by Joan Grant
So many trivial things might lead to disaster: if a girl wore more than a hundred or less than ninety beads in her forehead-band, she might go blind; if one of her bracelets broke, it was certain that her first two children would be born dead. But of all the things the squaws accepted without question, the most surprising to Raki and me was the Choosing.
This took place every year, at the full moon before midsummer, and was the only tribal feast in which the women played an important part. All squaws between sixteen and thirty-two were concerned in it; the first to be Chosen were girls who had not yet been taken into the woods, and then, in order of age, the women whose last child was more than a year old.
For days the Squaws’ Tepees buzzed with preparations like hollow tree-trunks full of bees. I was asked to admire moccasins embroidered with coloured beads and even to advise whether a doe-skin tunic could be improved by another porcupine quill stitched to its hem by the stem of a feather. The tepees smelt of rancid grease, for during the growing moon the women plastered their hair with the fat of those animals whose virtues they wished to possess…deers’ fat for swiftness, beavers’ for industry, owls’ to make them wise at night.
I tried to find out why they wanted to be Chosen, whether they hoped to find someone like Raki among the strangers, but they stared or giggled, and instead of answering ran away. Nona’s power over them seemed to have suddenly increased, and whenever she spoke, they listened attentively…even when she only grumbled at them; and they vied to make her notice them by trying to please her. Raki and I decided that they must think she could help them to get something they wanted if they could persuade her to be genial; but neither of us had any idea what it was, until Ninee told me that at the Choosing each squaw must have one of the Old Women to speak for her at the wrestling.
Raki told me what to expect at the wrestling, for he had watched the young Braves practicing for it. A man who wanted a squaw had to fight for her if another man chose her too; and all were allowed to take part in the Choosing after they had become full members of the tribe by gaining their Brown Feather. In my grandfather’s time no one could become a Brown Feather until he had taken the scalp of an enemy warrior, but now there were other ordeals instead; for we had known peace for more than fifty years, and the scalps that hung in the Tepee of the Elders were so dry and withered that it was difficult to believe they had ever grown on human heads.
So that between us we could see as much of the Choosing as possible, I decided to watch it with the girls while Raki stayed with the boys. The Old Women, wrapped in the blankets with coloured patterns that they kept for ceremonial occasions, sat in a semi-circle on one side of the watch-fire; and opposite them were the Elders, seated on each side of the Chief who wore the Feathered Headdress. The Elders wore feathers too, but reaching only to their shoulders instead of hanging down to the ground as did Na-ka-chek’s.
Behind the Old Women stood the “not yet chosen” and the women who had already borne children. I was with the younger girls, and the women who were not going to take part, either because their babies were too young or they too old. The ground sloped up towards the cliff, so I was able to see everything that happened. Raki must have been on the opposite side of the encampment, among the boys, but the crowd was so thick that I could not pick him out. A white stone had been put near the watch-fire and round it a space marked by a rope tufted with coloured feathers…another rope closed off a square between the two main groups of spectators. The woman sitting beside me held her son on her knee; I was rather puzzled at her sorrowful expression until I realized he must be nearly seven…the age when he would be taken away from her and given to the Brown Feathers to begin his training. If Mother had stayed with the tribe, Raki would have been taken away from her, and instead of our being together always he would belong on the other side of the encampment. …I suddenly felt cold and wished I had not had such a horrible thought.
A group of men and boys had collected behind the Elders and there was a hush as the crowd waited for the ceremony to begin. One of the Elders called out the names of two boys, and at the same time Nona spoke the name of one of the girls who were standing behind her. The girl walked forward and stood on the white stone, and the two boys came to take their place on each side of it. Then one of the Old Women went up to the girl and in a loud voice began to proclaim her advantages, pausing between each statement to allow it to be given full attention. Her name, her age…the boys stared without displaying any interest, and the Old Woman’s voice became more urgent.
“Her hair…see, the braids are thicker than my wrist and they have never starved for good grease…her teeth are as strong and white as a musk-rat’s…and she is lively as a chipmunk.”
The boys began to walk around the girl, noticing each point that the old woman described with such enthusiasm. … “Look at her moccasins, that fine beadwork which proves she is intelligent and has nimble hands! Her shoulders are strong enough to carry a deer; her feet are broad and can walk far uphill without tiring.”
The girl stared in front of her, her face expressionless; not a muscle quivered, even when one of the boys prodded her ribs as though she were a carcass being tested for the cooking-pot.
The Elder who had called them forward asked whether either wished to choose her. Both boys held up their right hand, the sign of assent. At this, a ripple of excitement ran through the crowd, for it meant they must wrestle for her. I had often watched Raki wrestle, so it wasn’t very interesting, though I saw one of them win by a new hold that sent the other spinning over his head.
Then the victor shouted a challenge which could be answered by any boy of his own age; but no one took it up, and without looking at the girl he walked off towards the roped square, the girl following him.
