The earth is full of medicine, she told me. Green plants and pale roots and colorful flowers all hold the power to heal many sicknesses. Knowing how to use them correctly can mean the difference between life and death for a horse or a human.
Sometimes we journeyed for days or even weeks to find a particular plant that Wise Elm needed.
That is hawthorn, River Rock said one day as our riders halted us near a thorny shrub with white flowers and an unpleasant smell of decay. Its berries strengthen a weak heart.
That is kinnikinnick, she said on another occasion while Little Turtle and Wise Elm paused to gather a plant with delicate pink bell-shaped flowers. The dried leaves are used in smoking ceremonies, and a woman or mare who has recently given birth can be bathed in a kinnikinnick mixture to prevent infection.
Wise Elm often spoke to Little Turtle as we rode, and I wondered if the old healer was telling the same things to my rider. One day, Wise Elm brought us to a high plateau filled with tall, bristly plants. Cream-colored seed-pods grew in clusters at the top.
That is yucca, said River Rock. A poultice of the crushed roots is good for sprains and bruises.
Wise Elm and Little Turtle spent the day gathering yucca leaves and roots for their medicine stores. I dozed sleepily throughout the afternoon, occasionally cocking a curious ear toward a lizard scuttling through the underbrush.
Suddenly Little Turtle cried out in alarm. A moment later a snake came winding around my hooves, spooking me. I snorted through flared nostrils and edged close to River Rock, who only flicked a curious ear in the snake’s direction. I knew snakes usually would not attack unless you bothered them, but I didn’t like the way they slithered up underfoot with hardly a warning.
“At least I didn’t get bitten,” Little Turtle called to Wise Elm from amid the yucca. “It’s a good thing, too…. That was a rattlesnake! It’s strange, though. I have been encountering snakes a lot recently.”
“Maybe they have something to tell you,” said Wise Elm.
“What could a snake have to tell me?” said Little Turtle. “I think I just have bad luck.”
“The snake is not always bad luck,” replied Wise Elm. “Brother rattlesnake has many lessons. He can teach us to keep our thoughts from wandering and to watch the path ahead of us; one misstep with an absent mind and he will strike. He can teach us to act swiftly and calmly in an emergency. Snake, along with owl and bear, is among the most powerful of the shaman’s guides.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” said Little Turtle, but he sounded unconvinced. He still looked shaken from his encounter with the snake.
When we got back to the camp, Wise Elm watched as Little Turtle made the yucca into a poultice for an old woman whose joints were swollen and painful. Little Turtle simmered the cleaned roots in water until they were soft, then chopped them finely and strained them through a cloth.
“Always remember that a healer can do much harm with a false remedy or a poorly prepared one,” Wise Elm said. “Hun-ya-wat has provided us with the means to cure our illnesses, but nature also contains poisons to trick a healer who is ignorant or prideful.”
Little Turtle held out a spoonful of the boiled yucca for Wise Elm’s inspection, and the healer nodded with approval. I was glad that Little Turtle was learning to help the sick people and animals in the tribe. My heart felt proud and my hooves were light as I journeyed with him through the mountains and valleys to find roots and herbs for Wise Elm’s medicine stores.
Little Turtle also spent many evenings in Wise Elm’s tepee learning the shaman’s way. I did not know what to make of the smoke and drums and chanting. Sometimes I wished I understood humans as well as Little Turtle understood horses.
But despite the mysteries that remained to me about men and their medicine, I had learned much from my time with the old healer. If a horse in the tribe felt the cramping pain of colic, I knew to direct him to a patch of chicory, meadowsweet, or peppermint. For coughs, I advised nibbling on horehound leaves. If a mare had a difficult birth, black cherry bark or kinnikinnick would restore her strength and prevent infection. If it was time for a foal to be weaned but the colt would not stop trying to nurse, I urged the mare to eat sage to make her milk bitter.
When I looked at a filly whose runny nose had cleared thanks to my advice, or saw a stallion whose cut fetlock had healed because of a poultice Little Turtle had prepared, I felt pride in my heart.
