Raven Mocker

by Don Coldsmith

  When they came to a town, children often ran to meet the strangers out of curiosity, usually accompanied by a number of barking dogs announcing their arrival. The children were sometimes shy at first, peering from behind a tree or bush with wide, wondering eyes. Gradually they would become more courageous, venturing into the open and following the travelers toward the central part of the town. No matter what the tribe or nation, usually there was some sort of open area that served as a meeting place. Even white men had a tendency to plan their towns that way, Snakewater noticed. Maybe it was not a matter of planning, though. Towns, she thought, probably just have a tendency to happen, Little Horse’s settlement of West Landing being a prime example. That town was Cherokee, but they had passed the towns of several other tribes, and usually stopped to trade. Where there are people, there is the opportunity to trade, Fox reasoned, so why not try? He was cautious about people whose traditions he did not know, and about all white men.

  Some are good,” he admitted. “I don’t mind trading with them. But there are bad ears in every cornfield, you know. The same with people—red, black, or white. Sometimes a bad crop.”

  Even with this open-minded approach Snakewater noticed that Fox did not tarry in the white man’s towns any longer than necessary. In a town or camp of the Real People he was relaxed and in no hurry. He might even stay an extra day to relax, visit, smoke, and inquire about the road ahead. It was much the same with Choctaw or Muskogee, of which they encountered a few. Others, of unknown background, could often be evaluated in the course of a day of trading. They were usually predictable, which could seldom be said of whites. If the feeling of trust was not there, it was better to move on, no matter what the nationality of the town. This was new territory, with many unknowns, but they were making good contacts that might be profitable for years.

  It had become rapidly apparent that the gathering children in a new town were attracted to the new personality of Snakewater. They related to her quickly, and were soon talking with her in a mixture of tongues or in hand signs. She was becoming proficient with sign talk, and usually used signs in addition to the oral narration of her stories. It took very little effort to attract a crowd of listeners for a story fire, both children and adults. The children were always eager to spread the word.

  “You like stories?” Snakewater would ask the curious children. “Then come to our fire tonight. Hear some of my stories. Bring your friends, your mother and father!”

  Quite often the story fire would be at the town’s gathering place, with local storytellers participating as well.

  And the gathering of a crowd for any purpose always encouraged a good attendance for the next day’s trading.

  “It is good!” Fox told her, laughing. “I don’t know how we could have traded all these seasons without you. You draw a better crowd than Rabbit!”

  25

  They traveled westward, through the spring and early summer, stopping to trade as they went. They spent some time in the towns of the Real People, but also among strangers. Missouri, Osage, Wichita… people with vastly different customs from their own. They encountered a few white men, mostly French, living among these natives. Usually they had Indian wives and families, and had completely adopted the customs of those with whom they lived.

  Trading was good, and Fox kept pushing on westward. They were now depending almost completely on hand signs to communicate. They were learning some of the languages they encountered, but the process was slow and cumbersome compared to the ease of the hand talk that Snakewater used even for telling her stories, which still delighted young and old alike. Among the favorites of all the listeners they met were the tales of Rabbit, the mischievous trickster of the Real People. Rabbit always brought smiles to her listeners’ faces. He was agile, quick, and amusing, yet at the same time lazy, indolent, just a bit deceptive … like most of us, Snakewater reflected, chuckling to herself. We enjoy Rabbit because we see ourselves in his schemes and in his predicaments. Many of his problems are of his own doing, yet we admire his cleverness in devising his escapes.

  Maybe, she thought, the young enjoy Rabbit because of his silliness, and the old because of his wisdom.

  One time Rabbit and Possum decided that they needed wives. They went to a big stomp dance at the town house, where there were many girls. Rabbit danced with all the girls and was very popular, because his attract-medicine is very powerful. He could have his choice of any of the girls there.

  Possum, though, has very poor attract-medicine. His nose is too long and his legs too short. His tail is bare and scaly (how he lost his beautiful furry tail is another story). His teeth are ugly and they show when he smiles.

  No one would dance with him, and he was so embarrassed that he pretended to faint, and fell down on the floor. He still does this in emergencies, because he isn’t much of a fighter either.

  The country was changing now. It was midsummer. They were seeing long stretches of treeless grassland, interspersed with dense patches of scrubby oak thickets. Along the streams heavy timber still grew—oak, sycamore, and cottonwood—as well as several kinds of nuts—hickory, pecan, walnut, and a shrubby hazelnut that bore a heavy crop this year.

  Snakewater wondered about that. There was a saying that a heavy nut crop means a bad winter ahead. She had often wondered whether it merely means a good summer now. Maybe both. A good summer is often followed by a hard winter. The squirrels were beginning to be active—another sign—but were they gathering nuts simply because there were more nuts? This line of reasoning brought her back to her starting point. No matter. She would wait until the hickories and pecans ripened. She’d see if their crops were as heavy as those of the hazelnuts, and how the squirrels might respond.

