by Karen Kay
No doubt, the people would consider him a hero, as well. His name would be revered by the women and children, and spoken of in adoration. Songs would be sung to him in camp, praises sent up to the Creator. And lastly, but most importantly, Red Hawk would discharge an obligation he held, a duty to his parents.
“One bad deed for another,” grumbled Red Hawk. “And who better to do it than I? Is it not because of you, Thunderer, that my life is in ruin? Is it not because of you that I have no parents? Is it not you, Thunderer, who is the cause of the women in camp calling me ‘Poor Orphan’, a name I despise?”
Red Hawk thrust out his chest with pride and squared back his shoulders. “I will have my day with you, Thunderer. Be not deceived.”
The feeling of having accomplished great deeds was as fleeting as a scattered rain cloud across a desert sun, and Red Hawk slumped forward. Alas, there was little chance of his dreams becoming a reality. For, though Red Hawk, more than anyone else, might merit the right of revenge, it would never be.
Was he not an outsider here? Was it not true that by blood he didn’t even belong to this clan, let alone to any particular band in the tribe? All those years ago, it had simply been his parents’ bad luck to be visiting the Clan at the time when the people had made battle with the Thunderer.
His mother and father had been part of those killed in the Thunderer’s first sweep across the camp, leaving Red Hawk alone. His fate might have been dubious indeed, for Red Hawk had been practically a newborn, with great need of a mother.
As chance would have it, an old man had taken Red Hawk in, had found a means to engage a wet-nurse, and the boy had been raised by the man he now called Grandfather. True, Grandfather had adopted Red Hawk officially into this tribe, but this was not the same as being born to it.
Red Hawk knew the difference.
Impatiently, Red Hawk kicked out at a rock at his feet, his face alive with fury. He hated the Thunderer, hated him for all he had done, for all he did now. Make no mistake, given the chance, Red Hawk would kill the deity.
But enough. For now he would control his impulses, as Grandfather had so painstakingly taught him to do. He would channel his anger, take it out on his chores, as soon as his morning bath was finished.
Pretending now that the stick he carried was a spear, he swished it out in front of him, cutting through the air with it, imagining the Thunderer on the receiving end of his blow.
“Take that,” he said, while quietly jabbing the stick into nothing. Serious now, Red Hawk skirted forward, one jump after another, his stance challenging, stick raised. As he did so, he lifted his face and arms upward, and he swore, “I will best you, Thunderer. I promise. Be I champion or not, I will best you.”
But there was no answer in the sky, not even a rumble to validate the hopes of the youth.
At last Red Hawk lowered his arms. “I am tired of being called the orphan, the homeless boy, the poor boy,” he muttered to himself. Raising his face toward the heavens, he said, “My name is Red Hawk. Remember it, Thunder Being. Red, for the color of war, for the blood shed by my parents. Hawk, for his power, his magnificence, and for his sharp eye. It is a good name, a family name. It is my name, not Poor Orphan.”
When no one rose to challenge him, Red Hawk assumed he was still alone, and he continued, “My father was a heroic man, a good man who died defending a people who were not even his own. Red Hawk was his name. Before he died, my father bestowed the name on me. And I accept it. Someday,” he uttered, looking over his shoulder, “everyone in this camp will sing praises to that name.”
Red Hawk made another pass with the stick, only to throw it down in disgust. What was he doing playing a child’s game? He was twelve winters in age, almost a man. He had best start acting like one. Pushing aside his emotions, Red Hawk took a step forward along his path to the river.
“Grandson.” A heavy hand fell to Red Hawk’s shoulder. Red Hawk jerked his chin up and turned to stare behind him. There stood his grandfather, the man’s whitened hair held in two braids at each side of his weathered face.
“Yes, Grandfather?” As was custom, and because he held the utmost respect for his elders, Red Hawk said no more, though he longed to know why his grandfather was up and about so early. Normally, his elder awoke with the rising of the sun, and that time was still far away.
