He knew he must be dreaming. They inhabited every inch of ground. Through the masses of strutting birds he could glimpse little sparks of earth in the same way one might see an occasional flash of light reflecting off a field of stones.
As he watched the fantastic assembly of birds, Smiles A Lot began to wonder at their purpose. Had they come to feast on him? Were they trying to contact him, trying to show him something? Was he now in the Crow nation? Would he have to remain?
As he teetered on the verge of panic a sudden fluttering made him swivel his head once more. A commotion was going on in the oak closest to him. A crow took wing, flapping heavily into the air. The first was followed by a second and a third. The whole tree came to life as the crows pushed into space.
The birds on the ground began to hop into the air and the sky turned black as they climbed toward heaven, thousands upon thousands of them calling to one another.
Smiles A Lot watched, stupefied. How much time had passed since the flight began he did not know. Nor did he know what compelled him to tilt his head back and raise his eyes. When he did he saw that they had formed a gigantic funnel directly over him. The great mass of birds was circling lazily, their huge, hollow column reaching for infinity.
It came to him then that crows were thought to have a direct connection with the dead, and Smiles A Lot wondered if he himself might have passed over. He raised his arms to see if he was still alive, and to his astonishment felt himself lifting off the ground. He ascended, still sitting cross-legged, and when he reached the cloud of crows he, too, began to circle in the same lethargic way, revolving slowly upward. As he went higher the speed of his revolutions grew. He turned faster and faster until at last he was spinning crazily through space.
All at once he felt a jolt. He was sitting on the ground again but was so disoriented that he could not help but fall back. On his way to earth his spine struck something solid, something alive. He felt it burrow under the small of his back and suddenly he was rising again. As he was lifted into the air he felt himself sliding down something he knew well. He could smell a familiar smell too and in the time it takes to blink he had completed his slide to find himself straddling the back of a horse whose flesh was hard as metal.
He let a hand drop to the animal's withers. Its coat shimmered black as onyx, and when Smiles A Lot glanced up he saw that the horse had craned its neck for a look at who might be sitting astride its back. A dark eye, its pupil black as its coat, stared back at him with inscrutable intent.
The next thing Smiles A Lot knew, a stallion's scream rent the air and the animal below him was diving and leaping, corkscrewing frantically to unseat him. It plunged and reared as if it were some monster of the deep, alternately sounding and surfacing the length of the bluff and back again. All the while, its rider sat as easily as a man might sit against the willow backrest in his lodge, enjoying a tranquil smoke.
At the zenith of the bluff the magnificent horse abruptly halted his gyrations and gazed once more at its rider. With a long-winded sigh it raised and lowered its handsome head as if in agreement with some unposed question. It spread its front legs, dropped its head between them, and exploded backward.
At the same instant Smiles A Lot's perspective shifted. He was watching himself at a distance, watching himself ride this great engine of a horse as it powered backward down the long approach to the top of the bluff.
In a flash he was atop the horse again, looking up the slope. Debris from their descent, chunks of earth floating in silt, were raining down on the ground, and as it slowly settled, he could feel the animal beneath him gather itself. It bounced up and down on its,front legs and shook its neck and head as a stallion does before it charges. It took deep breaths, each one more rapid than the last.
Whether the force came from behind or below or in front Smiles A Lot could not tell but in a single stroke they were blasted up the hill, though the horse under him did not appear to move. An unseen power had flung them forward and the energy it generated seemed to grow as the cliff ahead rushed up to meet them. They were already in the air when they soared over the abyss, climbing as smoothly into the sky as an eagle sails on an updraft.
But the sky was not the sky. It was filled with enemies. Pawnee horsemen charged them, each with a war club poised to strike a fatal blow Smiles A Lot and his mount swept through them with the precision of a blade. He could see them rolling off through space like particles in the wind. Utes were rushing toward them on foot, knives raised in one hand, bloody scalps in the other. They, too, went down. A regiment of Mexican lancers was vanquished as effortlessly as a hand passes through smoke.
A cluster of wagons came next. Kneeling behind the wagons were blue-coated soldiers, the smoke of their rifles hanging like tiny clouds in a windless sky. As horse and rider reached the wagons they rocketed straight up, leaving the white soldiers far below. It was amazing to see the bullets they fired race up from the ground, then waste themselves, then begin a long descent, the spent slugs finally bouncing off the heads of soldiers darting for cover.
When Smiles A Lot looked down he saw the horrifying sight of a white people's thunder gun and its dark mouth. He and his mount sped into its black maw. Asthey raced down the enormous barrel, Smiles A Lot could see the silvery contours of its rifling.
Far in the distance there was an explosion and an enormous round ball hurtled toward them. It was pushed by a flowering orange flame which crashed like water against the sides of the barrel. At the moment of impact Smiles A Lot closed his eyes and to his great surprise felt nothing. He did not reopen his eyes but somehow he could see. They were flying down the barrel in a shower of metal fragments from the exploded black ball. Some of it had been reduced to orange and black dust. He could taste it. It tasted like earth.
