Stone Song

by Win Blevins

  “But I will use what little I see to guide the people to the new lakes, new mountains, new trails of the earth, the new red road. Though I cannot make out the path, I will set my foot on it, trusting in the powers.” He listened to himself. Somehow he felt that only now had he himself accepted this truth. Yes, that was just what he would do. “I will seek to keep the sacred hoop whole and the sacred tree flowering. Whatever it takes.

  “I have asked myself why I am the one to see. I am a man to fight, not to invent a new life. I want to fight. But I won’t. Maybe if the people see that Spotted Tail, of all men, is changing his ways, they will change, too.

  “I don’t know where the change will lead. I don’t see that. I only know that we must start walking the path.”

  Curly’s heart was a cold rock. Regardless of the truth in what Spotted Tail said, Curly’s ears heard a spirit of defeat—no, worse, of surrender. His uncle surrendering. One of the shirtmen of the people giving up.

  Curly’s blood screamed rejection.

  Tasunke Witko waited a long while. It was not just politeness. He was thinking about what Spotted Tail had said. Not especially the claims of incredible numbers of wasicu, an old tale raised once more. That didn’t matter as much to him as Spotted Tail’s assertion that the wasicu were spirit killers.

  A-i-i-i, surely they were impossible to understand. You might fight your enemy—that had respect in it. You might even kill him—respect again. But to do what the wasicu did: afflict your enemy with disease, pen him up, starve him, and then rescue his body on the condition that he surrender his spirit… Incomprehensible. Not the way of men.

  But he believed Spotted Tail. Everything about his brother-in-law sang conviction.

  What a peculiar people, the wasicu. They had a certain genius. They could make things—wagons, wheels, guns, knives, watches, far-seeing glasses, and much more. But these were only things. In return for them the wasicu wanted you to relinquish your own genius, which was not of things but of the spirit.

  From the beginning, said the oldest men, what the wasicu was your spirit. From the beginning, their real desire was for the blackrobes to gouge spirit out of you, like a man scraping the seeds out of a gourd. Then they would fill the empty gourd with their religion.

  Tasunke Witko understood the life of the spirit. He knew it was the only real life.

  So he knew what he would do. It was simple. He would oppose his brother-in-law with all his power.

  To be defeated by superior numbers, that was only physical.

  To give up your spirit, that truly would be death.

  He looked at his sons sitting in the near dark. Truly death. He thought of the loaf-around-the-fort women, offering themselves to any man for the price of whiskey, then spirit-killed until the effects of the mni wakan wore off, then offering themselves again, endlessly, turning from human beings into wandering carcasses. And this wasn’t the worst of it. Men without spirit would rape their daughters, murder their brothers. The hoop of the people would be broken, smashed beyond recognition or repair. The tree of the people would no longer flower. Its branches would hang brittle and dead.

  For his sons Tasunke Witko would fight. For the reasons Spotted Tail gave to yield, he would fight.

  Fortunately, now the mood of all the Lakota was to fight. He wondered how it would be in ten or twenty or thirty winters, when the wasicu came in hordes.

  Inside himself he shrugged. It didn’t matter.

  “Would you like to smoke?” he asked Spotted Tail.

  His guest nodded.

  Tasunke Witko filled the canupa reflectively, used sticks to pick up a live ember from the ashes, and lit the cansasa. Smoke rose toward the top of the lodge. The breath of earth, he whispered in his mind ritually. He wondered whether he would be able to send breath to the sky for the rest of his life.

  He handed Spotted Tail the canupa. His relative smoked.

  Soon Tasunke Witko would walk Spotted Tail back to his lodge. Maybe the boys would walk along—the company would be good.

  Spotted Tail had chosen. He was a good man.

  Tasunke Witko had also chosen. He was implacable.

  The three walked back from Spotted Tail’s lodge slowly. Tasunke Witko was taking in the night smells and the night sounds and even the night sights. They could see reasonably well, for it was Wimakatanhan, the moon coming toward full. Their eyes had had plenty of time to adjust.

