“Hell, because I am black if not comely. Besides, what’s a better match between a man like me and his name? Among the People I’m known as Black One, among State folks as Love New, and for myself I have a name which they chose to ignore….”
“And what’s that?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s Part White One, because like you I share the blood of a slaver. Are you through?”
“Oh yes, and pardon the interruption.”
“Hickman, are you one of these State folks who’s ashamed of his color?”
“No, I’m not ashamed, but it does cause me trouble.”
“Sure, but that comes with the package, and the spirit’s what counts…. Anyway, when the Old One said, ‘Now, Black One, as with sick ponies,’ I understood, for I am a tamer of horses.
“So I took another nut from the bag and holding my breath against the stench of the sick man I forced open his mouth and dropped in the medicine. And when he spewed it out I waited for the Old One’s instructions—which came with a growl of impatience.
“‘Black One,’ he said, ‘you call yourself a man of the horse, so why are you waiting?’
“Which was a rebuke, and as he intended it shamed me. So I tried it again. But this time I crushed the nut with my teeth until it was soft like dried beef intended for babies, being careful not to swallow its sleep-making juice. Then I forced the sick man’s jaws open and passed the wet pulp from my mouth to his. Then I clamped his jaws tight between one hand and my knee while stroking his throat with the other. But still resisting, he refuses to swallow.
“So suddenly the Old One pushes me aside and calls out the name of the sick man’s mother, and with that his body contracts like a king snake downing a rabbit, and the medicine flies down to his stomach. And with that the Old One begins chanting again, and as his voice keens in the cave the sick man begins having visions, and with his body reacting it was a very sad thing to witness.
“First he was eating the tabooed flesh of wild animals, then nursing his mother. And then with great violence and foam on his mouth he’s eating of her body—which was most shameful to witness. And then he was singing the puzzling words of a song that’s so strange that I’ll never forget them:
This is the land and this is my mother
This is a hill and it is my father
This is a hole in the ground and the trees
And the blades of grass are the hairs around it
And I run in and out of the hole like a weasel
This is a hole with a lake in it, and I am a snake
in it—bass, pike, and petticoats!
Take out the legging and drop in the hammer,
There are plums in it, blue plums are in it
This is the hole and I am a kingfisher
I dive in the hole and wiggle my tail feathers
As I dive for the fish in it
That makes the fish and the cornmeal bubble!
This is the land, and this is my mother…
“Hickman, that’s what he sang lying there bound on the floor of the cave. And in it there was a meaning for which I had no stomach. Something sick and most private even though it was a mix of things most us knew. Still, I was of the Eagle and it was my duty to bear witness and be of assistance to the Old One.
“And the sick man kept repeating himself as though he were trying but unable to remember the ending. Sometimes he was a bull among heifers, then a boar hog and stallion—and he went on and on until the Old One nodded and motioned for another of his strange little bags.
“In this one there was a dark paste in a piece of armadillo shell, and I watched him take up a porcupine quill over which he uttered a formula before dipping it into the paste. And then, making an incantation, he pricked the sick man in the pit of his arm, the left one. And for a second the sick man became even more violent, winding his hips in barnyard motions and making smells that were truly disgusting. Then he became quiet, and when his breath had almost faded the Old One pointed to still another quill which he coated with paste. This time he stuck the quill into the skin at the back of the sick man’s neck, and it took effect like a bolt of lightning.
“And now as he chanted the Old One motioned for me to fill a calabash with the brew that steamed in the kettle. I thought he would drink it, but instead he leaned over the sick man and began bathing his face, neck, and head. Then he gazed at his face with deep concentration.
“Then he seemed to drift into sleep with his eyes wide open, and when he began shaking like a man with the palsy I knew that I was now in the presence of his totem, the source of his power. And with that he began singing, and as it grew stronger I realized that it was also coming from my lips as though of its own accord. You’d probably say that I was in a state of possession, but that is often the results of the People’s medicine.