The earth was in his mouth. He could feel gritty particles of it grating against his teeth. Smiles A Lot tried to open his eyes but only one lid raised. The other eye was pressed against the familiar skin of the bluff. The drop-off was only a few feet in front of him.
He could hear voices, happy, human voices shouting words he did not understand. He could hear the faint sound of splashing, too. Dazedly, he pulled himself over the ground and gazed down the cliff face. Wagons were parked at the side of the stream below. Blue-coated soldiers were standing next to the wagons. There were men, their bare skin glinting snow-white in the sun, cavorting in the water.
Smiles A Lot hung over the cliff, trying to decide if he was dreaming, when a fly landed under his eye. When he brought a hand up to brush it away, every joint in his arm throbbed. Then he realized that his entire body was aching, that his tongue was swollen and dry as cloth, that he was faint with hunger.
He wriggled a few feet back from the cliff face and tried to stand but was barely up before his legs collapsed. Again and again he tried before he finally gained his feet. He wobbled a few steps and collapsed again, pitching forward on his face. Too weak to walk, he straightened his legs, tucked his arms against his sides, and rolled slowly down the slope, finally bouncing to a stop against the willows that flanked the creek at the base of the bluff. He crawled into the cool water and immersed himself there for almost an hour rolling onto his face, then onto his back, repeating the action over and over. He wet his swollen lips and dabbed drops of water on his parched tongue. Before he got up he allowed himself a few sips from the stream.
Barely able to stand, he staggered through the undergrowth and finally found his hobbled horses, standing together on the open grassland. Fumbling weakly at the flap of his traveling pouch, he at last succeeded in retrieving a stick of jerked meat, which he ate in tiny bites, sucking all the juice out before he swallowed.
Repeatedly he tried to pull himself onto one of the ponies but when he finally gained its back he fell off the other side and had to rest another hour before trying again.
When he was finally able to climb up and sit, the sun was dipping toward the horizon and he rode south, clinging feebly t
o his horse's mane. Several hours after sunset he came across a spring at the mouth of a ravine. He tumbled down, turned on his back, and slept as if he would never wake.
When he opened his eyes again it was at the behest of one of the horses, which had been nudging him in the ribs with its soft muzzle.
Smiles A Lot drank as much as he could hold, chewed up half a dozen strips of jerked meat, and continued south. He was feeling much better now and was anxious to get home. He wanted to tell Owl Prophet about what he had experienced on Medicine Bluff. Surely the prophet would have something to say when he told him about the crows and the horse and the enemies falling before him and the white men in the stream.
It was possible of course that the prophet would recoil, thinking that Smiles A Lot had lost his mind. It could be, he thought to himself as the country flattened out ahead of him. My mind is in pieces. Maybe in the ride ahead they will come back together.
It was true that the young man who wanted to die a warrior had undergone a fragmentation of the mind. Yet as he rode home with the breeze in his face one thought stood out in the jumble that was floating freely in his head. Whenever danger found him, he had better make sure he was on the back of an all-black horse. If he couldn't find one, he would do well to steal one from an enemy. No prophet needed to tell him that from here on out, a black horse was essential to a long and happy life.
Chapter XIV
Kicking Bird was the first to strike camp. His wives packed up the household and struck their lodges as Kicking Bird counciled with a number of middle-aged warriors, all men of solid standing. Gap In The Woods and Big Bow; Gray Leggings and Island, Bird Chief and Powder Face all came to the special meeting lodge because, like Kicking Bird, none was sure that war was the answer. Each of them had fought the white man, as had their fathers and grandfathers. None was afraid of war but in the back of each man's mind lurked the same seed of doubt that had taken root in Kicking Bird's. Perhaps the persistent white tide could not be turned, and if that was so, it might serve the survival of all to at least make contact. Neither Kicking Bird nor anyone else could say to themselves what contact might yield. But how could the depth of a stream or the strength of its current or the shape of stones beneath the surface be known without walking across? It was this understanding that brought Kicking Bird and other middle-aged warriors together.
Each man that came that morning backed the statesman's position. They, too, packed up possessions and families and, not long after the sun had burned off the morning haze, Kicking Bird led his column of men, women, children, dogs, and ponies out of the village for what was expected to be a protracted stay in the country of the Kiowa.
In the Hard Shield lodge across the village Wind In His Hair was also having a busy morning. His loyal core of Hard Shields had been augmented by the arrival of many others, promising young men like Iron Jacket and Left Hand and Hears The Sunrise, all of them vowing to lend the limit of their skill and bravery to his enterprise. It warmed Wind In His Hair's heart to see so many clamoring for action. The power that beat beneath the breast of every Comanche warrior was coming, as it always had, to the fore. Each warrior retreated to his home that afternoon to settle family affairs, inventory horses and weapons, and perform the rituals essential to safety and victory.
The following morning, a line of Comanche men forty strong filed east with Wind In His Hair at its head. It was the largest party in years and its sullen nature, bereft of the customary excitement that marked such departures, reflected the seriousness with which they regarded the enemy. It was hoped that an encounter with white soldiers would take place, giving them an opportunity to “chop at the enemy's head,” as Wind In His Hair put it.
