The last of the ducks and geese are winging southward in their migration, also somewhat erratic in their behavior …. Hurry, hurry, winter comes.
Among birds madness is not restricted to the species that migrate. Maybe the bareness of the trees in heavy timber is alarming by changed appearance. For whatever reason, quail, grouse, and smaller birds fly aimlessly, often colliding with branches and other obstacles in their flight.
In the Moon of Madness even Man is affected. Approaching the Moon of Long Nights, when the sun seems about to go out, Man, too, feels a desolation, a depression that seems hopeless. Even modern man is stricken with madness, and mental illness peaks at this time.
“Sun Boy’s torch grows dim,” observed Swan, as they stuffed dried grasses into the space behind the lodge lining.
It was a sunny day, but nights were crisp. Going to water, in the tradition of the Real People, was still practiced by Snakewater, but at this time of year it became a much shorter ceremony. Still, she considered it important.
“Sun Boy?” she asked Swan curiously.
“Yes… Sun Boy carries his torch across the sky to give us light and warmth. His torch goes dim, and this gives Cold Maker a chance to attack him. The battle goes on through the Moon of Long Nights and the Moon of Snows, into the Moon of Hunger, when our food sometimes runs low. Is it not the same among your people?”
Snakewater handed her armful of hay to Walks Alone, and stepped back out of the way to let the children hand over their contribution.
“Not quite.” Snakewater laughed. “For us Sun is a woman. She crawls under the edge of the Sky Dome and travels up the side and across. She stops at her daughter’s lodge for a little while, eats a meal, maybe drinks a little kanohena—straight overhead there, and down the other side. But tell me of Cold Maker. He is a monster, no?”
Swan laughed. “Sometimes! Cold Maker lives in icy mountains far to the north. He roars out, bringing snow and ice. That’s why we move south. They battle all winter, as I said. Sometimes it seems Sun Boy’s torch almost goes out. But then he always gets a new one, and Cold Maker retreats, back to the north. At least it has always been so. But maybe this time… ”
“Ah! I see. And the new torch of Sun Boy starts your Moon of Awakening?”
“Yes. We celebrate the return of the sun, the grass, and the buffalo later, in the Sun Dance.”
“Yes, I have learned of that,” said Snakewater. “Is your winter hard here?”
“Sometimes. Not so bad as farther north, of course.”
Some of the Elk-dog People built brush barriers around the north and west sides of their lodges. This would provide more shelter from the wind, it was said. Not only that, but it was not uncommon to encircle the whole lodge with such a barrier. Many of the men kept a favorite horse, their best buffalo runner, close to the lodge, within this barrier. This would protect the animal from predators or theft by neighboring tribes. That was a pastime to prove manhood.
Keeping a horse up by the lodge did require more work, of course. It must be taken to water each day and supplied with food. In severe weather this might be cut branches of cottonwood, whose bark and small twigs would help to supply the animal’s needs. For some men the extra work was worthwhile, expressing their pride in ownership of a fine horse.
When Cold Maker did sweep down, perhaps a bit earlier than usual, the camp was fairly well prepared. There were some malingerers, as among any people, who will never be ready for anything. They will protest the unfairness of any situation, even one of their own making.
“I needed only another day!”
Yet, if that other day had been given, it would still be a day short for some.
It was a calm and sunny morning, a gentle breeze stirring from the south. There may have been a few signs, noted mostly by the old ones with more life experience: a few aches and pains in the limbs with rheumatism or old injuries; even a feel to the air, maybe, a sensation that something was about to happen.
One of the first visible signs was the approach of scattered blue clouds from the north. Not a heavy line of storm clouds, but an occasional wandering patch of shade. And it was noticeable that while the shadow of such clouds fell over the camp, the air seemed much cooler. The heat from Sun Boy’s torch could not be felt. Along with the cold came a restless stirring of the air. The south breeze changed, not all at once, but in unpredictable directions. Now a shift to the southwest for a moment, then southeast, maybe even due east, and in a few moments, due north or south again.
