Wolf shifted his shoulders against his willow backrest and settled in more comfortably. Rain handed him a glowing twig to light his pipe, and he took a puff or two to get it burning well before he answered.
“Oh, that,” he said casually. “I am still using it.” His eyes twinkled.
“Yes, but …”
He raised a hand to stop her protest. “Wait, Rain. I know. But look … the name he now bears fits him. It is partly mine anyway, the Wolf part. And he is a pup. He will earn a name, because I am made to think that this child is special”
He paused to draw on his pipe.
“But for now …” Rain protested.
“For now, what? I have drawn some notice to him, but it is good notice, no?”
“Well … maybe. But … your name.”
The holy man nodded. “I know. I will give it to him later, maybe. But I am made to think I will need it for a while. There is no danger of losing it from the language of the People.”
Rain was exasperated. “I know that you understand many things, my husband, but how can you be sure of this?”
“Oh, that,” he said calmly. “I am sure, because there is a boy in the Red Rocks band who is called Singing Wolf, too.”
“And you did not want our Wolf Pup to have the same …?”
“It does not matter,” he interrupted. “As I have said, this one will earn a name of his own,”
2
As Wolf Pup grew, his parents had more hints that this child would be different, somehow. Special, destined for greatness in some special way.
It is, of course, the privilege of parents everywhere to believe this. Especially mothers. There is a unique bond between a mother and her son, as there is between father and daughter. Possibly more so. But the mother’s love carries more conviction, perhaps. There is in her heart a surety that no matter what others may think, hers is a unique situation. My son is special, and will do great things. Gray Mouse was no different. To her, Wolf Pup was the most perfect baby ever seen. She resented his name a little bit at first. It did not seem to carry the dignity that such a child deserved. Yet, by the time that his grandfather shocked the People by letting the name stand, she had become resigned to it. The name fit. Anyway, she told herself, he will earn a name when it is time. One more appropriate to his status. She said nothing aloud, of course.
Both of his parents were pleased at Wolf Pup’s accomplishments. The child did well in his learning of the ways of the People.
The lessons of the Rabbit Society were very informal. Play is, in essence, the work of children. It is the manner in which they learn, through pretending to be grownups. A child may, in play, become anything or anyone he chooses. He develops leadership by becoming the leader of a hunting party. A girl, looking ahead a few seasons, establishes her own lodge. Toys are merely replicas of the tools and implements that will be used soon in the world of adults.
The instruction among children of the People came about by means of adults who spent a little time to teach their own skills. Not as a chore or a duty, much less an assignment. This was only what one did. A little while playing with the children of the band.
Some things, of course, require more instruction than others. The dance steps require a rhythm. Someone must not only teach the steps but beat the cadence on the drum and teach the songs.
All children, both boys and girls, must learn the use of weapons for hunting and for self-defense. Contests in running and throwing develop athletic skills. Races help develop swimmers in the deep clear pools of the prairie streams on hot afternoons. Many of these skills require little instruction, but only a suggestion now and then. A better grip to hold the bowstring with the fingers … A stance to produce more leverage and more distance with the throwing stick …
The Rabbit Society may have started as a joke originally, as a contrast to the deadly serious activities of the warrior societies. The Bowstrings, the Elk-dog Society, the Bloods … These held great prestige, and sometimes political power. There had once been an almost fatal split in the Southern band as the young reactionaries of the Blood Society followed a banished leader for a season. That was depicted in the Story Skins, and reenacted in the Warriors’ Dances each autumn.
So, though it possibly began generations ago as a joke, the Society was now, like all of its own activities, an evolving picture of things to come. It held a miniature reflection of that which would be, later.
So, each adult, in contributing suggestions, helped to give a glimpse of his own expertise. Stone Breaker had inherited both his name and his skills from his father, who had learned from his father. Stone Breaker had no son. But, as he demonstrated the techniques of creating a beautiful and useful flint knife or arrow point, some of the children would show more interest and more proficiency. To those, his own interest would demand that he bestow special consideration. One would someday bear his name.
Wolf Pup seemed to take an interest in everything that was presented. He danced well, with a sense of rhythm that was above average. He remembered the songs and stories quickly. His athletic skills were developing nicely.
“He would be even better,” Dark Antelope observed, “if he tried a little harder.”
Gray Mouse was furious at even this slight question of their son’s ability.
“How can you say that? He won the race, no?”
“Yes, yes …” Antelope retreated before his wife’s wrath. “I only meant, Mouse, that … Aiee, woman, how can I say …? Look, he won by only a little. He tries only hard enough to barely win. If he misjudges his opponent …”
He did not continue, for he had made his point. This would bear watching, though. Antelope was pleased somewhat more as he saw that Wolf Pup was interested in his own skills. Antelope, as a boy, had been expected to follow in the footsteps of his father, the holy man. Yet it had not happened.
He was not certain why. Maybe it was partly that he saw the dedication and sacrifice that were required of Singing Wolf. There was honor, to be sure, but to a young boy, the responsibility required of the holy man seemed overwhelming.
Antelope’s interests lay along other lines. He enjoyed the hunt and the physical activity required. It was easy for him to become impatient with the long-drawn ceremonies of Singing Wolf’s medicine. He had never been certain that he wanted to immerse himself as deeply in the spiritual qualities of life as his father was required to do. In short, the skills of his father’s brother, Beaver Track, had been of more interest to young Antelope.