When I saw Dancing Feather cantering through the blue camas fields with Pale Moon, I was joyful also. It was nearing Tustimasat’al, the moon of ripe berries, and the world seemed full of health and healing.
But as many things do, this was soon to change.
Broken Trust
It was time for the camas harvest, and dozens of Nimi’ipuu women were kneeling among the wilting flowers, digging up the pale bulbs with sharpened sticks. Serviceberries were heavy on the bushes, and Pale Moon and Little Turtle rode us to a patch that grew half a day’s journey from camp.
As I was nosing through the grass looking for fallen berries, I heard Little Turtle cry out in pain. I spun around to see what was the matter, then shied as a striped snake slithered through the grass near my hooves. Dancing Feather saw my fear and dove forward to chase the snake away. I snorted my thanks.
Little Turtle held up his hand as Pale Moon came running over to see what was the matter. Two beads of blood welled from punctures on his skin.
“Did you see what kind of snake bit you?” asked Pale Moon, looking worried.
“Yes, it was just a garter snake. It snapped at my wrist as I was reaching for some fallen berries. I must have disturbed its afternoon nap.”
Little Turtle shrugged and wrapped a deerskin bandage around his arm. Nimi’ipuu children were taught to bear their injuries without complaint. Still, I noticed my rider wincing from time to time as he continued gathering berries.
“Snakes again,” said Little Turtle. “A snake spooked Golden Sun when I was out gathering yucca just a few weeks ago.”
“Well,” said Pale Moon, “there are a lot of snakes.”
“Yes, I guess that’s true,” Little Turtle said. “Wise Elm said it might be a sign, but I don’t know what these snakes could have to tell me. Personally, I would prefer if they just minded their own business!”
When their hemp bags were full, Little Turtle and Pale Moon climbed onto our backs. They passed the journey home by singing and telling stories as they rode. I couldn’t understand the words to the stories, but I liked the songs because I could make the rhythm of my hooves match the music of Little Turtle’s voice.
“I’ll race you to the tree on top of that hill,” Pale Moon said suddenly. She pointed to a cedar tree on the horizon. “Don’t spill your berries!”
Without waiting for a reply, Pale Moon kicked Dancing Feather into a gallop. Little Turtle leaned forward and urged me after her with his voice.
I quickened my pace until I drew up alongside Dancing Feather. She flattened her ears nervously. I was caught up in the joy of running, and I reached out to nip her playfully. Catch me if you can, I cried, bolting forward and leaving her in the dust. I snorted and lengthened my stride as we drew closer to the tree on the hill. We might just win a race for once!
Then I heard hoofbeats behind me. Dancing Feather came flying past us, her black mane whipping back so that it mingled with Pale Moon’s hair. My heart and my hooves pounded like thunder as I tried to keep pace with her.
But hard as I ran, she was faster. Dancing Feather passed the tree a length ahead of me. Pale Moon whooped with triumph and raised an arm above her head.
Dancing Feather dropped her head suddenly and began to buck. Her heels flashed in the air, and Pale Moon went flying from her back. Dancing Feather took off at a gallop across the prairie. Soon she disappeared over the crest of a hill, leaving only a lazy cloud of dust in her wake.
Little Turtle drew me to a halt and jumped down from my back. He dropped my rein and left me ground-tied as he hurried over to Pa
le Moon. “Stand, Golden Sun,” he said firmly.
My instinct was to run after Dancing Feather. I didn’t want to be left behind! But Little Turtle had given me a command, and I would not break his trust like Dancing Feather had broken Pale Moon’s.
“Are you all right?” asked Little Turtle as he knelt by Pale Moon.
“Dancing Feather ran away!” said Pale Moon. She looked as though she was about to cry.
“I will find her later,” said Little Turtle. “But now you must tell me if you are hurt anywhere.”
Pale Moon’s right wrist was already very swollen, and she winced as Little Turtle touched it. “I think it is broken,” she said. Her voice was steady, but her eyes shone with pain.
Little Turtle searched the ground until he saw a straight stick lying under the tree that had marked the end of our race. He cut away the bark with his knife. Then he unwrapped the bandage from his own wrist and tied the splint around Pale Moon’s arm.
