17 Stones

by Paul Telegdi

  “Now everybody knows it is hard to kill a snake, and even half dead it will squirm and worm its way to escape but the owl held on. He then offered his friend the porcupine the opportunity to make a meal of it. ‘But it is poisonous,’ Spike protested, but the owl instructed him, ‘All the poison is in his head, so chew on his tail instead.’ So it was that the porcupine ate a strange meal backward, from tail on up, leaving only the head. It was a surprisingly tasty meal the porcupine thought as he spit out some bones.” Chaiko paused as he burped up a surprising aftertaste of frogs in his mouth. “You can still see the bleached and yellow bones on the pebble beach by the river bank of the Ancient Forest of trees to remind all creatures to not be arrogant, for who and whatever you are there is always somebody or something bigger than you, faster than you, deadlier than you. But perhaps I missed something in my tale and you could point it out to me.” Chaiko waited and in time various thoughts and lessons were extracted from the story told. Tay was asleep. At the mention of a snake she had covered her ears, snuggled deeper in her mother’s lap and before long was fast asleep. So were a few of the others and some visitors drifted away back to their campsites, but most stayed to listen to further adventures of Feathers and Spike and drew new lessons from each tale. Lana’s eyes were shining, fondly remembering listening to him tell tale after tale, making them up as he went. Every shaman was a teacher, as it was his duty to make his people think and use their heads.

  People were hungry to learn, hungry for something to excite them and there were few things they liked better than riddles and brain teasers. Their lives were filled with physical exertions from morning to night, but there were some eager times when the shaman taught, telling stories from a long oral tradition, letting them look beyond the everyday toil.

  The stars were bright in the vault above and the moon was tending toward the morning sky when the crowd finally melted away. Chaiko was still exhilarated from the challenge of thinking as he talked, having his mouth catch up to his thoughts. Baer came over and placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders thanking him. “What for?” Chaiko asked surprised. Baer could not put it into words all the things that he was thankful for, all the things the Standing-Rock Clan owed its shaman.

  They hid in the smoke swirling round the fire pit, as the insects were buzzing aggressively about, looking for someone to feed on. Chaiko used a bison tail to fend off the most daring of them. The two brothers, the leader and the shaman of the clan, discussed the problems of today and the plans they had for the future.

  “You know,” Baer mentioned, “we should go back to our old cave and recover our possessions.” He was speaking of the cave they were born in, which they had to abandon when they escaped the great drought.

  “Yes, that would be good,” Chaiko agreed with him. “I once made a Singing-Stick with such pure tones... I have never made a better one since. I would certainly like to have that back. Perhaps you remember it?”

  But Baer just shook his head. “No, but in those days I worried about the heat, about the absence of the bison and the danger of fire. I had my head full of things, looking for a way out.” He looked up at the stars. “It seems so long ago now, but it was only three, four years ago.” He looked at his brother and said wonderingly, “You were not even a shaman then! How we ever got along without you, I will never understand.” There was gentle teasing in his voice and Chaiko hit him playfully, as he used to do as a child, daring to hit an older brother indulging him. They both thought back to their childhood.

  For a while they sat in silence until Chaiko made an unconscious gesture of denial. “What?” Baer asked, attracted by the sudden motion.

  “I was thinking of father, how if he were alive today, would he not have to look up to us, on you as leader of the clan, and me as shaman?”

  “Yes, and he would be proud of it!”

  “But don’t you find it strange that the sons would lead a father who never led?”

  “Father was a quiet man who was content to be led.”

  Still it did not sit well with Chaiko that there was so little he recognized in his father and mother. He started quoting Bogan: “The nature of man is passed from generation to generation and thus the parents are recognised in their children. For as the blessing cites, the seed of him shall flourish in the womb in which it was received, to reflect all those qualities that the parents themselves received from their parents. That is why we honor the line of generations, to remember the gift of all our qualities, on which our own accomplishments are built.” Chaiko paused, took a deep breath and continued, “It is easier to recognise what a child owes a parent, for his inheritance sits on his face and in his mannerisms; less easy to perceive the parent from the child. For as water must flow downhill, time flows from the past through the present into the future— never the other way, except in dreams.” Chaiko turned to his brother and asked, “So why is it then, that we, you and I, are so unlike our parents?”

  Baer whose head was already spinning, his brows knit with the effort of holding onto every word, asked, “What are you aiming at?”

  Chaiko did not quite know—but all these thoughts somehow resonated with how he felt. He had an odd presentience, a threshold feel of recognition, some dawning realisation, just out of reach.

  “We must deal with Corrigan somehow,” Chaiko changed the topic abruptly. Baer’s head spun once more, but he was much more comfortable with this subject. “Corrigan is his own worst enemy and should fall from the weight of all his self-indulgence and conceits.”

  “Perhaps, but in so falling he might make it hard for the rest who got used to following his whims unquestioningly. They might have to think again.”

  “You might be overstating that,” Baer replied. “I have not met a man who actually admitted liking Corrigan, though a lot of people like to hide in his shadow.”

  “Yes, he has grown big... bloated with his own self-importance.”

