by Karen Kay
Suddenly it was too much. The wild scents, the feel in the air, even the gray sky overhead reminded him of home, and without willing it, he saw the faces of his friends and family before him.
Had Black Bear been able, he would have cried at that moment, so great was his distress.
But he didn’t, he wouldn’t—not in public. And so he stoically masked all feeling.
He sighed. Home. How he longed for the familiarity of the faces of his relatives, of his grandfathers. How he longed to return there, to hear the wisdom of the elders, the quiet reassurance of his mother.
But it was not to be.
He had to fight his own war here in this foreign land. And all he had to rely on were his own senses, his own observations and knowledge.
He quickened the pace of his run, oblivious to the stares he received from passersby.
Estrela—Waste Ho Win—Pretty Voice Woman. What was he to do about her?
He didn’t know, and, where he was usually quite decisive, he suddenly found himself wavering over the decisions he must make.
Should he snub her and return home as his pride demanded of him? Should he attempt to reason with her?
Should he steal her?
He had little enough love for the white society in which he found himself and no respect whatsoever for their laws, which hindered a man’s freedom. The more he thought of it, the more he liked the idea. Why not steal her as he had intended this morning? It would be talked about, sung about in his camp for years to come. Such an act would bring honor to him, to his family.
However, such an act would alienate Waste Ho and make her captive, something he hesitated to do.
Despite her betrayal, despite her reluctance to tell him at once of her situation, he still respected her right to her own freedom, and he hesitated doing something that would overthrow her own power of choice.
Besides, she must care for him, otherwise she wouldn’t have given herself so freely—
He couldn’t think of it. He couldn’t allow himself to consider how she had responded to him…
Where was her husband? Why was he not here protecting her? From gunshots? From other men?
Black Bear sprung forward, quickening his pace even more.
He fled over a path directly parallel to the Serpentine River, watching the ducks, the swans, and other fowl in his peripheral vision. At last he sighed.
He must come to some decision. This he knew; this he must confront, yet still he hesitated. He could not fathom it all.
She was married. Married!
Were all his efforts wasted, then? Were all these years spent waiting and planning for her return to come to nothing? He had invested so much time, so much energy in this, his search for her. And for what? To discover it had all been unnecessary?
She had broken her own vow to him, something he had never considered she would do.
He could make no sense of it. This was not the woman he knew. The Waste Ho of his experience would never dishonor herself in such a way. Had she changed so much?
Lost in his thoughts, Black Bear squinted his eyes as he tore over the paths of Hyde Park, bringing to mind the Waste Ho he had known back in their own country, recalling again his vow to her.
Her hair, caught in two braids at the side of her head and held there with blue and red strips of rawhide, had sparkled beneath the sun. And though her hair gleamed pale in the light and her eyes shimmered like the pure blue of morning sky, she had been the epitome of Indian beauty—her looks renown, even within the entire Lakota Nation, her manner properly shy, her lashes lowered to show respect and her melodic voice, soft, never harsh upon the ears.
It was this memory of her that Black Bear carried with him as he sought out his father on this day almost three years ago.
“I must go after her,” Black Bear said to his father as the two men sat within their family’s tepee.
“My son,” his father responded, “why do you say this?”
“She is mine. We made the vows, I just hadn’t spoken to her parents yet. I promised her that I would come after her, that I would find her and so I must. Besides,”—here Black Bear lowered his voice, speaking so that his mother would not hear him and become concerned—“I have received a message from Wakan Tanka. I dreamed a vision of her. In this vision, I saw Waste Ho’s death, but also within the same vision I dreamed of her life—with me. I have spoken of this to Two Eagles, whom we know carries much medicine, and he has told me that I must go to her if I wish her to stay alive. He told me that I, and I alone, have the power to save her. She is my responsibility. I must go to her.”
His father listened in silence, then he nodded, thereby giving his approval. And Black Bear, looking at the older man, saw the spark of admiration there within his father’s eyes. And though his father would never speak it, Black Bear could feel his father’s pride, the older man’s confidence in his son. It was a good thing. It gave Black Bear much courage, a welcome commodity in this, his struggle to locate Waste Ho Win. It provided him with the strength and the will he would need in the years to come.
And so the quest had begun. Black Bear had started to listen to the white man, to observe him interacting with the environment.
Why did the white man trade? For what? Not food. Not beads. Not cooking utensils. No, something that Black Bear had been hard pressed to comprehend, gold, a substance that the white man appeared to value above all else, above even his life. Why?
Black Bear hadn’t understood, couldn’t understand, seeing no practical use for the stones; still, he’d begun to imitate the white man’s trade and within a short period had accumulated so much of the white man’s strange wealth, he knew he could begin his long trek to the east.
What a fool he had been, he realized now, thinking back on it all. He hadn’t known there were different values on each of the nuggets, hadn’t known nor understood the system of the white man’s money and he had discovered soon enough that he had been cheated. Cheated by the traders in his own country.
