A stocky warrior, his long arms dangling and his eyes close-set, stepped from the circle of dancing men. Another laid the long blade of his lance into the flames. The first man squatted in front of Eagle and said something in his own tongue. Eagle spat at him, the saliva running down his tormentor’s cheek. The Tonkawa slapped Eagle hard, bringing a red flow from his left nostril. He hit him again with a fist and broke the fine hawk’s nose, pushing it askew on Eagle’s face. Still he laughed and jeered.
The man pulled his long knife from his belt. It glittered in the fire’s light. He jabbed at Eagle’s eyes, but it didn’t stop the taunting. He lowered the knife and began sawing a strip of flesh from Eagle’s thigh. Wanderer knew then that what he had always heard about the People Eaters was true.
“May it tie your stomach in knots,” Eagle told his enemy conversationally. “And may it make your dung run like water from you for the rest of your short life.”
A second man cauterized the wound with the glowing lance blade, but Eagle seemed to be so far removed from his pain there was nothing they could do to reach him.
“Is it true that you eat your own babies? And that you breed your women like cattle, to bear tender veal? If I come to your village will you treat me with baby stew?”
“Tah-mah, Brother, do you need her so badly? Will you die thus rather than live without her?” Wanderer had finally figured it out.
“Brother, one of us has to die tonight. We both know that. I prefer it to be me.” He kicked out at the man as he walked toward the fire, swinging the filet on the point of his knife. As Eagle’s feet swung back, the Tonkawa didn’t notice the jagged rock that he had sent skittering across the dark ground to land near his friend. Wanderer shifted slightly to cover it with his leg. He could feel it there, pressing into his flesh. He spoke to Eagle.
“I envy you, Brother. You won’t have to ride to paradise after this night. You can soar with your brothers, the eagles.”
“I hope so.” Eagle smiled at Wanderer with the lower half of his old grin. The upper part, his eyes, were already overcast with pain, and remote. But the two friends spoke as though they were discussing a horse race.
The Tonkawa had stopped their dancing and now sat or squatted expectantly around the fire. Like a pack of wolves, their yellow eyes glowed in the light. The real evening’s entertainment had begun.
CHAPTER 16
When Spaniard leaped from his horse in front of Pahayuca’s lodge, the pony dropped, his front legs folding under him first. His head hit the ground with a thud and slid forward as his chest and hindquarters followed. He rolled over on his side, and his heart gave a few spasmodic heaves. A shudder rippled through his body. His legs twitched even in death, as though he were running as he had for the past thirty-six hours. He lay there unmoving finally, his eyes staring and lather still foaming off his steaming sides. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
Naduah stared down at him in horror as warriors shouldered past her into the lodge. There was no need for Lance to ride through camp announcing that Spaniard had returned alone. The news spread like pollen in the wind. People came running to hear what had happened to the other two hunters. They stood in small groups, talking in low voices or calling questions back and forth. Naduah wished they would all be quiet so she could hear what was being said inside. Star Name began to cry softly. Naduah, holding her sister’s hand tightly, felt tears well up in her own eyes.
“Maybe they’re all right. Star Name.”
“No. Spaniard would never have just ridden into camp that way. That’s not how things are done. A messenger always stays on the outskirts of camp and signals. Something terrible has happened.”
The talk hushed when Buffalo Piss appeared in the doorway. He seemed hardly older than the boys he beckoned to. but they jumped to attention. They jostled their way through the crowd to hear their whispered instructions. Then the boys raced for the meadow along the river where the ponies were pastured. Somewhere a baby wailed and was quieted before he could even catch his breath for a second cry. The lodge emptied of warriors, each trotting off to collect his gear. As curious as everyone was, no one tried to stop them to ask questions.
Pahayuca stooped through the opening and blinked in the bright sunlight. As though heralding him, a drum began to throb in some distant part of the village. Others joined it, calling back and forth like coyotes from separate peaks. Pahayuca shaded his eyes with his hand and looked out over the crowd, as though scanning the horizon for the young men they all loved. When he spoke there was no trace of the clown or the storyteller in his booming voice.
