by Judd Cole
And Touch the Sky knew that some day, when Arrow Keeper crossed over to the Land of Ghosts, the task of protecting the sacred arrows would pass on to him.
“Little brother, this man Munro seemed straight-arrow. He seemed to speak one way to Gray Thunder. Do you trust this white man named Knobby?”
Without hesitating, Touch the Sky nodded. “With my life. He has many winters behind him, Father, but his brain is strong and clear like yours. He is brave and true. Though he has fought and killed red men in his youth, he respects them. And he once saved my life when a Bluecoat officer meant to draw his weapon and shoot me.”
Arrow Keeper nodded, his red-rimmed eyes pouchy with weariness. “Go now and prepare for the Sun Dance. Quickly. I will speak with Gray Thunder. But I fear the tribe is in grave danger. Last night, in a medicine dream, I saw blood on the Sacred Arrows!”
~*~
This season, as it was every ten years, the annual Sun Dance was combined with the chief-renewal dance, making it an especially important and grand occasion.
Arrow Keeper had carefully explained to Touch the Sky that the Sun Dance was not only to welcome the coming of the warm moons—it was also the Cheyenne tribute to their ponies, the most important element of their survival as Plains warriors. Today a newborn pony, the “gift horse,” would be dedicated to Maiyun, the Good Supernatural.
Touch the Sky had been with the tribe long enough to attend two Sun Dances. But now Arrow Keeper was training him in the shaman arts, and this was his first occasion as a Sun Dance Priest. His nervousness was so great that, for the time being, the new danger Knobby spoke of was pushed to the back of his thoughts.
The drummers had begun late that morning, beating out a steady rhythm on hollow logs with their stone war clubs. Touch the Sky had donned his war bonnet, his new mountain-lion skin, and his best quilled and beaded moccasins. He had painted his face as if for battle: his forehead yellow, his nose red, his chin black. He had tied bright pieces of red cloth into his long, loose black locks.
Touch the Sky had carefully rehearsed his part with Arrow Keeper. Nonetheless, beads of nervous sweat felt like lice crawling through his scalp as all eyes turned upon him and old Arrow Keeper when they marched into the center of the camp clearing.
“Bring out the gift horse!” Arrow Keeper shouted in his gravelly but powerful voice, officially opening the ceremony.
This honor fell to Honey Eater as the daughter of their departed chief, Yellow Bear. Dressed in her finest doeskin dress, one adorned with shells and stones and gold coins for buttons, she led the bandy-legged roan colt into the center of the clearing by its buffalo-hair bridle.
Despite his nervousness, Touch the Sky was struck by Honey Eater’s frail beauty—her magnificent black hair was braided in fresh white columbine. The high, prominent cheekbones were so perfect they might have been sculpted by the finest artist on the Plains. The long, thick eyelashes curved sweetly against them when she closed her eyes.
Arrow Keeper staked the gift horse in the exact center of the camp circle. Then Touch the Sky measured off ten paces from the pony—one pace for each of the ten main Cheyenne bands. Then he knelt and made a fire. When the flames leaped high like dancing spear tips, he lay four pieces of calico radiating out from the fire in the four cardinal directions of the wind.
At a word from Arrow Keeper, Honey Eater began the actual dance by singing a holy song. Her sweet, clear voice rang out with the purity of fine crystal. By the time she finished, a captivated hush had fallen over the entire camp. The air seemed to fairly spark with expectation.
Now, by custom, it was Arrow Keeper’s task to call forth a lone brave to dance first by himself—one who had proven his bravery many times.
“Black Elk!” he shouted. “Begin the dance!”
The young war chief, fiercely magnificent in his full battle rig, stepped forth. First he and Arrow
Keeper smoked the holy medicine pipe, lit only for this occasion. The drummers picked up their tempo and chanted “Hi-ya, hi-ya!”—the Cheyenne war cry—over and over in a singsong cadence. Black Elk danced in an ever-tightening circle around the gift horse, kicking his feet high and chanting with the drummers.