“I had no idea of how long this went on, but when the Old One looked at me again he had become much stronger. He has released within himself some new store of energy like that which comes to those taking part in a powerful dance.
“So now he took up the knife and the small drill with the tip of hard stone, which he raised and asked for the blessing of his guiding spirit, his totem. Then, Hickman, my black State brother in medicine, I became truly frightened. I watched him measure a spot just below the sick man’s hairline and rub it with a powerful salve. And suddenly I seemed to know what he would want with no need for words or for gestures. It was as though I had helped him make such medicine before. So reaching into the fire I removed an ember and handed it over, then sat back and watched him press its glowing tip to a spot in the center of the sick man’s forehead. This brought a swift puff of smoke, but although I could smell his flesh scorching the sick man gave no sign that it pained him.
“Then the Old One looked at me and I picked up a long thong of leather, and with his eyes he instructed me to bind the sick man’s head at the temples. And into this I put such strength that I could see the thong knifing so deep that it ridged and puckered, as when boys tie strings around the skin of half-ripe tomatoes.
“And with that the Old One picked up the knife. Then things went swifter than the eye could follow: The blade moved along a course just beneath the sick man’s hairline, then down a straight line just above the center of his right eyebrow. All this was very swift and light, like a drop of rain flowing down the pane of a window. But the only blood was in the form of small welling drops in a fine straight line. Then as I weakened at the sight the Old One uttered some words, some formula, and leaning over the sick man he made a downward movement with his hands—Yao! And when I looked again a neat flap of flesh lay over the sick man’s nose.
“Hickman, it was as though a squirrel had been skinned in the wink of my eye, and a good thing that I was still under the Old One’s power and had no time for thinking. For now he moved very fast. He motioned for the bow drill, which was ancient and small and with a point of a kind I’d never seen. Rising to his knees he placed the stone that guided the drill in the palm of one hand, then seized the bow with the other and began.
“Hickman, never in my life had I seen such medicine. The Old One attacked the sick man’s skull without hesitation and sent the point of his drill whirring into the network of veins and bone with a surgeon’s precision. And knowing that the living brain, the father of nerves, lay beneath the bone, I watched without breathing. And knowing that life and death teetered on the tip of that drill I watched with great suffering as I thought of the Chief, the tribe, and of the sick brave’s mother.
“But such was the Old One’s skill that the sick man lay like a statue, without flinching. The bow buzzed and the blood welled up around the point of the drill like water when you dig into ground that is swampy. And as the Old One bore down with the weight of his shoulders I could hear the hum of the bowstring. Then I could see the point sinking in. At first with the bone resisting it was slow, then faster and deeper.
“And I
thought, If he goes any deeper he’ll stir up the gray stuff—and then what? But the Old One drilled on, like a scout who knows his goal in the dark and how long it will take to arrive. Then he was done, and in the center of the sick man’s skull I saw that the hole was small, neat, and bloody.
“Then the Old One’s movements were even swifter as he asked for a fresh quill and the webs of the spider—which I handed over and watched as he wound them on the tip of the quill and placed them into the hole. This he did with great delicacy, but Hickman, when I saw that web-covered quill enter the skull my legs turned to water! Yao! And my stones flew up to my chin, and it was like I’d been gelded. But I remembered that I was of the Eagle and settled down as I waited for the Old One’s command.
“Now I watched him plug the hole with spiderweb, a heap of it. Then he applied balsam to the underflesh, and lifting the flap of skin from the sick man’s nose he placed it back beneath his hair line and smoothed it. Then he covered the incisions with more spiderwebs and balsam. Then he looked at me then and said, ‘Now, Black One, it is for you to finish,’ and I leaned forward and began removing the thong. This took some time, and when I was done the Old One handed me some strips of white cloth and I began bandaging the sick man’s head. That’s how it was….