Beaver Track had been a skilled tracker and scout. Here was something to see and observe and touch. It had seemed more interesting to the young Antelope. He had followed the way of his uncle, not that of his father.
He was grown when he realized that this must have been a great disappointment to Singing Wolf. There was no other son to become the apprentice to the holy man. Antelope’s brother had been killed by a bear when they were small.
There had been times when he realized that he could have studied the ways of the holy man. Sometimes when he studied the tracks of some wild creature he could almost feel himself inside that creature’s head. He could feel the fear in the heart of the tiny mouse that hid in the grass and watched the shadow of the hawk that circled above. He could have immersed himself in the mysticism, and let it become his life, he realized in later years. It was so in the life of his father.
There had been some guilt, that he had been a disappointment to Singing Wolf. Yet, his own feelings … Antelope doubted that he could have carried the responsibility.
One influencing factor, of which he was probably not even aware, was the bitterness of old Running Deer, his grandmother. During his formative years, he had dreaded being in her presence. This was an angry old woman, bitter over the loss of her husband to his profession. True, it had ultimately led to his death, because of a broken taboo. Her hatred of all the aspects of his life as a holy man had been felt plainly by the young boy, and he had followed the other path.
Now he, Dar
k Antelope, was the chief tracker and scout of the Southern band. Beaver Track had been killed in a hunting accident when a running bull had turned in the wrong direction, goring Beaver’s horse and throwing him beneath the hooves of the herd.
Antelope had inherited his uncle’s position and prestige. He was uncomfortable with it, but finally had a talk with his father which helped him to place his feelings in proper perspective.
“Some things are meant to be, my son,” Singing Wolf said. “Could you have prevented Beaver’s death? Stopped the bull?”
“No, Father. I am made to think no one could have done that.”
“So be it. Some things are meant to be. Maybe this is why you studied his ways, to learn his skills.”
“But I am not as good a tracker as my uncle, Father.”
“Of course not. But how many winters have you, Antelope? Twenty? Oh, more than that … Look, are you not as good as Beaver Track was at your age?”
Antelope began to understand.
“Father, there is another thing … I … I am made to think of my brother, Little Owl, who was killed. Owl would have been your son who became a holy man. Now you have none. I …”
The old man smiled. “And you think that you should have followed my ways, Antelope? Is that it?”
“I am made to think so, Father.”
“Yes, you could have. The spirit was there. You had the gift.”
“Then I should …”
“No!” Singing Wolf held up a hand to stop him. “No, that is not the way, my son. You were offered the gift, and you refused it. I was made to wonder why, I admit.” He paused and smiled. “But now, look! If you were a holy man, the Southern band would now have two holy men and no tracker!”
“That is true. But if I had taken a different path … You have said that I was offered the gift of spirit, Father …”
“I am made to think so. But Antelope, it is no disgrace to refuse the gift.”
“No honor, either,” said Antelope glumly.
“Exactly. But honor comes in many ways. So do the gifts of the spirit. It is ours to choose, and no disgrace.”
Slowly, Antelope had felt the guilt of his choice lifting from his shoulders. Now, as he watched the interests of his own son, he recalled that conversation. It would be of help to him.
Even so, it was pleasing to him to see the interests that young Wolf Pup displayed. It was nearing autumn of the child’s fourth year when Antelope watched him squatting under a dogwood bush near the camp. Wolf Pup was studying the ground, then looking up into the leafy growth.
“What is it?” his father asked.
“I am tracking a caterpillar,” the boy said seriously. “Look, here is its spoor. A big one.”
Antelope looked at the droppings under the bush. “That is true,” he agreed.
“But they are dry.”
“A day or two, maybe?” asked his father.
“Yes. Why are there no fresh droppings?”
“Maybe it moved on, like the buffalo.”
The boy laughed. “It does not move on, Father. How could it?”
“Maybe it was killed by a hunter … Who hunts it?”
“A bird?”
“Maybe.”
“But I was looking to see how it eats. See, where the leaves are chewed on the bush, here? Aiee!”
“What is it?”
“Look! What is this?”
The boy was pointing to a curled leaf, which was wrapped around a new cocoon. It must be fresh, because the leaf was still green.
“Your caterpillar has built its lodge for winter,” Antelope suggested. “It will come out in the spring as a moth.”
“It is inside?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a caterpillar now, or a moth?”
“Neither one. It is in between.”
“Can I see it?”
“Yes. We can cut it open. It would kill it, of course.”
The boy was quiet for a little while. “How did it build this lodge?” he asked.
“With tiny strings. Like a blanket.”
“That was much work, Father.”
“Yes, maybe so.”
“Then it should not be undone.”
“As you wish.”
Wolf Pup rose from his squatting position. “It is good,” he said. “Let him stay.”
Antelope was pleased. It had not mattered to him whether they opened the cocoon or not. But it was pleasing to see that the boy was thoughtful. To realize that there must be a reason why there were no fresh droppings … To learn from it that there could be more than one reason …
Best of all, it had been a superb job of tracking. He must be sure to tell Gray Mouse.
RUNESTONE
A Bantam Book
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1995 by Don Coldsmith.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94–12779.
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eISBN: 978-0-553-57280-3
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