Sacajawea (19 page)

From a pile of elk skins, the Ahnahaway produced a tightly woven willow cage. Inside was a black crow that rasped
“Haw!”
in a coarse, jeering way when the Ahnahaway’s finger probed his side.

There was a sort of wicked gleam in the bird’s canny eye and a world of wile in the sly cant of its head. The Ahnahaway fed the bird bits of dried meat and sunflower seed. Rising voices from the other traders couldbe heard. Sacajawea turned then, as if to move away, but Old Grandfather took her wrist in his hand.

“Crows live to be a man’s age,” said the Ahnahaway, looking at the girl. “Can you guess the age of this one?”

“Seems he is old enough to resign from hunting his own food,” said Old Grandfather. “Will he fly off with his kind in the fall?”

“Not this bird. He knows a good thing. And besides, he has grown lazy.”

“Haw!”
jeered the captured crow.

Old Grandfather was pleased with the bird. “My youngest grandson will carry him on his shoulder and be known as Black Crow by his tribe. Perhaps he will teach the crow to talk. This is a day to remember.”

“Ai,
he is a wise bird and could easily learn to speak,” said the Ahnahaway.

“It is a bargain, then,” said Old Grandfather. “This Shoshoni slave girl is yours, and the bird is mine.”

“I cannot go with this brave,” Sacajawea said, trembling. “I live in your lodge. What will Catches Two say?”

Old Grandfather looked like a dog that had been whipped. “He and Old Mother will say plenty.”

Sacajawea regarded him impassively for a moment. “What about Antelope and Talking Goose?”

“They will get along. You must go with him.”

“Are you displeased with my work?”

“No, it is not that. Old Mother made the decision. Catches Two was to carry it out by evening today. One who mourns the death of a wild dog as if it were a relative is taboo. There is too much talk in the village. It is final. If you return with me today to the lodge of Catches Two, you will sleep forever beside your dog.” With an explicit gesture he sliced his finger across his throat.

For a long moment Sacajawea did not reply. Her legs felt weak. “All I know about the Ahnahaways is that they eat worms.”

“Not like Hidatsas, who eat each other,” said Old Grandfather. Sacajawea suddenly noticed the dark circles of sleeplessness under his eyes, and his reddened lids.

“I will expect her to treat me with respect,” said the Ahnahaway.

“Ah, she is not criticizing you,” replied Old Grandfather, looking down his nose and grunting. “You’d better get her out of here before I change my mind about the trade.” He picked up the bird in the cage, and without another word he turned around and trotted off.

Sacajawea watched as he was swallowed by the crowd.

“Come along,” said the Ahnahaway.

“Are you taking me to your village?”

“Ai,
but not now. I came here for a good time. I want to try some games. There is plenty of time for talking. Get the elk skins and follow me.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

He scowled and pinched his lips, indicating there should be no more talking.

Soon they were watching a game of arrows. A small tingle of excitement crept through her as she watched men shoot arrows as fast as they could into the air, seeing who put the most skyward before the first fell to the ground. Frequently as many as five arrows were up before the first struck the earth.

The Ahnahaway yelled, “Ho! Ho!” several times to show his approval of the contestants.

Sacajawea cried, “Oooo, good!”

The Ahnahaway frowned at her.

Someone yelled, “Winner take all,” and four prize arrows were put into a ring marked out in the dirt. When an Ojibwa brave placed a parfleche of kinnikin-nick mixed with tallow, his tobacco, and a gleaming, long-bladed copper knife inside the ring, the Ahnahaway could not contain himself.

“Put the skins in the ring,” he said.

“All of them?” asked Sacajawea.

“Ai,
and sit on the pile,” he said.

“Why? It will not walk away,” she said.

“You talk more than any woman I have ever met,” he said. “I like women who open their mouth only for eating, and then not too wide.”

There were boisterous cheers from the players and onlookers when Sacajawea did as she was told. The Ahnahaway swaggered around a bit, then quickly he took the bow and put seven arrows into the air with a fast whirring. It was the best performance. He let the other contestants gather the arrows. He put the knifein his belt, and the four beautiful arrows in his leather quiver, and he told Sacajawea to come along with the remainder of his loot.

“Are we leaving for your village now?” she asked.