“When I looked up for the Old One’s next instructions he lay on his side like a dead man. He had gone into a trance with his old hooded eyes staring straight ahead and the fine wrinkles of his face become smooth. But when I listened for his breathing it was gone like that of a bear hibernating in winter. So in a sense I was by myself, there in the cave.
“Before me the Chief’s son lay more like a log than a man, and with the dying of the fire even the pot had become silent. Then in the darkness of the cave I had a spasm that sent bitter vomit spewing into the ashes. Then sleep came down, striking like a boulder. I don’t know how long I slept, but when I awoke I was under a blanket. The Old One was gone, and finding myself alone with the sick man I sat up in alarm. Then hearing sounds of excitement outside the cave, I knew that he had survived the strange form of medicine.
“So in the first light of morning we made a litter for the Chief’s son, and after saying farewell to the Old One we made our way down to his people who lived below. Here we stayed until our patient was again able to travel, which with the Old One’s medicine still in his veins took a few days. Then we set out for our village on what was to be a slow, hard-riding journey….”
“How long did it last?”
“Seven days and seven nights.”
“And him asleep all that time?”
“Like a dead man, but still under the spell of the medicine.”
“So how did you know he was still alive?”
“We didn’t, but such powerful medicine calls for great patience, so we waited. Waited and hoped—Yao!—and kept the faith, just like you advise your people. Then we spent three more days waiting for the time when his thongs could be cut …”
“Thongs? And what about his stitches?”
“Stitches? What stitches? I didn’t say that the Old One had stitched him. No, the healing was done with bandages and pressure, and with something in the balsam. The thongs were around his wrists and ankles. This was because Shaga-tonga, the Old One, had instructed us to keep the sick man bound in case he returned suddenly and injured himself. So we obeyed and spent the time waiting for his recovery in preparing a great celebration. Many cattle were slaughtered and much game, enough for a great ceremony.
“Then the day finally arrived, the Chief’s son awoke, and with a beating of drums the period of feasting began. All the tribe and kindred tribes were there. The meeting ground—the council space—was packed, and there was much dancing and eating and drinking. It was all spread before us.
“Here,” Love said, making a crescent in the air with his finger, “were the elders, and on this side beside the Chief, his father, was the sick son, the recovering patient. Now he was awake and smiling. Although sitting with his hands bound behind him he was smiling. Yes, and his eyes were bright as a raccoon’s in the light of a lantern. Yes, and his spirits were high as the tallest of pines.
“All during the celebration, the games, and the dancing, the People had been coming up to greet him, even the children. And he sat in his place, silent but smiling. And except for the thin scar on his forehead he looked very handsome. The scars were still healing, and since I knew their secret I wondered what was happening behind them. But with the barbecue and the corn making such a fine smell in the air I rested easy while keeping him in range of my vision. Then the squaws began serving the food and I watched his bright eyes grow even brighter. I watched him carefully, for that was my responsibility, and soon realized that some of the old men were also watching and exchanging comments between them.
“‘Look at the Chief’s son,’ one of them said. ‘The sight of food puts flames in his eyes.’
“‘Yes,’ one of the others said, ‘and that’s a good sign. The sight of roast bear makes his eyes shine and glimmer.’
“‘You speak true,’ the first old man said, ‘his eyes shine like a hungry bear’s when it plans a great strategy.’
“And then still another old man cleared his throat and said, ‘Yes, you both speak the truth, but I think his eyes are bright for all of it. They shine for the beef and the squash and the corn, and for the possum and beans as well as the bear meat. For as we all know he’s been many days without food.’
“‘For how many days has it been now?’ one of them said.
“‘For many nights and many days,’ he was answered. ‘More than enough to starve a man who’s not under the spell of great medicine.’
“‘That is true,’ the first old man said, ‘so it is good that his hands are tied, because otherwise he could do himself great damage.’
“‘Yao! You speak the truth,’ one of the others said. ‘First to the food and then to himself!’
