by Jane Yolen
“Why should I do this?” she asked.
“Because you will need them on the trail back to your people.”
She looked straight in his face and saw that there was no deceit there. She did not look at his crooked leg.
“You will wear out many moccasins on the trail,” he said.
When does the bear come in, grandfather?
Soon.
How soon?
Soon enough. It is not time to cut this story off. Listen. You will have to tell it back to me, you know.
THIS IS AN UNCORRECTED PROOF
THIS IS NOT FOR SALE
Walks with the Sun made many moccasins, and for every three she made, she hid one away. This took her through winter and into the spring when the snow melted and the first flowers appeared down by the river bank.
“We will go in the morning for the buffalo,” said Fifth Man Over to his wives. By this he meant he would ride a horse and they would come behind with the pack horse pulling the travois sled.
“She should not come with us,” said his first wife, pointing to Walks with the Sun. “She is a Cheyenne and has no stamina and will not be able to keep up and will want more than her share of the meat.”
“And she is ugly,” said the second wife, but she did not say it very loud.
“I will stay home, my husband,” said Walks with the Sun, “and make the lodge ready for your return.”
“And you will not break any of the pots we have worked so hard on,” said the first wife.
‘“And you will not eat anything till we come back,” said the second wife.
With all this Walks with the Sun agreed, though she would have loved to see the buffalo in their great herds and the men on their horses charging down on the bulls, even though they were Crow and not Cheyenne. She had heard that the sound of the buffalo running was like thunder on the great open plain, that it was a music that made the grass dance. But she kept her head bent and her eyes modestly down.
So Fifth Man Over and his two wives and most of the other hunters and their wives left to go after the buffalo. And the Arapaho went, too, for he was to take care of the horses along the way.
Grandfather, a buffalo is not a bear, and you promised.
There will be a bear.
Buffalo do not eat bear. Bear eat buffalo. I prefer the bear.
There will be a bear.
There had better be.
But the young man returned the long way around, leaving his own horse in the timber outside of the camp. He came limping into the Crow village and the old people said to him, “Why are you here? What has happened to the people?” By this they meant the Crows.
“Nothing has happened to the people. They are following the buffalo. But my horse threw me and ran away and I have come back for another.” He went to Fifth Man Over’s lodge and saddled another horse and put two fine blankets on it, but not the best, because he was a slave after all. But before he mounted up, he went into the lodge and said to Walks with the Sun, “Now is your time. I have hidden my own horse in the timber down by the creek. You must take a large pot and go down later for water and you will find it there. Put your extra moccasins in the pot, for should you lose the horse, you will surely need them.”
“What of you?” asked Walks with the Sun. “Surely you want to leave here.”
“I have no other home,” he answered.
“Then you shall come home with me,” she said.
“I am poor and I have a bad leg and I am not a Cheyenne,” he said. “But I will watch out for you, never fear.”
He rode away, but in a different direction from the creek, so that no one would suspect that the two of them had spoken. And Walks with the Sun did as he instructed. Taking a large pot, she put the moccasins in. Then she went to the creek. There she found the horse, saddled, with two blankets. Swinging herself up into the saddle, she began to ride south, toward her home.
I am still waiting, grandfather.
Patience is a good thing in the young.
I am not patient. I am impatient.
I did not notice. The bear, though, is coming. In fact, grandson, the bear is here.
Here? Where?
In the story. But you cannot see it unless you listen.
I see with my eyes. I hear with my ears, grandfather.
You must do both, child. You must do both.
Walks with the Sun rode many miles until both she and the horse were tired. So she got off, unsaddled it, and let the horse feed on the new spring grass. Then she re-saddled the horse and rode another long time past the Pumpkin Buttes. There she made camp, but without a fire in case anyone should be looking for her.
In the middle of the night she awoke because of a huffing and snuffling sound and the horse got frightened and screamed like a white woman in labor, and broke its rope. It ran off not to be found again.
And there, near here, with the moonlight on its back, was . . .
The bear, grandfather.
The bear, grandson.
Walks with the Sun spoke softly to the bear, not out of honor but out of fear. “Oh, Bear,” she said, “take pity on me. I am only a poor Cheyenne woman and I am trying to get back to my own people.” And then, quietly, carefully, she pulled on a pair of moccasins and stood. Carrying several more pairs in each hand, she backed away from the bear. When she could no longer see the great beast, she turned around and ran.
She ran until she was exhausted and then she turned and looked behind her. There was the bear, just a little way behind. So, taking a deep breath, she ran again until she could barely put one foot in front of the other. When she turned to look again, the bear was still there.
At last she was so tired that she knew she must rest, even if the bear was to kill her. She sat down on a hollow log, and fell asleep sitting up, heedless of the bear.
While she slept, she heard the bear speak to her. His voice was like the rocks in a river, with the water rushing over. He said: “Get up and go to your people. I am watching to protect you. I am stepping in your tracks so that the Crows cannot trail you, so that Fifth Man Over and his ugly wives cannot find you.”
