Caspion & the White Buffalo

by Melvin Litton

  Spotted Tail slept till the following dawn; awakened briefly to take water and stew, then slept again. That evening he told them of his vision. Awoke In Winter granted it was most powerful. “Yes,” he said, “a bull that sets wolves fighting among themselves and that leaps from the spirit to preserve the flesh, he carries the vigor of his race. That bull was sent by Sweet Medicine. The one who first gave the People knowledge of the Maiyun. He who met with the gathered spirits in a cave of the Sacred Mountain. The blessed one.” Then he knitted his brows and glanced to Running Hawk as if gravely perplexed. “But what has become of the young one we called Spotted Tail?” And as suddenly his face broke into a smile. “Behold, nephew, the spirits bade him return to us as Sweet Medicine.”

  Running Hawk agreed—truly, the young one was worthy of his new name. The sun-dancer shared their pleasure. So it was that Spotted Tail came to be called Sweet Medicine—his exemplar courage honored by the very one who’d given the Cheyenne the Sacred Arrows, the Medicine Hat, and instruction in many mysteries.

  Proud and humbled, Sweet Medicine touched his Sun Dance scars. Though still tender, the wounds had closed; the flesh slowly healed. But the ordeal had opened his soul; daily, the Maiyun fed him new wonders. Like the old stories that awed him as a child, the world was transformed, fraught with meanings heretofore unseen. With his hair flowing before the wind, thoughts racing through his mind, Sweet Medicine rode with Running Hawk towards the setting sun where the broad plateau dropped away, hinting of a stream. Water to camp beside.

  Caspion scraped the skull-cap clean and removed bits of meat and fat from the hide; after soaking it in a pool, he hung it on a mesquite branch to dry. Deadfall lay scattered about and he broke the larger ones in half and stacked all leaning towards center for the great evening fire. As usual Boon paid close attention and dragged several limbs as well. Meanwhile Two-Jacks and Stump grazed indifferent to man and wolf-dog, occasionally pricking their ears at a cracking limb. Near sundown, when Caspion stripped off his bloody, sweaty clothes to wash and bathe in the shallow creek, they simply huffed at the sight and continued nibbling the grass. But when he emerged, his entire body smeared in red clay clawed from the opposite bank, and raised the horned skull to his own while the hide draped from his shoulders to the ground, mule and horse tossed their heads and drew back nickering. Only when they heard the familiar voice were they warily assured.

  Under the weight of the robe he walked naked on the grass, and the power of the bull grew within. As night fell Caspion struck a lucifer and the fire soon blazed. He spitted the tongue and liver on a green limb, knelt on his haunches and watched them slowly roast. Man eyes and bull horns glistened before the dancing flames that cast their vibrant light and shadow. When the meat had cooked, he staked the spit, sliced a piece and ate; each alternate portion he fed to Boon, and so on in ritual sharing. Finished, he unfurled the white robe and stood entranced as wind-flames writhed over the emergent form of a woman in quiescent pose. He gazed on the vision; or perhaps a dream. Caked mud fell from the blood-swollen flesh between his thighs; he hunched his shoulders and began to dance around the robe and fire in posture and rhythm natural to his urge, to the drumbeat of his breath—a low, guttural call that stirred the grasses.

  Safely downwind of the wolf-dog’s keen nose, a mere stone-throw north, the two Cheyenne lay on a low rise above the creek, watching the Man-Bull dance his frightful potency. They’d hobbled their ponies and stretched to rest after a spare meal, when they noticed a fire-glow beyond the near rise south. They cautiously approached, for only a large party of Vehos, either hunters or a soldier patrol, would risk such a blaze in Indian country. Though they discerned but one, the greater surprise was the savage appearance of the lone figure dancing about the fire, naked under the bloody hide, charging in and out of the shadows, feinting with the flames as he whirled about and leapt the fiery mass, trailed by a wolf-dog who faithfully leapt in turn. All to the silent watchers’ puzzled amazement. Was this Massa’ne—a madness that mocks the sacred? Or a more vital variation of the Massaum ceremony, the Animal Dance—the prowess of the Man-Bull expressed in its purest form?

