He remembered White Buffalo’s occasional mention of the Old Ones. There was little knowledge of these people. They had lived among the rocks and cliffs of the mountains, before the memory of tribes now in the region. Owl realized with a twinge of regret that he had been inattentive during some of the rambling lectures of the old medicine man.
He could remember only that the Old Ones had been gone for a very long time, long before the People came from the northern plains. And that migration, though recorded in the Story Skins, was before the time of his grandfather’s grandfather. The strange people had left a record of their passing only in the occasional picture scratched on the. surface of a rock. There were said to be many such pictures in the far recesses of the mountains, he now recalled. But why here? What was the purpose of this solitary marker, the great red stone bearing the pictures?
Crouched over his fire, deep in thought, Owl could feel the presence of the Old Ones who had made their home here. They had been people like himself, with dreams and hopes and problems of survival. Where had they come from, and why had they gone?
For some reason the first phrases of the People’s death song came to him, in a comforting, enduring way:
“The grass and the sky go on forever—”
20
Although Owl could hardly wait for daylight to begin further investigation of the rock pictures, it was probably fortunate that he was forced to take time to think. Through the long time of darkness, as he tended his fire, he continued to grow closer in spirit to the long vanished Old Ones. For the first time, he began to understand them as people. Not people like himself, perhaps, not of the People, his own tribe, but still as human beings.
If, for instance, they had wintered in this area, they would have had the same needs now pressing upon him. They would have been seeking food and shelter. They would need skins for garments and for warmth, and fuel for their fires.
The Old Ones undoubtedly had enemies, too. Everyone, he supposed, had enemies, except perhaps the Hairfaces. An odd thought, he mused. He had not considered that. Did the Hairfaces have enemies in their own country, who caused them fear? He must ask his father when he returned to the People.
But meanwhile, he was certain the Old Ones had had enemies. Some thought that was the reason for their disappearance. They had been killed or driven away. It made no difference now, he had decided as White Buffalo recounted the legends. In fact, he had been a trifle bored by the entire story.
Now the story had come to reality for him. He sat by a fire, perhaps in the exact spot used many generations ago by another young warrior. Possibly the other had been a young medicine man, also. It seemed likely that the rock pictures were made by a medicine man. Were they part of a ceremony, a seeking of guidance, a search for a vision?
Owl could not decide. He was certain only that someone of the Old Ones had paused and camped here, long enough to carve the pictures on the rock. It seemed logical that they had been seeking the same things he now required, food, shelter, protection. And probably, Owl finally realized, they had found these necessities. It was possible that their wintering-place might be quite near.
Their “wintering-place.” Aiee, he was still thinking in terms of the People. White Buffalo had told of the Old Ones, Owl dimly recalled, as living in permanent camps, perhaps much like the Growers. Now he was confused again, and had no clear idea what he was looking for.
At any rate, the Old Ones had to spend the winter somewhere just as he must. Owl resumed this previous train of thought. The place might easily be near.
By first light of dawn, he was painstakingly exploring the area. Owl later realized that he must have passed the opening a dozen times. He had noticed the cleft the day before, but had assumed it to be only a shallow pocket formed by the tumble of boulders. Two huge red stones leaned together like gigantic lodge poles. In the doorway thus formed had grown a thick tangle of juniper and other brush, almost choking the opening. The impassability had been further enhanced by generations of pack rats, who had carried massive quantities of debris into the crevice.
Now he suddenly noticed that he could see a shaft of daylight beyond the tangle. He approached for a closer look, pulling dead brush, leaves, and pack rat trash from the cleft. The opening, he now became aware, was nearly tall enough for him to step through upright. And, rather than a blind end pocket in the rock, it was indeed a doorway, opening into a meadow beyond.
Astonished, Owl stepped back and looked again. From a few paces, the doorway seemed only a trash-filled crevice among many other crevices in the mountain of tumbled stone. He started to squeeze through, then paused and decided to break camp. In short order, his possessions were packed and his fire extinguished. He took one last look around the area, and a last glance at the picture-stone, now recognized as a marker for the opening of the trail. Pushing his pack and weapons ahead of him, Owl wriggled past the obstructing brush and crawled into the open on the other side.
The valley dropped away before him, ringed by sheer cliffs and rugged slopes. The floor was a mixture of grassy meadows and clumps of woodland. In the distance he could see what appeared to be a small beaver pond. Good, he nodded to himself. That meant water.
The size of the entire valley was such that one might walk around it in a day, Owl thought. He picked up his belongings and started down the slope, following what must have once been a trail. Occasionally trees blocked his path, grown large, he realized, in the intervening years since the last human foot had stepped here.
There was plentiful deer sign, both in black scars on the white bark of young aspens, and in deer droppings of various ages among the rocks. The situation looked better and better. Now if he could only find a sheltered corner that Sun Boy could look into easily, he could prepare for the onslaught of Cold Maker.