  Many times he had walked with his two sons, or stood or sat quietly with them, to show them life at night. It was so different it was like another garden of life, a gesture by Maka, Earth, to show she could make many different worlds: the one in the air, the one in water, the one under the surface of the earth, one in the sun, one in the night sun. Maka was a virtuoso.

  Tasunke Witko smiled to himself. He was poised for a terrible fight. Now was a good time to remind himself of what a life maker Earth was, what a show-off in fecundity. He liked to tell his sons about part of that, the abundant life of birds at night. Sundown was heralded by the bird that comes at dusk and splashes in the air, the nighthawk. Night was the dominion of the hushed-wings, the owls—there were so many of them! A person who sat against a tree and watched and listened would observe many—the grows-a-horn, the shivery bird, the big ears and the small ears, the little one whose call heralds spring, the gray owl, the black one, the one that lives with prairie dogs, the owl who trumpets winter in. All this life would be sent to its other world at sunup by the red-dawn-coming bird.

  Tasunke Witko did not think being aware of these birds as you walked through the night was especially the skill of the hunter. For him it was one gesture of an awareness that was holy, the awareness of the myriad forms of life, of which human beings were one and cousins to the others.

  He noticed his sons without looking directly at them. He was glad that they were habitually attentive to the night and all the world around them, attuned. They could notice while thinking of other things, which was what they were doing now. Each of them was disturbed.

  It was Little Hawk, naturally, who burst out. He was only eleven winters old.

  Little Hawk spaced out the words, like deliberate slashes of a knife. “My uncle has been gelded by the wasicu.”

  Curly felt a gush of relief, and then embarrassment. He was glad his brother had said it. The same thought had boiled in Curly, but no allowance would have been made for such an outburst from a man of eighteen winters.

  Their father walked for a moment and did not speak. No reprimand was necessary, for Little Hawk knew as well as anyone that his outcry was unacceptable.

  After a moment Tasunke Witko spoke gently. “I admire and respect my brother-in-law. He is a worthy man and a worthy shirt wearer. He is trying to think of all the people.”

  It was a statement admirable in its eloquence and its restraint.

  Curly tasted bile in his throat. Sometimes respect for the sovereignty of each human being tasted foul and bitter.

  Curly was awash in shame at himself and fury at his uncle. Obviously he had not mastered himself sufficiently to have true respect for others’ right to choose.

  Shame again. If his uncle would no longer stand up for the people, all the more urgent that Curly should contribute his power, large or small, for the common good.

  All right. He said to himself, Han, yes, yes, absolutely yes, in rhythm with each of his steps.

  “Father,” he said softly. “I need to talk to you.” He hesitated one last time. “I have … seen something.”

  By the moon he saw his father’s face light with understanding, kindness, gladness. Curly felt his hardness and his fear thaw a little and trickle icily through his heart.

  INTERPRETING THE VISION

  Curly finished smoking the canupa and gave it back to his father. Tasunke Witko scraped the bowl out and put it back in his pipe bag. Curly looked at the bag, and odd feelings tugged at him. It had fringes of sorrel-colored hair. This hair came from the mare sacrificed at the scaffold of the woman who g
ave him birth. The sorrel horse was one Tasunke Witko had seen when he looked beyond, when he started walking the path of the wicasa wakan.

  Curly took a deep breath. He had asked for this talk, but it was still hard. He looked Tasunke Witko in the eyes and breathed deep again.

  “I have seen something,” he said.

  Even now he could hardly get the words out. After three long years it had begun to turn sour, as any power will when it is not used.

  If his uncle would withdraw his strength from the people in their time of need, Light Curly Hair would lend a new power, from a new vision, a new experience of Spirit.

  The council had broken up this morning, and the bands had started scattering to the four winds. Tasunke Witko had taken Curly aside for this talk. They bent willow branches into a low hut and covered it with buffalo robes. They built the sacred fire, heated the rocks red as dawn suns, and put them in the pit. Inside Tasunke Witko splashed the water on the rocks, and they purified themselves in the breath of rocks four times. They smoked and prayed and contemplated. Now, back outside, Curly murmured again, “I have seen something.”