Black Elk finished his solo dance. Then, as the Dance Law required, he made a public recitation of all his coups in battle. When the war leader had finished describing his heroism, he turned toward their new peace chief and solemnly proclaimed the ritual words:
“Gray Thunder! As I have done it, so must you protect the people!”
Now, for the first time, the entire tribe raised a shrill cry of praise and began to dance together as one.
Touch the Sky heaved a great sigh of relief. His official duties as a Dance Priest were over. Now he was free to dance and rejoice with the others. The powerful and solemn ceremony had filled him with awe and drawn him close to the rest. He experienced a rare feeling of harmony, of oneness with the tribe. And when he smiled and nodded to his fellow Cheyenne, they smiled and nodded back.
Today, at least, he belonged!
But his new sensation of joy was fleeting.
During the course of the dance, purely by chance, he and Honey Eater were jostled close together by other dancers. This was the first time in a long while that they had found themselves so physically close to one another.
He stopped dancing, staring into the bottomless dark purity of her huge, wing-shaped eyes. She too stopped dancing, matching his rapt gaze.
For a moment there was nothing else: no rhythmic drumming, no sing-song cadence of the dancers, only the two of them, locked in their forbidden love. Inside Touch the Sky, it was as if a dam had burst, and all the old feelings of love and desire burst forth, overwhelming him.
An iron grip like eagle talons fell on his shoulder, jolting him back to harsh reality.
He turned his head to confront the enraged, glowering face of Black Elk, who had witnessed their intimate moment of communion.
Quickly, Honey Eater spun away, resuming her high-kicking dance steps. But it was too late to palliate her husband’s jealous rage.
“I have words for you, buck—now! Meet your war chief down by the river!”
Chapter Four
The dancers paid scant attention when the two young Cheyenne braves made their way through the crowded clearing. Black Elk remained several paces ahead of Touch the Sky as they reached the line of cottonwoods separating the clearing from the placid river.
Black Elk took care to avoid the anchored keelboat, aiming toward a thicket just beyond a sharp dogleg bend in the river. Only when the two Cheyenne were alone, safe from all prying eyes and ears, did the war leader face his subordinate and speak.
“Would you steal my ponies?” he demanded.
Confusion clouded Touch the Sky’s dark eyes. “What does Black Elk mean by this odd question?”
“He means to be answered, Cheyenne! Would you steal my ponies?”
“You know I would not.”
“Good. And would you steal my blankets, my buffalo robes?”
“Better to ask if a wolf would sleep with a rabbit! I cannot place these words in my sash.”
Black Elk’s eyes snapped sparks. His leathery hunk of sewn-on ear made him seem especially fierce. “Soon enough I will speak words you may carry off with you. But now, answer me. Would you steal my blankets and robes?”
“Not even if I were freezing!”
“And my meat racks, would you steal from them if you were starving?”
“I would not.”
Black Elk nodded. “I believe you speak the straight word. I believe you would never steal these things. Yet you would steal my squaw from me, and do it in front of my face!”
“This is strong-mushroom talk. I would steal nothing that belongs to you—or any other member of my tribe.”
“You lie like a hairy-faced Bluecoat, Touch the Sky! Just now, I saw how your eyes coveted Honey Eater. Why, the Bowstring Soldiers who enforce the Dance Law might have punished you had they seen you sto
p dancing without leaving the clearing first. You know this is not permitted, yet you were so full of thoughts for Honey Eater, your brain became tangled!”
“She stopped dancing too!”
As soon as he spoke the defiant words, Touch the Sky regretted them. Hot blood flowed into Black Elk’s face, flushing his clay-colored skin even darker.
“Yes, she stopped too. Arrow Keeper is right to see the shaman’s power in you. Long have you held her in your spell and charmed her as a snake might charm a bird.”
“No! I—”
“Your war chief is still speaking, be silent! I do not completely blame Honey Eater. She is a woman, and women are weak in matters of the heart. This is why our unmarried maidens wear knotted ropes below their waist to protect them from the rut. It is the man’s job to be strong, to do the right and honorable thing according to our Cheyenne way.