Those nuggets he had traded for, the gold the traders had given him were worthless. Fool’s gold, they had called them. Fools gold—aptly named, Black Bear decided, since he had certainly felt the fool.
But there had been something far worse than being made the fool, something Black Bear couldn’t even now understand; that first excursion into the white man’s world revealed one other point he had overlooked: he, as an Indian, was not permitted to travel within the white man’s world without escort—escort by a white man.
The concept was incomprehensible to the Indian. To his own thinking Black Bear was free, as free as the air, as free as the stars in a midnight sky.
He was a man of the earth; never had his freedom of movement been questioned, let alone checked. As long as he obeyed the laws of his tribe and the laws of nature, Black Bear had always been able to do anything, traveling anywhere, sometimes covering hundreds, even thousands of miles to attend a trade, or to investigate a disturbance.
It was this white man’s arbitrary law, this demand that an Indian could not go anywhere he should choose, alone, that had stopped Black Bear. And it had seemed for a while that it had stopped him completely.
A full year had passed, a full year with Black Bear trying to solve something incomprehensible.
Then it had happened.
It had been during a summer trade. That year the summer had been warm, too warm; tempers at this time had been as fire on the prairie, needing only a spark to ignite them into flames of full destruction.
But it was then that Black Bear had seen him, a white man with short, dark hair, a man he had learned was living with a far distant tribe. And though the man had worn elaborate, Indian clothing, he couldn’t have understood the Indian well, for he was trying to trade with gold; something an Indian did not understand, or value.
Black Bear had watched, waiting, hoping for a moment when he could talk with the man, awaiting the chance to trade—something he had for the white man’s gold.
The white man had been playing the moccasin game with a Chippewa Indian, a game in which one warrior hides a stick in his hand, leaving the other man to guess which hand holds the stick. The game eventually passes into magic, sticks appearing within a moccasin.
Black Bear had decided then, watching the game, that the white man did not realize how warlike an Opponent he had chosen, for the stranger joked with his opponent, something no man did to a Chippewa warrior…and lived to tell of it.
Black Bear had known the moment when the other Indian could take no more, had watched as the Indian stood to challenge the white man. Black Bear had marked the moment the Chippewa drew his knife; he had watched as the white man nearly fainted before the Chippewa. Black Bear had acted quickly, running forward and leaping into their midst. And before anyone could see what he was about, Black Bear had disarmed the Indian, turning to the white man to signal him into silence.
“Do you forget, brother…” Black Bear pivoted around, addressing the other Indian with the hand motions of Indian sign language, “…that we trade here in peace?”
“You are no brother,” the Chippewa replied, using the same mode of address. “You are Sioux, mine own enemy, and I will have your scalp now as well as this white man’s.”
“Unless you are Chippewa chief,” Black Bear had signed, his gestures fast and brief, “you will do no such thing. We trade here in peace. Has it not been so through the ages?”
The Chippewa clearly hesitated. “You do not understand,” he signed. “This man has cheated me. He has asked for my four horses in the moccasin game. He had guessed where all the sticks were correctly, and I would have given him all that I own until I discovered that there was another at my back watching my hands, flashing signs to the white man. That Indian fled who helped him, probably never to be seen again, but this man here is a liar and a cheat. By the laws of our grandfathers, he does not deserve to live.”
“Did you do this?” Black Bear turned toward the white man, watching that man nod.
“Why?” Black Bear asked, himself at a loss to understand such stupidity.
The white man shrugged. “I have not been long in your country,” he signed in gestures. “Though I know that cheating is not good, I did not know the penalty for it was death.”
“And why should it not be?” Black Bear tried to reason. “If one lies, will he not do it again? Is it not true that it is only the coward who lies? Is it not true that the liar will only run from a battle, leaving his friends to fight alone?”
“No more talk. He dies,” the Chippewa yelled at that moment, raising his knife.
Black Bear swung around, facing the Chippewa once more.
“This man does not know our customs.” Black Bear’s gestures were crisp, his hands cutting through the air. “Do you see that he is white? He is a foreigner. He admits that he cheated. It is no crime in his country, and he did not know better, though he should. He is willing to make it good to you and will give you all that he has to show you he has seen his mistake and will not do it again.”
Black Bear watched the other Indians who had crowded around grunting and groaning as they debated among themselves. Then, finally they turned back toward the white man, toward Black Bear.
“What have you to give him and his people?” Black Bear quickly signed in gestures to the white man.
“Nothing,” the man signed. “I’d rather fight him.”
“And lose your life?” Black Bear let his disdain for the white man show by snorting. “Do you see any other white man here? Every Indian present will fight you. Do you not realize how severe cheating is and that no one will support you? Who are your sponsors, that you are let loose among us with so little knowledge of us? You will surely die if you do not do as I say. No Indian lies and cheats…”
The man looked contrite, but only for a moment. Digging into his pockets, the white man produced several nuggets of gold, their value meaning nothing to the Indians, yet everything to Black Bear.
“That is all that you have?” Black Bear asked pokerfaced, watching the white man nod. At length Black Bear signed, “You will surely die.”