Sun Boy was well past his highest point in the south before Owl made his great discovery. He had been walking along, carefully watching in all directions. As he sat to rest, he was idly looking at the scatter of broken rocks on the ground. Suddenly, he noticed a stone which appeared to be an arrow point. Owl stepped over and picked up the fragment, turning it over in his palm. To his amazement, on the other side was a geometric design in angles of black and gray. It was not an arrow point, but a shard of broken pottery! Clay pots were not used by the People, but Owl recognized the object by his experience as a captive. He looked around, and soon found another fragment, red this time, with a wavy line across the surface. What could be the meaning? His thoughts were interrupted by the call of a jay over his head, and he glanced upward. Then he saw the lodges. There were several of them, built into the face of the cliff. Quickly he plunged into the concealment of the thicket.
For the space of many breaths, Owl lay hidden, but there was no sign that he had been seen. Cautiously, he moved so that he could peer between the leaves and evaluate the village more extensively.
After some time, it became apparent that there was no sign of life. In fact, the mud and stone lodges were, Owl now realized, in a state of advanced disrepair. Roofs had fallen in, and in some cases, entire walls had crumbled. Finally, he saw a lodge in which a large pine tree had grown up directly through the dwelling, rising the height of several men above the nonexistent roof. It must have been many years in the growing.
Finally the significance sank into his consciousness. He was looking at the homes of the long-vanished Old Ones. Curiosity urged him from his thicket, and toward the cliff. He could see a narrow path snaking its way upward along the face, and sought its lower end.
After several false starts, he succeeded in locating the main path, and climbed rapidly upward. He was breathing heavily by the time he stepped onto a horizontal portion of the trail, which wandered past the openings of the various dwellings. Some were little more than small caves in the rock, their ceilings blackened by the smoke of ages. Others were far more complicated lodges made of stone and mud. Owl wandered along, marveling at the structures. Some were in very fair condition, especially those
protected by the overhang of the cliff face.
From the vantage point in front of the lodges, he could easily see the entire Valley of the Old Ones spread beneath him. No enemy could approach unseen. The place was completely defensible, even by only a few men. Best of all, the slanting rays of Sun Boy’s torch reached under the yellow overhang of the bluff, to warm the dwellings before night. Owl realized that he had found his wintering-place.
He could not bring himself to sleep in one of the more intact lodges. The feeling of entrapment was too threatening. Finally, with darkness descending, he made a temporary camp in a sheltered corner of the sun-warmed cliff face. He could choose a more permanent shelter tomorrow.
Meanwhile, his night fire made a cheerful spot of light where none had been through endless ages since the departure of the previous inhabitants.
As he chewed his evening meal, Owl ceremoniously dropped a fragment of his precious dried meat into the fire. There was no particular need to do so. It merely seemed prudent to attempt to express gratitude to the spirits of the Old Ones.
Having appeased the spirits, he fell quickly asleep, relaxed and confident.
21
It was still dark when Owl awoke. There was a chill in the air, and the wind had changed direction. Little back-eddies stirred the coals of his dying fire, sending sparks bouncing along the ground. There was an ominous feel of expectancy. The changing wind currents moaned through empty lodges like disembodied spirits of the Old Ones.
Owl shivered and pulled his robe closer, carefully feeding small sticks into his fire. The bright glow helped his spirits somewhat. By the time he felt warm and confident again, it was becoming light. Light, that is, in tones of dull muddy gray. The sky was overcast, and Owl realized he had found his shelter none too soon.
In fact, there was much to be done before the valley became choked with snow. By full daylight he was working frantically. He had not stopped to eat. Such activity could be undertaken at leisure. Just now, every precious moment must be used in preparation. All the signs pointed to the fact that Cold Maker had initiated his first probe from the north into this region.
Rapidly, Owl selected a shelter which would suffice for the winter. Though he tried hard, he could not convince himself to use one of the lodges of the Old Ones. Several were in good condition. All he would have to do was move in. He actually went so far as to step inside one of the structures and look around. He could see that it would be ideal for his needs. The fire pit was well placed, and he could readily tell that protection from the wind was good. His mind told him that this was the place, but the old feeling of enclosure crept in. His heart refused to accept the threat of entrapment. His roots were too deep in the prairie sod. Wide spaces and far horizons were more to his desire. A twinge of homesickness for the comfortable shelter of his father’s skin lodge tugged at him for a moment.
Amused at his own illogical fears, he still must find an acceptable shelter. He walked in both directions along the ledge for the distance of a bow shot, quickly examining any possibly suitable place. Finally he selected a site.
It was a small cave, near the head of the path from below. The depth was only a pace or two, merely a pocket in the soft stone. The low roof was blackened near the entrance by fires of winters gone by. A good fire would reflect heat into the hollow and provide comfort no matter how Cold Maker howled.
Owl tossed his possessions inside, and moved rapidly down the path to the trees below to gather firewood. It would take many trips up the cliff to supply enough wood for the winter. Each trip he carried as much as he was physically able, and reached the top puffing with exhaustion. At least, he told himself, this is more productive than the carrying of ore sacks.
The growing pile of firewood was stacked against the cliff face and immediately beside his cave entrance. The branches and brush would themselves help to form a windbreak for his shelter.