“You are the culprit, Touch the Sky! It is you who plays the fox, you who beguiles her. The cow only receives—it is the bull who mounts and penetrates.”
Now anger began to kindle in Touch the Sky’s keen eyes. “This talk of rutting and bulls mounting dishonors both myself and your good, chaste wife. Neither I nor Honey Eater have given you cause to speak so recklessly.”
“Would you swear this thing?”
“Gladly, if only for Honey Eater’s sake.”
“Wait here,” said Black Elk.
In a moment he was gone, disappearing rapidly beyond the thicket. Before long he returned. Now he carried a smoothly finished flap of doeskin. Four arrows had been drawn on it with claybank paint, two rising vertically and two more crossing them horizontally.
“You know what these represent?” said Black Elk.
Touch the Sky nodded.
“These are the Sacred Arrows. Swearing on this painting is no different than swearing on the Arrows themselves. I will say this much for you, tall warrior. On matters not concerning Honey Eater, you have always spoken one way, the straight way. I do not believe you would speak in a wolf bark while your hand is on these.”
“You are right, I would not.”
“Then touch them now and swear this, that you have never held Honey Eater in your blanket for love talk since she became my bride.”
Without hesitating even the space of an eye blink, Touch the Sky did so.
For a moment, some of the clouds seemed to clear from Black Elk’s brow. But when Touch the Sky started to remove his hand, Black Elk grabbed it and held it in place.
“We have not had done yet. Swear this thing too, that you will never hold her in your blanket so long as you live.”
These words caught Touch the Sky by surprise. Black Elk’s strong grip trapped his hand in place. The two warriors faced off for the space of several heartbeats, their eyes locked in mutual challenge.
How, Touch the Sky agonized, could he ever swear such a thing? Had he not placed a rock in front of his tipi, swearing to Honey Eater that his love would melt only when that rock too melted? More important—did she not steal away alone each day to check that rock, to make sure it had not melted? Though Cheyenne law and the weight of tribal opinion opposed their love, it was a true and eternal love. And true love kept itself alive by feeding on one thing only—hope. Hope that somehow, some way, against all odds, the lovers would someday be together.
Chief Yellow Bear’s prophetic words, spoken from the Land of Ghosts during Touch the Sky’s powerful vision at Medicine Lake, echoed again in his mind: I have seen you bounce your son on your knee, and I have seen you shed blood defending that son and his mother.
His mother... he had no proof she would be Honey Eater. But neither did he have proof she would not be.
With a sudden surge of strength that surprised Black Elk, Touch the Sky tore his hand away. Now the blood of anger filmed the younger warrior’s eyes. His mouth was a determined slit.
“Never! Black Elk asks too much. I have sworn that his bride has been faithful, that I have respected his marriage vows. I will swear to nothing else.”
Black Elk’s rage was instant. A huge vein in the side of his neck swelled with angry blood. In a moment his bone-handle knife was in his hand.
“You squaw-stealing dog! Now swear with your blade!”
Touch the Sky leaped back, at the same time drawing his lethally honed obsidian knife from its sheath.
“I would never stain the Sacred Arrows by being the first to draw Cheyenne blood,” he told Black Elk. “But I have seen how sick jealousy has ruined Black Elk’s manly goodness. There was a time when, though covered with hard bark, you were always fair and just.
“Then, when I journeyed to Medicine Lake, you gave in to your jealous, diseased fancies. You sent your cousin and Swift Canoe to murder me in cold blood! This was the act of a coward, not a warrior. Now I will defend myself, as any warrior must. Come at me, then, I am for you! This day one of us goes under!”
With a snarl like an infuriated wildcat, Black Elk leaped at him. Touch the Sky used his war chief’s own momentum against him, dropping quickly onto his back and lifting his feet to catch Black Elk’s stomach. He continued rolling back as he heaved mightily, sending the older brave crashing into the brush behind them.