“Then another old man, a famous drunkard, lets out a yell and says, ‘Ayee! Just look how his mouth is watering! If he keep that up he’ll soon make a flood!’
“‘And I will join him,’ says another, ‘because mine’s watering too—why don’t those squaws with the legs of terrapins shake themselves!’
“Then another old man frowns and says, ‘Those old women? I don’t think you would like that. No, that is something I don’t think any of us would like.’
“‘But look at the man! I think that if they don’t feed him soon his eyes will burn right out of his head!’
“‘Me, I sympathize with him,’ says the oldest of the old men, ‘because a man in his condition shouldn’t be fed too suddenly. This requires great discipline, for he must approach his first meal in the correct manner….’
“‘… Correct manner,’ says one of the others, ‘what is this about correct manners?’
“‘The correct manner after so many days,’ the oldest one says, ‘is that he should first take of the broth. Just the broth alone. After so many days that is the way. First the broth, then a little of the boiled meat….’
“‘Boiled!’ an old man who has been listening said. ‘Boiled meat is for old women and babies, not for a Chief’s son. He should begin with meat that is red!’
“‘No,’ the oldest one said, ‘not at the start. In my young days I suffered a bullet in my gut, so from that I learned of these matters. First he should have the broth, and then, after his bowels have begun to adjust, and after the wrinkles have smoothed out a bit he should rest and relax. And then, after he has his second wind—that is the time for the red meat, then and then only!’
“‘But not too fast,’ somebody said in agreement.
“‘No, not too fast,’ the oldest one said. ‘There should be no rush about it. First the boiled meat, then he should rest. Next, some of the half-rare roast of bear that comes from up along the backbone….’
“‘… Then he should rest some more,’ the second old man said, nodding his head.
“‘… Or ma
ybe some liver of the deer …’
“‘… Then he should rest some more, maybe with a sip of beer …’
“‘… Yes, but then before proceeding he should rest …’
“‘Rest, rest, rest! This is too much resting for me,’ the third old man interrupted. ‘In all this resting my stomach would grow the teeth of wolves, all fangs!’
“To this the second old man made the ugly face of a carved coconut and frowned. ‘In his youth,’ he said, ‘this one was a notorious masturbator, so that now his is the limp wisdom of second childhood. So we can ignore him. Understand?’
“‘Who?’ the impatient one said. ‘Who are you insulting?’
“‘You,’ the eldest said, ‘so be quiet while the rest of us continue our discussion of eating. As I say, in these matters a sick man must take it slow. Very slow….’
“‘I agree,’ the second old man said, and began looking out across the heads of the crowd as he pressed his stomach with his hands, from one of which he’d lost the middle finger. ‘But not too fast,’ he added.
“‘No,’ the eldest said, ‘but at a canter, a slow, steady pace. He should be moderate, like an elk when it feeds on the leaves of trees in the spring—and with equal dignity. Proceeding in this fashion he will be eating and still restoring his strength long after the sun goes down.’
“‘Now you have touched the fringe of the truth,’ the impatient one said, ‘and at last you have said something! Because at the rate you having him going he wouldn’t get started by the rising of the moon! Nor us either! Where the hell are those squaws! Bring on the bear meat! Bring me the turtle, the corn, and the onions! Bring me the red meat before I give up the ghost from starvation!’
“He was working himself up and acting a fool, so the others ignored him. For he knew as they all knew that when you ate with the chiefs you were the last to be served. That was the custom. Besides, they were whetting their appetites by discussing how the Chief’s son should break his long fast.
“‘That is the way he should begin,’ the eldest of them repeated. ‘Only after he has eaten some of the rest, the preliminaries, should he eat of the red meat. Then he should have plenty. The red meat of the bear. The red meat that lies between the short ribs of the steer—and plenty of it! Then he should have the rare red meat that is streaked with fat and greasy when it’s cut from the bone with your knife. The tenderest of red—that is for a man!’
Three Days Before the Shooting . . . Page 127
