She wondered over these matters while, one by one, the warriors awakened to the second day of the manhood ritual—and to the news of Gyva’s accusation, which was conveyed to them by the soothsayer.
Gyva watched their faces as they heard the dark news.
Arrow-in-Oak looked faintly surprised, then angry.
Dark Eagle seemed disgusted.
Hawk did not seem to care one way or the other. He looked well rested, but his face was bruised by Torch’s mighty blows.
Torch appeared anguished by the news, and doubly so when he learned the identity of the accuser. Never had Gyva felt the floor of the world drop away from her as it did now, and as it did moments later, when Teva caused the tents to be struck, pulled up from the pegs that held them to the ground, revealing under each nothing but a single rude blanket flat against the earth.
No flask. No sign of a flask. And absolutely no hiding place in which a flask, or anything else, might have been secreted.
“It is my duty,” the old woman orated, “to ask the accuser if she is satisfied, that the ordeal may proceed.”
“The ordeal may proceed,” Gyva told her stubbornly. “My satisfaction is another matter, because I saw what I saw.”
There were catcalls; there was ridicule and contempt.
“Hide yourself in the forest, why don’t you?” smirked Little Swallow, as the tribe moved off to witness the beginning of the mountain trek. “Or take a knife and slit your throat in some trackless wood. You are disgraced now, and a troublemaker. We do not need such a one as you.”
Gyva whirled, and seized Little Swallow by the neck. The wily maiden’s mocking brightness faded more quickly than dew beneath the sun. “I know with my soul that you have sullied the ritual,” she told Hawk’s lover, “and I shall prove it if it be the last thing I do.”
Swallow, deducing that she would be neither strangled nor struck, twisted away. “Why do you not simply climb the mountain with the men? Do you see that high peak, which they must reach? When you attain it, jump.”
Then she moved off arrogantly to the starting place, where the contestants were savoring their ladles of water. She walked with an arrogant, suggestive motion, the movement of her hips a promise of how she would move for a mounted man.
Many watched her, but Hawk was not one of them this morning. His concentration was directed toward the twin mountains. He knew, as did everyone, that only those who ended this day in the first and second positions would be allowed to advance to the crucial exercise of the third day. In spite of his loss to Torch in wrestling, Hawk stood high in the other events, and he looked fitter than the others to make the day-long climb. The men had to race for miles up into the foothills, followed by a climb up the rocky south face of the mountain. Once there, they would present themselves, waving to watchers positioned all along the course, and return to the village by sundown. A brave returning after sundown was disqualified; and, as always, a contestant could legitimately give up the effort at any time. There would be great temptation to do so—men with water waited at various stations along the route. So easy would it be to stop and drink.
The race began. Dark Eagle, realizing that it was now or never were he to have any chance at all, dashed into the lead, scorning the advice given by well-wishers that he pace himself. For the early hours of the morning he was far out in front, straining with the zeal of desperation. Arrow-in-Oak made it his strategy to keep close upon the heels of Torch, who was strong, but obviously worn by the rigors of the previous day.
Hawk-of-the-Sky kept close on the heels of Dark Eagle, but was not so foolhardy as to spend his energy like the younger man.
Long before noon watchers passed the message back down the line: Dark Eagle had reached the rocky face of the mountain and had begun to climb. There was considerable surprise in the tribe; Eagle had not been expected to endure that far, at least not in first position. Several people remembered—or thought that they remembered—seeing him practicing on the cliffs in recent months. Soon a cheer went up from the spectators. They could not see the contestants running up the wooded foothills, but now they saw the tiny figure of Dark Eagle inching his way up the rocks. Perhaps this day would bring great surprises for the tribe. Minutes later another minuscule man-shape began to climb the rocky south face of the twins, and the word flashed back along the stations: “It is Hawk-of-the-Sky.”