  “People hold onto him because there is no one else of equal stature to turn to,” Baer pondered.

  “Someone like Bogan...” Chaiko said softly.

  “Yes, like Bogan,” his brother affirmed.

  The fire collapsed sending a shower of sparks into the air. They were surrounded by the quiet of the clan sleeping in the peacefulness of night. There was only the incessant buzz of insects, thankfully kept at bay by the smoke. For a long time they did not speak but enjoyed each other’s company without being interrupted, just listening to the various shades of silence of the night.

  Chapter 9

  Not surprisingly, in the next morning Crow refused to get up. Lana reminded him gently that today was to be the Spider-War, a much looked forward to event of the Gathering, so with great groaning, Crow forced himself upright. All around people were getting ready, hurrying to find a good spot to oversee the spectacle.

  A spider web of ropes was laid out on the open ground and each clan was given a rope to pull against the rest. This year there were nine radiating ropes allowing for nine teams to test their strength and endurance. Ten men were allowed on each team and the clans, of course, fielded their strongest men. Smaller clans were allowed to join forces to form a combined team. From the Standing-Rock clan only Tusk was participating to add his size and strength to the Lesser-Bear-Claw and the Makeyes combined. Big Simm was put at the very end of this line, thinking that nothing much short of an earthquake could move him.

  Amidst great shouting of instructions and encouragement, the teams took their places along the ropes assigned to them. The idea was to pull the whole crowd to one side of a circle, with that side, comprised most often of two or three teams, then declared the winner. The circle of huts defined the boundary line with the onlookers wedged tightly in-between. The whole central open space was to be the arena of this epic struggle. Most often the battle would be over in short order, but there were some legendary accounts of contests lasting for days. Hard to imagine nowadays; have we grown softer? some asked. The more skeptical made accusations of fixin
g and bribery. This year there were rumors rife that Corrigan had arranged his Black-Pearl team to win. To this end, it was claimed, he had made two giants into honorary members of his clan, just for the expressed purpose of winning this contest and basking in the glory. Not so, Corrigan vociferously disclaimed, the big men had asked to be accepted into the clan. But of course, the skeptics replied, with the inducement offered, who would not be eager to accept? Free food, free women and no work. Would you be able to refuse all that?

  Whatever the truth of the matter was, the Black-Pearl team looked formidable, as the team to beat. They strutted to their position and were already boasting of certain victory. The men were stretching and limbering up their muscles. Some were spitting on their palms and others were rubbing their hands with sand according to tried and true strategies.

  Everybody who could come, of course, was there. But only a few in front could see well. The real disadvantage of holding a Gathering in such a restricted space once again became obvious. It was dangerous for women and children to let themselves into the press. And even men had to use their elbows to guarantee a space for themselves.

  Of course, at this prestigious event, Corrigan had to put in an appearance. The stables were hard pressed to safeguard space for him as the crowd surged to get a better view of the contest. A few criers took upon themselves to inform those at the back of what was transpiring. “Nothing yet. The men are still stretching and the marshal is not even present. Corrigan has arrived with his retinue so the start cannot be far off. We all know how he hates to be kept waiting, don’t we?” A chorus of boos answered him.

  Taragon fought his way through the crowd to centre stage. “Here he comes,” the criers announced. “Who is it?” the crowd who could not see cried back. “The marshal Taragon!” A surge went through the crowd, two huts collapsed and the space immediately flooded with people. “Oh my hut! My poor hut! You destroyed it!” a woman cried looking at the shambles with half an eye, the other still trying to see what was happening with the contest.

  At a gracious sign from Corrigan, Taragon began to charge the contestants. “Now we all know why we are here...” and the men on the ropes and the crowd roared back. “We all know how this is played!” Taragon continued. “The first to breach the circle of huts wins. There are no other rules, except to wait for my signal to start.” He then pulled a gossamer-thin weave of cloth, and showed it all around. “I shall throw this in the air and when it hits the ground, you are free to pull. Understand?” Everyone roared, what could be more simple?

  “Well then, pick up your ropes!” The men did so. People craned their necks and two more huts collapsed. “Grab your ropes well...” Every man took good hold and dug in his feet, muscles tensed and ready. “When this cloth hits the ground you pull!” Taragon wrapped the weave around a stone and threw it up in the air. The weight of stone carried the cloth high, then the stone went one way, the weave another; tantalizingly it hung in the air shimmering in a light breeze. The crowd held its breath. Someone yelped in sudden pain; the stone had come down and found him. The inconsequential weave still floated in the air, teasing the multitude.

  A man on the rope swore, “Someone should have pissed on the damn thing to make it heavier. We will be here all day!” A murmur went through the lines, and the crowd in the back demanded to know if the thing had started yet. “No,” replied the criers, “we are still waiting for the signal to hit the ground.” Why do people talk in riddles, the back rows complained; what was going on?

  Nothing much. The weave folded in on itself, nose-dived to tense everyone’s muscles then it opened up to swoop into the air again. A fresh groan went up and people asked again if the contest had started yet. “No,” a crier replied but gave no explanations.