“The People Eaters have surprised our men and may have captured Wanderer and Eagle. There were twelve of them, and Spaniard didn’t go back to see if his two brothers escaped.” There was a murmur that rose slightly, like a low swell on a calm sea. Pahayuca put his hand out and stilled it.
“If they were captured he could not have helped them. If they escaped, there was no need for him to help. He will lead us to them. Spaniard can follow the tracks of a butterfly in a field of flowers. We will find them.”
Spaniard came out of the lodge and stood partly hidden by Pahayuca’s bulk. As he moved off silently the People parted in front of him. No word was spoken to him, and he seemed to be studying the ground a few inches in front of him as he walked, as though looking for his friends’ tracks already.
It took a long time for Eagle to die. He and the Tonkawa made sure of that. The sky was the deep black that comes a few hours before dawn when Eagle began chanting his death song in a low, clear, steady voice.
I am a spirit.
You are making me a spirit. Where I am now You are making me a spirit. Even the eagle dies.
He timed either the song or his death perfectly, and his soul flew as he finished the last line. Wanderer thought he could almost see it, a vapor that escaped Eagle’s gray lips and spiraled upward like an eagle soaring on a current of air.
The Tonkawa got up, creaking and stretching after so many hours of sitting, and filed off toward their robes and blankets. The tall, thin one, Placido, lifted his lance in front of Eagle’s still, mutilated form. From the concentration in his eyes it was obvious that he was offering up a prayer for the brave warrior too. Then he turned and followed the others, leaving Wanderer to the cold air that crept in around the dying fire.
There was little time to lose, but Wanderer forced himself to stay motionless until he felt sure that everyone was asleep. He hunched down until the jagged stone was within reach of his numb hands. It slipped from his deadened fingers time and again, and the effort sent spasms of pain shooting through his wounded shoulder and back down his arm. Doggedly he kept trying until he had a firm grip and could saw at the thong holding his wrists. It took an hour before the leather snapped when he jerked it. Leaning over, he untied his ankles and drew his legs up to rub the blood back into them.
Stealthily he crawled to where Eagle sat still tied in a sitting position. His legs and arms were flayed to the bone, with the tendons hanging from them like the strings on a broken puppet. With the tips of his fingers, Wanderer gently closed his friend’s eyes and lifted the gold chain and coin from around his neck. He rested his hand, palm down, on the cold, narrow chest.
Rest when you get to paradise, my brother. Perhaps someone like Something Good will be there for you. Don’t worry about your bones. I’ll be back for them. You will be avenged. I need no pipe to swear it to you.
As silently as the bats that flit at twilight, he ran, crouching, to where the horses were tethered. Night pricked his ears forward and flicked them once in greeting, but made no sound. He caressed Wanderer’s cheek with his warm muzzle while his friend cut the tether line with the same sharp rock. Together they stole off through the cedars and mesquite, each picking his feet up and laying them down carefully in the dark.
Naduah sat bolt upright in bed. A piercing, keening wail rose in the night, carrying Something Good’s soul upward on the voice of her grief. Mor
e women’s voices joined hers in harmony and dissonance, but none could match the pain of a heart emptied of all reason for living. Naduah didn’t know who was mourning. The eerie, ululating cry could scarcely be recognized as human, much less Something Good’s. It sent shivers up and down Naduah’s spine as she fumbled in the dark for the breechclout she had dropped in a heap by the bed six hours before.
Dark figures ran through the night to converge at Pahayuca’s lodges. The fires there had been fanned to life. Women hurried to help mourn, crying as they ran. The top half of Something Good’s left index finger lay in a pool of blood in the dust, and three women held her arms to keep her from slitting her own throat. The flames of the lodge fire shining through the translucent walls silhouetted the shadowy forms struggling inside. Naduah darted among those at the tent’s door and threw herself at Something Good.
