I was still in the lead when we reached the pile of red-hued rocks that marked the halfway point.
Grabbing a stone to prove I had run the first two and half miles, I circled the rock pile and set out to finish the race.
Feeling like I could run forever, I splashed through a shallow creek, ran easily up the sloping bank, and vaulted over a log that blocked my path.
Behind me, there was a muffled thud as someone fell, and when I glanced over my shoulder, I saw Little Tree sprawled in the dirt, a sheepish expression on his face.
Throwing my friend a cocky grin, I ran on, conscious of Crow Killer running close behind me.
At the fourth mile, I was still in the lead. Crow Killer was at my heels, practically breathing down my neck. Cloud was in third place; Two Crows in fourth, and Little Tree in fifth.
Without looking, I could sense Crow Killer’s presence just behind my right shoulder. We were not good friends, Crow Killer and I, and I grinned at the thought of defeating him in the race.
I was still grinning when I found myself sprawled face down in the dirt.
For a moment I lay there, too stunned to move as I realized that Crow Killer had deliberately tripped me from behind. To do such a thing was dishonorable, unheard of except among very young children who didn’t know better.
I jumped to my feet and began to run, my gaze locked on Crow Killer’s back. Mad clear through, I ran like the wind, passing Little Tree, passing Two Crows, passing Cloud.
Had the race been just a little longer, I would have won despite Crow Killer’s treachery. As it was, I finished a close second.
Furious, I went straight to my father. Thinking to expose Crow Killer on the spot for the dirty trick he had pulled on me, I told my father what had happened.
But my father shook his head.
“No, my son, let Crow Killer claim the victory. He will find no joy in it. And if you accuse him, not only will you look small in the eyes of the People, you will also bring shame and dishonor on Crow Killer’s lodge. It is enough that you and I know you would have won the race.”
Reluctantly, I accepted my father’s advice, but I was not happy with it. I had been wronged, and I wanted everyone to know it.
As it turned out, Crow Killer’s moment of glory was short-lived. Cloud had seen him trip me and soon all the boys in the village knew what had happened.
Filled with shame, Crow Killer’s father, Bright Hawk, returned the robes and blankets he had won, and then he made Crow Killer apologize to me in front of the entire tribe.
I could not help feeling sorry for Crow Killer. He was in deep disgrace, while everyone praised me for keeping silent.
I looked at my father with increased respect. Once again, he had proven his wisdom.
Chapter 2
As I approached my fourteenth year, I began to contemplate the next step in becoming a warrior. It was a test of courage and endurance, a test I faced with mixed emotions. It was an ordeal every young man was expected to pass, and yet it was not without danger. Walking Deer’s son had been badly mauled by a grizzly. Cloud’s older brother had been crippled when he fell from a high bluff. Painted Bear’s youngest son had vanished without a trace only a few months earlier.
I was sitting in the sun one fine June day, putting the finishing touches on a hunting arrow, when my father joined me.
Hunkering down on his heels, Sun Seeker took my arrow in his hand and examined it carefully. Then, with a brief nod of approval, he gave the arrow back to me.
“Tomorrow you will begin your last test as a fledgling warrior,” he said, his voice as calm and free of emotion as if he were discussing the weather and not one of the most important events in my life. “Are you ready?”
My heart was hammering so loudly I was sure he could hear it, but my voice betrayed none of the excitement I was feeling as I said, “Yes, nehoe, I am ready.”
“Good. We will leave at dawn. Quiet Antelope has prepared a special meal for you tonight. Do not let your excitement spoil your appetite.”
It was a strained meal. I barely tasted the succulent venison steaks, fry bread and chokecherry pudding Quiet Antelope had prepared.
My mother was strongly opposed to this last manhood trial, and said so in no uncertain terms.
“You can’t let him go off into the wilderness alone!” Katherine shouted. “He’s just a boy! He might be killed.”
Because Katherine was my mother, Sun Seeker listened politely to her vociferous objections, his face blank, his dark eyes unfathomable.