When Walks with the Sun awoke, it was still dark. The bear was squatting on its haunches not far from her, its head crowned with the stars. Awake, she did not think he could have spoken, so she was still afraid of him.
She rose carefully, put on new moccasins, and began her journey again, but this time she did not run. She walked on until she could walk no longer. Then she lay down under a tree and slept.
You said he spoke in a dream, grandfather.
I said he spoke while she slept, grandson.
Is that the same as really speaking?
You are sitting with me on the buffalo-calf
robe. Do you need to ask such questions?
In the morning Walks with the Sun awoke and saw the bear a little ways off on top of a small butte. It did not seem to be looking at her, but when she started to walk, it followed again in her tracks.
So it went all the day, till she reached the Platte River. Since this was early spring, the waters were full from bank to bank. Walks with the Sun had no idea how she could get across.
She sighed out loud but said nothing else. At the sound, the bear came over to her, looked in her face, and his breath was hot and foul-smelling. Then he turned his back to her and stuck his great rear in her face. By this she knew that he wanted her to get on his back.
“Bear,” she said, “if you are willing to take me across the river, I am willing to ride.” And she crawled on his back and put her arms around his neck, just in front of his mighty shoulders. With a snort, he plunged into the water.
The water was cold. She could feel it through her leggings. And the river tumbled strongly over its rocky bed. But stronger still was the bear and he swam across with ease.
When they got to the other side, the bear waited while she dismounted, then he shook himself all over, scattering water on every leaf and stone. Then he rolled on the gr
ound.
While he was rolling, Walks with the Sun started on. When she looked back, the bear was following her just as he had before.
So it went for many days, the Cheyenne woman walking, the bear coming along behind. When she was hungry, he caught a young buffalo calf and killed it. She skinned it, cut it into pieces, took her flint, made a fire, then cooked the meat. Some of it she ate, and some she gave to the bear.
The rest she rolled in the skin, making a pack she carried on her back.
Did she feed him by hand, grandfather?
By hand?
Did she hold out pieces for him to eat?
That would be foolish, indeed, grandson. He could have taken her hand off at the wrist and not even noticed. Where do you young people come up with such foolish ideas, heh?
Then how did she feed the bear?
She put it down on the ground a little way from her and the bear walked up and ate it.
Oh.
They came at last to the Laramie River and below was a big village, with so many lodges they covered the entire bank.
“I do not know if those are my people or not,” Walks with the Sun said. “Can you go and find out for me?”
The bear went up close to the outermost lodge, but someone saw him and shouted, and someone else, an old man whose hand was not so steady, shot an arrow at him. The arrow pierced his left hind foot and he ran back to Walks with the Sun, limping.
“Oh, Bear,” she cried, “you are hurt and it is all my fault.” She knelt down and pulled the arrow from his foot and stopped the bleeding with the heel of her hand.
When the people tracked the blood trail to them, she was still sitting there, holding the bear in her arms. Only he was no longer a bear, but a young man with a strong nose and straight black hair and a left foot that was not quite straight.
The bear turned into the Arapahoe slave, grandfather?
That is not what I said, grandson.
But I thought you said . . .
Listen, grandson, listen.
Walks with the Sun took the buffalo hide, shook it out, and turned it so the hair side was outward. Then she wrapped the Arapahoe in it to show he was a medicine man. Her people put great strings of beads around his neck and gave him feathers to honor him. Then they lifted him onto a travois sled and, pulling it themselves, brought him into the village.
He never walked as a bear again, except twice, when the people were threatened by Crows. Walks with the Sun became his wife and they had many children and many grandchildren, of which I am one, and you are another. The buffalo hide we are sitting on today is the very one of which I have spoken.
Is that a true story, grandfather?
It is a true story, grandson.
But how can it be true, grandfather? People can’t turn into bears. Bears can’t turn into people.
Heh. They do not do so today. But we are speaking of the time when the Cheyenne were a great nation and still in the north, when the land was covered with buffalo, and we passed the medicine arrows and buffalo hat from keeper to keeper.
And the buffalo hide, grandfather?
And the buffalo hide, grandson. This ties it off.
What does that mean?
That storytelling is over for the night. That it is time for children to ask no more questions but to sleep, For old men to dream by the fire.
This ties it off, grandfather.
Wrestling with Angels
MY FATHER WRESTLED WITH an angel and, like Jacob in the Bible, was lamed in the match. It happened on Ninety-sixth, across the street from our building. I was just a little boy then, in a stroller, but I know the story is true. My father limped ever after.
But the angel is not the hero of my father’s story. Not at all.
And maybe my father isn’t, either.
He had been taking me out for some fresh air, if you can call what New York City has fresh. Or air. My mom was pregnant and having a difficult time coping with my noisy enthusiasms. So my father had promised to give her time for a much-needed nap.
We had just crossed the street into Central Park, and he was pushing the stroller along a path that winds past a small outcropping of rocks, when something large and dark fell from the sky.
My father’s first thought was that the thing was a kite. Or a large bird. Or a piece of metal that had fallen off a plane heading for La Guardia Airport.
“Jeez, Jesse,” he said to me.