“No, Sister. Don’t.” She screamed to be heard over her friend’s grief. But Something Good wasn’t hearing anyone. Blocks The Sun, sobbing and moaning herself, pinioned the girl’s arms and forced her down onto the pile of bedding. Four women held her arms and legs as she thrashed there, screaming “Eagle!” over and over. The other women wailed and slashed their arms, ripping their dresses open to cut their breasts. The lodge floor was littered with heaps of hair that they had cut off. And one or two other finger joints joined Something Good’s. Naduah backed out of the lodge in horror. The screams and the flickering firelight, in her half-awake state, made it all seem like a hallucination.
Eagle was dead. And Wanderer? Where was Wanderer? Was he dead too? She whirled to look for him and almost bumped into a dusty, blood-caked pony, so filthy and gaunt he could scarcely be recognized. Naduah threw her arms around Night’s neck. And the air around her suddenly filled with the People’s cry of alarm, “T-t-t-t-t-t-t-t!” like crickets starting up suddenly at twilight. Everyone knew of Night’s viciousness and they feared the child would be hurt. Night only flinched a little as her hand hit the wound on his neck. He swung his head around and bumped her gently to bring it to her attention.
“Poor Night. What happened? Don’t worry,” she crooned. “I’ll take care of it for you. Medicine Woman can heal you.” She buried her face in the gritty wetness of his heaving side and whispered so no one could hear. “Where is Wanderer, Night?”
“Naduah, will you care for Night for me?” She looked up startled, almost frightened by the hollow-eyed spectre standing behind her. His left braid had been cut off in mourning, leaving the hair ragged. Around his neck Eagle’s gold coin glinted in the light that poured through the open doorway. Unable to speak to this ghost, this parody of the handsome Wanderer, she nodded dumbly, her arm flung around his war pony’s neck.
“Good. You’re the only one he’s ever allowed to touch him. If you’re not sure what to do, ask Sunrise. I’ll come see him tomorrow. Tonight I have to talk with Pahayuca and Buffalo Piss and the council.” He half-turned to leave, but stopped long enough to say, “My brother is dead.” His voice was almost too low to hear over the din from the lodges, and she was astonished to see that the ruthless warrior, the idol of boys and the ideal of women, was crying.
Men didn’t cry. At least not the white ones she had known. Yet there was Name Giver huddled outside his doorway. He had his ragged buffalo robe pulled up over his head and face, and underneath it his body was shaking with sobs. The hysteria spread as the news of Eagle’s death was carried through the village on the still night air. And over it all rang the keening cries of Something Good’s grief.
Crazy, reckless Eagle. Everyone loved him. Naduah remembered his even white teeth flashing in his wicked grin as he beat her and Star Name at the guessing game. She remembered that night of the honey hunt when the four of them had laughed and played and sung for hours under the stars.
Poor Something Good. Poor Wanderer. They weren’t really brothers, he and Eagle. But they were closer than brothers. They were the dark and the light side of the same person. What would Wanderer do now that part of him was gone? In a daze, Naduah gathered a handful of Night’s mane in her fist and led him away, ignoring the rein draped over his back. Tonight she had to touch something of Wanderer’s to assure herself that he had returned. She and Night walked slowly through the clamor of grief surging and swelling around them. Fires glowed through most of the lodge walls, and the faces of those who passed were distorted with crying. Caught up in their anguish, she cried too, wiping her nose on her arm.
But at least Wanderer was back safely. She had missed him. She had missed his low, resonant voice calling as he entered the lodge to talk to Sunrise. Even though he still made her uncomfortable, she had gotten into the habit of watching him when he wasn’t aware of it. Often she stood back, squirming with embarrassment while Star Name laughed and teased with him until a smile played across his fine face like sunlight on deep water. Now he had left her in charge of his beloved pony and friend. And he had spoken to her as an adult. She held her head a little higher as she led Night home.