“The council of the elders has already been held,” said Grandfather.
Red Hawk nodded. He knew what that meant, of course—champions had been chosen. His insides twisted. Yet Red Hawk pretended indifference. It had little to do with him.
Grandfather spoke. “It is important you learn what has been decided.”
Why? thought Red Hawk. Why should he desire to participate in some other boy’s glory? Wasn’t it enough that most of the other boys in camp chided him? Why should he celebrate their victory?
Still, he could not bring himself to put these questions to his grandfather. To do so would be the height of dishonor, since it would show disrespect to a man who had given Red Hawk nothing but love.
So the boy let Grandfather lead him to White Claw, the Clan’s wisest of men. After throwing back the flap of White Claw’s lodge, Red Hawk’s grandfather stepped into the tepee’s quiet interior, and Red Hawk followed.
White Claw was seated against his backrest, which was made of willow branches. He looked perceptive, yet worried. Suspended from a tripod close to hand was White Claw’s medicine bundle as well as his quiver, decorated blue and white with porcupine quills. Arrows, meticulously fashioned to be straight, filled that quiver.
A lining, painted red and yellow, skirted the entire circumference of the tepee. In the center of the lodge was the ever-present fire, though its embers at this early hour were low.
Once seated, Red Hawk covertly gazed around him, taking in those assembled here. Though no boy’s countenance showed the results of what had occurred only moments ago, it was plain that a council decision had already been made. Why was he here?
The boys from Red Hawk’s tribal band were Talks-straight and Shows-the-enemy. Both were seated near places of honor. Neither spared Red Hawk a glance.
Also present in the council was a boy, Runs-with-his-horse, from the Black Fire Band of the tribe. That one looked proud, distinguished. Not so Talks-straight or Shows-the-enemy.
At last White Claw picked up his great pipe, filling it with the sacred tobacco, a combination of not only ordinary tobacco, but also the inner bark of the red willow. He took a puff then passed the pipe to Red Hawk.
As soon as Red Hawk had smoked and delivered the pipe back to its owner, White Claw spoke. “You, Poor Orphan, have been chosen as champion for the Yellow Shawl Band.”
For the beat of a moment, Red Hawk forgot to breathe. He? Was this possible?
Though this news both shocked and excited him, as was the way of most American Indians, Red Hawk kept his emotions as carefully hidden as possible.
“Perhaps it is well that you should understand why we have chosen you. You are our last choice,” spoke White Claw. “Both Talks-straight and Shows-the-enemy were first looked to as the Yellow Shawl Band’s champions. But Talks-straight fell upon entering the lodge this morning, and it appears he has broken his arm.”
Glancing toward Talks-straight, Red Hawk noticed the grimace of frustration on the other boy’s countenance. He gazed briefly toward Talks-straight’s arm, which Talks-straight was trying to hide from view.
But White Claw wasn’t finished. “We then looked to Shows-the-enemy. But Shows-the-enemy contracted a fever early this morning and must be attended to here. Though he assures us he could still represent his band, we cannot send him on a task such as this when he is sick.”
Red Hawk said nothing. Good manners dictated he give his elder a nod, indicating he had heard and understood what had been said. This he did.
“Therefore we have no choice,” continued
White Claw, “but to enlist your aid in representing your band of the tribe in this, our most desperate need. Though you do not belong to the Clan by blood, it is still the family in which you have been raised. We look to you, Poor Orphan, to do your best. It is an honorable thing we ask. But know this: There will be much danger. As in all deeds, no man, no lad, need go where he does not will it. What say you? Will you accept the challenge?”
Red Hawk opened his mouth to speak, but to his horror discovered he could not say a word. His tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth.
White Claw repeated, “You may refuse if you wish. It is your right.”
Still Red Hawk couldn’t speak, couldn’t coordinate his speech with his will. All he could do was sputter.
“What say you?” prompted White Claw. “Do you wish more time to consider?”
