by Chuck Redman
“Thank of you,” as she shakes her head in protest. “No is for me this big celebrate. Me is far place from, new in Pawnee land. No want special this. Just want my brave dog. Now he bury at river. Doctor try so hard, but too much sick.” Her eyes is nigh to flood-level. “Thank of you, Doctor.” Still kneeled at Red Moon’s side, Good Sky looks pretty watery himself. Lark turns her lips in and, with the back of her hand, covers them and seems to search for answers to all this sorrow in her empty lap.
Left Hand has his mouth half-open to contradict his reluctant Evening Star, but he can’t get no further than that. The reason is that folks at one end of the circle has erupted into hysteria and something big and steam-driven as a locomotive has thundered into the village and scattered everyone in its path. The thing comes to a full stop not ten feet from the circle fire.
I think I mentioned some time ago that buffalo is skittish critters. I’m thinkin this here bull buffalo, massive and forbidding on the exterior, probly got hisself detached from his herd, then spooked by a dog and run in a blind panic smack dab into Eagle Chief’s village. Frightened as a wild colt, snorting and stamping his hooves, the bull’s dark eyes shift into the high alert that only terror can invoke as he finds hisself in the middle of his worst nightmare.
Once the folks see that the awful brute is stationary and considerably more stricken than theirselves, they calm down and a reverent hush settles upon the village. Secret Pipe smooths his feathers and gazes into some far off corner of oblivion, then with hands raised takes two or three priestly steps in the beast’s direction. He starts speaking in a low even voice and pretty soon he’s got the animal’s eyes locked with his as if they was on magnets. Everyone’s riveted and rooted to the spot. Well not quite.
There’s a foot planted forward. A long lance is drawn back over a left shoulder, and a smile grows hard between urgent twitches. A lean set of muscles flex like a catapult released, but a grunt turns into a gasp and that lance goes nowhere. Around Lefty’s wrist are Eagle Chief’s granite fingers, and there they stay until the warrior drops the weapon and smiles at all the folks as if the whole thing was just a clever act. There’s part of his smile that lingers on Lark, though, and that part tells the maiden that he meant every bit of it. Every bit of it all.
Now that Secret Pipe has the lost bison kinda tranquilized and docilized, he kneels down right before the beast with a wave of his arms and head that tells the entire crowd to do likewise. He then leads the village in a earnest prayer of tribute to the wide-eyed beast and all of his kind for the blessings they bring to the Pawnee, who depend on the buffalo for pert’ner everything. Well, there might be one fella that don’t look quite so earnest or humble as the rest of the folk. Anyways, pretty soon that buffalo turns and trots out the way he come, and he goes with good wishes and prayers.
Different story entirely if they should ever meet on the prairie during huntin season.
Saturday
You ever feel outa sorts and crotchety of a morning? Somethin rumbly and gassy in the pit of you?
Sure, I got faultlines like everybody else, it ain’t just out west in California that gets shook up once in a while. But that ain’t it, exactly. This here’s a pretty dawn. The Morning Star has just now rose up above the spreading sunrise. Spring has near about blossomed out everywhere she oughta blossomed out. Only something’s gnawing down below, eatin at my inner crust. Just a little tense, that’s all. Off kilter? Some of my latitudes is chafing my longitudes.
“I like this whole game, man. This is more fun than shooting timber wolves on the run.” A sharp elbow into his comrade’s ribs—upper ribs—and a pair of big flexing shoulders emphasize this remark. Them shoulders is about level with a sea of shaved heads. Make that a river. The particular shaved head attached to the shoulders is a foot above. “I’m thinking that I might get a Morning Star dream like yours. You don’t think so, huh? I’ll dream up a girl twice as pretty. I’m thinking maybe harvest time. I got nothing scheduled. Heh.”
“You don’t dream.”
“I could if I wanted to,” says Hill Seeker with an expression that even warpaint could not do justice.
“You sleep like the dead.” Behind a shifty cloud of pipe smoke lurks Left Hand’s signature smile.
“Then I’ll dream when I’m awake. You got something to say against that, Cousin?”