  “Yes,” said Tasunke Witko, looking kindly at his son. “You have seen beyond, and felt reluctant to talk about it.”

  He meant to make it easy for Curly. He had known for a long time. He had suspected when he saw how the boy was suddenly terrified of the wakinyan. He had known for sure when he realized why the boy dressed shabbily.

  Tasunke Witko worried about his older son. He had no idea what the boy might have seen, a big vision or a small one, or whether he might continue to see more throughout his life and have to learn to cope with Power. Often waking dreams that came without the dreamer’s seeking were big and life-changing. Maybe Curly had seen something very wakan. Maybe he would be a wicasa wakan like his father. Maybe he would be one of the great wicasa wakan. Tasunke Witko thought maybe the boy was picked out by Spirit for something special. He had always thought the boy’s light hair was a sign.

  What was for sure was that dreaming of wakinyan without speaking about it was dangerous, to the people and especially to the dreamer. But Tasunke Witko had forbidden himself to interfere with his son’s chosen way. The boy knew what was right, and he was a Lakota. You couldn’t help another person with some things.

  Curly couldn’t seem to find the next words.

  Tasunke Witko helped out. “It’s hard to see beyond when you’re young,” he said. “It seems overwhelming.”

  “Yes,” said Curly. He felt a little softening inside. Hawk was still, neither at ease nor agitated, just waiting.

  “You may speak now or whenever you’re ready,” said Tasunke Witko gently. “Or not at all.”

  “Pila maya,” Curly said. Thanks. Gratitude flowed into his heart like a warm spring.

  So, sitting in front of the sweat lodge, Curly at last began. He had in mind to tell everything just as he had seen it, or almost everything. He would hold a little back, what he felt Rider wouldn’t tell. You always kept a little for yourself alone.

  “I was upset. I saw Bear-Scattering dying, his flesh rotting while he was still breathing. Also, I was feeling miserable about not having any coups, or a vision, or any power at all.”

  Tasunke Witko looked at his son, and his heart felt tender.

  “So I rode out along the river to be alone. Then I just saw this place and felt… something strange. On the spur of the moment I decided to cry for a vision.” Curly glanced sidelong at his father, and his eyes fell. “It was impulsive.” The father wished his son didn’t feel apologetic.

  “I knew I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t prepared at all.” Now he mumbled. “It was a stupid thing to do.”

  “Just tell me,” said Tasunke Witko kindly.

  “If it seemed stupid,” Curly plunged on, now sounding defiant, “it also felt like me.”

  Tasunke Witko smiled and nodded sympathetically.

  “The first day I cried for a vision all day. I cried to the west, the north, the east, the south. I cried but heard no answer.” The boy paused. Even now he had trouble telling what had happened. In a way Tasunke Witko was glad—it gave him something to help his son with.

  “Then I noticed that I was not getting an answer. All the creatures of the earth had disappeared. The sky was empty of winged people. The dirt showed no crawling people. No four-legged people could be seen.” Curly looked savagely at his father. “Then I knew. My answer was a curse. In response to my cry, all living things died.”

  The ferocity of Curly’s voice actually hurt. There was plenty to help him with.

  Curly’s head dropped again. Oh, my son, Tasunke Witko’s heart sang, your only misstep is shame.

  “I fell asleep that night,” Curly muttered. “The next night I didn’t even try to stay awake.”

  He looked up at his father angrily. I’m rotten, his eyes said, but this is me. “The answer of Spirit never changed.” Meaning silence, emptiness, nothingness, the void. His eyes held Tasunke Witko’s in a dare. “On the third afternoon I quit.”

  Curly fell silent. Sometimes there was nothing to do but wait. Tasunke Witko had never had a more painful wait than this black stillness.

  Curly finally went on, “When I tried to get back on my horse to come back to the village, I was weak and dizzy. I was afraid of falling off. I sat against the sunpole tree to rest, and that was when it happened.”

  Curly felt mesmerized again as he told it. “I saw a horse trotting lightly. It pranced beautifully, floating without touching the ground….”

  Tasunke Witko felt pitched around, like a skin boat on a rough river.