Little Turtle helped her up onto my back. I tried to walk as smoothly as possible so as not to cause Pale Moon further pain.
When Little Turtle and I returned to search for Dancing Feather, we spotted her standing forlornly in a sandy hollow some distance from camp, her head hanging low.
Why did you buck like that? I asked her, laying back my ears as we approached. You hurt Pale Moon!
I couldn’t help myself, she said. I know that Pale Moon would not hurt me, but when she raised her arm I felt such fear in my heart that my hooves would not listen to my head.
I only snorted in response. Little Turtle leaned down to tie a rope around Dancing Feather’s neck. She plodded dispiritedly beside me as we walked back to camp.
When we arrived, Pale Moon’s father was fashioning a new bow and arrow set nearby. He put down the mallet he was using to pound a piece of deer sinew and hurried over to us. He exchanged a few words with Little Turtle, then strode purposefully toward Dancing Feather.
The filly trembled as she eyed his hard body language. Red Cloud did not strike her, only took her by the bridle and hobbled her with his other horses, his mouth set in a grim line.
Is he going to trade me away? said Dancing Feather, tossing her head. Will I have to leave Pale Moon?
He might, I said. I do not think he would keep an untrustworthy horse for his daughter.
Dancing Feather looked so forlorn that I felt sorry for her. But I had no time to comfort her, for Little Turtle came over and climbed onto my back. Wise Elm was mounted on River Rock nearby.
Where are we going? I asked the spotted bay mare as we rode away from camp together.
To find some willow bark for Pale Moon, I imagine, she said. It eases the pain of sprains and broken bones.
I know, I said. Little Turtle gathered some just last week when Raven Song’s little boy fell and hurt his leg. Little Turtle knows where to find it, so I wonder why Wise Elm is coming with us.
I listened curiously to our riders’ speech as they dismounted near a stand of willow trees.
“You have learned much about healing and medicine, Little Turtle,” Wise Elm was saying. “And you acted calmly in a crisis today. It seems to me that you will soon be ready to take your vision quest.”
Little Turtle bit his lip as he cut away the tough outer bark from one of the trees, then began to scrape bits of tender inner bark onto a deerskin cloth. “I am pleased you think well of my accomplishments, Grandfather,” he said finally, “but I do not know if I am ready to receive a wyakin.”
“You are eleven winters old now. Maybe it is time for you to take your place as a man in the tribe.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” said Little Turtle. He looked uncertain.
I recognize none of these words, I said to River Rock. Do you?
I know wyakin, said River Rock. When boys and girls in the tribe reach Little Turtle’s age, they go up in the mountains to seek a wyakin, an animal guide who grants them some special power. They are gone for days at a time, and they do not eat or sleep until their wyakin comes.
This sounded frightening to me. I did not like to think of Little Turtle alone on a storm-swept mountain.
But Little Turtle doesn’t need to do this, I said. I am the animal who journeys with him, so I must be his wyakin.
River Rock snorted gently with laughter. I have no doubt you are a valued friend to Little Turtle, she said, but you are not his wyakin.
I still didn’t understand why Little Turtle would need any animal other than me to guide him.
When we returned to camp, Little Turtle boiled the willow bark into tea for Pale Moon and made a poultice of crushed yarrow.
Pale Moon’s arm healed in several weeks. She wanted to ride Dancing Feather again, but Red Cloud refused.
“The filly is dangerous,” he said. “I will trade her away when we meet the Salish tribe at the fall salmon run. Last time I spoke to Runs in Shadow, he wanted a spotted mare to breed with his stallion. I think he will make a handsome offer for this filly, and you can choose any other horse in my herd.”
Trade was a word that Dancing Feather and I knew well, and she twitched her tail nervously.
“Thank you for your generosity, Father,” Pale Moon was saying. “But I do not want any horse in your herd, I want Dancing Feather. She is not a bad filly—she is only frightened.”
“After several years in our tribe, she should have learned by now that there is nothing to be frightened of.”
“Father, please,” Pale Moon said. “Let me have another chance with Dancing Feather. If she misbehaves or hurts me again, you can trade her to Runs in Shadow. But please give her one more chance!”