Gyva was grievously disspirited. No one spoke to her. Most did not notice her sufficiently even to bestow scorn. She was ignored. Yet she would not let herself weaken, not permit herself to seek privacy, or shelter from the silent contempt. In the short time since Four Bears’ death, her world had turned. She had helped to change it—no sense denying that; but on the air she smelled disgrace, and its odor was the stomach-stopping whiff of human flesh in a fire, like the scent of the squaw whom the Choctaw had burned.
Gyva felt herself drifting along the edge of a precipice, beneath which waited the beckoning abyss of despair. But she would not go to it, she would not go to it now—and let Ababinili and whatever God there was damn her forever if she did!
Having thought such a thing, Gyva waited to tremble, but she did not. In fact she felt better.
Mixed blood? So they prate about mixed blood? Well, let them! It does not mean I am less than the Chickasaw. It means I have the capacity to be stronger than they are. And as for the white men, I am stronger than they are, too, and for the same reason. Mixed blood! I am the best of both.
She felt very good for a little while, but the elation did not last. It was not that she doubted her insight, or lacked confidence that it was true. No, her sadness was based upon the realization that whatever her strengths were, she would never have an opportunity to test them fully. She would always be little Dey-Lor-Gyva, Beloved-of-Earth (if of no one else), the granddaughter of a man who had once been chief, making hilarious conceits of wisdom, interfering laughably in the affairs of the tribe.
Well, let them believe that, she thought, resolving not to give way. When the new chief is named, we shall see what life is like.
Four men were upon the mountain now, clinging to the rocky cliff, and moving upward. Gyva herself could not tell who was who; but when the word passed down from the watchers along the stations, it was clear that Dark Eagle had maintained his momentum. How could it be? wondered Gyva. Eagle was a good brave, but never outstanding. The men listened to him, but did not heed his advice. The women treated him with shattering equanimity. The children did not seem to know he existed. The maidens, true, would not reject the opportunity to wed him—he was courageous and manly and fair—but neither would they swarm to bed him before the ceremony.
Perhaps the contents of Swallow’s flask had not poisoned Fleet Cloud or shored up the vigor of Hawk. Perhaps something had been conveyed in the flask to Dark Eagle!
If that is the case, pondered Gyva, then I know less than I thought I did. She turned toward the face of the mountain, like all the others. Whatever one’s hopes or aspirations, whatever one’s fears, there are often times when one can only wait. And when waiting is the best thing to do.
High noon, and the brutal dance upon the mountain held the eyes of all assembled in the village below. Dark Eagle had begun to falter; the distance narrowed between Hawk and himself. Arrow-in-Oak and Torch climbed as if they were members of a team, neither one willing to break away, to make a move that would put him in a position to challenge the leaders. If anything, Torch had begun to fall back a little.
Gyva sent him a prayer of encouragement. The trick of the climb was to get to the top as soon as possible. The downhill trek, while not much easier, was faster, and the brave in the lead gained an enormous advantage. That lead still belonged to Dark Eagle; and now, perhaps a hundred rocky feet from the summit he seemed to increase his efforts, with Hawk coming up fast behind.
When it happened, no one cried out at first, or even made exclamation, so gracefully did the movement appear to be executed. Dark Eagle clambered to within inches of the top, r
eached out his hand for purchase of the halfway prize, and turned to look at Hawk-perhaps to grin at him, or goad the other brave to greater effort. The watchers on the mountain, later, were themselves unsure of just what had happened. Eagle had failed to grasp something strong enough to pull himself up, or he had been too fatigued to hold on, or he had slipped. Even Hawk, nearest him, was unsure. But Dark Eagle, his body bent like a bow, arched backward, seeming to push himself away from the mountain as a diver leaves his perch, and hung in the air, arms spread like wings, before he shot downward through the empty blue air to fall, broken and lost, upon the pine-needled floor of the forest below.
And so there were three.
Hawk managed to reach the top, and he could be seen looking down for a long, long moment into the abyss that had swallowed Dark Eagle. On the mountain, Torch and Arrow stopped climbing to ponder the finality of the contest that goaded their minds, tortured their flesh. When they recommenced, Arrow was clearly out in front; the second position was his.
