Standing Bear turned to Voice Like A Drum and asked his opinion. The medicine man looked down at his hands.
“It does no one any good for the woman to stay here,” he said. “No self-respecting brave will risk his seed with her and thus, she is sour and miserable. This infects the women around her and they become demanding. She has no skill at any of the tasks here, and for her to continue with her old one, we would have to return her to her enemies. I say let the black one have her and let his magic hide her from the white law. Perhaps then she will be content; but in any case, she’s off our hands.”
Standing Bear sat still for a moment and then gestured to a young boy standing by the door. In moments, he returned with a sleepy Lady-Jane.
“The black one here says that he approves of how you worked for him tonight. He says you have medicine that will aid him in his presentation. He likes that you are small. He asks that we allow you to leave the Ponca and assist him. You are not commanded to do this, but he asks it as compensation for Half Horse’s attempt on his life—and we hope you will see it as a matter of Ponca honor.”
Lady-Jane snapped awake.
Had this old Indian just said that she was free to leave this place? That instead of a life of toil and humiliation, she was to travel the world as the assistant to its greatest magician? Had he really told her that instead of pounding corn and curing hides, she would spend her days in hotel beds and her nights appearing and disappearing as thousands applauded? Could a life change this much this quickly?
Betraying no excitement, Lady-Jane looked demurely at the ground. She was silent for several moments, as if deliberating upon a decision that she would have gladly shouted from the housetops, had there been any. Finally, she looked up and into the eyes of the old man.
“For the honor of the Ponca, I will go.”
Standing Bear received the pipe once again and nodded. “I only wish the verdict regarding the transgressor himself was this easy. The family of Half Horse is as old as the tribe itself, and to punish someone from such stock requires the help of his ancestors. As I meditated upon it, the faces of his dead father and grandfather came to me. Their souls were full of pain, yet they agreed with my decision. ”
The chief gestured and Half Horse rose.
“Because the victim is white, we would not normally mete out death to the perpetrator and in any case, the black one does not wish his attacker dead. But the Herrmann is kin to One Tongue and an honored guest of the tribe. This makes the attack a very serious matter. Therefore, it is our ruling that Half Horse retain his life; but he must today gather his wives and children and leave here. And if, in the greater world, anyone should ask him the name of his tribe, he must not answer with our name. He is no longer Ponca.”
For a moment, Half Horse seemed to buckle at the knees; then he straightened and bowed to the chief. He looked around the smoky room for a moment, his eyes a mixture of anger and examination, as if making a list of every man and woman who had ever wronged him. Then he strode through the flap of the lodge.
The moment he was out of sight, an agonized cry split the silence of the council.
Chased By Owls jumped up and walked to the very spot where the exile had been standing. He pointed at Julius to translate for him.
“I ask the egg eater to change my words for the black one. I do this not for his benefit, but because I wish the devil to hear in his own tongue that there are still those who defy his evil; and to tell him this—if Half Horse’s fate is Standing Bear’s justice, then our enemies need not fear. We are a little tribe ruled by soft old men, worthy only to be patronized like children and shuffled about like toys—even now, he negotiates with Crook to move us once again. For the sake of this white play-actor you would banish a warrior with fifty scalps on his lance? For the worthless life of this trickster you would humiliate a noble family? Never have I been so ashamed!”
Chased By Owls spit on the hard-packed ground. Behind him, his soldiers rose and glared at the chief and council.
“Long ago, the grandfather of Standing Bear found that he could not remain an Omaha and keep a good name. Back then he told the weaklings and traitors who ruled the nation that he would rather take his chances with the Unknown than be less than a man. I must do the same before the weaklings and traitors of my time. If Half Horse is exile, than Chased By Owls is exile.”
The braves whooped and yelped at their leader’s declaration. He turned toward them and raised his fists.
“From this day, let Bear and his council protect the women and children and chase the whites that murder us in cold blood—let them kill and be killed. We will do as the Dog Soldiers of the Cheyenne—seek a separate place where a warrior may be a man in his own land—where we need no longer bear the shame of being Ponca.”
Julius’s mouth was dry. He waited for a reply from Standing Bear, but the chief only continued to smoke, staring straight up at the tall brave.
Chased By Owls left the lodge followed by his men. Soon, the village was a maelstrom of noise and rush. Horses were packed, wives and children mounted for the journey. In the first light of morning, the tall brave gave the command to move.
Julius listened as the braves screamed in defiance, rearing their horses against the rising sun. He seemed to understand every sound, as if his powers of language could now translate even the most primitive screech or moan. In them, he heard the voices of countless others going back a hundred years. We are glad to sacrifice, they said, for a place to be wild on this earth.
And somewhere in the uproar, he thought he heard the voice of Standing Bear himself—younger and stronger, and happy to die.
18
IN EUROPE, JULIUS MEYER HAD BEEN SOMETHING OF A musician. As a child, he was encouraged toward the violin and became proficient by the age of seven. Not long before his mother died, his teacher informed her that with the correct amount of rehearsal, young Julius might take his place among Prussia’s artistes. When he had first come to Omaha, he would often join an informal group of musicians who sought to make a cultured noise within the western wilderness. It wasn’t anything serious, just a small chamber group; but they played a passable Haydn Kaiser and Julius received applause for his solos.