Neither of the second pair of boys chose the next girl, although the voice of her sponsor grew shrill. “Look at her thighs, strong as a cougar’s. Only one tooth missing, and that was broken by a stone.” She was offered twice more, but each pair of boys showed increasing disinterest in what had already been rejected. Even though she struggled to remain impassive, I saw tears on her face as she ran through the crowd to seek sanctuary from this open humiliation. I longed to run after her, for though I thought her lucky to have escaped, I knew she was suffering a desperate shame. Only by being chosen next year or the one after could she hope to end the jeers of her companions, for if she was three times rejected she would have to spend the rest of her life doing the most disagreeable of the work for the other squaws.
A great deal seemed to depend on the words of the Old Women, though to me they all sounded equally vehement, for two girls whom I considered much uglier than the rest were chosen by Brown Feathers, for such uninteresting qualities as endurance and a special skill in the preparation of food.
When a woman had already borne strong children they were displayed with her. “See, twice she has brought forth strong sons, and these wide hips would be a fine cradle for a future Scarlet Feather.”
And of another Nona said, “Look, her son is more than a year old and yet her breasts are still proud with milk. Her children will never be starvelings to disgrace their mother!”
A third woman had three children; they huddled against her, and wept when she followed the man who had chosen her and left them to be taken away to the tepees. Because they had cried in the hearing of men they would not be allowed to share in the feast, so I decided to try to take them something to eat, for tonight there would be plenty for all.
The Scarlet Feathers did not wrestle for their women—I suppose they thought it undignified to display so much interest in squaws; and the men who had just won their brown feathers only wrestled because they enjoyed displaying their strength before the tribe.
After the Choosing, the men, each with his squaw beside him, sat in a large circle while the Old Women and the Elders served them with food as a mark of honour. Only after they had taken all that they wanted were the rest of us allowed to share the feast. Deer had been
roasting since early in the day over the cooking-fires and there was as much as we could eat; and there were cakes made of corn-meal and honey, pigeons stuffed with sage, and rare delicacies such as fungus fried in fish-oil.
Suddenly the noise of the crowd stilled, as the drum began the opening phases of the Betrothal Dance. At first the pulse was so quiet and slow it seemed to tremble on the edge of hearing; gradually it grew louder and more insistent. The girls linked hands in single file, and pacing in rhythm to the drum, wove into a circle…faster and faster they padded round while the crowd swayed from side to side in harmony with them.
The men made a wider circle round the women: leaping high in the air, spinning on their heels, yet always drawing into a closer circle. The women were no longer separated by their linked hands…they drew nearer together until each had her hands on the shoulders of the woman in front: their bodies were pressed close; a wall of women drawing into a narrower spiral, until they were a pillar of women on whom the men were closing in. Shouting, leaping men, their bodies glistening with sweat…men who had thrown off their impassivity and roared like stags in autumn.
Then, as the drumming reached a new peak of frenzy, the men broke into the whirling cone of women, who screamed and struggled and pretended to try to escape. Or was it pretense? Were those real screams of terror? I was frightened, and wished that I had stayed with Raki. I looked at the women among whom I was standing: there was pity on some of the older faces, but the younger seemed only envious or excited. So I hoped that the screams were only part of the ritual…like the brandishing of tomahawks in a war dance.
As each man caught his woman, she ceased to struggle; he slung her over his shoulders like a deer, and carried her across the encampment to fling her down before the Totem. Beside it stood an Elder and one of the Old Women…whom I recognized as Nona. The man held out his hands, and into the palms they put something that they took from two pottery jars…later Raki told me it was blood and corn. The girl still lay face downward on the ground, but when the man spoke her name she crept to his feet and raised herself until she could lick the palms of his hands. This seemed to make them become ordinary again, for the man walked away and the girl followed five paces behind him until they took their place with those who had already done homage to the Totem.
At moonrise, the tribe gathered in two long rows, the women on one side, the men on the other. Through this avenue of people walked the Chosen: the men leading, the squaws walking docilely behind them. We watched them take the path to the woods. Some would return before the next full moon, others not until the moon after; but they would never speak of what had happened to them, nor might they mention, after they had returned to the Squaws’ Tepees, the name of the man who had taken them away.
It was difficult to remember that these people were of the same blood as Raki and me, for nearly everything we said to them seemed beyond their understanding, as though an oriole tried to explain to a beaver the freedom of wings. One day I asked a girl whether she was happy, and she stared at me as though she didn’t know what the word meant.
Raki said the boys were just as strange. They did everything with terrible determination. When they speared a fish they must always try to get more than the next boy, even when they didn’t need fish to eat; they must always try to paddle their canoe faster than the others, to find more difficult ways up a cliff. They thought it splendid to go without moccasins on stony ground, and felt proud instead of foolish when they came back with their feet clotted with blood.
“Can’t you make them understand it’s silly to suffer unnecessary pain?” I said to Raki.
“No, I can’t. I tried, but they stared at me as though I was mad, and then began to jeer, shouting, ‘Raki is afraid of being hurt! Raki is a coward!’ I tried to explain that I didn’t mind pain if it was any use to anyone…but they only laughed.”
