The warrior was not present. She was at the mercy of these Blood women, and knew them to be masterful in all the arts of torture and abuse. Better at it than the men. But then an old woman halted the chatter, dipped a trader’s tin cup in a kettle of water, and brought it to her. She tried to sit up to drink it, but couldn’t. The woman helped her and pressed the cup to Victoria’s lips. She drank slowly, barely able to swallow. The raging thirst didn’t leave her, and she drank more. The old woman brought her buffalo meat that had been boiled into a sopping softness and fed her a little. Victoria couldn’t swallow it but managed to down some broth, which miraculously poured strength into her. So, for the moment, they were succoring her. But for what reason she didn’t know.
There were five women in the lodge: the old one, no doubt someone’s mother; what appeared to be three wives, perhaps sisters; and a girl of perhaps twelve winters. Victoria suspected there had been more men present once, but they had either died in battle or of diseases. Maybe they had died in fights against her own people.
The village did not move that day, and she lay in the shade of the lodge, grateful to be left alone. Her hurts dominated her consciousness. It wasn’t really possible to think of anything else except all the ways she ached. The warmth built; she could see blue sky above, a golden summer day. But she scarcely moved, barely aware of the traffic in and out, brushing past her as they entered and left the lodge. Thinking took too much effort, so she drifted through the day without dreams of freedom, escape, revenge, reconciliation, or anything else except a profound hatred of these Blackfeet.
That evening, as twilight purpled the village, she heard the sounds of drumming, singing, and dancing. So the celebration of their great victory was continuing. She knew she would be a part of it. They had kept her alive for their celebration, and not out of mercy, though she thought she felt some small tenderness in the old one’s touch. They had fed her again late in the day, giving her the strength to know her fate this night.
Outside the lodge, the drumming throbbed through the village, lifting to climactic moments when the war singers cried out their victory chants, their medicine, their prayers. This celebration had its own mesmerizing effect on all of them, and even on her.
Two warriors pushed through the doorflap into the darkness of the lodge. One was her captor; the other she did not know. They found her too weak to stand or walk, so they dragged her out and carried her to a meadow lit by a small fire, purely for illumination on a warm night. Here the entire village had gathered in a loose circle; the drummers around two large drums, the chiefs and elders in bright ceremonial dress, the dancers in breechclouts, women holding small children, and restless packs of older children.
They carried her to the center, near the fire, and she supposed they would throw her on the fire and she would die shrieking from pain beyond imagining. Instead, the dancers circled, approached, and counted coup, each warrior striking her hard, the blow stinging, with foot or fist or a coup stick. The blows rained down one after another, each convulsing her, shooting red pain through her. She had no refuge. If she covered her head, the next blow might crack her knee or land on her arm. She felt her body spasm, felt her flesh howl. And yet they had taken no blood and didn’t even consider this torture. This was a matter of war honors.
The drumming ceased, and for a few moments the blows stopped, although the pain didn’t. Then the drumming began anew, and this time the chiefs and elders counted coup, their blows as rough as those of the warriors. And when she could no longer endure these, the rest of the village began to count coup, the women first, yanking her hair, kicking her, pounding her arm. And after that the children, some of them more cruel than the rest, jabbing her with sharp sticks that did pierce her and bleed her. And then the very old, some of them gentle, ritually touching her and doing no harm.
She lay in a stupor, confused, her body a monstrous alien thing she didn’t know and couldn’t bear. Now they would toss her on the fire and listen to her death throes. But they didn’t, for some reason. Perhaps they thought she was too far gone to know her own end. The drumming ceased; quietness came, and she sensed they were leaving her there to her fate. To die or not, the Absaroka dog among them. She could barely breathe; her lungs were almost paralyzed by the pain in her ribs and breasts. She could not swallow at all.
Then she was alone, and the coolness of the night took some of her fever out of her and lessened the pain a little. She felt the hard earth under her, unyielding, relentless, destroying exactly as much life as it nurtured, her few moments of life momentarily defying the rock and clay and water.
They had not tortured her, but the result was worse. They had feasted upon her, each coup an act of war, each blow rising from their primeval lust to destroy enemies. It had been worse than torture. Now, after sustaining two or three hundred coups, more than she could count, she bore the venom of a whole village in her bosom. Each blow had taken something from her.
She drifted again, her mind awhirl as the night cooled and her body complained. She wished she could have a drink, but she could not manage to walk, or even crawl, to the stream. Was this war? Was this what Skye hated so much? She wished she had listened to him, instead of mocking him with a girl’s foolish fancies. Tears formed in her eyes, but her face was too swollen to release them, and they clung to her lids, blurring her vision of the night, even as this night had blurred her vision of the world.
She sensed someone stirring near her, wondered whether she would now die of a knife wound. But someone—a woman—lifted her head, let her drink from a gourd dipper, and again. Cool water, yes, and more. Some distilled herb gave it a bitter flavor. Her benefactor pulled an ancient buffalo robe around her, rolling her onto it so that she was encased in it. The hands were young and soft. Now tears came, sliding down her cheeks, welling hotly in eyes that could not see. This one bade her to sip again, and she did greedily, slowly swallowing one sip after another. Who was this one, this Siksika woman? What sweetness—or pity, or mercy—inspired her to comfort her enemy? The woman cradled Victoria’s head in her lap, crooning softly, wiping away Victoria’s tears and washing her face gently, speaking in her unknown tongue, words miraculously understood.