  Running Hawk recognized the horse and mule, the white robe, but the man was well-masked by mud and fur; then he caught a flash of the blue eyes and was certain. Using sign, he explained to Sweet Medicine that this was the one known as the Spirit Hunter—the Veho who rode like a Comanche. And they would not disturb him, for if not wholly mad, in his own way he was surely possessed by the Maiyun. Running Hawk sensed the latter, that they witnessed a sacred act old as the first hunter.

  Caught in a transcendent fever, the lunacy of song, like the male of any species, unwary in his splendor, concerned only for the vision he sought and the vital presence within, Caspion enacted the life-story of the bull. Danced the yellow calf nursing at its mother’s teat, now running alongside, frisking in a summer storm as lightning lashed the prairie and torrential rains washed it clean. Danced the seasonal migrations over ancient rutted trails—scaling bluffs, fording rivers, flooding valley after valley in numberless waves as their tumultuous mass humbled even the earth they trod. Danced the young bull’s defensive forays against bear-wolf-lion terrors, his guarded flight before the predator man, his envious urge watching older bulls mounting cows, his first tentative charge and grudging retreat, then ultimate victory. Before the robe and around the fire he danced the many seasons of the great bull’s battle and rut—the scores he defeated, the hundreds he bred, the living herd spawned by the grand thrust of his loins. And finally, he danced the old bull’s tragic unseating, rolled wounded upon the ground then stood noble and defiant before all.

  A heat-storm flashed its brilliant sword-play across the thin-veiled sky, exploding over the four quarters, lighting the prairie from the center to the sacred rim in swaths of crimson, blue-green, and black. Not a drop of rain fell; the storm passed as quickly as a phantom borne on a gusting wind. Caspion now faced east, spreading his arms before the robe, his potency fully evident; but only as a promise, the vital potency, like the rain, awaited a fruitful juncture. As the fire burned low, he knelt exhausted to one knee—knelt before the robe and its recumbent vision.

  The glowing embers outlined the Man-Bull’s shadowed form. Sweet Medicine, recalling his own vision and the bull therein, grew more perplexed before the mystery of the world and man. Running Hawk nudged him; they crawled quietly away and returned to camp. At first light they would ride northwest; at the Man-Bull’s impetus Running Hawk vowed to seek his beloved.

  That dawn Caspion rolled out of his blanket and fetched his clothes from a branch where they’d dried overnight. After dancing, he’d washed the clay from his body and let the warm night air caress him dry as well. He’d slept peacefully, free of dreams, for he had danced a dream, danced a life that made him whole. He placed the great bull’s skull-cap and hide on the stub of a dead limb high in the mesquite where they now caught the morning sun, and so surrendered all to the elements. And riding away—man on horse, wolf-dog in lead, mule trailing—the latter, itself a guileful creature and therefore ever suspicious, cast a final glance behind, making certain the ghost-bull, still swaying in the wind, remained anchored to the tree.

  XV. Sing Your Heart Song

  Broken Wing Bird stood before the lodge and embraced her shoulders, breathing deeply to gather in the nectar left by the early morning rain. Moisture, always sparse throughout the summer, dripped like quickened resin—amber in the first light of dawn. The clouds had scattered, galloping east; a wisp of mare’s tail visible on the horizon.

  From the deep channel of the river a bass surfaced with a brilliant splash to snag a slow-moving fly passing through the vapor rising like camp smoke over the calm water. A large carp moved lazily through the shallows, mindless of two boys stalking from the gooseberry thicket nearby, its dorsal fin prominent before the trailing riffles. An arrow whizzed from the foliage and hit the fish dead center. It thrashed violently as the boys sprung from cover to count co
up with their makeshift clubs.

  “Ah Haih!”—their yelps bright as the silver spray tossed up by their dancing feet.

  Broken Wing Bird smiled, sharing their enthusiasm for the day. Already the cherries had fallen and soon the nights would cool as they entered the time of the Plum Moon. In the warm days remaining, she was eager to harvest this succulent fruit. The previous evening, again kneeling with the water bags by the river, she had spoken briefly with Sweet Medicine, unaware of his approach until the shadow of his pony enveloped her and his reflection shown upon the water. Her heart jumped.