  A gust of wind suddenly grabbed the signal and swept it higher and higher into the air. “Can you still see it?” a man anxiously queried a team-mate who he hoped had better sight than he. But soon the signal disappeared from view altogether. The men on the ropes swore, Corrigan swore, the crowd swore, the grand marshal swore; his delicate symbol of the fragility of vainglory was gone with the wind.

  “That is it!” said Soran, a big man on the rope. “I am going to say Hey and you are going to reply Ho. Then I am going to say Hey again and on the next Ho we are all going to pull!”

  “HEY!” he called and everyone roared back, “HO!” Two more huts collapsed.

  “HEY!” he called again and the roar came back “HOOOooooooooaerrrrggrrrhhh!” The ropes snapped taut, heels were dug in and the spider web vibrated with the strain as all the men pulled as hard as they could. No one needed to ask if the thing had started yet for the sound of effort was resonating through the air. More huts fell as the crowd surged in excitement. A babble of sound grew as each tried to out shout the others in encouraging their teams.

  The spider web was suspended by the strain, vibrating but not moving an inch. Sweat started popping out on brows, as the exertion continued and the veins on the arms rose clear purple. The men panted in rapid, shallow breaths, not daring the luxury of deep inhalation. The pull was constant holding them all on the spot.

  “What is happening?” the unseeing crowd cried.

  “Nothing,” said one crier.

  But another was more effusive. “Everybody is pulling. The muscles are popping out all over the place. The faces are ugly and grimacing. Some are already turning red. The rope is sure to break soon from the strain. The faces are glistening with sweat, water running in rivulets down the bodies. The feet are trembling and slipping on the grass. Look Toru has already dug himself a little trench with his feet and he will soon be up to his knees in it. Jessu is lying back almost flat, his whole weight holding back the rope. That fat guy on the end of the Makeyes and Lesser-Bear, surely no one is going to budge him a hair. Look Black-Pearl is trying to work in rhythm, giving little jerks that send shivers along the whole web...”

  “Still nothing,” the other said, and a few that could not see but could hear both criers wondered if the two were looking at the same view. But both were essentially right. There were lots of small events yet the sum-total still came to nothing.

  The sun rose higher and became unbearable. The men panted, and their thirst grew. The web still had not moved. The crowd was quiet now, waiting for the first sign of change. Even the back stopped trying to push forward. Corrigan was seen yawning several times and a strange lassitude settled on the onlookers.

  For the men on the ropes the strain had grown unbearable, and the pain of cramps excruciating. Chaiko, who with Baer had a good view over one of the collapsed huts, could see Tusk straining, his back muscles quivering with the effort. He knew that Tusk would rather die than give in. Single-minded Tusk, it was his great strength and weakness. If they could only somehow temper his strength with the wisdom of knowing when to bend and absorb things instead of rigidly hanging on.

  Earlier a man had accosted Chaiko and said in all seriousness, “You know last night about the snake and the owl? Another lesson was that one can eat... eh, handle a poisonous thing like a snake if... one is careful...” Chaiko nodded at him encouragingly. As a teacher he almost never said no. Last night all the faces had been a blur of curiosity in the firelight; he could not make out their individuality and he could not recall seeing the man there. But in the present context, perhaps the snake was really Corrigan? Careful, he told himself, the Head-Shaman was just as poisonous.

  Chaiko saw a slight shift in the team as at a command from Oslu, the appointed leader, one of them secretly took a rest, pretending only to pull. Wise strategy, Chaiko approved. Again Black-Pearl tried to work some rhythm into the pull, and the Lesser-Bear and the Makeyes all had to resist. Next to them on the right was the team of Blackfoot and Pelican-Sands, on the left Dorgay was grunting rhythmically in response. Opposite were the Black-Pearl, Sharp-Owl and the Omaanis mixed with a lesser clan. The web vibrated but did not move. The effort eased as they all prepared to resist the next attempt. Again someone rested am
ong the Makeyes and the Lesser-Bear. Simm on the end held steady, I am not moving, his posture said… does a mountain move… not likely.

  Nothing much happened for quite a while. All the teams eased the tension somewhat, resting, saving their energies, carefully watching each other so as not to be surprised by a sudden effort. Torma swore, a bird had blessed him from above and he had to wipe the muck off his cheek. His comrades laughed, but the opposing side took instant advantage of their momentary distraction and pulled with all their might. The teams on either side of them joined in the effort and the web swayed in their direction one step, two, then stalled again. The spectators on the side lines jumped to their feet shouting encouragement, fuelling a fresh effort. But it all came to naught and the final result was only about a short step won for all the expended energy.

  A little while later a back and forth tug was initiated on a different axis. The wily Oslu, noting the pull going to the side from him, directed everyone on his team to swing the effort from side to side, to destabilize that axis. Indeed the lines surged back and forth, as everybody desperately dug in their heels and pulled for all they were worth. It turned out to be a very near thing, as the oscillation almost got away from them. It had taken everybody’s effort to stabilize the net again. By silent, mutual consent, they all eased the tension, to be able to recover a little but remained watchful. This was not true co-operation but a sense of male pride that they all wanted to look good to their families and friends watching from the sidelines.