But the Ponca courting flute was different. Weeks of practice had brought forth a series of notes played in the correct order but little more.
How can something so simple, he asked himself, be so hard to play?
After all, it was only a cedar rod not more than sixteen inches long, hollowed out and punched with six holes. It featured the beak of a swan at one end and the head of an elk near the mouthpiece. Like all things the Ponca made, it was beautiful—intricately carved and decorated with leather strapping and eagle feathers.
Once he had attained some skill with its fingering, he had attempted to play some Bach. This brought much laughter from members of the tribe, who told him the notes were crowding each other like ten children after one apple. Embarrassed and frustrated, Julius sought the advice of married men whose playing had presumably melted the hearts of their mates. This only brought more laughter. The song is already in the air, the men would tell him. When it finds the one meant to play it, the flute will pull it down.
Forced to improvise, Julius spent hours in a stand of trees far from the village and away from the ears of Prairie Flower, who, he imagined, could summon only pity at the noises he managed.
Then, one day Voice Like A Drum stopped him as he was about to leave for a practice session.
“Your playing,” Drum said. “It goes well?”
“My playing goes badly,” Julius said. “I have mastered the fingering and the blowing technique. The sound comes out clear and strong. But I have heard others play the flute, and it has sent a shiver through me. When I play, there are no shivers, only an acid taste in my mouth and a sadness at the idea that I shall never be able to court in the proper manner.”
Voice Like A Drum nodded and was silent for a moment.
“I mean no of
fense by this, but because you are white, you are worried about the quality of your performance. You concern yourself that your audience may not appreciate the music you make. This is not the purpose of this music. When you play the courting flute, you are not offering something, you are asking for something. So when he picks up the flute, One Tongue must say to himself, ‘this is not music as made in the white concert halls. This music is a prayer offered up to god that I may have love and fulfill his plan.’ Once you can do this, your music will be sweet and the one for whom you wait will begin to listen.”
From that day, Julius began to play in ways he had never thought possible.
He allowed his heart to move his fingers. For his breath he used the sighs of longing. He put aside all of his training and let the flute speak for him, begging for all that he wanted, the music becoming yet another language to study and understand. Within a month, Julius asked Standing Bear for permission to play for his daughter.
“I understand the flute is fighting with you,” the chief said.
“It was, but I think I have finally begun to wrestle a decent tune from it.”
“Good,” Standing Bear said. “I would not want Prairie Flower to have to endure more of what you put the village through before you decided to practice alone.”
They met on the shady side of the Niobrara. As was customary, Prairie Flower’s grandmother, Many Questions, followed them at a discreet distance. For weeks, she had stayed close to the girl, as if she were a lamb among wolves. On several occasions, Julius had attempted to engage the old woman in small talk—isn’t it a fine day—that is a lovely necklace you are wearing—but had been met only with silence or nods and grunts. After a month of this, he considered it a victory if she looked up from the moccasins she was sewing.
“It is fine to see One Tongue out in daylight,” Prairie Flower said. “People have been saying that he has cut himself off a little from the Ponca, spending many hours in some trees a good ride away, and that he only returns when the sun has gone behind the earth.”
“This has been necessary,” Julius said. “I have been practicing music.”
“Oh? How interesting. I was not aware that a Speaker of such great reputation and ability had interest in anything other than meetings and treaties. I consider it a great compliment that the Boxkareshahashtaka visits with me as I do my washing. But if I am to complete this task, I am afraid I must ask him to follow me.”
Her laughter was like warm rain. As he stumbled behind her, the grace of her movement caused a lightness in his head. Even encumbered by a big basket, she moved like water across the land, the white fringes of her dress the crests of tiny waves.
They reached the river’s edge. As she set the basket down, Julius drank her in.
Her hair was dressed modestly, with only a few yellow beads and a sprig of white Liatris to offset its blackness. Her almond eyes were large and merry and would reduce by half when crowded out by her wide smile. Even engaged in a mundane chore, he saw in her the same confidence he had noted in the royals of Prussia on the days when their carriages plied the streets. She was a princess at work, but still a princess.
“I have a flute with me,” he murmured.
Prairie Flower grinned mischievously. “What is that you say? I am sorry but I cannot hear you over the river.”
“Oh. I said I have a flute with me.”
“A flute? This is fine. I was not aware that One Tongue played the flute in addition to his other achievements.”
“Yes,” Julius said. “I have just learned.”
Prairie Flower began to remove the clothes from her basket.
“I congratulate you. I wish that I could also play the flute, but it is forbidden for women. People say that only men may play it. They say there are reasons.”
“Yes,” Julius said. “There are reasons for playing the flute. I would like to play it now. But perhaps Prairie Flower is too busy working. Perhaps she would find music at this time distracting.”
Prairie Flower looked at Julius, then at the flute. He knew that if she said she would rather not hear him play, she was rejecting his love, at least for today. She looked down modestly at her hands. Her pause was torture for him.