  “Sweet Medicine,” she said, greeting him, “you startled me. You come like a cloud from the west, tall and silent. And how you have grown. Since the Sun Dance, you have become a man.”

  “Beginning the summer hunt,” he answered proudly, though still a boy before a beautiful women, “I stood at Running Hawk’s shoulder. Now I stand past his chin.”

  “May you grow even so tall and continue to learn the ways of the scout.”

  Swelled by her praise, he boldly relayed his message.

  “Then know this, Broken Wing Bird…the great scout, who we both admire, yesterday spied a plum thicket weary of its fruit. Like a mother ready to bear her child, anxious to be unburdened. It lies west along the river, and a short distance north at the third ravine. He says to gather them quickly, perhaps tomorrow, before the passing wind calls the fox, raccoon, and coyote, and the many birds. Our brother, the Hawk, watches through tomorrow and warns all away.”

  Like one who hadn’t breathed she gasped with joy, then promptly lowered her eyes to shield her modesty; when she raised them again to nod her certain acceptance of the plan, they were moist and determined. Shouldering the water bags, happiness spilled from her; her deep wanting overflowed. While Sweet Medicine—herald of the sweetest mystery—hastened his pony and returned to Running Hawk with her reply.

  Since the dawn of Young Bird’s drumming away, Running Hawk had chosen not to enter the camp circle, fearful that his anger and jealousy might spark a murderous rage. He lived removed, as not to torture his heart and eye by the sight of her. Several times, for a fleeting moment, she’d glimpsed him in the distance, like a dream-warrior riding on Cloud Walker. At last, she was to see his face, touch his skin, and yield to pleasures only dreamed. Careful not to attract undue attention, she wore a simple deer-hide dress, the stitching and embroidery, like everything about her, impeccable, and therefore alluring. And there lay a splendor within that shone; an anticipation that made her beauty more vibrant than the rarest adornment.

  At a glance White Deer sensed her happiness, smelled something afoot. Her long dormant suspicions awakened as her knifing eyes drew the inference most desired, and her bleak heart throbbed with spite.

  “Where are you off to?” she snapped, watching Broken Wing Bird tie a parfleche filled with pemmican and smoked meat to her belt then stoop to grasp a large basket fashioned of willow withes and covered with rawhide. White Deer had fumed from the first at the young wife’s firm independence, her propensity to range out of sight, and especially her unseemly urge to run, not like a woman scuttering in urgency or panic, but like a warrior, long-limbed and swift. White Deer was most perturbed that woman’s labor had not slowed her in the least, nor checked her vivacity and caused her to grow properly fat—compliant to her husband’s will, instead of the reverse.

  “I am going to pick plums,” Broken Wing Bird replied, calmly assured, cowering the other with fierce eyes. “They grow on a hillside to the west. I spotted them upon our return from the summer hunt. Today I will see if they have ripened.”

  Though White Deer turned from the gaze, she willfully persisted.

  “Then take Smoking Dove along to help you.”

  Smoking Dove, who’d been tending the fire, sullenly rose and wiped her hands, much resistant to the notion. Her life was rooted within the comfort and periphery of camp, and there she dutifully performed whatever was required. But in carrying water bags and wood bundles and in gathering the various roots, nuts, and berries through the hills beyond, she gladly yielded to the one most supplely formed to the task and had no desire to impede her freedom or efficiency, having established a pleasant bond with the young wife while skinning buffalo during the summer hunt.

  “I will be happy to,” Broken Wing Bird answered, calling the bluff, keenly aware of Smoking Dove’s disdain for the vigorous path. “For it is a long walk and a steep climb. Together we can harvest twice as many and share the heavy burden of the basket.”

  “Sister,” Smoking Dove curtly spoke, “I have many hides to soften”—which was the labor her stout bulk preferred, requiring strength but entirely sedentary, the grueling task lightened by the constant opportunity to gossip with other women. And with this brief statement she flatly refused a long journey in search of plums.

  “There are plums nearby,” White Deer angrily countered, pointing south along the river to a large thicket shaded by towering oaks.