Red Cloud looked at his daughter for a long time. “Very well,” he said. “I feel there is something about that filly beyond healing, but perhaps with more patience she will develop into a trustworthy mount for my only daughter.”
“Thank you, Father!” said Pale Moon. She sniffed a few times and wiped her nose on a deerskin kerchief.
“I do not like to see you crying, daughter,” said Red Cloud. “Are you not happy with our agreement?”
“I am not crying, Father,” said Pale Moon. “My nose has simply been running like a river these past few days. My throat is scratchy as straw. I must ask Little Turtle if he has a remedy for this. And do not worry, Father. With a little more patience, Dancing Feather will be perfect.”
Red Cloud only grunted skeptically and turned back to replacing a broken pole on the family’s travois.
It sounded to me like Dancing Feather was being given another chance. She walked over to nuzzle Pale Moon’s shoulder, as if in apology. Pale Moon reached up between Dancing Feather’s ears to smooth her forelock, and the filly gave a startled squeal and jerked her head away. Pale Moon winced as Dancing Feather’s muzzle hit her wrist. The bones had mended, but I knew the arm pained her at times, for she often asked Little Turtle to make a willow bark poultice for her at the end of a long day harvesting camas or looking after her young cousins.
I was worried about Dancing Feather. The filly had a good heart, but she often let fear rule her. I hoped she would behave more like a proper Nimi’ipuu horse, steadfast and loyal instead of skittish and wary. I had a feeling this was her last chance to prove she truly belonged to our tribe.
Stolen Breath
A few days later, I stood watching as Little Turtle crushed some wild gingerroot into paste. This remedy was to soothe the stomach of a young woman named Dawn Star who was expecting her first child. As Little Turtle poured hot water over the crushed ginger to make tea, a cry arose from one of the scouts on a distant hill.
We both looked up as Dancing Feather came galloping riderless into camp, her neck covered in lather. She looked the same as when I’d first laid eyes on her at the salmon falls—wild and untamed.
My heart sank. It looked as if she had run away again, and I was sure Red Cloud would trade her to the first person with so much as a sack of camas bulbs to offer.
I see you have thrown your rider again, I s
aid angrily as Dancing Feather skidded to a halt in front of me. Is she hurt badly?
I didn’t throw her, cried Dancing Feather, gasping for breath. Pale Moon is ill! We went for a ride along the river, and she began to cough. She dismounted to take a drink from the river, but she was too weak to climb onto my back again. She fell asleep by the riverbank, and I could not wake her. Her skin felt very hot. We must go back to her at once!
Someone gave an angry cry behind us. I spun on my haunches as Red Cloud came up to Dancing Feather and seized her dangling rein. “What have you done to my daughter?” he cried, jerking roughly on the bridle.
Dancing Feather rose up on her hind legs in terror. Red Cloud struck her with his fist, and she reared still higher, slashing the air with her hooves.
Listen! I cried to her. They will soon understand that you did not throw Pale Moon. Just calm down before you hurt someone.
Dancing Feather dropped to all four legs and let out a shuddering breath.
Now pull away quickly before he ties you up, I said.
Dancing Feather jerked the rein from Red Cloud’s hand and skittered about ten paces away. She neighed shrilly and wheeled around in a small circle.
Follow me, follow me to Pale Moon! she cried.
But Red Cloud did not understand.
“Let the horse run away,” he said in disgust. “I have no time to chase down a disobedient nag when my daughter is lying injured somewhere.”
But Little Turtle was watching Dancing Feather carefully. “I don’t think she is trying to run away,” he said. “I think she has returned to lead us to Pale Moon.”
He slipped on my bridle and swung up onto my back. Red Cloud whistled for his own horse, who came running.
We set off after Dancing Feather, who began to canter away through the valley. As worried as I was, I felt great pride that Dancing Feather had returned to find help for her rider.
As we rounded a bend in the river, I saw Pale Moon collapsed on the sharp stones at the edge of the bank. She looked as frail as a corn-husk doll. Dancing Feather trotted over and nudged her with her muzzle.
Golden Sun Page 3