There was no catching Hawk, however; and after watching for a while more, Gyva gave it up and drifted back toward her wigwam. She might sew; she might place extra skins on the makeshift roof. She might even sleep. No one would bother her today, absorbed in the contest as they were. But while heading toward the village, her eyes fell upon the five small tents; and the shameful events of last night and the morning bloomed in her mind.
There had been a flask, and it had to be somewhere!
Glancing around and finding herself unobserved, she walked down to the tents and examined the ground all around them. A man—Hawk, for example—might drink secret nourishment and then throw the container far away.
Gyva hunted in all directions as far as a man could throw a small container. Nothing. Then she walked back to the place where the tents stood in a neat row, little brown points of hide over stakes. She touched Torch’s tent, feeling sad and tender. And here was Hawk’s tent. Just looking at it made her angry. She knelt down, pulled the flap aside, and looked in. Nothing but the blanket, flat on the ground. No room to hide anything. Inch by inch she felt along the length and width of it, then lay down inside the tent to consider the puzzle. Now think. Swallow had the flask. Then it was gone. Assuming that no one but the contestants had remained in the area when the false rumor of the raid had drawn the rest of them away, there was no way the flask could have disappeared. So where was it?
All at once she knew.
Gyva pulled aside the blanket and saw a thousand tiny chips that flickered like mica. Hawk had broken the container into fragments, concealed them beneath his blanket. It was a great risk to have taken, for he and Little Swallow must have considered that the tents would be searched. Well, they certainly would be, and more thoroughly this time! She would go right now to the witch-woman and tell her what she’d found.
But she couldn’t. The people would say, “See? See what she has done now? While all of us were watching the contest upon the twin mountains, bitter Gyva did place these chips under the blanket of Hawk. No, they would not believe her. And given her current reputation, why should they?
It seemed hopeless. Hawk and Little Swallow and their friends were obviously using every nefarious device to capture the leadership of the Chickasaw, and there was nothing Gyva could do about it, nothing that she could give Torch, no way to help him in his exhaustion. Even if he did manage to finish in second position today, a confident and better-rested Hawk would possess a keen advantage of imagination on the crucial third day. If there were only some way to convey to Torch an extra ladle of water, or food.
No, she discounted these impulses. She would not violate the code; and even if she suggested it, Torch would hold her in contempt. She could not even converse with him, to offer encouragement and consolation. Words, too, violated the code of the manhood ritual. Silence during the ordeal was a symbolic acceptance by the warriors that in positions of authority they would listen to the advice of others, and that if captured by an enemy, no secrets would ever leave their lips, in spite of whatever torment might be applied to them.
Gyva went to Torch’s tent and lay there while the afternoon slipped into the fields of time. When she heard the first burst of raucous cheering, which certainly signaled Hawk’s return as victor, she had decided what to do. There was something she could give Torch that would at once help him but not violate the rules of the ritual. Now she had only to pray that he would best Arrow-in-Oak.
She heard them approaching, all of them. The mutter of voices grew louder, and then old Teva was chanting as the ladles of water were given out. It did not take long. There were but two ladles to give. Torch and Hawk had endured to face the final day.
Torch crawled into his tent and sank down, too exhausted to do more than stare at Gyva in the sundown gloom. She put a finger over her lips, unnecessarily. He would not speak; it was a violation. Now if only he would think carefully, he would also know that her presence was not a violation of any rule. Never in all the moons of the Chickasaw had any chief or wise man or seeress sought to proscribe women in the tents of the candidates. Such an occurrence was almost unimaginable. Everyone knew that lovemaking during periods of high exertion was fraught with peril and would drain a man of his last quiver of resolve.