  It was necessary, anyway, to prepare every year for the most severe winter that could be imagined. Truly bad winters were rare, but could happen any year. To guess wrongly on such a matter could be fatal.

  That was in the future, however. For now she enjoyed the experience of new country, and of an occasional hunt for squirrels with her blowgun. These were different squirrels from those at home around Old Town. There were some that were similar, gray in color and fleet of foot, but most in this area were larger, nearly twice as heavy, and red, like a fox. They were also fat from feasting on hazelnuts, and provided a welcome change in the diet of the three travelers.

  Snakewater was enjoying all this newness, but she was also experiencing a strange feeling. It was true especially when she would glimpse a large area of grassland ahead as they topped a hill.

  I have seen this before! she would think.

  It was not an uncomfortable feeling—rather the opposite. I am home. But how could that be true? She had never seen anything like this grassland. She tried to push such feelings aside but with little success.

  Then there came a day when Fox, a little way ahead of the others, topped a hill and motioned for the women to join him.

  Before them lay an endless rolling prairie, still dotted with scrub oak but more open as they looked westward. Scattered bands of buffalo and elk grazed the tall grasses. Here and there gray wolves circled patiently, waiting for a straggler, an individual too weak or sick to keep up with the moving herds.

  Straight in front of them, at a distance of less than half a day’s travel, was a village of conical skin tents. There were perhaps thirty of them, randomly scattered. To the south was a stream marked by willows and cottonwoods, darker green than the prairie grasses. In the bend of that stream and beyond, hundreds of horses grazed, loosely herded by young men on horseback.

  Snakewater gasped aloud.

  “What is it?” asked Rain Cloud, concerned. “Is something wrong?”

  “What? Oh …I …No, not wrong. Right, maybe,” Snakewater said softly, hardly above a whisper. “Cloud, this is my dream—the one that led me to join you and Fox. But …”

  Bewildered, she looked up into the bright blue of the summer sky. High overhead a pair of red-tailed hawks circles.

&nbs
p; I saw this, she thought with a thrill of excitement. I saw it, but from up there!

  And, as if in answer, one of the hawks screamed its shrill hunting call. Her heart beat faster, and she smiled.

  “Yes… thank you, my brother,” she whispered.

  A pair of well-armed young men rode out to greet them.

  Fox halted his little procession and they waited for the approach of the scouts.

  “These are called ‘wolves,’ ” said Fox quietly.

  “Wolves? But why?” asked Snakewater.

  “They circle the camp, or the traveling column as they move, as wolves circle a buffalo herd. For a different purpose, of course.” He smiled. “These ‘wolves’ are for protection, not to prey on stragglers. I think it is a joke, in their tongue.”

  “You speak their tongue?”

  “No, no. I do not know who these might be. But they will use hand signs.”

  As if to prove the point the young “wolves” drew rein a few paces from where Fox sat on his horse, his right hand lifted, palm forward. The empty hand, holding no weapon, served as both a greeting and a reassurance, I come in peace.

  The more forward of the young men, who would apparently do the communicating, sat unmoving for a few moments. This for the purpose of maintaining control of the situation. He could keep the newcomers slightly in doubt, a trifle off balance, guessing about their reception. This “wolf” had handled such a situation before.

  What do you want? he indicated with the sign for a question. It was quickly followed by another question. How are you called? (Or, Who are you?)

  We are traders, signed Fox. I am called “Fox,” but “Trader” comes easier. This, my wife —he indicated Cloud—the other, my mother.

  Snakewater was not sure that she welcomed such a designation, but understood its use. There was no purpose in trying to explain the relationship any further.

  You have trade goods? asked the young man, gesturing toward the pack animals. Then he seemed to notice the mule for the first time.

  “Aiee!” he said aloud. Then in hand signs: What is that?

  It was apparent that they had not seen a mule before. As if in answer Rabbit, impatient at the delay in stopping for the night, raised his head in a long, loud protesting bellow. The horses of the scouts jumped away in terror, that of the spokesman bucking for a few steps. He quickly regained control and glanced around angrily.

  He will do no harm, Fox signed quickly. It is his way of speaking.

  The other man still appeared suspicious but was calming somewhat. Now he showed interest in the fact that the mule was calmly grazing.

  It is much like a horse? he signed.

  Yes, replied Fox. I was about to tell you. My horse died, and we caught this large rabbit to carry packs ….

  Suspicion still stiffened the expression on the face of the scout. Then he suddenly seemed to realize that it was a joke. He smiled.

  A very loud rabbit! he signed, a sarcastic look on his face. Come on …I will take you to our chief.

  “How do they have a meeting with no town house?” asked Snakewater.

  “Outside, when the weather is good,” Fox explained. “But there is room for many in one of the big lodges. The leaders meet in the house of the chieftain. We will go there now.”

  As it happened, they had no chance to enter the lodge of the chief. As they entered the camp, Rabbit once more announced his presence, scattering children and dogs like quail. People popped out of lodges, some with weapons ready. Their escort called something to the crowd, and the expressions of fear or concern began to change. For a few moments there was puzzlement, gradually changing to humor as the people began to realize that there was no danger. The young scout called out again, and there was general laughter.