“Ho! A moment!” called a man with great hollows under his eyes and loose skin in the dark planes of his face. The newcomer placed two prize weasel tails in the center ring and told the Ahnahaway to replace the wicked-looking copper knife and the skins with the girl. The game was not over. The newcomer picked up the bow, feeling the tautness of its string several times. He carried ten arrows in a quiver on his back. Then he placed his feet slightly apart and flexed his knees. The crowd became quiet as, faster almost than the eye could see, he released the arrows—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine—and then
plew!
the first hit the ground. The newcomer looked around for anyone to take the bow from him and top his record. No one moved. The man with hollows under his eyes picked up his weasel tails and lifted them high to the heavens then down to the earth and slowly to the east, west, north, and south. Then he laughed and the hollows in his cheeks seemed to fill.

This man was the new owner of Sacajawea.

He seemed to like the copper knife, and put it in the leather thong that held up his leggings. He put the parfleche of tobacco in the center of a buffalo hide with the four metal-tipped arrows, and all that in the center of the elk skins. Making a large, neat roll, he handed the bundle to Sacajawea.

The Ahnahaway watched while this was being done. “I heard her Hidatsa owner call her by the name of Sacajawea. And it is a fitting name—she chatters like a bird, a magpie. I wish you health.” Then he disappeared.

Sacajawea followed her new owner through the groups of traders, past the games of chance, where someone called, “Fast Arrow, come show us how this is done.” He waved his arm but did not stop. They walked past the camp of the Assiniboin and the larger one of the Oglala Sioux. At the next village they stopped to drink at a spring before continuing to walk on soft earth.

Sacajawea’s face remained expressionless, but herthoughts tumbled upon one another and she was bothered by the flies. They did not seem to bother the Metaharta. Maybe he had a good coat of bear’s grease on him. She would miss Antelope and the children and Talking Goose, who scolded about things but didn’t mean it so much, and Old Mother and Old Grandfather, and even Catches Two. She wondered if the Agaidüka women would hear that she had been traded for a crow, then won by a Metaharta at a game of arrows. Probably not—who was there to tell who knew? Suddenly she realized she was getting farther away from the hope of any rescue by the People. Fast Arrow nudged her, and she awoke from her thoughts.

The sun was in the middle of the sky when Sacajawea spotted a group of horses staked out beside a village of round earth lodges, similar to those she had just left. There was a pole fence around this village also. Fast Arrow led her through the gate and down a labyrinth of narrow paths between the earth mounds, and then inside a lodge.

The circular room was dim compared to the outdoor brightness. Three women were working near the little buffalo-chip fire in the center of the floor. There were an old man and several children there, too. The lodge was arranged in the familiar manner, with sleeping couches forming the outer circle around the room against the smoke-stained walls. Each bed was marked by a high post topped with an antelope, deer, or buffalo head. Sacajawea put Fast Arrow’s bundle of winnings down beside him as he took his seat, an elevated one, made from short logs covered with an elk skin.

The small children ceased their noisemaking, and the adults sat cross-legged around the fire looking toward Fast Arrow. He stood, bared his blue-tattooed chest, made by rubbing ashes into tiny cuts, and puffed on a pipe decorated with many eagle feathers. His smile was boastful, but not cruel or lustful.

“My mother and great father, my sister, and my woman and children,” he began, “this warrior”—pointing to himself—“has brought home a new knife with which my woman can skin the buffalo more easily. I have a robe from a very young buffalo. It is for Sucks His Thumb.” A boy of about three years pulled his headfrom his mother’s lap, stopped sucking his thumb, and toddled to Fast Arrow. The boy carried the robe back to his mother’s lap. “Here is a bag of tobacco. This is for my mother.” A middle-aged squaw reached up with competent, work-hardened hands to catch the bag. One hand stayed on that of her son for a single moment; then she grinned broadly into his face. Her flattened nose, full mouth, and low forehead were pure Meta-harta, but her skin was lightened from dead brown by a copper warmth. White blood ran in her. Many of the Mandan Nation and some Minnetarees had the strain from the seed of French traders, and perhaps from long ago when the Welsh had come to settle.