I looked away, ashamed, certain she objected because she didn’t think me worthy or able to succeed.
“It is a thing he must do,” Sun Seeker replied stonily. “All boys must pass the Manhood Test if they are to become warriors. And my son will be the best warrior of them all!”
“He’s my son, too,” my mother argued. “And I don’t want him to be a warrior.”
“But he will be one,” Sun Seeker stated emphatically, and there was no arguing with that determined tone of voice, or with the implacable look in his eyes.
Later that night, Quiet Antelope took me aside.
“Do not judge your mother too harshly,” she admonished in her gentle way. “Your mother is not of the People. Even after all these years, she does not understand our ways.”
“She will never understand,” I replied sullenly.
“Perhaps not,” Quiet Antelope agreed. “But she is still your mother. As such, she deserves your love and your respect.”
“I wish you were my mother,” I whispered, feeling guilty for such a disloyal thought. “A boy could be proud of a mother like you.”
Quiet Antelope laid her hand on my shoulder. Soft tears shimmered in the depths of her eyes as she murmured, “Always, in my heart, I think of you as my son. Someday, if the Great Spirit sends me a male child, I pray he will grow strong and straight as you are.
“Come now,” she said in a lighter tone, “do not be ashamed of your mother. Our ways are hard for her. Perhaps, in time, she will yet become one of us.”
“Perhaps,” I agreed.
But we both knew it would never happen.
* * *
My father and I left the village early the following morning. Quiet Antelope sent us off with parfleches filled with food, and we ate well as we journeyed toward a destination known only to my father.
Those were good days. The weather was mild, the sky blue and clear. We traveled at a leisurely pace, eyes and ears ever alert lest some enemy take us unawares.
Evenings, we camped under a sky canvas alight with a million twinkling stars, and my father told me stories of his father, Tall Buffalo Cloud, and how he had led our tribe to victory against our age-old enemies, the Crow.
Tall Buffalo Cloud was something of a legend in our village. Soon after his awe-inspiring raid against the Crow, he had been killed by a grizzly. I had been a baby then. Tall Buffalo Cloud’s wife, Snow Blossom, had died a week later. When I asked my father how she died, he said she had set her face toward death because she wanted to join her husband in the Land of Shadows.
“They must have cared for each other very much,” I remarked thoughtfully, “if she could not face life without him.”
“Yes,” my father said solemnly. “That is how it is with some people.”
We exchanged knowing glances, both of us thinking that if a grizzly killed Sun Seeker, my mother would likely rejoice rather than die of a broken heart.
Eight days later, we reached our destination, an arid stretch of sun-bleached land marked with high plateaus and curiously shaped rock formations.
I felt a quick shiver of apprehension as I dismounted and handed my father my horse’s reins. Sun Seeker’s eyes touched me for a long moment, and I felt his love and concern wash over me before he wheeled his horse around and left me without a word of farewell.
I fought down a rising tide of panic as I watched my father ride away toward the setting sun. For the first time in my life, I was truly alone.
I had neither food nor water to sustain me, no blanket to shut out the cold. Save for clout and moccasins, I was naked. I carried nothing with me other than my knife and a flint.
My test was to survive in the wilderness, alone, and to find my way back to my people. I was expected to return with the hide of at least one animal to prove I had made a kill along the way. If I did not return to the village in ten days, the warriors would come looking for me, but I was determined to be safely home by then. To fail would be to disgrace my father’s lodge.
Still, the prospect of being totally alone was more than a little frightening, though I would never have admitted it to a living soul. I could be wounded. I could be killed, or, like Painted Bear’s son, I could simply disappear, never to be seen again.
It was a sobering thought. If I did not find food, I would go hungry; if I did not find water, I would thirst. If I did not find adequate shelter, I would be forced to pass the night in the open, prey to weather and wildlife.
With these thoughts running through my mind, I watched my father ride off until he was only a tiny black speck on the horizon. Then, shrugging off my fears, I started looking for a suitable place to spend the night.