“I am Magpie,” said the woman. “Magpie, of the Kainah people, and I am here to comfort you. You are very brave and very beautiful, and you will grow strong again.”
Victoria wept softly. Magpie, Magpie, her spirit-helper, the One she had defied, ignored, pushed away.
“You love your people as I love mine,” the woman said, and Victoria couldn’t fathom how she understood, but she did. “Your husband will find you,” she said.
“He is gone,” Victoria mumbled.
The woman didn’t reply, but lifted the gourd dipper, and Victoria drank again. The herb was slowly and sweetly erasing her pain and making her sleepy.
The woman slid aside and arranged the robe. “When Sun comes, we will go from here. If you are well enough, you will go as a slave; if you cannot rise, you will die with one blow of the war ax, and your scalp will dangle from your captor’s lance.”
“Magpie,” Victoria said.
The woman stood, and Victoria saw her staring down. Then the woman slipped into the blackness and Victoria lay alone, and yet not entirely alone. The herbal tea gave her rest and respite from pain, and she dozed in a cocoon of warmth. Somewhere in this village was a woman whose love reached even to the enemies of her people. Victoria wondered whether, among the Kicked-in-the-Bellies, there was any woman with such love. She wished there were. Maybe, if she ever returned, she would be such a woman. She was no longer the person she had been just a few hours earlier, accepting everything her people had taught her, laughing at Skye, never questioning whether other ways of life might be better. Now she questioned. A Siksika woman named Magpie had opened the door to a new life.
When she awakened in the gray before dawn, she found herself on the bare earth again, the robe gone. Perhaps she had imagined the succor she had received. She
hurt. And yet she knew that she had been restored to life and that some merciful woman among the Siksika had given her precious gifts. She made herself sit up, knowing she would soon be put to a test that could lead to her doom if she failed. She stood, blessed Father Sun, walked shakily to the burbling creek, washed, avoided looking at her reflection in the water for fear of what she would see, and stood again. She scrubbed her body, dipped her long jet hair in the chill creek and felt the water play with it, washed away the filth upon her even as she washed away the darkness in her heart. Skye had talked about something like this once. He had called it baptism, a washing and a dedication. Those were his ways, not hers, but now she remembered.
She could walk, but only in a sea of shocking pain. Her groin hurt. The muscles in her limbs howled. Her head throbbed, her throat barely permitted passage of air and water and food. And yet she walked. She walked a step, two, five, fifty. She paused, addressing Sun and Morning Star and the morning breeze, lifting her aching arms to them, her back arched, her fingertips reaching toward the heavens.
They were watching, but she didn’t care. They were watching a new woman. She would give herself a new name, or maybe wait for one to come to her. If ever she saw the old seer, Red Turkey Head, she would tell him her story, leaving out nothing, and ask him for a name. Many of them had gathered beside the meadow, along the stream, and now they all watched her. She stood in prayer, the sweetest and most urgent prayer of all her twenty winters.
She saw the black-and-white bird, its iridescent feathers glowing in the dawn sun, and apologized to her spirit-helper, and thanked the wise bird. Then she walked slowly, but like the woman of a great chief, slowly toward the lodge of her captor. She could barely remember the way, but she would find him and present herself to him, a woman of the enemy made new.
thirty—two
Victoria found the lodge of her captor and entered. He was gone, probably collecting the horses that would transport his Blood family. The several women stared at her purpled and blackened flesh. One of them, a squinty, hard-faced woman, gestured for her to help. They were rolling up robes, stuffing things into the parfleches, dismantling her captor’s backrest
No one offered her food. She saw some pemmican, shredded meat, fat and berries stuffed into buffalo gut, and she reached for it only to have the meal dashed from her hand. The woman shouted something at her, gesturing imperiously. Victoria expected to be beaten, but she hadn’t the strength to work, especially without food. So she lay down in the place of least honor beside the oval door and waited for the blows to rain down.
She was not disappointed. The mistress of the lodge loomed over her with a whip and lashed it across Victoria’s shoulder. But two younger women intervened, and a heated debate ensued. Victoria did not understand a word but hoped it would last long enough so that the new pain would fade a little. She curled on the bare earth, awaiting her fate.
One of the younger women gave her some pemmican. Victoria nibbled slowly, having trouble swallowing. She wasn’t hungry after all. The other women ignored her, hauling parfleches out the door and then unpinning the lodgecover. It slid down the lodgepoles, filling interior shadow with sun. Victoria lay inertly, watching, grateful for the small mercy of lying there. Her captor returned, leading four horses, surveyed his women, studied her, and went off for more horses. It took many to move a lodge. The women talked with him about her but nothing came of it.
