by now the Dog’s lips wore the faint smirk of satisfaction. True, Falling Shadow had slipped his grasp, but his keener lust was for power. And presenting his sister to Black Hand would still further his ends. Should Black Hand display the generosity and selflessness, not to mention the wisdom expected of a chief and give Broken Wing Bird to Running Hawk with his blessing, then the Dog would have shown great respect by granting him the honor of conferring such happiness; at one stroke gain his favor and place him in his debt. But in the event Black Hand kept her for himself, so much the better; many would hold him in low regard, and distracted by a young wife, he could easily be outmaneuvered in council. A chief’s authority rested on the esteem of the People and was preserved solely through his deeds; displeased, they would cast their eyes about, searching for one more attentive to their well-being than his own.
Black Hand draped his blanket around Broken Wing Bird’s shoulders in sign of acceptance, and in lieu of Falling Shadow, gave twenty choice horses in return. Which pleased the Dog beyond all knowing. With this new wealth his influence would rapidly strengthen and spread. The Dog’s seething mind continually played for advantage, infected by shrewd reason like the Vehos who appropriated lands reckless of life, sacred will, and their own written law—the Dog, too, discarded or subverted custom to serve his more purposeful ends.
Caspion & the White Buffalo Page 13