It was near dark when I found shelter in a shallow ravine that offered some protection from the rising wind. Shivering, I covered myself with leaves, closed my eyes, and tried to sleep.
But sleep did not come. Wide-eyed, I stared up at the dark vault of the sky, listening to the faint voice of the wind as it soughed over the lonely prairie. I heard a wolf howl in the distance, heard the tiny scratching sounds of night creatures crawling in the sand, the melodious song of a cricket.
I was still awake when the sky began to grow light, gradually changing from black to gray to blue.
That first day was the longest and the hardest. The land was virtually barren in every direction, broken by deep gullies and dry sandy washes that ran deep with water during the rainy season but were now as dry as dust. I saw no game that day, not even a lizard, and went to bed with a hungry belly and a raging thirst.
I rose early the next morning and walked for several miles before I found some scraggly berry bushes sparsely laden with fruit. The berries were hard and sour, but they took the edge off my hunger. Toward noon, I slaked my thirst with brackish water from a small seep at the foot of a rocky yellow bluff.
Late that afternoon, I snared a fat gray rabbit. My stomach growled with anticipation as I quickly skinned the beast and roasted it over a small fire.
I devoured the whole thing in nothing flat, sucked the last of the meat and juice from the bones, then lay back on the sun-warmed ground and gazed up at the vast unblemished sky, silently thanking Maheo for a full belly.
The third day I went hungry again, though water from a shallow stream quenched my thirst. I walked and walked and gradually the land began to change. Trees loomed in the distance, promising shade from a relentless sun. Shrubs and flowers grew on the sloping hillsides. Bees hovered in the air, a sign that there was water nearby.
The fourth day I came across fresh deer tracks. With growing excitement, I followed the trail for most of the day.
Late that afternoon my perseverance paid off, and I spotted my quarry grazing on a patch of lush green grass beside a gurgling stream.
Taking a deep breath, I padded forward, taking advantage of every bit of cover I could find, moving soundlessly as a wisp of smoke.
When I was within easy range, I took another deep breath, let out half, drew back my arm, and let my knife fly.
The heavy blade struck the deer in the neck, piercing its jugular vein. Upon impact, the deer sprang forward, then collapsed, its life’s blood staining the ground.
It was full dark by the time I skinned the buck and packed the best of the meat in the hide.
I ate well that night, filling my empty belly with venison steak and liver.
I walked all the next day, packing the meat-laden hide over my shoulder, stopping only long enough to eat and drink.
I walked all that night, too, and made it back to the village as the sun was rising over the mountains.
I left the hide and the meat with Quiet Antelope. Then, my face as grave as that of any seasoned warrior, I strode purposefully through the camp toward the river to wash away the dust and sweat of six days on the trail.
Alone in the river, I laughed out loud. No other untried warrior had ever returned in less than eight days and I had made it back in six!
That night, there was a feast and a giveaway in my honor. Filled with pride, I sat beside my father, my head held high, as I watched the young unmarried women dance, their feet moving in an intricate step done only by maidens.
Sitting there, I felt the eyes of several of the young women touch me for the first time, and I choked back a smile of pride and pleasure as I stared impassively into the fire, trying to maintain a warrior’s dignity.
There was a sudden change in the drumming, and the maidens broke from the circle, walking swiftly toward the warriors of their choice.
I saw three maidens heading my way, and felt my chest puff out with pride. It was Snow Flower, that maiden most fair, who first reached my side. Her slim fingers lightly brushed my shoulder before she ran back to the circle.
Rising, I followed her, and now the dancers formed two circles, men on the outside, facing in; women on the inside, facing out. Slowly, we danced back and forth and from side to side, never touching or speaking as our feet moved in the pattern of the dance.
Later, after my father had given gifts to a number of families, the feasting began. Snow Flower brought me a succulent slice of tenderloin and a clay bowl filled with chokecherries. Her gaze never met mine while she served me, nor did we speak; yet I was fully aware of her unspoken admiration and affection.