“Four arrows with fine metal tips I will keep myself. For shooting nine arrows into the air before the first struck the ground, I have more. These elk skins I give to my sister, who can make moccasins and a dress for herself. And see this girl, who is not of our nation but who is said to be called Sacajawea? I give her to my old father so that she may bring some light into his life. When he has no need of her, she may be shared by my woman, who has much trouble keeping her children at her side.”

Someone snickered. It was the sister, with her hands covering her face, her body rocking slowly from side to side. Sacajawea looked from the swaying girl to the father, who wiggled in satisfaction and looked toward Sacajawea with an interested stare. She felt dizzy; a sickness in the pit of her belly spread throughout her body.

“Ai,
she shall bathe me each morning and rub sweet grasses on my back and feet. She shall bring my pipe and keep my old bones warm. Ha! She will be better than a buffalo robe in the Season of Cold Winds.” He laughed a high-pitched wail.
“Yeeewooo,
we may fly on that wind!”

Sacajawea trembled, then caught herself. Anger rose hot inside her. She would never warm that old one! Tears were close to the surface. She stood very still. She tried hard to make herself feel resignation at her fate. The feeling would not come.

Softly the young wife, called Rosebud, said, “He is teasing. Come hold the baby.” Her face crinkled at thesides and looked friendly. Sacajawea stared a moment, then slowly moved among the children and cradled the black-haired papoose, who stopped whimpering when she placed the small head in the hollow of her neck and rocked back and forth. It was some time before she relaxed and noticed that the baby had curled his hand around one of her fingers. Sacajawea looked up at the young mother, who was happily making a chain from joint grass, which she fitted around the waist of a little girl to hold in her small tunic. Everyone seemed to have gone about their business, and Fast Arrow had gone outside the lodge. The mother stirred the contents of the huge clay pot on the fire. Rosebud shifted another little girl on her knee and whispered to Sacajawea that the old mother’s name was Grasshopper. The old father, Grasshopper’s man and Rosebud’s father, was Redpipe. Redpipe was tormented.

Sacajawea asked, “Tormented by whom?”

“By spirits. He is cursed.” She pointed to her head. “He does not always know what he does. Our people have a high regard for him. He speaks with the spirit world. Therefore he is revered because he does not speak with his own mind. Treat him well.”

Sacajawea looked again at the wizened old fellow.

“He speaks to the spirits in anger, so that he raves and lashes out at those near him,” Rosebud went on. “But it is the spirits doing this, not Redpipe. Then for many days he will not speak with spirits, but will be himself.”

“Here, child, take this to Redpipe,” said Grasshopper, offering a dried pumpkin half-filled with soup to Sacajawea. She took it gingerly and stepped to the corner where the old man, who looked faded and shrunken, as though he had sat in the hot sun too long, sat sucking on his pipe. Her heart beat loudly as he looked up with eyes that were completely rimmed with white and seemed almost popping from his head.

Sacajawea served soup in pumpkin bowls to Rosebud and her children, and the sister, Sweet Clover, who continued to rock from side to side, and Grasshopper. The women ate after the man was finished. Then Sacajawea was handed a bowl. Sacajawea noticed that Grasshopper was a good-looking woman, dressed in atunic embroidered with colored beads and porcupine quills, and on her wrists were bracelets of woven reed stained bright colors.

Sacajawea thought she had no appetite, but as she lifted the wooden spoon to her mouth, the smell was overwhelming, sweet and savory. With a few quick spoonfuls she emptied the bowl. She knew this time that upon eating the corn soup she was to be considered one of the members of the village.

“Would you like more soup?” asked Grasshopper. “I think you have had a full day. It would be well to rest. This bed is not used, and Sweet Clover has an extra robe.”

In a moment the couch was fixed and Grasshopper had removed Sacajawea’s moccasins. This unexpected kindness left Sacajawea staring out of the corner of her eye at the woman.

“You are such a little thing,” said Grasshopper, who patted her own broad behind, indicating she ate too much, she was growing fat. “Those men had no heart. You were starving, and they thought only of games. I’m glad you are here. Just look at those callused hands. Did you work in the fields for the Ahnahaways?”

“For the Hidatsas.”

Grasshopper clicked her tongue and patted Sacajawea’s face. “They are all savages, every one. We’ll be easier on you. Now sleep.”