There was a heavy, clammy feel to the air. The lodge skins were damp to the touch, and before long it was apparent that tiny droplets of moisture were collecting on everything—tepees, trees, shrubs and grasses, even on the furry winter coats of the horses, and the hair of people who remained outside.
The cloud cover was nearly solid now, only an occasional patch of sunlight passed swiftly by.
It would have been impossible to state the exact moment when the wind changed, but now it was apparent that it had. The icy breath of Cold Maker blew harder and harder, whipping gusts through the camp and chilling to the bone.
People scurried to bring in a last armful of fuel, and none too soon. The clammy moisture of the earlier part of the day was now slippery underfoot. It was hard to realize that it was now freezing, a thin veneer of ice on everything as darkness fell.
Morning dawned with the entire world covered with fuzzy crystals of frost. Each tree branch and twig, every leaf of grass, had sprouted white fur. It was a beautiful sight, had the cold not made it quite so uncomfortable. But soon after daylight it began to snow. The wind had died, making the chill more bearable. Great fluffy flakes of white came drifting down softly, like the breath feathers of Kookooskoos, the owl, falling on the silent world.
By noon there was an accumulation of a hand’s span in depth. When darkness fell, it was still snowing, somewhat colder, and beginning to drift as the wind rose again. People left the lodges only briefly, only for absolute necessity, and hurried back inside as quickly as possible.
The next morning the snow had stopped and the sun shone brightly. It was almost blinding, even with Sun Boy’s fading torch, as it reflected from the snow-covered world. Each tree and twig and each blade of grass was flocked with sparkling and shimmering white, reflecting glitters of light.
By noon the sparkle was gone, and in the warming air the melt had begun. It required several days for all the snow to melt in the shaded places where the rays of Sun Boy’s torch could not reach. The days were comfortable, the nights chilling.
It was nearly half a moon before Cold Maker mounted his next sortie. It was now early in the Moon of Long Nights, and it was becoming clear how this moon had earned its name. Darkness fell appreciably sooner in the evening, and Sun Boy thrust his torch above the horizon a bit later to greet each day. His path, too, was weaker. Instead of thrusting boldly in a path straight upward from earth’s rim, he seemed to seek an easier path slanting upward in a southerly direction. Never did his torch even approach the overhead position now. He reached his highest point scarcely halfway up in the southern sky, before weakly falling back toward the western horizon for a bleak, early sunset.
“Cold Maker pushes him hard,” observed Swan. “The torch grows weaker. See how his light is yellow and watery?”
“How does he renew it?” asked Snakewater.
Swan shrugged. “Who knows? I suppose Sun Boy lights a new torch from the dying flame of this one. But he must use the last of it, it seems. I sometimes wish he would be not quite so frugal, no? I am ready for the new one.”
The women chuckled. It was not yet time for the days to become longer, and would not be for some time.
Snakewater could see how, in this land of far horizons, it would be quite easy to become preoccupied with this struggle. It was depressing to see the days grow shorter and colder. Maybe this time the Cold Maker of the Elk-dog People would succeed, and Sun Boy’s torch would go out. These thoughts, falling on the heels of the Moo
n of Madness, were quite depressing. Yet, she recalled, it had always been so, the dark days of winter. This was no different. Only more apparent, maybe, in this land of wide skies.
By the time the next storms pushed out of the north, the village was nearly ready. Even the most slovenly and the laziest had managed to prepare their lodges in some manner. They were ready for Cold Maker.
The coats of the fur bearers as well as the horses were thick and soft, and some of the men began to hunt and trap. Pelts of beaver, otter, and mink could be sold or traded to white men very profitably. Some of the men even had a few steel traps obtained from traders, and now established traplines along the streams.