When Red Hawk’s trouble persisted, he did the only thing available to him, he nodded, using signs and gestures to communicate his acceptance. It was only when White Claw said in response, “It is well,” that Red Hawk found he could at last utter, “Honored… I would be honored.”
Grandfather smiled, but not so any other man in the council. Most of the elders looked disgruntled, perhaps a little stunned. The two boys, however—those who might have been chosen, were they well enough—appeared angry and dispirited.
White Claw had more to say to both Red Hawk and the other lad present, Runs-with-his-horse. “Remember that you will each one go out into the world and become a part of another tribe. Runs-with-his-horse, you will seek out the Crow. Poor Orphan, you will go to the Southern Pikuni, our brothers. Learn who are their enemies, study your adopted tribe well and remember the words of the Creator, ‘Show kindness, help your enemies, understand them.’ For had we as a clan done so in the past, we would not now be enslaved.”
Both Runs-with-his-horse and Red Hawk nodded.
“Remember, Poor Orphan,” continued White Claw directly, “that you are your band’s champion. You are not on an errand of revenge. Study the Pikuni people well, learn who are their enemies, show their foes mercy, give aid, but most importantly, do not engage in battle with the Thunderer, even if you are challenged.” White Claw focused on the young boy, and as though drawn by his elder’s glance, Red Hawk gazed into the medicine man’s eyes. “I must seek your word on this, Poor Orphan.”
Once more incapable of speech, Red Hawk simply nodded.
It was enough.
“Very good,” said White Claw. “You each one have until your thirtieth birthday to lift the curse. Your people are depending on you. Know this: The curse can be broken, for there are now three bands of our people who are no longer with us, having been released out of the mist. Learn well and quickly. Do not be diverted by things of the flesh or of revenge.” He stared at Red Hawk. “If you are successful, you will be honored by your people for all time. If you fail—as many others have done before you—you will live out the rest of your life in the flesh, knowing that you failed your people in their most urgent time of need. Remember to show kindness, give mercy, help an enemy. We look to you as our hope…our only hope.”
With this said, White Claw emptied the ashes of the ceremonial pipe into a shell directly in front of him. It was a signal that the council was at an end. “That is all.”
The boys, all four of them, along with Red Hawk’s grandfather, rose and as a single body exited White Claw’s lodge.
Once gone, White Claw sighed deeply and turned to the chief of the Yellow Shawl Band. “Have hope, my friend. Although I realize it is a bleak day when we must choose Poor Orphan as a champion for your people, perhaps he will rise to the challenge.”
“But to send such a one?” said the chief. “He, who exhibits many of the same traits as the Thunderer himself?”
“Aa, yes,” replied White Claw.
The chief of the Yellow Shawl Band was not finished. “Is it not true that Red Hawk is quick to anger? That he is hard to forgive others, and even when the chance has been presented to him to show mercy, he has never yet given another quarter?”
“Indeed, it is so. But what else could we do? We could not send those who are sick or injured. And think well, my friend. Is it not true that in the past, all of the boys you have thought would qualify for this honor have failed?”
When the chief nodded, White Claw continued. “Maybe the boy will come into his own. Perhaps he will find the strength to conquer the evil that at times possesses him. We can only pray it will be so. For, my friend, the deed is now done.”
The chief of the Yellow Shawl Band grunted, frowning. “Aa, it is done. But though you are wise, I do not share your optimism.”
White Claw merely smiled. “Fret not. Remember that there is always the chance to end the curse within the next generation.”
The chief of the Yellow Shawl Band was not to be so easily placated. With a look of utter disgust, he shook his head bitterly. At length, he rose to take his leave of the council.
White Claw, last to exit his own lodge, sat for many moments in reflection. But then he too arose. There was much to be done today to prepare these youths. He had best make ready for the next council.
Chapter Three
Setting down her trowel, Effie knew the time had come for a break. She exhaled deeply, and straightening up, wiped her brow of perspiration. Having helped her parents at the site of the dig throughout the early morning hours, she had done her duty, at least for a while. It was time for a bath.