Gyva did not think so. From all that she had heard of the third day’s task, it seemed that a man who knew he was well loved would have the best chance. But that was for later, the love. Torch blinked, tried to smile, failed, and dropped immediately into a sleep so deep it was almost frightening. At times he shivered, trembled, as the muscles in his exhausted body relaxed. Gyva pressed close against him, giving him warmth, giving him the wordless communion of her comfort and devotion. The third day might be long or short; only Ababinili knew, and only he could end it.
The last challenge in the manhood ritual was both physical and spiritual. Already having fasted and partaken of exertion to the point of collapse, the final two braves from the initial field of contestants rose on the morning of the third day, sipped their measure of water, and went off separately into the mountains. Once again neither food nor drink was permitted. Fasting and praying, the braves would remain in the wilderness until the Great Spirit came to them in a dream. He might appear in a vision, in daylight around the bright corona of the sun, like fire leaping from eternal fruit. But if he did not appear in the day, he must come at night, and if not the first night, then the second or the third or the fourth. But the manhood ritual was not considered complete until the Spirit did indeed come to one of the warriors, and all this time sustenance was forbidden. In the past it had often happened that a towering vision came to both braves; and when they returned to the village to tell the people of their dream, the tribe itself had to decide whose dream most befitted a chieftain.
Lying beside Torch in the tent, Gyva stroked his forehead, trying to impress her desire that he have a great vision, a splendid one, such as none had ever fashioned before. According to the tribal tales Four Bears had remained in the wilderness for two days, returning to tell of a “great growling God in the shape of a tornado-cone,” who spoke to Four Bears, telling him, “In your lifetime, I shall spare the Chickasaw people.” The message, when repeated to the tribe upon Four Bears’ return, had caused great jubilation, and he had become chief. Gyva had heard the story more times than she could count, and always she had savored it, for by its import the Chickasaw were a chosen people. But now, quite suddenly, she saw it in another way.
“In your lifetime, I shall spare the Chickasaw people.”
Four Bears was gone now!
Did that mean the nation was somehow vulnerable in the eyes of heaven? Had a blessed era finally come to an end? Would the black funnel sweep into these mountains, blasting away everything that had been, uprooting the Indians as it plucked tall trees from the very earth?
Gyva shivered and pressed closer to Torch, pulling the thin blanket around them both. She could hear the low mutter of the people keeping vigil outside. What if the tents were i
nspected in the morning, and she were found there with Torch? Well, let it be. There was nothing to prevent her from being with him, save the scorn of the tribe, and that she already bore. But would it not sully Torch in their eyes? Do not think about that now. It is too late now to think about that.
She thought instead of the dreams of kings. Everything, it seemed, had already been dreamed, every mysterious vision had been granted to some chief in the past. The legendary Gull Wing, who from the veils of mist had brought the nation to these mountains: He had dreamed of golden rain that was rich like wheat, sweet like honey, falling upon the flower fields of home. Chief Salmon-of-the-River had been given a vision in which ten pillars of fire bore up silver clouds from the mountain tops. And Claw-of-the-Panther had seen a warrior whose body glowed like the sun, mounted on a steed of wind, bearing a bow of light and a quiver with ten arrows of lightning, one for each of the ten tribes in the nation.
Great dreams, visions. What remained for her beloved to see in his time of trial?
Gyva had another dark thought. What would Hawk dream? She recalled the day both of them had gone into battle, seeking their first blooding. Hawk had spoken well that day, straight and true, and his words had gone directly into the hearts of many. Torch had been profound, but strangely obscure, almost mystical in his words.
But she could do nothing about it. The vision must be a gift, as must the dream. That was in the hands of He-Who-Dwelt-in-the-Clear-Sky. Snuggling next to the sleeping Torch, Gyva slept, too, but lightly, like a cat; and when he stirred, she was awake before he was. Dawn was very near.
She pressed her fingers against his lips and smiled. He seemed faintly alarmed, and still tired, although not so desperately tired as he had been on the previous night. There was a question in his eyes, which transformed itself into surprise when she kissed him deeply—a kiss he knew and which had meaning between them.
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