Above all it appeared that to these people, winter would be a time of socializing. As the snows deepened, there were trodden paths from one lodge to another. On most evenings friends gathered to smoke, gamble with the plum stones or with the stick game, or to tell stories around the lodge fires.
These were good times for Snakewater. She was familiar with some of the games, but gambling with plum stones was new to her. An odd number of plum stones was used—five, seven, or nine. One side of each stone was painted red, the other remained the natural yellow. One player would choose, red or yellow, cup the seeds in his hands, and toss them out on a blanket, where the result could be counted. Sometimes the stones would be shaken in a cup made of a buffalo horn before the toss. Large bets would sometimes be placed on this game of chance. It was fascinating to watch the emotion that some of the gamblers invested in such games.
For her part Snakewater preferred the stories.
36
Do you have Little People?” Snakewater asked the women one day as they prepared an evening meal.
“Little People?” said Swan, with her mischievous smile of good humor. “Of course. Doesn’t everyone?”
Snakewater was startled. She had asked out of curiosity, and was not certain what reaction she might get. Among the Real People the subject of Little People was an accepted part of life. Not everyone enitrely credited the sometimes bizarre tales about the Little People, but few denied their existence. The attitude of most was much like their attitude toward the old ways. As the Real People had begun to adopt the ways of the white man, many had come to say, “I no longer practice the old ways,” but few were willing to say, “I do not believe the old ways.” To her this was a strange contradiction.
“Why do you ask?” teased Swan. “Have you seen some?”
“No … I just wondered. Among my people they are important. No one can admit having seen one, of course.”
The women laughed, and then Swan became serious.
“I think everyone has stories of Little People. To some they are more important than to others. To us they are mostly amusing.”
It occurred to Snakewater that here there were no stories about Little People, and now she began to think that rather strange. Or maybe not—One of the Real People would never wish to offend a Little Person. It might become too dangerous.
“Tell me more,” she requested.
“Well,” pondered Swan, “as I said, ours are amusing. They can help or hurt you. Those of some others seem more interesting. You have traveled with the trader. Did you not hear the stories of others?”
“Not much. I am made to think that to some, like my own people, it is too serious to talk about. But among the Plains people who hunt buffalo and live in lodges like this, I have met only your people.”
“Ah! I see. Well, we were speaking of the Little People …. Somebody—I can’t remember who—Their Little People live underwater, come out sometimes. They are to be feared. Who is that, Walks Alone?”
“I don’t remember,” said her sister. “One of those to the north. Not the Crows.”
“No … I remember theirs. The Crows’ Little People go into battle with them. Very dangerous fighters. They tell of fights where the Little People destroyed the enemy’s horses.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Snakewater. “By force or by magic?”
“Does it matter?” asked Swan. “Maybe both.”
“Why do you suppose that there are few stories about Little People?” asked Snakewater.
Swan shrugged. “I don’t know—I never thought about it. But… well, you would not want to offend them—ones who lived in deep water, or who could destroy horses in battle?”
The subject was becoming uncomfortable, which in itself must indicate something.
“Do you think it will snow tonight?” asked Walks Alone.
The others laughed, maybe a little nervously, and the subject changed to weather.
People are uneasy about the Little People, Snakewater realized. Maybe she’d ask Lumpy about that. Or maybe not …He’d only tease me, she thought.
It was a hard winter. There were days at a time when Sun Boy’s torch was not seen at all. It would grow light in the morning, and dark again in the evening, with no apparent change in the gray pall of sky that hung over everything. Sometimes there was snow, sometimes not, but the air never seemed to become warm enough to melt the accumulation on the ground. The drifts deepened.
The people banked snow around the lower part of the lodges, piling it against the outside of the lodge covers. It was an advantage to have snow for this purpose, to shelter the lodges from the icy breath of Cold Maker as he howled outside.