  His son had seen beyond, and what he had seen—Tasunke Witko had scarcely heard of a waking dream so sustained, so vivid, so powerful.

  Powerful, yes. Curly had been endowed with one of the great gifts: invulnerability from enemy fire. He had come to know his spirit helper, Hawk. He had …

  He had dreamed of Inyan, an ancient power, very great.

  He had also dreamed of wakinyan, a difficult medicine. And he had been shown his way, the path of the warrior, not the wicasa wakan. In the dream Rider did nothing but ride into war.

  The waves of joy and sorrow and fear and exultation tossed Tasunke Witko up and down roughly.

  Fool, he accused himself. I have been a fool. My son was struggling with a vision. When I should have helped him, I rode up and accused him of alarming me and his mothers. He was lying there fresh from seeing beyond, and I noticed nothing. Fool!

  Three years of pain because …

  Tasunke Witko sat staring at the ground.

  That was past. What was important now was to give solace and understanding to his son. Often they couldn’t cross the unseen barriers between them. Tasunke Witko now had to do so and offer to his son what he gave to other dreamers. The two of them must discover what the waking dream meant to Curly, what meanings he already knew, what meanings he might discover now or soon. Some meanings would be clouded, probably for a long time.

  What the wicasa wakan or any other person saw meant nothing. The object was for Curly to see. As a guide Tasunke Witko might stimulate, or elaborate a very little, no more.

  “Let’s go back into the sweat lodge,” said Tasunke Witko.

  Four more rounds of sweating, of praying, of asking for wisdom. Between rounds, they sat with the lodge cover lifted. Bathed in sunlight and in cooling air, they did not talk. Nor did Tasunke Witko think. He turned the pictures of Curly’s vision over and over in his mind, getting to know them.

  He burned a little sweetgrass to invite the presence of the spirits. Then the work started.

  “You realized it was your pony. It had gotten rid of its hobbles and was running free and trotting toward you. Its legs danced, and its neck was held high.”

  Tasunke Witko had the knack of repeating dreams back to the dreamers, either sleeping dreamers or waking dreamers, almost word for word. It came from his trance-like concentration while they told what they saw. He found that it made them feel a
ffirmed in the dream and in its power. It also made them believe in his ability to see into the dream. This was his calling, wicasa wakan.

  “On its back sat a rider leaning forward, perfectly motionless on the prancing pony, except that the fringe on the heels of his moccasins trembled.”

  “Yes,” Curly put in. “Everything was clearer than life ever is, sharp and gleaming, like quartz crystals in a rock.”

  “So you knew: you were seeing beyond.”

  Tasunke Witko could see in Curly’s face that he was seeing it again now, and seeing more, realizing more than he had the first time.

  “The moment you knew, the pony changed colors—it became a bay, then an appaloosa, then a grulla, a strawberry roan, and other colors in succession.” He flicked a smile at Curly and was pleased to see his son’s face rapt.

  “The pony was saying,” the boy plunged ahead, “ ‘I am not just a horse. I am Horse.’ Rider was like a bright stone I’d found. I turned him in my sight to study every facet of him.”

  Curly’s voice was thrumming with excitement now. “Now I know what I only glimpsed then. The rider was me. That was clear because he never spoke to me, yet I knew his every thought. His thoughts were my thoughts.”

  Said Tasunke Witko, “So who was Rider?”

  “Myself, grown up.”

  “Yourself as a possibility,” prompted Tasunke Witko.

  Curly nodded happily, almost dreamily. Tasunke Witko wondered if the boy saw that this vision was a mountain to climb.

  “Do you see how to dress yourself for war, and paint yourself?”

  “Yes,” Curly said in acceptance, “like Rider exactly. Hair long and loose. In it only a few beads and one eagle feather. The feather upside down, like a war eagle when it is about to kill. Very plain clothing.”

  “Paint?”

  Curly’s voice had the hypnotic throb of the drum now. “Rider wore no paint at first. Later lightning streaks and hail spots.” Curly leapt forward: “Am I intended for a life of war? In the dream Rider was a warrior only.” The light in Curly’s eyes spoke his enthusiasm for being called as a warrior.