  “That is true, White Deer. But partly hidden, they never grow so juicy or ripen so sweet as those that see the sun. And they are picked over each day by the children.” Noticing Black Hand emerge from the lodge, no doubt curious of the matter in dispute, Broken Wing Bird chose the moment to seal her argument. “For my Father I will pick only the sweetest plums, blushing ripe and juicy.” To address the Chief as “Father” was proper for any member of the band except a wife. But since the day she’d thrown him and he’d made his vow, she addressed him solely as “Father.” And Black Hand replied in kind, addressing her as “Daughter.”

  He grunted, greatly displeased with White Deer who shrank from his withering glare and retreated to the cooking fire, where Smoking Dove bent to her task, concerned only that the radius of her labor not extend beyond the camp circle. Seeing White Deer duly silenced beside the sister-wife, he turned his attention to Broken Wing Bird.

  “Daughter,” he smiled, “take whichever horse you wish. Go quickly now. For my lips long to suck a ripe plum.”

  “My Father is kind. But I won’t need a horse today. It is not so far. And I can run fast. Be patient, I will return with many plums for you.” She swung the hide basket and danced away, running west along the river.

  She followed a narrow path worn by browsing deer and ran with the animal’s graceful ease, her lambent strides unrestrained by the chastity rope she wore tied today for enticement, wrapped delicately about her hips and upper thighs like the sunlight lacing through the trees, slanting across the trail. Through the flickering light and shade, she soon came to the third ravine; and there, she unbraided her hair and shook it free.

  From the near ridge, Running Hawk watched her remove her moccasins and raise her dress to wade the river while his thoughts like the current caressed her thighs. And when she entered the shadowed timber of the ravine, her running vision teased his eye. He lost sight of her and made the cry of the hawk. She stopped to listen, and heard the cry again, then glanced up and saw him riding along the hillside east. Like the promise of life, Cloud Walker’s white image beckoned. At the Hawk’s third cry she answered, her bright laughter echoing like bird song through the trees. Their hearts pounding, they raced to where the ravine rose, surrendering to the grassy plain.

  Before the sun-washed plum thicket, with Cloud Walker grazing nearby, Running Hawk stood waiting. Young Bird emerged from the tree line and proudly approached her mate, her long hair framing her tall beauty, the deer hide clinging to her sweat-dampened flesh. Their eyes fastened on one another; their hearts halved for so long, held apart in exile and torment, starving for freedom to share their love. Each would have died to live this moment. Neither spoke. The wind stirred; the smell of ripe plums sweetened its warm breath. She parted her lips, accepting a plum from him; her tongue worked to strip the fruit, then she swallowed the moist meat and spat the seed into his hand. He fed her another. Smiling, she picked one to feed to him and retrieved the seed from his lips. He touched her breasts still heaving from her racing
ascent. He pressed her nipples beneath the soft hide. She glided her hands over his muscled flanks, searching beneath his loincloth. And a sweet fatigue, like sudden blood loss, infused each as they grew faint with desire; then nature’s implacable will took control and guided them.

  Behind the plum thicket upon the matted grass where deer had lain through the night, Running Hawk spread his red scout blanket. Young Bird untied her belt and dropped her dress to her ankles, then stepped onto the blanket, presenting her full flesh, redolent of sweet grass and horse-mint. He cast aside his loincloth and knelt to his knees, raising his eyes to behold. Beyond the beauty of her face, there lay woven in her slender figure all the softness needed to define her sex. He gently untied the rope to remove her maiden binding; his hand drew to her nest like a bee to a flower. And she opened like a flower to yield her nectar as she lay beneath him. But the dancing spear that entered her was the stallion’s and soon knew her shape and depth and downy edge…and pleased her greatly. A pain longed for and dreamed of, that shortly gave way to unfathomable depths of pleasure. Reaching aside, she clawed the grass to brace herself, arching now to receive his hunting thrusts, to surge with his battling loins—all gentleness overpowered by their passion. She rolled her eyes to the trees and sky beyond and cried out to the Maiyun, for his strength was frightful and sublime within.