by Vella Munn
Before light today, he’d made a sacrifice of an arrow to Sun by tying it to the branch of a bush and praying for courage. Then he’d joined the others in the sweat lodge, where Middle River, who’d just become a Sun priest, passed around his smoke pipe and prayed to the Above Ones and Earth Mother. Following that, the party of six had bathed in Beaver Creek, braided their hair and fastened their war bonnets in place, put on clean shirts, leggings, and new embroidered moccasins. Then, with bow-and-arrow cases slung over their shoulders and shields suspended from their elbows, they’d mounted their horses.
Knowing they had a great distance to cover before catching up to their enemy the thieving Snakes, they’d ridden hard all day. Conversations were easy and boastful because there was as of yet no need for caution, and a warrior who speaks boldly about his past accomplishments will continue to succeed, to go on living. Although Night Thunder was no stranger to the land they traveled, he’d let his thoughts tangle in the hills and valleys, then tried to lose those thoughts in the hazy horizon. He was untested as a warrior. How could he boast?
Kneeling in front of his horse now, he hobbled the animal’s front legs, leaving enough slack so it could feed but wouldn’t be able to run. Then he stood, his fingers sliding absently over Deep Scar’s shoulder until he found the hairless groove that had given the animal its name. For a moment, no more than two breaths surely, resentment flooded him, but because it did no good to question his father’s decisions, he turned his thoughts to prayer.
“Old Man, hear this warrior’s words,” he whispered into the night. “You may say I have no right to call myself a warrior because I am young and have yet to prove myself. But my heart beats strong within my chest; hear its song and believe. Strength flows through me and I know—know I am ready.”
Pausing, he pressed his hand over his left breast and the knot of scar tissue that had finally stopped throbbing. “My flesh has healed but the mark remains for you to see. That is why I do not cover myself tonight, so you will see the truth of me. I stood with the others throughout the Sun Dance, stood proud and strong and unafraid throughout the ordeal because I held thoughts of you close to me.”
A memory came to him like a charging buffalo; he couldn’t escape it or the admission that he had been afraid. As had been done since the beginning of time, O-Kan’, the Sun Dance ceremony, had taken place during the first full moon of summer. Weak from fasting and purification, he’d put on a bone bead necklace and the soft garment that hung from waist to ankles. Then, when his time came, he’d stood trembling but resolved before his father, Bunch of Lodges, as the older man ran a wooden skewer through his chest flesh and attached the skewer to the center lodge pole.
Pain had lashed at him, but he’d fought it by focusing on the sacred medicine bundle tied to the top of the pole, by going back in time to the four days and nights he’d spent in search of a vision, and because he would not fail before his father’s eyes. Teeth clenched over the eagle bone whistle he’d held in his mouth, he’d fought the skewer’s thongs like a speared fish until he’d broken free. His blood had stained his body and the ground around him, but unlike some of the other young men, he’d remained on his feet, hadn’t fainted. When his vision had cleared, he’d looked around until he found his father, but Bunch of Lodges had done nothing to acknowledge his journey to manhood.
Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled. Tilting his head to one side, Night Thunder waited for an answering cry but there was none, causing him to wonder if it was possible for a wolf to be lonely—as lonely as he felt tonight.
“Old Man, creator of all things, I thank you for your hand in bringing me here. When we reach the Snakes tomorrow, I will carry you on my shoulder, and you will give me an eagle’s sight, a wolf’s intelligence, the keen hearing of an owl, a bear’s invincibility.”
The autumn wind caught his words and threw them at him, forcing him to hear them again. He hadn’t meant to sound boastful; that would never be his way. But perhaps Old Man would listen only to the words and not the emotion behind them and punish him for his arrogance.
“Look down on me, Old Man,” he continued. “See me for who I am, a youth stepping into manhood. A youth who knows his place in this world that you have made and wants only to follow your guidance. To learn from your wisdom. To—to gain the courage needed for battle.”
