“Bring him over there,” she ordered. “Does someone have a blanket?”
Someone hurried to spread a bed on soft grass, away from the activity that was now beginning in the meadow. Quickly she evaluated the young hunter’s injuries. No sharp splinters of bone protruding through the skin … good! A clean break, a hand’s span above the elbow. Again, good.
She was more concerned about the bump above his right ear, half the size of a man’s fist. It might account for his confusion. But he must be watched carefully. Now, how to proceed?
A young woman hurried over and dropped to her knees beside the injured man.
“His wife?” Snakewater asked one of the other men.
“Yes—only a short time.”
“Can you get up?” the wife was asking.
“He should lie still,” Snakewater told her. “I can help him. I need some things from my packs.”
“A travois?” suggested one of the young men. “We can take him back to camp.”
“Of course!” said Snakewater. “It is good.”
She had been thinking in terms of bringing her medicine here, but this would be better.
“Bring the travois,” she went on. “I will stay here with him.”
She was already thinking of what treatments might help. For the pain, some of the smoke that had been so effective for Far Thunder. A potion of herbs… Maybe a poultice to the bump on the head…
Eagle lay back, eyes closed, pale in color.
“Is he all right, Grandmother?” asked the young wife anxiously.
Snakewater smiled and patted the woman’s shoulder.
“He is young and strong, no? That helps. You are a help, too, just by being here.”
Now, she thought to herself, the arm…
“I need a thong,” she told the young woman. “We will hang the wrist from around his neck, so….” She gestured.
The woman nodded, and cut strips from the fringes of her own dress, knotting them together to form a thong of appropriate length.
Eagle’s friends returned with a horse and poles to provide transport for the injured man. They lifted him carefully and placed him on the platform. He opened his eyes …. Pupils equal in size, Snakewater noted. All signs remained good. Now she must watch him carefully, begin her medicines and her conjures, prevent his becoming too active. The pretty young wife could be a great help.
“Come, walk with me,” she told the girl, as the horse and travois started the slow and anxious journey back toward the camp.
32
The injured Little Eagle was doing well. He had suffered considerably, Snakewater thought, but without complaint. The injured arm, dangling from its thong, must have been very uncomfortable from the bouncing of the travois. Eagle tried walking, and that eased the jolting pain of the arm but brought on a thumping headache.
Snakewater tried to explain as best she could with the language barrier. There were two problems: the injured head and the injured arm. What was good for one was bad for the other. Sitting or lying still was best for the head injury, as any physical activity caused the heart to pound and the head to throb. But lying on the travois and submitting to the grinding bounce of the swinging arm … Aiee!
She considered attempting to bind the arm with a splint but decided against it. The lower portion of the broken upper arm was too short. She must depend on the weight of the arm itself to align the bone. Eagle must sleep in a sitting position on his willow backrest.
By the end of that first day he was pale and drawn and Snakewater was quite concerned, especially for the head injury. He insisted on trying to get up, and would stagger and fall if someone did not assist him. His anxious wife was a great help. A pretty young thing, she seemed also to have a wisdom beyond her years.
“You must stay with him,” Snakewater told her. “He is quiet when you are near.”
“I should help with the butchering,” the girl protested.
“Anyone can do that,” Snakewater advised, “but only you can keep him quiet. Your place is here.”
The two of them watched over him through the afternoon. Snakewater administered her smoke treatment and applied a cooling compress to the lump above the ear. The bone seemed to be fairly well aligned, as nearly as she could tell with the swelling that was taking place. The evening held a promise of crisp cool autumn, and she thought that would be good.
When morning came, Eagle, though tired and weak, seemed no worse. The lump on his head had even diminished somewhat. Snakewater looked carefully at his eyes. Yes, there was no difference in the size of the pupils …. Good.
“Oh! He is awake!” said the wife, returning to their fire just as he woke. “Eagle… how do you feel, my love?”
He blinked at her in confusion. “What—who are you?” he mumbled sleepily.
Panic seemed to grip the young woman.
“Eagle… Please… I am Dove… your wife!”
“Oh.” He sighed weakly. “I have a wife?”
Snakewater was quite alarmed by this turn of events. One who has no memory may be severely damaged. His mind may return, it may not.
“Eagle… ” she began. Then she noticed a gleam of mischief in his eye. He was teasing. His eyes closed.
The girl had dissolved into tears, head bowed. Snakewater touched her shoulder to get her attention. He is joking, she said in hand signs.
“I will help you find another husband,” Snakewater offered aloud. “This one is no longer useful.”
Dove was startled but quickly understood.
“Too bad,” she said. “This one seemed to have some good things about him.”
Eagle’s eyes popped open wide. “Wait!” he said. “I… Ah, I remember now! You are my wife. What is your name? Limping Frog?”
“Stop it, stupid one!” she insisted. Her tears now were tears of joy.
He circled her with his good arm, and Snakewater smiled. He would be all right. But there was an empty spot in her own heart. This was the sort of relationship that she had never sought and now could never have.