In an instant Touch the Sky was back on his feet. He had time, before Black Elk recovered, to plunge his knife home. But the taboo against drawing Cheyenne blood was powerful. The putrid stink of the murderer would cling to him for life. Even if the Headmen ruled his action self-defense, never could his lips again touch the common pipe, his hands hold a utensil used by others. And never could he be a shaman—anyone killing a fellow Cheyenne, even by accident, was forbidden from taking part in the Renewal of the Medicine Arrows or any of the other ceremonies.
All of this whirled through his mind in a heartbeat. Again he moved back instead of closing for the kill. And now Black Elk was on his feet again, his face still distorted with murderous hate.
“Look at you!” said Touch the Sky. “When I joined the tribe, how often was I mocked for letting my feelings show in my face? How many times was I called Woman Face? And now it is my war chief who lets his feelings distort his countenance! Do I follow a double-tongued war leader?”
Touch the Sky did not speak in a taunt, but in a plea to Black Elk’s better self—the better self who had recently recounted his coups before the tribe. And his words were not without effect. Though he still clutched his weapon, chest heaving like an enraged bull’s, Black Elk pulled up short in his next lunge.
“We have enemies enough outside our tribe for a lifetime,” said Touch the Sky. “Do not sully the Arrows!”
Before either buck could speak another word, the unseen camp crier’s voice rang out above the rhythmic hubbub of the dancing.
“Black Elk! Touch the Sky! Report at once to the lodge of your chief!”
Chapter Five
For a moment Touch the Sky wondered if he and Black Elk had been reported by the Bowstring Soldiers who enforced the Dance Law. Then he realized the crier had no idea where they were.
His sudden curiosity was mirrored in Black Elk’s eyes.
“Our chief would not summon us during the dance,” said Black Elk sullenly, “unless it is an important matter touching on the tribe.” He sheathed his knife. “Our personal battle will be settled later.”
Neither brave, however, wished to be in the company of the other any more than necessary. Touch the Sky let Black Elk leave first. Then, when his war leader had been swallowed up in the knot of whirling dancers, he followed.
His curiosity only deepened when, upon arriving at Gray Thunder’s hide-covered lodge, he discovered Arrow Keeper waiting with the new chief.
“I looked for the two of you myself,” said the old shaman, dividing his piercing gaze between the two new arrivals. “But I could not find you among the dancers.”
His pointed tone held sharp reproof for both of them. Neither Cheyenne answered, their eyes flying from the elder’s.
Gray Thunder, only vaguely aware of the persona
l conflict between the two bucks, was clearly bothered by some more weighty matter.
“Black Elk,” he said, “we have new trouble. You are our battle chief and must be informed. However, after listening to Arrow Keeper’s report and advice, I have decided to keep this matter out of Council. I trust the Headmen. But nothing which passes at Council remains secret for long. And this matter must be tucked under your sash.”
Quickly, he summed up what Old Knobby had reported about Wes Munro and his partner Hays Jackson. When he described the murder of Chief Smoke Rising, Black Elk went livid with anger—the old Arapaho was a longtime ally of the Shaiyena. Alongside their Cheyenne and Sioux brothers, the Arapaho had courageously driven the murdering Kiowas and Comanche well south of their present homeland.
When Gray Thunder finally looked at Touch the Sky, a certain distance entered the chief’s eyes. His tone too was more remote.
“This white beard who told you about these things he saw, does he speak one way?”
“Always, Father. And he has respect for the red man.”
“Respect. This is what the other paleface said too. Now I am told he is a murdering liar.”
Gray Thunder fell silent, musing. He was young for a chief, his thick dark hair only now showing the first frosted streaks of age.
“I suspected him from his very first words,” said Black Elk hotly. “Words coated with honey! Let me take a few good warriors down to their boat now, and we will dangle their scalps from our lodge poles!”
“I was once like you,” said Gray Thunder. “Quicker to sharpen my battle-ax than to parley. But now I would rather look before I wade into deep waters.”