Should he say more, perhaps try to bury his admission of fear? It seemed such a short prayer, nothing like the lengthy ceremony that had taken place before he and five others had ridden off after the Snakes, but he hadn’t eaten since last night and felt lightheaded. Maybe after he’d filled his belly, he would come back out here and be capable of exploring the emotion that had added weight to his heart and stripped strength from his legs.
Maybe.
• • •
“Ha! You think she would so much as look at you? If you do, you have never seen your reflection in the water. Only a woman whose eyes have been clouded by years and cares not whether she is warmed by buffalo hide or a fat, soft belly would welcome you into her bed.”
“What are you saying, Middle River? That White Calf has allowed your horses to mingle with her father’s herd? Tell us, how many have you taken to stand before her tepee? Surely hundreds, for White Calf is worth that many.”
Good-natured laughter followed Raven’s Cry’s question and stopped Night Thunder from reaching for the parfleche, which held the pemmican he’d brought to eat during the long, swift journey. Although they were so deep in Snake country that they couldn’t take a chance on building a campfire, the silvery moon was full, making it possible for Night Thunder to make out his brother’s solid form as Raven’s Cry stood facing Middle River. Naked except for a loincloth, Raven’s Cry made a lie out of what Middle River had said about his being fat because his brother—his half brother—was made up of hard muscle and strong bone, nothing else.
Middle River, who was leading the raiding party because being a Sun priest gave him the right and responsibility, folded his arms over his chest and stared up at Raven’s Cry, reminding Night Thunder of a dog protecting a bone he has just snatched from a cooking pot. Then, shrugging, the older warrior turned to face the others.
“Perhaps it will take all of us to steal enough horses to satisfy White Calf’s father,” Middle River said. “What say you? Do you think she will share herself with six men?”
“It is good that Sleeps Too Long is not with us,” Raven’s Cry retorted in his deep-throated way. The moon’s light seemed to have centered around him, painting him in stark detail like an eagle floating in a cloudless sky. “If he was, he would call us fools for even thinking such a thing.”
“True.” Middle River made a show of sighing and pressing his palm against his forehead. “Who but our chief is worthy of her?”
“Chief Sleeps Too Long already has a wife,” someone else pointed out. “If he is so determined to find another woman to bear living children and help prepare his feasts, let him choose a widow, not White Calf.”
“Our chief is no longer married,” Middle River pointed out. “Have you forgotten? And even if he was, who would bring him greater glory than White Calf? That is why I have not approached her father, but if White Calf is not taken with Sleeps Too Long’s angry ways, then I will step forward.”
Although the discussion about White Calf and her marriage prospects continued, Night Thunder didn’t try to keep up with it. The maiden was blessed in ways he barely understood, ways which left him in awe of her. Not only was her spirit so powerful that even distant tribes had heard of her, but no other girl had a straighter back, sleeker hair, longer arms and legs, stronger hands. It did him no good to dream of taking her into his tepee—even if he’d had one. When the time for her to marry came, her father would choose a powerful war chief, not him.
But if he proved himself during this raid . . .
Three days ago Middle River had announced his intention to set out after the Snakes who had stolen several Blackfeet horses from the elder
ly man who’d taken them to feed a short distance from the summer village at Prairie Dog. As word of the proposed revenge-making spread, the tribe’s women had set about preparing food for Middle River and his followers to take with them. If his mother had still been alive, Night Thunder told himself, she would have supplied him with more pemmican than he could comfortably carry, but she had died many years ago and he was beholden to his two aunts, who had given him several handfuls of the lightweight food made from buffalo jerky, berries, and fat.
This wasn’t his first journey into the land of their enemy; there was no reason for him to ask himself whether he was ready to sneak into a hostile camp and take back what had been snatched from them. Hadn’t he been allowed to accompany Middle River two moons ago and help cut the ropes holding several Kalispell horses? But then one of the Kalispells had shouted a warning and the horses had run off and the Blackfeet had had nothing to show for the five-day expedition.