While Little Eagle’s treatment was initiated, the tasks of skinning and butchering the kills were already taking place. As Snakewater was able to observe more of this process, she was astonished at its efficiency. Family units worked together and with neighbors in the heavy part of the work. Often the men assisted, perhaps bringing a horse to turn a carcass.
The skinning itself was a highly skilled procedure. The hide was split up the belly and the legs skinned out. Then the skin was separated from flesh and bone as far as possible across the back and spread, flesh side up, on the ground. Next, with a horse or several people pulling on the legs, the carcass was rolled onto the fresh skin, so that the other side, too, could be separated and spread. All of this took place in a remarkably short time.
Meanwhile a couple of women would have started the butchering. Intestines were removed and set aside while the meat was separated into manageable pieces and placed on the fresh skin to be transported to camp for further processing.
There would be feasting tonight, to utilize the cuts not readily dried or smoked, such as hump ribs. Well browned hump ribs, tender and moist with the best fat of the animal, would be the reward for the day’s work.
In the ensuing days Snakewater watched as the tons of flesh became strips of dried and smoked provisions for winter. Since they would be here for at least a few days, most families erected their lodges for shelter and comfort.
The dried meat, now called “jerky” by white men on the frontier, could be stored for some time with no further preparation—chewed as they traveled, or used in cooking stews with vegetables or to flavor soups.
Another common use was in the preparation of pemmican. The jerky was pounded fine and mixed with melted suet and whatever berries and nuts might be available. This mixture was stored in casings made of the intestines of the buffalo. These had been emptied, stripped of their lining, and washed. Pemmican, a major winter staple, was much like the sausages of the white
man in appearance and use when so stored. It could also be handled as a soft meal.
Virtually every part of the buffalo was used, Snakewater noted. Horns and bone became utensils, tools, and ornaments. The skins would be converted to lodge covers, parfleche packs and containers, and the better-furred skins to robes. She helped as she could, learning as she did so. Still, it was plain that the family of Far Thunder considered that her talents lay in other directions. She was the Grandmother, teller of stories and healer, maker of potions and conjures.
In a few days there was nothing left in the meadow but bones. Tradition and a covenant since Creation awarded to Coyote all that remained from the butchering of a kill. This, Coyote sometimes shared with Buzzard, who could see a kill from many miles, and bring his friends and family. All ate well at this kill, and the bones were polished clean and well gnawed. Each night the chortling song of the coyotes lulled the camp to sleep, and once Snakewater thought she heard the distant cry of the big gray wolf who follows the herds.
This was a world entirely foreign to her. She had lived all her life in a town, following the customs of the Real People, and even some ways of the whites. She suspected that, if the truth were known, the ways of these people of the prairie, though vastly different, were probably as complicated as her own.
She walked outside the camp to look at the night sky and listen to the songs of the night creatures. She had found a need to be alone for a little while from time to time. A lifetime of habit cannot be completely ignored.
“Yes, Lumpy,” she spoke softly to the night, “it is different. But… I like it.”
Nights were cooler now. As soon as the sun died, one quickly sought a robe or a blanket or a fireside. The butchering and preparation of winter supplies had gone well, and Far Thunder’s band parted from the Arapahoes to continue into winter quarters. With the successful hunt to cement their friendship, the two groups hoped to meet again.
They traveled to the south for a few more days and camped in a place known to the prairie people. They often wintered here, Thunder said. It was customary, however, not to do so more often than every three or four years. This, to allow willow and cottonwood, on which the horses could browse, to regrow.
The families scattered among the thickets of scrub oak to select their camping sites. This would be home for several moons. These oaks were unlike any that Snakewater had ever seen. The tallest of the trees were little more than twice the height of a man. They grew in dense clumps and patches, with the lower branches reaching clear to the ground. It was easy to see that this could be an effective windbreak. She had also been told that, like some other oaks, these would keep their leaves for most of the winter. She still rather dreaded the prospect of winter in a tent, but these people had lived in this manner for many lifetimes.
It was during this setting up of the new camp that she began to really understand the use of the tepee. She watched the women carefully align the doorway to face the east.
“Must it always be so?” she asked Swan. “A thing of the spirit?”
“Oh, yes,” assured the woman, “but only if you want the smoke to draw properly.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, from east comes the sun, to nourish the grass and the buffalo, who gives us life. We recognize this with the door opening to the rising sun.”
“But you spoke of smoke ….”
“Yes, that too. You have seen us adjust the smoke flaps with the poles, no?”
“Yes… ”
“Now … the flaps must be cornering downwind. The opening not quite opposite the wind, but quartering. That pulls the air in the doorway and the smoke out the top.”
“But why east?” asked Snakewater.
“Oh! You have noticed that the wind here is mostly from the south?”
“Well, yes… It is blowing on most days ….”
“Sometimes too much,” agreed Swan. “This is South Wind country. There are growers north of here who call themselves ‘South Wind People.’”
“Does it blow from the south all winter?”