Accompanied by renowned buffalo-killers Lone young Man, Red Moon, and Feathered Lance, Dances With Wolves also left camp that morning, eager to strike a herd of substance in the west.
He should have been feeling just right. The sun was at his back, his two eldest children were at his side again, and his skillful counterparts and their families were in high spirits.
But he and Stands With A Fist had argued the previous day, creating a tension between them that carried to the moment he had swung onto his pony and ridden off, the sour feeling of estrangement sticking in his craw.
The argument had begun over the children, Snake In Hands and Always Walking wanted to go out again with their father. He and his wife had both been reluctant to grant permission, but the brother and sister were adamant, finally challenging their parents to cite a good reason for them to stay home.
Dances With Wolves had responded to the challenge with silence. In his heart there was no good reason, but he hadn't wanted to undercut his wife and remained quiet.
Stands With A Fist had understood his silence as a betrayal. If he had wanted to support her he would have spoken up. At the least he could have asserted his authority as a father and told them both that the decision to keep them in camp was final. Instead, he had shifted the weight of deciding to her, a weight that, when added to all the recent talk of white soldiers and war and reservations, she was incapable of shouldering.
She barked rather icily at the children, "Go with your father if that's what you want to do!” and busied herself stoking the fire. Snake In Hands and Always Walking ran happily out of the lodge, leaving Dances With Wolves to confront his unhappy wife.
“Come with us," he said.
She flicked a cold glance in his direction but said nothing.
"Come with us," he repeated. “I'm tired of being away from my wife.” He thought this last remark might make amends, but it didn't.
"I can't do that," she said, as if a gauntlet had struck her face. "Every man in camp is gone. There's more work when men are gone. Children need to be watched, people need to be helped. Women have to double their work. It's not easy."
"No . . . women's work is not easy. Come with us," he asked again.
"I can't. I won't. Stays Quiet and I will stay at home. Go out as long as you want."
They took little bites at each other all that evening, and the division between them was still there the following morning. The tug-of-war left no space for affection or understanding and each performed the preparations for his leaving in the edgy atmosphere that drives men and women away from one another. They avoided touching and shared only a few curt words when speech could not be avoided.
When the horses were loaded with provisions and the children were on the backs of their ponies, Stands With A Fist hugged each of them and wished her husband good hunting with the briefest of looks. Then she took Stays Quiet by the hand and disappeared into the lodge.
Dances With Wolves rode onto the plain with a heart so unsettled that even the comical sight of Owl Prophet did little to relieve it. The prophet's family was marching into the prairie on foot, the women and children carrying containers which they probably hoped to fill with sweet plums or berries. The great man himself was trailing along behind, a utility bag on his shoulder and a look of mortification on his face. At any other time the image of Owl Prophet's wives prevailing on him to join the ignominious trek might have made Dances With Wolves laugh out loud, but today it did no more than remind him of his own unhappy circumstances, and he rode on without giving the plight of the prophet a second thought.
Alone in her lodge, Stands With A Fist brooded, wondering if she might have been too hard on her husband. No conclusion could be reached. Her every thought was riddled with emotion and it took all her mental strength to keep from giving in to the temptation of tears. Tears seemed to be the best way to wash everything clean. But she couldn't let herself go.
When she noticed the pony her husband had left tied outside, she briefly thought how easy it would be to jump on with Stays Quiet and catch up with the rest of her family. But she couldn't do that, either.
Everything was pulling her in different directions, and for the moment something so small as putting one foot in front of the other seemed to take more energy than sh
e could command. Stands With A Fist could look forward to the afternoon of that particular day only because she knew that night and the careless release of sleep would follow.
Ten Bears knew nothing of the squabbling between the unhappy couple who lived in the set-apart lodge, yet he felt something of the same torpor that Stands With A Fist was experiencing. He had seen Dances With Wolves ride out with the hunters late that morning, and when they were clear of camp a strange, inexplicable silence had fallen over the village. It was as if the whole community had been emptied. Only a handful of men remained behind, and most of them were, like himself, old
and infirm. There were many women and children, of course, but their presence seemed suddenly invisible.
No one was carrying water or gathering wood. No one seemed to be working outside. Day had turned to night. Everyone had melted into their homes.
Ten Bears went back into his lodge and lit his pipe and thought about what could be wrong. It wasn't that all the men were gone, he decided. It was the way they went, drawn out in different directions, for different reasons. The splintering of his people was becoming visible, and the more he thought about it the more Ten Bears felt his dread confirmed. The threat of the whites, still so far away, was dividing the people already. And there was nothing he could do about it.
These thoughts were so disturbing to Ten Bears that he had to get up and out. He loved his routine, especially the daily arrival of Hunting For Something, but he decided to deviate. He needed distance and fresh air and sunlight and solitude. Without these things he could imagine himself starting a slow turn to dust.
Shaking with desperation, the old man struggled to his feet, grabbed hold of his stick, and started out of camp, his eyes stuck on the horizon, determined to walk out as far as his withered legs would carry him.
The Holy Road Page 8