“I am so hot,” she whined. She started to pout, but then thought better of her actions, and in a more adult voice asked, “May I go swimming?”
With a quick nod and a sweet smile, her mother endorsed the action. She did advise, however, “Stay close. It’s still quite hazy out this morning, and I don’t want you missing a step and falling.”
“I won’t do that, and I will stay close.” Immediately Effie’s spirits lifted. If there was one thing Effie liked most about accompanying her mother and father on these excavations, it was the sense of freedom she enjoyed. No one—outside of Lesley—treated her as if she were too young to know her own mind. And perhaps it was in response to her parents’ trust that Effie behaved herself uncommonly well.
Tantrums were an unknown affair. Truth be told, Effie considered herself as adult as the next person. She was simply trapped inside a child’s body.
“Is Lesley going with you?” her mother asked.
“No. She left with one of Father’s students, someone named William, I think. They said they were going to survey the lay of the land.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
Effie sighed. “Yes, Mother. Now may I go swimming?”
“Of course, dear.”
“Thank you.”
Deciding to leave before her mother changed her mind or asked more questions, Effie padded toward her favorite spot. She could almost see the place from the excavation site.
Caught off to the side of the Big River—the Missouri River—was a splendid water hole. Not too deep, not too shallow, the place was hidden from view by long, green prairie grasses, as well as pine, cottonwoods and a magnificent willow. In the distance—and able to be seen from the pool on most days—were white-capped mountains, which favored the land with a fairytale appeal. It was the ideal place for a quick dip.
Effie knew it was dangerous to swim alone—and briefly she wished that Lesley were a little more friendly toward her, for it would be fun to have a swimming companion. But Lesley’s attitude in regards to Effie was far from amicable, except of course when Lesley wanted something.
Perhaps Lesley thought Effie too young. Certainly, Effie was the younger by four years. But in attitude, Effie considered herself to be the more mature of the two of them. Lesley exhibited more tantrums than Effie had ever witnessed in anyone.
As Effie treaded toward the water, she couldn’t help but notice the profusion of pink wildflowe
rs whose fragrances filled the air with a sweet scent. She touched their soft, dewy petals as she passed by them, her fingers coming away wet from the encounter.
Odd, in places this morning the fog was so thick she could barely see her hand as she flattened it over the grasses and flowers. But in other areas, the haze was starting to dissipate, lending to the land a cathedral-like profusion of golden streams of light slanting through the mist.
For an instant, Effie caught her breath, so beautiful was the sight—so profound. The moment felt sacred, as though she were close to something…something wonderful. Perhaps it was the Creator that she felt so near to, since such beauty could not be by accident.
She let out her breath. It was a good way to start the day, and as she stripped off her dress, her petticoats and chemise, throwing them to the side, peace filled her soul. She left her square-toed boots on her feet so her tender toes need not tread on any sharp rocks. Her pantalettes also remained in place, since she couldn’t bring herself to strip to bare skin from the waist down. Her drawers were green, not white, as a woman’s pantalettes might be. Green, because her mother had made them from the canvaslike material of an old tent.
At last Effie was ready to swim, and unafraid, she waded into the water.
In truth, there was little need for fear. The swimming hole was close to her parents’ dig, well within earshot were there to be any trouble. And Effie was an experienced swimmer, her parents having schooled her in the techniques of lifesaving when she was so young she could barely crawl. Thus, Effie felt safe and quite exuberant.
The water was only ankle deep at the shoreline, but it was cool and refreshing, as she had known it would be. Soon, Effie plunged into the water completely, wetting herself from the top of her very red head to the bottom of her heavy, wet boots. Surfacing, she grinned.
What pleasure!
As Red Hawk treaded a path to the water, a few rays of golden sunlight pushed their way through the fog. In response, the ground came alive, welcoming the warmth of those beams. Here, and as far as the eye could see, the lush, green earth was covered with a misty haze. Mother Earth was awakening.