“You don’t choose, my naïve friend. They choose. If the Gods need a dreamer, they decide who. If the Great Spirit looked down and appointed me for greatness, I had nothing to do with it. Got that? Who am I to raise my hand and question his choice? Eh?”
“What’s naïve?”
I’ll be danged if pert’ner most of them men and boys that sung or danced last night ain’t already gathered, spruced and spiffed, and is marching out of the village in a long column. Some fellas is singing a sacred song. Crouching Panther’s the entire bass section. The procession is led by Secret Pipe in his swellest robes, feathers, and sacred trappings. In the midst is Left Hand, wearing warpaint and a ancient costume from the sacred bundle of the village. Alongside and occasionally batting at branches overhead with Lefty’s trophy lance is Hill Seeker. The squirrels seen him coming, they ain’t no dopes. Old Wolf Chief, with Lark takin regular slow strides to match her host’s bitty steps, sings in his hoarse dry voice. Whole different tune than the one that echoes among the men but it sorta blends, in a bluesy way. Lark’s bedecked in last night’s black robe, this time with black moccasins to match, her right half painted red and her left half dyed black. Upon her thicket of hair is a headdress of black-tipped eagle feathers spread out like a fan. Over the sacred robe she’s wearin the otter jacket Lefty proffered.
“Oh, my daughter,” says Aunt Many Clouds, the only other gal in the procession, “you look so beautiful, just like a—ulp—” By golly the kind lady has suddenly choke up, with her lip and few teeth gone aquiver and one hand upon her scant hairline as though she’s suddenly grew dizzy.
“Please Auntie, no sad be. You is mess up pretty face paint we spend long time to making before breakfast eat.” Yup, coupla brave tears has already streaked the red and purple paint which decorates Many Clouds’ round cheeks and brow. She ain’t blew her nose properly, neither. But I kinda like it drippy. Anyhow, in my opinion the gal don’t need no paint to enhance what nature has generously give her. “No is so bad, Auntie. Nobody say but Lark know she soon be marry to Left Hand, he show it very important thing for he, important for Pawnee people all. Lark no understand this, but Great Spirit understand and Lark trust.” Auntie can’t hold back no more and Lark pats the lady’s chubby wrist that’s wet with wiped tears. “Still I spend happy day with Auntie. Only nighttime be by Left Hand. Much he be no home, far he go hunting, fighting.” Near enough to overhear these broken Pawnee words walks Eagle Chief with his eyes groundward and pressed with so much sad and sorry wisdom that a person can’t help but wish that there was more fellas like him in this harebrained world. Longside the Chief are Good Sky and his assistant, beaver hats drooping and looking very lost without their medicine satchels.
Over a little rise and across a small creek hemmed with willows goes the bushy path. Lark flings a couple hasty glances over at the young squash and beanfields along the right side of the path. She perks up at the song of the meadowlark, and the fluttery flight of pheasants from a cornfield, but there ain’t nobody there. Just a snoring dog with dreams of nibbling upon little rabbits and five or six little rabbits nibbling upon the tiny radishes they like to dream of when they snore away the long prairie winters. Ain’t nothin perky in the brave face Lark turns to Auntie. After that the strong backs of the marching Pawnee is all Lark seems to see.
Paths sometimes make sharp turns. This one has did just that. Smack into the dense growth along the wide river. Some fellas hold the twangy branches for the fellas behind, some let em snap back without no second thoughts about whose eyes or nose might get whapped. Eagle Chief and the elders take care that no branches snap back upon Lark, nor Wolf Chie
f nor Auntie as they grope forward. Then the column breaks through into a shady clearing. And upon a very odd sight. Yet familiar. Yet odd.
What’s familiar is them two tall trees: cottonwood on the south, elm on the north. About yea apart. With coupla arrows in the ground as markers. That Red Moon had wanted to take an axe to day before yesterday. Before Lefty showed up with his pretty prize.