“No, no… Not usually. In winter, from the north. But the smoke flaps can still be quartered downwind if they face eastward.”
Swan reached for the smoke-flap pole and demonstrated.
“But in a storm—” Snakewater began.
“Ah, yes!” anticipated Swan. “Summer storms, usually from southwest. Winter storms, from northwest, no?”
“So, any west wind is easy….”
“Right. I am made to think that the spirits explained all this to our ancestors.”
“Or the smoky lodge explained it,” laughed Snakewater. “But what if the wind is from the east?”
“It seldom is,” Swan pointed out. “And then only for a short while. East winds bring rain sometimes. We overlap the flaps, crossed over the smoke hole, and have a very small fire for a while.”
There were yet more things to be learned about the tepee. A day or so after they arrived and set up the lodges, Snakewater found the other women unrolling a bundle that proved to be an inner lining for the lodge. It was a curtain of skins, tied to each pole around the circumference at about waist height. This became a vertical wall, separating the interior of the lodge from the outer cover. She did not recall that she had seen this used before ….
But of course! When she had joined the lodge of Far Thunder, the weather had been hot. Lodge covers were rolled up much of the time to let the breeze flow through the cool shade.
Now they were preparing for winter. She watched the women store the odds and ends of personal possessions in the space provided behind this lining. Food supplies too … Cool, shielded from the fire, keeping qualities would be better.
Swan saw her inquisitive looks and explained further.
“Food keeps longer in winter, away from heat. The lodge is cold outside, warm inside. Later we can stuff dry grass in the space we’re not using behind the lining. Keep the lodge warmer.”
“It gets very cold here?” asked Snakewater.
“Sometimes!” promised Swan, and the other women chuckled.
33
Autumn had been a wonderful season, as they moved into winter camp. Snakewater had always loved the warm sunny days and crisp nights of early autumn, back in the mountains of the Real People. If anything it was even more spectacular here, where the woodlands met the prairie. There were trees and shrubs that she had never seen before, blazing almost overnight into glorious color. Her biggest surprise, however, was that the tall prairie grasses themselves became part of the color change. Their hues were somewhat more muted and soft than those of the trees and shrubs, providing a gentle contrast. And she had never realized how many different varieties of grasses contributed to the tallgrass landscape. Each has its place, Swan explained. Some sprout first in the spring, sheltering the more tender shoots of those coming next. Some grow low and thick, with fine leaves that carry much nutrition into the winter for the horses and the buffalo. The standing grasses also catch the snow, to provide moisture and nutrition for next season’s growth.
She had been astounded at the height of the grasses. Some grew far taller than a man and, in a secluded area that had not been grazed, taller than a man seated on his horse. The most spectacular of these Swan called “turkeyfoot,” from its three-awned seed-head. Another of the tall species was topped with a feathery plume of bright straw-yellow. This grew, in some places, nearly as tall as the turkeyfoot.
But the changing colors …. Back home grass was simply … well, grass. It died with the first killing frost, for the most part, becoming an uninteresting gray-yellow to tan until spring’s new growth appeared, in the time of Greening. Here the big turkeyfoot grass ripened from bright green to a deep reddish hue almost overnight, well before the first frosts. By contrast the tall plume-grass became a golden yellow to match its own seed-head. A smaller, finer grass that grew no more than waist high became a soft pink, with feathery white seed-heads at intervals along the sides of pinkish ste
ms.
Some of the shrubs to be found among the prairie gullies and the oak thickets of their wintering place were familiar to her. Others were new: Several varieties of sumac, some a brilliant scarlet. Another, apparently a dogwood by its leaf, was taller than her head in some places. Still another, called wahoo by Swan, bore scant purple-orange berries. Its leaves turned a broad range of colors, all on the same plant—yellows, pinks and purples.
Some of these plants, she thought, must be useful for teas and potions, but she had no way of knowing. She asked the women, who were some help, but not much.
“Yes, some are used for medicine. There is a flower whose root helps a cough ….”
“Who could tell me of these things?”
This met with shrugs and blank looks.
“What do you need to know?”
“Well… all of it! No—I understand. When the problem comes, you will show me the answer, no?”
“Yes, something like that,” smiled Swan. “But, Snakewater, you are a woman with strong medicine. You do not know these things?”
“In my own country, yes. But here there are new plants. These I cannot know.”
“Ah, yes! I see. But to know ours as you do those of your own country would also take a lifetime, no?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“When we go to the Sun Dance next season, there may be a holy man who would talk with you.”
Snakewater had not thought as far ahead as next season.
“When does this take place, this Sun Dance?”
“The Moon of Roses—ah, that is not how you call it? After the greening and growing moons, when the roses bloom on the prairie!”
As occasionally happened, they struck the language barrier with the word roses. This led to various attempts at description in hand signs. A flower … Thorny … This tall, maybe … Sweet smell …
Snakewater took a different approach. “Do you know how this moon is called by white men?”
“Oh!” Swan laughed heartily. “‘June,’ I am made to think.”
Raven Mocker Page 19