A moment passed. Another.
“What can I do?” the man asked at last. “Will you help me?”
Black Bear took his time, looking at the gold, then at the man. “I will help you,” he said at length. “I will save your life, if I can. And in exchange, I would ask that you pay me your golden rocks.”
“Anything.”
Black Bear nodded, turning back toward the other Indians and in the descriptive gestures of sign language, began his story, telling the others that the white man possessed only gold to exchange for his life. Black Bear, however, would take pity upon the man and would bargain with the Indians, himself, for the white man’s life.
But the others were not appeased so easily, and it took everything Black Bear possessed to rescue the man: Black Bear exchanging all four of his horses, his buffalo robe, the shirt upon his back, his bear’s claw necklace, and a wampum shell pouch that had been passed down from his grandfather. It all went into the bargain for the white man’s life.
Finally, the other Indians left, satisfied, though each one shook his hand toward the white man, indicating no one in Indian country would ever trust the man again.
The white man breathed a sigh of relief and approached Black Bear, signing in gestures, “Thank you, my friend.”
But Black Bear withdrew from the man, insulted, gesturing, “I am no friend to a liar. I do this only for your gold, not for you. I have need of the golden nuggets.”
“You do? An Indian?”
Black Bear nodded, which caused the white man to laugh, and Black Bear to frown.
“Why do you laugh?” Black Bear asked. “You do this as though you know an Indian does not value this gold.”
“Yes, you are right. I know that the Indian has no use for these rocks.”
“Then why,” Black Bear asked, “do you trade with them among us?”
“Because,” the other man signed, “it is a symbol of wealth in my country and it is all that I have. My Indian wealth is limited. Now come, my friend.” The man slung his arm around Black Bear’s shoulders. “No matter what you say, you have saved my life and I will call you friend. But let it not stop at the golden nuggets. Tell me how an Indian has come to ‘need’ these pretty rocks.”
That had been the beginning.
True to his word, the man had listened to Black Bear’s plight; and without hesitation, he had offered Black Bear not only gold, but companionship.
He would escort the Indian abroad.
Plans were made; two of Black Bear’s closest friends demanding to accompany him on the long trip, to share in the adventures and to protect their friend.
And within only a few months, the foursome of three Indians and one white man had boarded a ship, headed for the English coast.
Black Bear, thinking it over now, could not have hoped for anything better. The white man had been a German Prince and had taught the Indian, on the long sea voyage, not only what a German Prince was, but had shown the Indian some of the impossible intricacies of Continental manners and society.
“No, no,” Prince Frederick said. “Don’t eat the food with your hands. Here.” The Prince pointed out a utensil. “This is a fork,” he explained to Black Bear. “You hold it thusly and you pick up your food like this.” He demonstrated.
“Why?”
“Well, I… It’s because…well.” Prince Frederick looked flustered. “Never mind. It’s simply the way it is done. Just try it.” And Black Bear, smiling, complied…this time.
And it continued in much the same vein, not only with table manners, but with the English language itself, including the complicated forms of address. The Prince explained that just as the Lakota had a system of manners, so too, did the English, Conti
nental manners being just a little more complex. The Prince even tried to explain the system of class, but this was something the Indian could not grasp, seeing no reason why a man could wield influence simply by reason of birth. Did the white man not realize that the worth of a being came from his own contribution? Not by that of his fathers? No, he could not comprehend this.
Still the lessons went on each day. The Prince taught the Indians Continental culture; Black Bear instructed the Prince on Indian society and lore.
“How is it,” Black Bear asked of the Prince one day, “that you came to be in such a grave situation with a Chippewa Indian? Did you truly not know how warlike that tribe is?”
Prince Frederick grinned at his friend. “I gambled,” he said. “And I found I routinely lost to the Indians, who hide their thoughts behind a stoic mask. So I devised a system of cheating. It seemed harmless at the time. And no, I did not know how warlike the Chippewa are. I did not realize how much I had to learn. I had come to visit your tribes, you see, to hunt strange animals, to rid myself of utter boredom, and to feel what it is like to be wild and savage.”
Black Bear grunted, but Prince Frederick ignored him, continuing, “I had no idea,” the Prince said, “that there was such a civilization and I certainly had no idea what this society considered wealthy. You see”—he leaned in toward his friend—“I had no Indian wealth and I wished to buy a maiden’s favor. Needless to say I found out the hard way that Indians have no use for my gold. Imagine my distress when I found myself unable to buy even one night with a maiden?”
Black Bear glanced at the Prince and smiled. “Did no one tell you…” Black Bear emphasized each word with descriptive gestures, “…that Indians have been known to share when the need is great?”
“No, they did not.” Prince Frederick sighed. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. I found myself poor for the first time in my life, unable to bargain or buy anything. And, pray, believe me this was more intolerable to me than anything else I have yet to endure. I am a prince, you see. I have breeding, status, and wealth, all mine to command. I couldn’t… Why do you laugh?”