I saw it, too, and reached out my hand for it. “Mine!” I said, as I said about everything in those days.
But the falling thing was heading straight toward a child playing ball on the grass.
Dad let go of my stroller and took off running toward the child. He was a New York cop in those days, and he had quick instincts.
He was fast, too, pushing the kid aside and out of harm’s way. The big falling thing hit him instead, wrapping itself around him. It was only then that he realized that he had hold of an angel.
The angel was man-shaped, the color of old gold, with dark, almond-shaped eyes. Its wingspread was enormous. Dad often said that without those wings, he could have beaten the angel in that first fall—because though it was his size, it seemed to weigh very little, as if its bones were as hollow as a bird’s. But those wings, Dad said, made up for its lack of weight. They simply wrapped around Dad’s shoulders and head, nearly suffocating him.
All the while it wrestled with him, the angel sang. Dad said that it was years before he realized the angel had been singing a Te Deum. He didn’t recognize it until he returned to the Mother Church.
How long the two of them struggled, Dad didn’t know. But somewhere along the way, the angel got hold of his thigh and yanked hard, pulling it out of joint. A hold they teach in angel school, I guess, because it’s the same one that’s in the Bible, Genesis 32:25. I looked it up.
Dad screamed—a sound I hope never to hear again—and fell to the ground; but he took hold of the angel around the waist and carried it down with him. The minute the angel touched the ground, it screamed back, as if the very earth had wounded it.
“. . . !” the angel cried in some unknown tongue.
“You’re under arrest, damn you,” Dad said. Even though he was not on duty, he carried handcuffs with him. Somehow he managed to cuff the angel’s wrists behind; maybe—or so I am guessing—because Dad’s curse had weakened it sufficiently. Or because, like the fairies in the old tales, its power was drained by metal.
Grabbing the angel’s shoulder with one hand and pushing my stroller with the other, Dad took the angel down to the police station to book it. He limped painfully all the way.
“Mine!” I said, reaching out for the angel. It turned its dark eyes on me and I cried and looked away.
No one at the station could see the angel’s wings. No one in the park had seen the angel falling toward the child. In fact, no one could even find the child, though they went door-to-door asking.
Some of the cops thought Dad had booked a very thin and very old man who spoke no English and looked perfectly harmless. Chinese, probably, they thought, looking away from the almond eyes. And no matter how much Dad begged them, they wouldn’t weigh him.
“Jeez, Bernulli,” the sergeant said to Dad, “of course he weighs nothing. He’s just skin and bones. Comes from eating only rice.”
The desk officer was sure Dad had been drinking. Dad had been known to throw back a beer or two on duty; he’d been reprimanded more than once. He and Mom argued about it all the time. I remember those fights vividly.
The cops finally had to let the angel go because there was no evidence. The angel disappeared right outside the door to the station. “Went to Chinatown,” the sergeant said.
When Dad pointed skyward, his buddies laughed at him. He became the joke of the station. “Wrestling Jake,” they called him. And sometimes, “Wings Bernulli.”
Because of his bad leg, Dad was retired from the force within a few months, and then he really did start drinking. He saw angels every
where after that. And imps and little pink elephants as well.
As for Mom, she had not been amused when he’d called her from the station to come and get me that day. It was a “last straw,” she said. Though the real last straw didn’t happen till five years later; that’s when they got divorced.
I saw Dad as often as I could. He lived only a few blocks away, after all. But it was never very pleasant, what with his drinking. He wasn’t a mean drunk, just a sloppy one. And he talked endlessly about angels.
No one took him seriously, of course, though every once in a while Mom would threaten to have him put away. But she couldn’t do it. Not legally, not without his permission, since they were no longer married.
“I’m not so crazy as that, Jesse,” he used to say to me. “You saw the angel, too. Don’t you remember? Just a little?”
But all I remembered of that angel was in my dreams: a dark shadowy figure falling like a bird of prey from the sky in a sharp, perilous stoop. So I never really believed my dad’s story. I mean—who could?
And then, quite suddenly, he quit drinking in a noisy conversion that included a baptism and a church where they did laying-on of hands. He changed his name to Israel because, he told me, it means “wrestles with angels.”
The new name, the new church, didn’t stop him from gabbing endlessly about angels. But these people liked his stories. If anything, he told more stories until, at last, he seemed to have talked himself out. Then he left that church and went back to Saint Mary’s. Mom used to see him there at early Mass, and they would smile at one another, she said. Not old enemies any longer, but not exactly old friends, either. That was where he heard the Te Deum and mentioned it to me, not to prove anything (as if after all these years it could have been called proof), but just as if some curious itch had finally been scratched.
Then one night he was on the back porch of my house in Connecticut, where he’d come for a weekend. We were talking, reminiscing really. About the days when we had been a family on Ninety-sixth Street. Dad and Mom; my sister, Jeanie; and me.
I said, “Did you ever find out what it was that made you think that old Chinese man was an angel?”
“I drank a lot in those days, Jesse,” he said. “I don’t do that anymore.” He said it like an apology. Like a prayer.