The women began bundling the lodgepoles and anchoring the bundles on either side of a swaybacked old horse. The household parfleches they hung on the packsaddles of the other horses. The heavy lodgecover they folded and laid on a travois. Around them, their neighbors were loading up in similar fashion, everyone working, even small children. The village was being swiftly dismantled, and very soon they would all be heading for the next place—wherever the seers, the village chief, the war chief, and the elders decided.
Her captor returned with four more ponies, better ones, all of them saddled. The women tied smaller burdens to these riding horses while her captor vanished one more time. The town crier drifted through the village, announcing something—probably the imminent departure of this Kainah village. Her captor returned, this time with his own mounts, five of them in all, some still painted with his war medicine.
Then the village began to form a column. The women of the lodge clambered into their saddles, hiking their skirts to ride. The youngest girl and the old man rode her captor’s war and buffalo ponies. There were two horses left over, and Victoria wondered whether one would carry her. The man who had captured her barked words at her, and she understood them all right. Walk or die. She was the enemy.
This day she would die. She could not walk for long, not in her condition. She gazed at the instrument of her death dangling from her captor’s waist. It was a war club, a shaped stone bound by rawhide into a forked haft. Sometime this day it would bash in her skull and they would leave her to the crows and coyotes.
Still, she would try. She would never surrender. She would walk until she dropped, and then get up and walk again. She would walk on her bare feet until they bled and every step tortured her, but she would walk. She would show these, her enemies, that she was worthy of their respect. She would show them what an Absaroka woman could be. So when the procession began, she forced one foot ahead of the other, step upon step, ignoring the pain that lanced through her with each movement. They watched her, curious, and that was good. She wanted them to watch.
They were heading east and south on a fine day in the month Skye called May, no doubt looking for buffalo and good prairie grasses to fatten their ponies, or maybe opportunities to torment their enemies. Victoria walked carefully, not wishing to wound her feet. Like all the People, she had walked barefoot much of her life and her soles had hardened. But now that her life hung by a thread, she took care where she stepped.
The pace was slow, accommodating the grandmothers and grandfathers, all the children, and the harried mothers who had to beat on slow horses, kick the dogs away, and see to it that nothing came undone or was lost. The pace blessed Victoria. She could endure that but no more. Her captor rode a spirited white horse and disappeared for long stretches, mostly to ride in the vanguard with other leading men of the village. When he did return, Victoria took the opportunity to scrutinize this man whose whim governed her life—and death. He spoke little to the women, eyed her noncommittally, and showed every sign of being a powerful warrior, or a subchief. He lived for war, and maybe for the hunt, and wore the honors of battle, two notched eagle feathers, inserted in a bun of hair. at the nape of his neck. Who was this hard man, and what did he think of her?
The village settled into its travel routine, and now women visited with one another, children knotted together and raced up and down the procession making mischief and alarming horses until someone rebuked them. A few little ones rode in reed baskets attached to travois or in their mothers’ arms. An old woman fell in beside Victoria and began talking in the Absaroka tongue, which astonished the captive.
“You are the one they talk about,” she said. “I can speak the Absaroka tongue. When I was young, ten winters, your people took me away from my lodge and I grew up in one of your villages. I missed my people. One day I was married to one of your warriors and bore him two sons and a daughter. Then he died, fighting the Lakota. I went home; no one stopped me. Now I am a Kainah again.”
Victoria knew that this simple story concealed much of a lifetime within it, but it was not the way of most people to dwell long upon such things. Maybe this was the one who came in the night with the herbal tea and the robe.
“Who are you?”
“I will not give my name to a dog. My name is for the People, not for you.”
“They talk about me?”
“They say that for an Absaroka dog, you are brave.”
“Who is my captor?”
“He is Grandfather of Wolves. That is his new name. Before, he was Cut Face. And before that, Little Fawn. Our chief, Cr
ow Dog, gave him the name, which is sacred to us. Grandfather of Wolves is a name that makes people quiet when they hear it.”
“Why was he given this name?”
“No Kainah is more like a wolf, and he is the grandfather of them all.”
“Will he kill me?”
“You are an Absaroka dog.”
“Did the Absaroka people treat you badly?”
“I was the enemy.”
“Do you think your people should make war on my people?”
“The Absaroka are dogs.”
“Did you feel that way when you lived with us?”
“Always.”
“Were my people so different?”
The woman reflected a moment before replying. “They are not the People. We are the People.”
“Then why do you talk to me?”
The woman laughed. “Just to find out.”
“Will they put me to death?”
“They should. I myself would cut slices of flesh from you or burn you with embers. It would be good. But Grandfather of Wolves has not said it is to be done. Maybe he will soon. It is said you will bring misfortune on the People, and maybe the chiefs will say it. Then you will die.”
Victoria felt a new wave of weariness crawl through her. Only the slow pace of this procession kept her from stumbling to the earth. But they had not paused all morning, and she knew she wouldn’t last no matter how strong her spirit was.
“I was married to a yellow eyes who hates war.”
“That is the way of them. We will drive them away. He is a coward, then.”
“No, he is the best warrior I have ever seen. He has the medicine of the bear.”
The old woman grew agitated. “Then he is the fiercest warrior of all and will hurt my people. I will not talk to an Absaroka dog anymore,” she said, and hurried away.
Dark Passage Page 19