It was going to be different this time—it was! And when it was over, he would be invited to join the men’s Pigeon society, leave behind the Little Birds with their foolish ways.
The sound of approaching footsteps pulled him out of the past and dreams of the future. Glancing up, he saw Raven’s Cry coming toward him. He sensed himself begin to draw away from the larger man’s looming presence but stopped himself in time.
“Why are you sitting here alone?” Raven’s Cry asked. “Tell me, Nis-Kun’, did you bring your prayers into camp with you?”
“Does it matter?”
Night Thunder sensed more than saw his brother’s frown. “You make me think of a coyote snapping at his wounded flank, Nis-Kun’,” Raven’s Cry said. “Be careful or your wound will fester.”
“If it does, it is my concern, not yours,” he retorted, determined not to acknowledge Raven’s Cry’s insistence on calling him “younger brother.”
“Do you not have better things to do than disturb me?”
“Disturb? We are blood; there should be no secrets between us.”
“No. There should not be.” But there are.
“All this talk about White Calf has made me weary,” Raven’s Cry said as he dropped to his knees near Night Thunder. Despite the hours of watchful travel, Raven’s Cry’s body had lost none of its alert carriage. “A wise man does not dream of being able to fly,” he continued. “Middle River may fool himself into believing he may be chosen to marry her, but I know better. So does everyone else.”
Not bothering to say anything, Night Thunder bit into the last piece of pemmican he would allow himself tonight. Having his brother so near made him feel like a rabbit or prairie dog, small. If only Mother Earth had seen fit to create him in Raven’s Cry’s image. But no. She had fashioned him like most Blackfeet, sturdy and long-legged but not from the rib of a grizzly like Raven’s Cry.
“What do you think?” Raven’s Cry asked. The moon remained on him, shadowing and yet warming his outline. “Does any man here have a chance of making White Calf his wife?”
You, maybe. Somebody. Instead of giving voice to his thought, Night Thunder shook his head. “Not unless we capture a hundred horses and count more coup than there are fingers on both hands. Then perhaps her father will set us one against the other and have her marry the survivor.”
“And if no one lives, perhaps Grass Eater will keep the horses for himself.”
“He would have to fight our father first,” Night Thunder pointed out unnecessarily. “Bunch of Lodges is not a man to surrender anything he believes is his. And he will claim any horses you and I seize.”
Raven’s Cry grunted in that grizzly way of his. “You say that because you and our father have never walked the same path.”
“Is it my doing?” Night Thunder demanded. “You think I could have done something to make him smile at me?”
“No. Nothing will change him. Nothing. He has only been harder since Red Mountain’s death.” After stretching out on the ground, Raven’s Cry propped himself up on one elbow. “I wish I had not agreed to come on this journey,” he said softly.
“What? Why not?”
Instead of immediately answering, Raven’s Cry stared at the space between them, reminding Night Thunder of the times—many times—when his brother became lost inside himself. When he was like that, Night Thunder didn’t know him and in ways he would never admit, feared him.
“It is my time to lead,” Raven’s Cry said after a lengthy silence.
“You have had a dream? Proof that the gods walk beside you and guide your feet and those who accompany you?”
“No.” Raven’s Cry spat the word. “No. Not yet!”
• • •
Night cradled the Blackfeet village at Prairie Dog, isolating one tepee from another so that a stranger might think there were only one or two lodges in the Siks-in’-o-kaks, or Black Elks clan, instead of more than twenty. The location had been chosen because of its proximity to a meandering creek that drew animals from miles around and made hunting easy. But although the clan had spent the summer there, winter brought fierce winds to Prairie Dog, chasing away all but a few buffalo. Before long, the clan would take down their tepees, load them onto horses and dogs, and head south.
Tonight, however, was for playing “hands.” Every brave who hadn’t gone with Middle River was involved in the game, and even those who weren’t playing joined in the ancient song that accompanied the wagering, teasing, and elaborate hiding of bones.