“None of them really laugh, Raki. The girls make a kind of shrill giggle, and the boys laugh at people…but they never sound as though they were properly happy.”
“Perhaps they never are. Their favorite ambition is to have a face which doesn’t change with their thoughts. One of the Braves earned his scarlet feather by smearing himself with honey and letting fire-ants crawl over him while he didn’t twitch a muscle…they stung him so badly that he nearly died. The boy who told me about it looked horrified when I said it didn’t sound very useful.”
“The girls want to be impassive too. They tickle each other and put pads of nettles between their thighs, and some of them drive thorns under their nails.”
“Why do you suppose they do it?”
“I suppose it’s because they still listen to the Sorrow Bird. …Mother said it was the greatest of all enemies except the Canyon of the Separation, and that until everyone knew it was the great enemy they would never remember the Before People.”
“And they love the Sorrow Bird,” said Raki sadly. “I think it’s the only thing they love at all.”
Shadow of the Totem
After the Choosing, I kept away from the Squaws’ Tepees, for I disliked being reminded that I was female; and I made Raki repeat his promise that he would never let me go to live with them.
“Of course you’ll never be a squaw!” he said indignantly. “We two are a pair, like two chipmunks, or two grizzlies, or two of anything that isn’t stupid enough to belong to a tribe.”
“The terrible thing is, Raki, that the squaws don’t realize that the laws are unfair…they look on them as something which can’t be altered, like the winter being so long and cold. You happen to have been born a boy, and so, if you wanted to, you could be first a Young Brave, and then a Brown Feather, and then a Scarlet Feather, and then an Elder, or even a Chief. But all that a girl can expect is to be Chosen…which is probably very disagreeable, and then to have babies…and if those are boys, they are taken away from her just when she’s grown really fond of them and they are old enough to be interesting. Then, years and years later, she could become one of the Old Women, and enjoy bullying the younger ones and telling them horrible and unlikely stories. Males have got everything and females nothing; even the worst-off man has a better time than any woman.”
“Not the Naked Foreheads,” said Raki.
“Well, they hardly count,” I said unfeelingly. “If they choose to go in for their silly ordeals and then fail so that everyone despises them, they can’t expect pity.”
“They can’t help being born into the tribe,” objected Raki. “At least no one expects anything of a woman, but if a boy happens to be naturally afraid of things, it must be terrible to know that he has either to do them or lose all privileges. I talked to a Naked Forehead yesterday; he was so surprised that I spoke to him as an equal that I thought he was going to cry. He couldn’t climb rocks without getting giddy and falling, and they wouldn’t let him do some other trial instead…at least they offered to let him take his canoe down the Great Rapid, but he thought that was even worse than climbing. So eventually the Elders declared he would never win a feather and so must become a Naked Forehead as he would never be worthy to wear the tribal mark.”
“Apart from being ashamed, the Naked Foreheads don’t have such a bad time, do they?”
“They have to take orders from the Old Women…though they oughtn’t to mind that, of course,” he added hastily, “and they have to do all the scavenging, and carry game the hunters have killed, and clean and skin the deer.”
“Why shouldn’t they do it? If they didn’t, the women would have to.”
“You don’t understand, Piyanah; for a man, it’s shaming to have to do things like that.”
“It’s just as disagreeable for women to have to do them, and if women aren’t ashamed, it only shows they’ve got a little more sense than I thought.”
“Naked Foreheads can’t take a squaw at the Choosing.”
“Do they ever father children?”
“No, and if they get even a little interested in a woman they are branded on the forehead…an
d I think other things happen to them as well, and they are then exiled from the tribe.”
“Perhaps I had better try to remember that Naked Foreheads are not really men, and then it will be easy to be nice to them.”
“Do you hate all men, Piyanah?”
“I like a few of them, but they are people like us who got into a tribe by mistake. The ones who enjoy the laws of separation are enemies. …I wish I could turn them into slugs and then squash them with a heavy stone!”
Braves made their own arrows, but all the other skilled crafts were done by the Half-brothers, men who had been injured and could no longer fight or hunt, but earned their right to the protection of the tribe in other ways.
Tannek, the canoe builder, could only hobble leaning on a stick, for the muscles of his right leg had been torn by a mountain lion; below the knee it was withered and the toes curled under like claws. No one was so wise as Tannek in the selecting of birch-bark, or in knowing the grain of wood to make the ribs, or in choosing the sinews, which go to the making of a canoe.
Raki and I often went to watch him working on the one he was building for us: he carved a pattern of feathers on the prow and made the paddles, one for each of us, from red birch. In a canoe he forgot he was a cripple, and took us down rapids that until then had been forbidden to us. He named the rocks, telling us how to recognize their characters; which ones were kindly and fell sheer into deep water, and which pretended to be harmless and then thrust out a jagged ledge just under the surface to rip open the canoe of the unwary. He taught us to know water by its colour and where to watch for eddies; how to paddle so quietly that we left only a ripple that might have marked the passage of a moor-hen; how to make a canoe leap forward even against the current, and where to cross to the other side of the river, using the flow instead of fighting against it.