What’s odd is them two trees is now the uprights for a sturdy platform of fresh timber crosslaid between. Various cured skins enclose the makeshift stage. Why, the big trees is painted one red one black, and the platform’s snazzy with bunches of white downy feathers. Lark at least has that to marvel about. Little Brother jumps forth from the assembled crowd to help Lark mount the platform, which is not so easy in the heavy black robe. “You’re awfully brave, Princess. Great Spirit, you know, the Great Spirit’ll—um.” He swallows.
“No be worry. Soon Lark be Pawnee. Lark Little Brother cousins be.” Little Brother’s lower jaw plummets, along with his heart, no doubt.
Once Lark’s deposited up on the platform Lefty hands his smoldering pipe off and approaches. But Lark ain’t focused at the relentless dude, she’s searching the gallery of faces, painted or plain, don’t seem she’s found what she’s looking for.
“Pawnee chiefs, warriors, old men,” commences Secret Pipe, facing the assembly from a little dirt mound at the base of the stage, “I have this night followed the sacred journey of the Morning Star.” The priest points to the east sky just visible peeking through the trees. “The Morning Star,” looks at Lefty, “has called to the Evening Star,” motions toward Lark. “You two have been chosen. You shall purify the earth to make it bountiful and rich. Our people are grateful beyond the power of words. Begin.” He tilts back his head and intones a pretty fiery chant, which is took up by many of the fellas in the audience and meanwhile, Lefty ascends to the north end of the stage and stands before Lark with arms crossed.
So, Lark’s a wistful actress on the stage, waiting for something that perhaps don’t exactly match up to the script she had writ of her future life and the kind of fella she had halfway figured to spend it with. When Secret Pipe calls a full halt to that there chanting, and turns to face the platform, nobody ain’t talking, nor whispering, nor moving, nor hardly swallowing. This clearing is so peaceful you can hear the gentle rustle of the leaves in the elm tree above. Which is funny, come to think, cause there really ain’t no—. Hmmmh.
I don’t suppose Lark’s been briefed on much of anything of how this here ceremony is to proceed. Up here on these fresh-laid trunks of willow and box elder the gal’s pretty nigh turned hardwood herself. Her eyes don’t, but many other eyes do, seem to watch Left Hand’s agile namesake slowly slither around to his back, leaving the right arm crossed where it was. He opens that back hand and grasps the sacred bow and arrow that’s deftly put there by the Crouching Panther who has stole up to the stage like a shadow. In one neat nifty move, and with a shrill war cry joined by several of his troops, Left Hand draws back the arrow point blank at Lark’s heart, which has altogether quit pumping if her pallor is any gauge. Eagle Chief, deep amid his people, must have somethin on the back of his rust-like hand that needs some careful inspecting at the moment. Auntie Many Clouds has took a unusual interest in a small stitch on the side of her dress. Them two fingers on that bowstring is twitching with readiness to let loose that uninvited arrow.
“Nobody’s sacrificing anybody,” cries the elm tree. Exactly a split second later a solid object geronimos down from the tree and wipes out any sign of Lefty. And his bow and arrow.
While the spectators look up in awe, Red scrambles to his half-crippled feet, scratched, dusty and speckled with bird doo, just in time to catch Lark in a violent swoon. Maybe this young feller’s not such a total klutz as was generally believed.
Ain’t it lucky that Good Sky’s young assistant was the sprint champion of the village three corn festivals in a row, and I think them beaver flaps give him lift. When he gits here with his and Doc’s satchels, Red Moon is still hollaring at everybody.
“If you’re bent on spilling innocent blood, cousins, you’ll—you’ll hafta spill mine first. Does everybody get that? Raise your hand if you don’t! Oh,” says the lad, holding his broad head. “I think I made myself woozy.” The young farmer really sincerely wants to know, in a voice that’s now angled downward and subdued: who started this tale that you need the blood of a virgin sacrificed to the Morning Star to guarantee good crops for the Pawnee? “It isn’t so, it can’t be,” and he looks up and around at the villagers. “You know I’ve proved it time and again.” At his feet sits Lark, with Auntie’s dear arm about her and smoothin the young gal’s hair with soft nubby fingers. The shiny otter jacket has been took off Lark, and with hands folded in her lap she’s prayin I think from Sioux Lookout or somewheres and not here on a Pawnee scaffold built for sacrifice.