From where she stood outside the crowded tepee, White Calf listened to the men’s deep voices and the high-pitched laughter of children. She tried to concentrate on the song’s rhythm, to absorb the gradually increasing chant that would eventually become so loud that even a buffalo stampede might not be heard above it, but her thoughts wouldn’t leave her alone.
No, not just thoughts, she admitted to herself. She was once again restless and uneasy in ways she’d never be able to explain. There’d been no danger to her people since the Snakes had snuck in and made off with the horses. No one had reported that a coyote had barked at him, a sign that something bad was going to happen. There hadn’t been any geese around, wise birds who often foretold of inclement weather. Thunder, whose great power even the smallest child feared, had long been silent.
What then was making it impossible for her to relax tonight?
• • •
Why had he exposed himself to his brother that way, Raven’s Cry wondered as he struggled for the nothingness that would become sleep. The wind had quieted as they talked and prepared for tomorrow, but now it was awake again with hints of winter in its teeth. Maybe the approaching snowstorms were responsible for his mood tonight. The land around them was giving up the struggle that had begun in spring, seeming to die but merely going into hibernation. But he wasn’t grass or a mouse. Like eye-i-in-nawhw, buffalo, he had to face the killing season with his eyes and ears and muscle. Only, he wanted more.
Had prayed for more since leaving Prairie Dog with his father’s bag of sacred eagle bones and feathers tied around his neck.
Other men, even foolish ones like Middle River, were visited by the night thoughts that foretold the future. Surely it wasn’t so hard to do, especially not for a man who could outwrestle an arrogant Brave Dog or Bull. He had endured not just four days and nights of fasting but six, and after endless prayers had seen his spirit as a large black raven perched in a tree over him, screeching and calling until the noise had half deafened him.
He had been so proud when he returned to camp, almost as boastful as his father. Bunch of Lodges had embraced him when he’d told him about the raven, had even smiled, something that came rarely to the shaman with the grief-scarred calves.
Maybe, Raven’s Cry thought, if his father didn’t greet him every morning by asking about his dreams—if he’d had any, whether he remembered them clearly, whether they had meaning . . .
But Bunch of Lodges was a man with ways like stone. The shaman wanted only one thing of his second-born and first-living son, fo
r Raven’s Cry to become a mighty chief. Maybe that’s why he’d approached Night Thunder tonight, because by being with someone younger, he could become a child himself.
No! Not a child! He was a man, a warrior!
Far from his father’s haunting gaze and insistence that he carry the sacred war pouch he’d put together and prayed over.
His lips pressed tight against the groan no one would ever hear, Raven’s Cry turned onto his back, pulled his hide blanket over his shoulders, and looked up at the sky until he could make out the stars known as the Seven Persons or Great Bear. It was time to leave the day behind and cease his tangled thoughts of the man without whom he and Night Thunder wouldn’t exist.
In the age of Old Man, he knew, the Blood society camp had been led by the brave Heavy Collar, who carried the bones of his dead wife with him. One spring, it was said, Heavy Collar had killed a bear but the bear returned as a ghost and, startled, Heavy Collar had thrown the bones at it. This had angered the ghost bear, who chased Heavy Collar back to camp. Heavy Collar had hurried into the tepee where the others were but the ghost bear, the ghost bear . . .
The dream began as mist or perhaps the thick fog that sometimes rises from frozen earth in winter. Raven’s Cry stood at the edge of the mist trying to warm himself by rubbing his arms, but his moccasins were worn through and cold seeped into his feet until his naked body ached.
As he looked around for a blanket, the mist began to fade. Surprised, he stepped forward, suddenly finding himself caught in the grip of a powerful storm-wind. Although no longer cold on his flesh, the wind made his ears and eyes and teeth ache but he couldn’t fight it, could only go where it pushed him.
On and on he went, sometimes struggling to remain upright, sometimes grizzly-strong. His moccasins had repaired themselves and the robe he now wore over his shoulder was no longer brown but white.