Courtship among the Cheyenne was a long, drawn-out affair, sometimes lasting for years. It usually involved months of shared glances and secret smiles. I knew without doubt that Snow Flower would be my wife, knew the day would come when I would fashion a flute in the shape of a bird and then, when the moon was high and the village lay quiet beneath a starry sky, I would serenade my loved one. Snug in her lodge, Snow Flower would hear the high, lilting notes and know that I desired her. Still later, if she were willing, I would court her beneath the sheltering folds of a big red courting blanket. Ultimately, I would approach her parents or her older brother and ask for her hand in marriage. But that was far in the future.
For now, it was enough to be a warrior.
Chapter 3
The year I turned fifteen, I went out to seek my vision. Alone, unarmed, and without food or water, I climbed to the lofty heights of the sacred Black Hills where, for four days and nights, I would fast and pray, entreating Heammawihio to send me a medicine dream. If no vision appeared at the end of that time, I would return home.
There was no shade atop the mountain, no place to hide from the relentless sun that threatened to draw all the moisture from my body.
According to custom, I offered tobacco to Heammawihio, the God Who Lives Above, who was the Creator; to Ahktunowihio, the God Who Lives Under the Ground; and to the spirits who dwelt in the four corners of the earth: Notum, Where the Cold Wind Comes From, Numhaisto, Where the Cold Wind Goes, Ishitsisissimiis, Where the Sun Comes Up; Ishitsistakitaes, Where the Sun Goes Over.
I thought of Hoimaha, who came in a cloak of white and brought winter with him, of mihn, the water monster.
It was a strangely eerie feeling, sitting alone on the top of the world.
With the coming of darkness, my thoughts grew morbid and I thought of death, of Ekutsihimmiyo, the Hanging Road that the whites called the Milky Way. The spirits of all the dead traveled the Hanging Road to Seyan, the place of the dead. I was not afraid of death; it was a part of the great circle of life. Still, I was not anxious to go out to meet it, either.
The hours passed slowly. I slept. I woke, and slept again. Alone, on the top of the world, I watched the sun climb over the mountain, chasing a
way the shadows of the night.
Sometimes, I felt like shouting out loud to prove I was still alive, to break the eerie stillness that hung like a shroud over the heartland of the Cheyenne, but I never did. To do so would be to admit a weakness, and this was a time for strength. When I prayed, I prayed in hushed tones, quietly beseeching Heammawihio to send me a vision.
The first three days passed without incident and I began to wonder if, because I was half white, the gods would leave me to wander through life alone, with no dream to sustain me, no special spirit to guide me, or to endow me with wisdom or great courage.
I thought of my father and how disappointed he would be if I returned to our lodge without having received a vision. To my knowledge, no worthy Cheyenne warrior had ever been denied a medicine dream.
I thought of Little Tree, and how excited he had been when he returned from his vision quest only the month before. His face had been different when he returned from the mountain, older, wiser. His heart had been full to bursting as he told me of the days and nights he had spent on the mountain. I recalled now that he, too, had been filled with doubts. He had not told me of his vision, for such a thing was sacred and not to be revealed to anyone but the shaman who would interpret it. Little Tree had received a new name: Soaring Eagle. How would I face my best friend if I returned from the sacred hills without a vision of my own?
I thought of my mother and how she had repeatedly tried to keep me at home. She had sneeringly belittled the importance of seeking a medicine dream, just as she had belittled everything I had ever done, everything I held sacred, claiming such things were nothing but foolish heathen superstitions and of no real value or significance. There were no Indian gods or spirits, she had scoffed. There was only one God, the white man’s god, and He could not be summoned at will with a handful of tobacco and a few heathen chants.
But Katherine McKenna was only a woman, and a white woman at that. And though I respected her as my mother, I had learned to turn a deaf ear to her taunts. Yet I could not help wondering if maybe she was right. Maybe it was all just superstition.
In the Shadow of the Hills Page 2