“For some people music is distracting,” she said. “I have even heard that there are some people who do not like music at all. Imagine! We Ponca are the greatest singers and players in all the nations and yet there are those among us who do not respond to a sweet tune. I am not one of these. I believe in the flute and all the things people say it can do. Therefore, I would be honored if the Speaker would play the flute while I work.”
Julius made to raise the flute, but succeeded only in dropping it in the grass. As he bent to retrieve it, he noticed Many Questions gesturing at him, her hands fluttering like birds, her eyes rolling up in exasperation. Fool, she seemed to be saying. Get on with it.
Julius put the flute to his lips. His mouth had become suddenly dry and his first notes were fitful squeaks. But soon, his heart engaged; and a song rang out over the rushing of the river. It was soft and mournful, filled with the yearning of every young man who had visited this spot to ask the Wakanda to relieve his loneliness.
Many Questions looked at the couple and smiled. Although his position in the tribe carried significant status, the little Boxkareshahashtaka was hardly her idea of a royal match. But as the old woman listened, she found herself softly humming to the flute’s melody. It was new to her, yes, but weren’t all courting songs composed of the same long, slow notes, the same quivering vibratos? Hadn’t they already been written and were simply waiting to be captured?
The more notes the grandmother heard, the more she knew this was a fine song, a fated song. In it, she could hear the desire that her own husband, dead these long years, had once channeled into his flute, back when the Ponca still ruled the Niobrara and she was the age of this precious child.
As Julius played, Prairie Flower made as if to remove a shirt from her basket but stopped and placed it back inside. She turned from the river and toward him, sitting with her legs folded beneath her. As he played, he watched her breathe deeply of the soft air. She looked first at his fingers and then his face. Her shoulders began to move to the song’s rhythm, but only as much as modesty allowed.
Then, suddenly chilled, she wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes.
19
IF THE PONCA WERE TO LEAVE BY SUNUP, THERE WAS MUCH TO DO. The lodges had to be emptied and their contents deposited into Army wagons. The tipis needed to be folded and placed on sledges. The children had been assigned to water and then release the horses. No mount would make the trip to Oklahoma, the blue coats fearing that Indians mounted were Indians escaped.
Mid-morning, Julius made the mistake of stopping to play with Single Stick, a boy of about four years old. When he had stooped to pick up a sack of grain, the boy jumped on his back and insisted that he was now his horse and that he must take him into battle against the whites. Julius bucked and danced as Stick squealed with laughter. Soon children appeared from every corner of the village, insisting on their turn at riding the brave steed. When Julius complied, the little ones insisted on a second ride, even a third. When he finally pleaded fatigue and asked to be released, the children attacked him en masse, knocking him to the ground, hoping to be thrown in the air or tickled.
Then in an instant they scattered. When Julius looked up from the ground, he saw Standing Bear looming over him.
“There can be no doubt our chief has great power,” Julius said. “I had to beg them to leave me to my work. All you did was appear.”
“Play is fine for a child,” Standing Bear said. “It is, after all, how they learn. But ours are not white children who sit and play with toys. Each of these knows their duty. At this moment they should be helping their mothers, fetching and carrying whatever we must bring with us.”
“Standing Bear is right,” Julius said. “Everyone here, even the littlest, knows his duty. And yet, you will
not allow me to carry out the duty I owe to the Ponca.”
Standing Bear put his fingers to his eyes and sighed, clearly tired of repeating the reasons for a decision he had made days ago.
“Only a white man would question his chief as you do. I have seen it in the towns—when a man filled with liquor will argue with a sheriff even when he knows he cannot win. I have seen it on the reservations—a soldier will tell his captain how ill-advised his order is. Seeing this, I have allowed you a certain latitude because questioning authority is in your blood. But I have said it and I will say it no more. You will not accompany the Ponca on the journey to the new home.”
Julius’s face darkened. He found himself wishing for the physical stature of Chased By Owls or the age and wisdom of Voice Like A Drum. He wondered if Standing Bear would cast him out if he were bigger or older, or if he had been born red.
“You have been more of a father to me than any man,” Julius said. “From you I have learned what God wants from us. You have taught me about love and duty and how to avoid hatred. If I am fortunate, some day you may even give me your daughter. But now, you exclude me from what we both know will be our greatest hardship; as if my race deemed me insufficient in courage or stamina to endure what even those little ones surely will.”
It was the argument One Tongue had been making for days. His patience exhausted, the chief’s face twisted with an anger Julius had never seen.
“Enough! At this moment in my life, I can care little for the feelings of a boy I have spoiled. If you believe your assignment makes you less than one of us, that is unfortunate—but you are more of a white man than I ever suspected if you see only your own sacrifice among those of so many. I will tell you only once more. I do not need the Boxkareshahashtaka to walk and die! I need him to talk and reason—to go to the government and plead our case—to tell them no matter how far they force us to walk, we are of the Niobrara and it is to the Niobrara that we must return. But more than this, I need him to make the white money appear—to produce the paper and gold the Ponca will need if we are to survive even one winter. And if the Speaker will not do these things, then Standing Bear needs him for nothing.”
Magic Words Page 17