Medicine Woman almost hummed the chant around the mouthful of pouip root she was chewing. It was the same high, quavery voice that so often sang Naduah to sleep at night, but with a different inflection. She seemed to be listening too. It was like half a conversation between two adults making an important deal. As she chewed and chanted she picked pieces of dried grass out of the wound in Wanderer’s shoulder. He lay serenely through it, with his eyes closed. Naduah winced as bits of grass stuck in the dried lymph and blood had to be pulled free. Medicine Woman gently scraped away the scab that had half-formed and motioned Naduah to bring her the rag soaked in warm water.
After she had sponged the remaining dirt away from the ugly hole, rimmed with purple flesh, she spit the pouip juice into it and added some of the boiled yarrow that Naduah had brought. She split an oval section of prickly pear leaf, the nopal, and placed it, raw side down, against the wound. She bound it with strips of soft leather and rocked back on her heels to admire her handiwork.
“You know you should rest a few days, my son. But of course you won’t.”
“You know me well, Grandmother.” He opened his eyes and turned to look at her, his face pale under the rich chestnut color of his skin.
“When will you leave?”
“As soon as I can gather enough men. Many have left in search of my dead brother and me, but they should be back soon. Spaniard knows Night’s tracks and can tell I escaped.”
Naduah sat in despair. It would do no good to protest. He would listen to her as one listens to a child. And he would go off to be killed anyway. Perhaps the next war party would return with Wanderer’s bones.
Gets To Be An Old Man, who had eagle medicine, made Wanderer and his war party rise before dawn and bathe in the river. Now they all sat in a circle in Old Man’s medicine lodge. They wore only breechclouts, and their hair was loose and flowing. Each had put eagle feathers in his scalplock and rubbed his hair with sage. As the pipe passed around the ring Old Man chanted his eagle song, breaking off now and then to instruct them in the proper ceremony.
As he listened to the high-pitched drone, Wanderer’s mind turned off onto a little-traveled track. He wondered if Big Bow could be right. The Kiowa laughed at medicine men. A man must get his own power, he said, not beg it from another—besides, they were all self-serving frauds. Wanderer knew that some were. There was the one who was caught hammering the hooves of a fine horse he had put a curse on. Until then the pony’s owner had believed the curse was working and causing the inflamed feet.
But there could be no harm in using every source of power available. Who knew what would work and what wouldn’t until it had been tried? And it was good for morale. The ceremony separated the warriors from the rest of the band and made them special. It gave them the confidence and strength to do whatever necessary to protect their families.
Wanderer considered the need to have a captive girl take part in the ceremony. The yellow hair would do. He would tell Deep Water to ask Medicine Woman to explain
it to her so she wouldn’t be frightened. Deep Water, Owl’s brother, followed Wanderer everywhere. He now waited outside the lodge, like a young wolf at the mouth of his den, wanting to be of some use to his elders. And at seventeen, the leader of his first war party, Wanderer was now an elder in Deep Water’s eyes.
Wanderer looked around at the men in the circle, each sunk in his own thoughts. They were all powerfully built and tightly muscled. He had chosen carefully. He wished his brother could be with him, but he knew the men he had picked could be trusted to fight well. If they ever got out of here and on the raid trail.
He felt bound and helpless here in this hot lodge. He, wanted to be riding across the plain with his men behind, racing to avenge his brother. He was impatient to feel the wind blowing his hair and pushing against his shield, to feel the sun hot on his skin and the straps of his quiver and bow across his bare chest. To feel Night surging under him. To find the enemy and charge, screaming over the thunder of the horses’ hooves. To be drunk with excitement and the release from tension.
But most of all, he wanted vengeance. He wanted to find his brother’s bones and to extract a terrible payment for them. It took great effort to force himself to sit quietly and listen to Old Man, to keep from drumming his fingers on his knees in frustration.
Facing east in her new dress of cream-colored suede, her long, golden hair unbound, Naduah sat next to Wanderer. She was tall for her age, but still he made her seem small. The drums beat steadily and the six singers chanted hypnotically. The men in the war party circled, shaking their gourd rattles in time with the beat and stamping their heels hard in the dust. Little puffs of it rose and drifted off on the west wind.
Robson, Lucia St. Clair Page 19