With the rising sun stretching through the tree trunks, Eagle Chief stands among his warriors and nods his head slow. “Red Moon,” he says, “your heart is the heart of a lone eagle. And, in a sense, your eyes are the eyes of an eagle. Not unlike the Great Spirit, you see things from far above: how small and foolish are our ways. Son,” he adds, “if you could just put down that rusty hatchet you’re twirling there before you—Thanks.” He speaks for a spell while Red drops his hatchet and catches his breath. It’s like the Chief is thinkin out loud, and some other shrugging elders chip in as well, and the gist of it seems to be that, maybe, though traditions is what keeps the Pawnee people great, even the Pawnee ain’t necessarily perfect and perhaps there’s a tradition or two that oughta be rethunk.
Left Hand ain’t quite conscious yet, his face is froze in a permanent twitch and the big shadow of Hill Seeker leans over him like a dim cloud in a windless sky. Doc and his assistant is both busy tryin to bind up Lefty’s tongue where a slice got chomped off when he was leveled mid-aim, in the act of claiming his destiny. Left Hand won’t be speaking at this here meeting.
“Grateful For What?”
By Brandon Sorenson
Age 15, Cottonwood High
What good are old trees?
How silly they are.
They’re no more to me
than the moon or a star.
They might shade my house,
but I live at the mall.
Don’t you love how the stores
have new clothes in the fall?
While in autumn a cottonwood’s
just a polluter
of leaves on my car
and my thousand buck scooter.
What this town really needs
are more restaurants and stores.
I like my steak medium rare.
How about yours?
When trees stand in the way
of American progress,
which side would you
rather be on?
Take a wild guess.
Well, Ray is tickled like I ain’t ever seen Ray tickled before as his coffee cools and he reads out loud Brandon’s poem that’s the grand winner of the Caterwauler’s essay contest. Then he reads what’s written under the winning photo, which by golly is Keith’s debunked tree carving snapshot. Well, says the caption, doesn’t this picture speak volumes, and isn’t this, deep down, the most poignant image of all the fine entries received? Ray smiles a tired smile so warm and so even that Nickano Jr. might pop it in his display case with the buttery crescents. Kenny’s smile, on the other hand—nevermind, that ain’t Kenny’s fault, only it does go pretty good with how he can sit there and scoff at poems and pictures by young overachievers. “Again with the kids?” says Ray, who’s been around Milt so much he’s startin to talk like him.
Kenny don’t get why everyone’s so critical of a little meatpacking plant, and says so. His bewildered hands and face appeal across the vinyl booth for some enlightenment. But enlightenment from Bill or Milt is generally suspended during critical muffin or pastry maneuvers, which are currently in f
ull sway. “Is everything so dandy here, Ray, nothing should ever change? God forbid we should molest a single blade of grass to try to make things better.”
“Did you read this article?” Ray wants to know. “He tried to buy the city council, lock, stock and barrel. That company oughta be tossed out on its greasy fanny.”
“He didn’t try to buy anyone, he just lobbied, the way they lobby in Washington.”
“Thank you,” says Ray. “I rest my case.”
Kenny throws his hands in the air and then, with a cry of pain, finds out that probly wasn’t the best thing to do with a shoulder that ain’t halfway healed. Well that puts a lid on all the rancoring, and the booth’s a battleground no more. At least until Monday. Bill has took part of the paper from Ray, and Milt has took part of that from Bill, and it’s pretty tranquil by the time Bill gets curious to know when Milt is heading to the big barbeque.
“At three,” says Milt, “or whenever Estelle gets out of the hairdressers. Why, you want to carpool?” He winks at Ray.
“Not if you’re driving.” Four coffee mugs take turns getting a sip or two emptier. News items rustle in occasional gusts of page-turning. “I wouldn’t mind getting there early, though, meet some of those Omaha people. They can’t run an operation like that without some local banking.”
“When you get there, look for me, Bill,” says Kenny. “I’ll introduce you.” I guess he does turn a little bit pink when his three coffeemates sit up straight and stare. A pink-faced Kenny could mean so many different things.