There were many days when the ongoing storms were too bad to permit hunting or the running of traplines, so people stayed inside. Socializing became insufficient to rouse spirits. Everyone was irritable and glum. By the end of the Moon of Snows this became a matter of concern. Even with the bountiful harvest of meat last autumn, supplies might run short. The keeping qualities of dried meat and pemmican, while they were good, were not perfect. Even in weather such as this there was some spoilage.
To add to that… One evening just before darkness fell, there was a sudden distressed wail from the next lodge, some fifty paces away. Far Thunder seized a weapon and hurried outside. The wailing continued.
“What is it?” called Thunder, sprinting toward the commotion in the narrow path with snow piled high on both sides.
“Aiee, all of it!” came the sound of a woman’s voice.
Other men were running, too, toward the source of the disturbance. The women emerged from the lodges, too, some carrying weapons, in case a defense might be needed.
“Are we being attacked?” someone called.
Now a man emerged from the lodge where the wailing continued.
“No, no,” he assured them. “Our food … Some creature …”He spread his hands helplessly.
Some small animal—possum, skunk, or raccoon, maybe—had entered the storage space behind the lodge lining and had remained there, feasting on the stored food supply.
“I thought I heard something scratching!” the woman said again and again.
What food had not been eaten had been spoiled and contaminated by the animal’s excrement and its digging through the packs and bundles.
“What will we do?” wailed the young wife.
“I can let you have some pemmican,” offered Swan.
“I too,” said another woman.
Quickly there were several offers of help. Despite this everyone knew that it was a serious situation. Most people had very little more than enough for their own families, and the Moon of Hunger had barely begun.
There was another incident of an animal raid and damage to the food of another lodge a few days later. Again, other families helped.
Everyone else now checked carefully behind their own lodge linings, and a few more cases of intrusion were discovered. Most were slight, but in the overall picture a considerable amount of food had been harmed.
A council was held in the lodge of Far Thunder, with three subchiefs present. It was agreed that they must have inadvertently camped in a place that harbored a great number of possums or possibly raccoons. There was a gentle jibe or two over “Who chose this place?” but it was not a serious accusation. Far Thunder brushed it asid
e. What was needed now was an answer, not an accusation.
To move to another area might have been a solution earlier, but by now it was too late. The lodges were heavily banked with snow and would be frozen in until the spring thaw.
“Why did the dogs not know?” asked Two Hatchets, a quiet young man who was greatly respected in the band.
“Mine did!” offered another. “Did not yours?”
“Some—but that was outside.”
There was a discussion. The lodges where dogs slept inside had not been bothered. Those whose dogs found their own shelter in the brush and snowdrifts were most vulnerable.
“It is too late now to change that,” observed Thunder. “Now, what can be done?”
There was silence. It was plain to see. Nothing…
The dogs could be eaten, it was noted.
Snakewater had been somewhat startled by this comment, and asked Swan about it later.
“You eat the dogs?”
“Of course. That is much of their purpose. Your people do not eat dogs?”
“No …I …Maybe in a time of starvation.”
She had wondered at the great number of dogs that followed the camps, but merely attributed it to the great quantities of food available to dogs after a buffalo hunt.
“When the taste of dried meat and pemmican becomes stale, there is still fresh meat,” explained Swan.
“Then this means no problems with the loss of food in the lodges?” asked Snakewater. “The people will eat their dogs?”
“There is a problem,” Swan answered. “The people have counted on the dogs already. And a dog does not last long in a big family. A day or two…
Snakewater now recalled that she had seen a woman skinning an animal of some sort. It had been at some distance, and she had assumed it to be game that one of the hunters had brought in—beaver, maybe. But now …It had probably been a dog.
This whole idea was a new experience for her. The Real People had been settled in towns and depending on farming for many generations. It had never occurred to her that these nomadic buffalo hunters were far more dependent on the season and on the climate. They had stopped to trade some of the meat and hides to one of the grower towns during the move south. They had acquired, in this way, corn, beans, and dried pumpkins.
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