  I told them, he signed, that the trader has a large singing rabbit to attract a crowd.

  “I am made to think,” said Fox to the two women, “that trading here should be good.”

  They were escorted to the lodge of the band’s chieftain, who was a handsome man of middle age.

  “Ah-koh!” said the man aloud.

  “Ah-koh,” answered Fox. Then, in hand signs, We do not speak your tongue, Uncle, but we come to trade. I am called Fox, or Trader.

  So I have heard, signed the chief, with a sweeping gesture at the crowd that now followed the trader’s party.

  I have some gifts, said Fox in hand signs. He reached into his small pack and took out a knife and a couple of small mirrors. How many wives have you? He gestured with the mirrors.

  Only two.

  An attractive young woman looked out the door of the lodge and ducked back inside.

  My daughter, explained the chief.

  She deserves a mirror, too, Fox stated, bringing out another.

  It is good, signed the chief, obviously pleased. Camp with us, trader! I am called Far Thunder.

  “I am made to think,” said Fox to the women, “that we will like these people.”

  26

  These people, the travelers learned, called themselves the People, as did most others, in their own tongues. Just as the Cherokees consider themselves the Real People, so do most groups consider themselves the People. It was no different here.

  They learned also that this was the Southern band of a far-flung nation. Their neighbors sometimes called them the “Elk-dog People,” and the hand sign for this nation was that of a horse. They had been among the first in the Southern Plains to acquire the horse, many generations ago, it was said.

  There were several other bands, some as far west as the mountains, and others to the north and east, as far as “twenty sleeps” away. All of these bands met annually for the Sun Dance, to celebrate the return of the sun, the grass, and the buffalo. These were hunters, nomads who could move when and where they decided with their skin tents.

  It was hard for Snakewater to imagine a people who grew no crops, since the Real People had been farmers almost since creation.

  Fox had been in contact with such people before and helped her to understand.

  “But … where do they buy corn, pumpkins, beans?” Snakewater asked in confusion.

  “They trade,” explained Fox. “They use all parts of the buffalo. Skins for their lodges and for clothing, or tanned with the fur on for robes. Meat, dried or made into pemmican. Even the bones and horns are used, for tools and weapons. What they don’t need for themselves, they trade to the growers in exchange for corn and beans.”

  “Growers?”

  “Yes—Kaw, Wichita, Omaha. Those who farm.”

  “But they hunt too.”

  “Of course. Like the Cherokee. But for these the hunt is the main—no, the only thing. Well, they trap some furs in the winter. But you can see how important the buffalo become to people such as these.”

  Snakewater could not have explained it. It was completely illogical, but since they first came over the rise and saw the endless grassland stretched before them, she had felt at home. She had felt such contentment only a few times before. No, only once, she thought, when she had seen this strange country of far horizons as part of her night vision. There had been an excitement, a thrill, but at the same time a calm reassurance. Somehow she knew that for these people, it was the same. They were one with this land, a part of it. She wished to learn more about them.

  That opportunity arose quickly as evening came and people drifted together for a story fire. It was not a planned or announced event, just something that it was assumed would happen. Snakewater had become familiar with this process as they traveled, and as her role of storyteller grew.

  One question never failed to arise when they camped with strangers: How did your people come into the world? Each would tell the story as handed down among his or her own people. Sometimes there were striking similarities, sometimes an even more astonishing variety. Most of the people she had encountered since crossing the Big River had originated from inside the earth, she noticed. Usually through a hole, sometimes in a sacred place, but,
in all cases, through an entrance into the outer world that was no longer open. Some specific event had closed the hole long ago. Sometimes they had come up through the waters of a lake or pond, the exact location now lost.

  She always started with her own, the story of the Real People. By contrast with the origin stories of others, theirs related how the Real People started at the top of the inverted bowl of the Sky Dome, looking down at endless waters below. It was crowded on the top of the dome, with all the animals and plants and the Real People. They wondered what was below the water. Beaver volunteered to go and see, but he failed. Then Loon, the diving water bird, and he, too, was unsuccessful. Finally the little Water Beetle, whom the Cherokees call “beaver’s grandchild,” dived very deep and brought up a little dab of mud, which he spread on the water. Then another, and another, until an island grew and became Earth.

  The One Above, Maker of all things, saw that this was good and helped the people by fastening a cord to each corner of the Earth, suspending it from the sky dome so that it would not sink back into the water. But it was still wet and boggy, so the people asked Buzzard to fly over it and fan it dry with his great wings. When he became tired, Buzzard’s wingtips sometimes struck the drying mud, and this is why we have mountains and valleys. Is it not so?

  Snakewater finished her signing, among exclamations of astonishment, and an old man, obviously the storyteller of Far Thunder’s band, cleared his throat. Every eye turned toward him, indicating that he was greatly respected among his people. He spoke both aloud in his own tongue, and in hand signs for the travelers.