The ledge directly in front of his cave was smooth and level and several paces wide. As he made each trip up and down the cliff, Owl noticed that the ledge was worn by the footsteps of the previous inhabitants. He was walking in a path worn in solid stone. How many times, he wondered, must a moccasined foot rub against the stone to produce a groove this deep? Aiee, every stick of wood, every twig for the fires of the whole village, must have been carried up the steep path behind him.
And what about water? The Old Ones would have used, he assumed, the clay pots. He had seen these used in such fashion. His own tribe preferred to camp near water, and then use water skins in which to carry when needed. With the problem of water in mind, Owl took time to drink long and deeply at the stream. It might be quite uncomfortable to make the climb tomorrow if the threatening storm ensued. He also resolved never to perform the upward leg of the journey without all the wood he could carry.
A band of deer flashed through the aspens and bounded across the meadow, snorting and excited over the rapid change in the weather. Owl watched them for a moment, pleased. It was good to know that meat would be available. He wondered if he could contrive a bow and arrows. That would certainly make it easier. He would try, he decided. He would probably have much time on his hands in the cold moons to come.
The wind carried moisture now. Little spatters of mist struck against his face, and the surface of the rocks beside the trail became shiny and wet. He would have to watch his footing. There were several treacherous spots on the path. He paused long enough to gather an armful of dry grass and cedar bark to use for starting his fire. This material, along with some small dead twigs, he placed carefully in the shelter of his cave before making his next trip. He must have dry tinder for a fire.
When he felt he had accumulated enough fuel for the present, Owl’s attention turned from matters of necessity to those of comfort. He would prepare the best bed available. He had noticed a thick growth of juniper at the foot of the cliff, and made several trips carrying armfuls of the soft tip branches.
The path was becoming icy now, and when he almost slipped, Owl decided that now he must make do with what he had managed to acquire so far. He dumped the last armful of juniper tips into the cave, and stooped to enter. The branches he broke and trimmed into feathery fronds two or three hand spans in length. Painstakingly, he laid the. branches for his bed, overlapping to cover the butt ends of each row with the soft springy tips of the next. Then he spread his elk skin over the pile and stretched luxuriously on it to rest for a moment.
The steadily dropping temperature, combined with his sudden cessation of activity, soon made him uncomfortable. He would start his fire. The rubbing sticks soon produced a glowing coal in powdery tinder, and Owl carefully blew it into flame. The cheery crackle warmed his spirits as the cave became more comfortable. He was glad to see that the wind currents allowed the smoke to draw well, moving up and out of the cave. He had worried about this. Most of his previous experience had been with movable smoke flaps on a skin lodge. How had the Old Ones been able to adjust their dwellings for changes in wind direction? He decided that in this case, the cave’s inhabitants may have simply selected the best spot for the fire by trial and error. At any rate, it worked well.
What sort of a person, Owl wondered, had lighted the last fire in this cave so many winters ago? Again he felt the closeness, the kinship, with the mysterious Old Ones, as he watched the flickering pictures in light and shadow on the cave walls. He watched for a long time, deep in thought, until the fire began to die.
He stepped outside to bring more firewood, and found that the weather had changed again. It was much colder, and a still, heavy feeling hung over the valley. The wind had died, and big fluffy flakes of snow were falling. Cold Maker had arrived.
22
The snow continued through the night and all of the next day. Owl remained in his shelter, and carefully fed his fire at a slow but steady rate. He ate frugally from his store of food, slept often, and occasionally looked out to observe any changes. There were none. The snow fell softly and relentlessly, drifting slightly a
long the ledge. Owl ate snow as an alternative to water, but by dark on the second night in his cave he began to worry a little.
Not about water. As long as there was snow he could use that. His worry was that he would be trapped on the ledge without access to game and with his supplies dwindling. Perhaps he should move to the valley floor and try to improvise some sort of shelter.
Of course not, he reassured himself. The Old Ones had established their village here because of its practicality. They would have been unable to maintain a village of this size if it were not possible to exist here over many winters. Still uneasy, he offered another fragment of meat to his fire to maintain the good will of the Old Ones.
Owl understood his dilemma quite well. He was unfamiliar with the weather that might be expected here in the mountains. His people were used to wintering along a sheltered river course in the rolling plains. He had no idea how cold the nights, or how deep the snow, in this valley. Perhaps the entire valley floor would be too deep in snow for him to move about and hunt. But no, the Old Ones had lived here. Well, no matter now. He was here, and could not travel with winter having arrived.
He was anxious for the snowfall to cease. When he awoke at the following dawn Owl realized that the sky was clear, and he rose quickly to explore the area. He wrapped himself in his rabbit cape and tied it at the waist. The spear and one throwing stick would be his weapons.
The trail leading down the cliff proved not too bad. In most areas the wind had prevented obstruction of the path. One or two drifts on the downwind side of large boulders were easily traversed. The snow was dry and powdery, and Owl found that he could shuffle through it without difficulty.
He kept a watchful eye for rabbits. Though he was unfamiliar with the habits of these mountain long-ears in winter, he knew that in his own prairie country, this would be an ideal morning to hunt.
The first rabbit eluded him entirely, bounding away at his feet with a startling leap. He must watch more closely.
Buffalo Medicine Page 10
