Stone Song (20 page)

“Then I noticed that I was not getting an answer. All the creatures of the earth had disappeared. The sky was empty of winged people. The dirt showed no crawling people. No four-legged people could be seen.” Curly looked savagely at his father. “Then I knew. My answer was a curse. In response to my cry, all living things died.”

The ferocity of Curly’s voice actually hurt. There was plenty to help him with.

Curly’s head dropped again.
Oh, my son
, Tasunke Witko’s heart sang,
your only misstep is shame
.

“I fell asleep that night,” Curly muttered. “The next night I didn’t even try to stay awake.”

He looked up at his father angrily.
I’m rotten
, his eyes said,
but this is me
. “The answer of Spirit never changed.” Meaning silence, emptiness, nothingness, the void. His eyes held Tasunke Witko’s in a dare. “On the third afternoon I quit.”

Curly fell silent. Sometimes there was nothing to do but wait. Tasunke Witko had never had a more painful wait than this black stillness.

Curly finally went on, “When I tried to get back on my horse to come back to the village, I was weak and dizzy. I was afraid of falling off. I sat against the sunpole tree to rest, and that was when it happened.”

Curly felt mesmerized again as he told it. “I saw a horse trotting lightly. It pranced beautifully, floating without touching the ground….”

Tasunke Witko felt pitched around, like a skin boat on a rough river.

His son had seen beyond, and
what
he had seen—Tasunke Witko had scarcely heard of a waking dream so sustained, so vivid, so powerful.

Powerful, yes. Curly had been endowed with one of the great gifts: invulnerability from enemy fire. He had come to know his spirit helper, Hawk. He had …

He had dreamed of Inyan, an ancient power, very great.

He had also dreamed of
wakinyan
, a difficult medicine. And he had been shown his way, the path of the warrior, not the
wicasa wakan
. In the dream Rider did nothing but ride into war.

The waves of joy and sorrow and fear and exultation tossed Tasunke Witko up and down roughly.

Fool
, he accused himself.
I have been a fool. My son was struggling with a vision. When I should have helped him, I rode up and accused him of alarming me and his mothers. He was lying there fresh from seeing beyond, and I noticed nothing. Fool!

Three years of pain because …

Tasunke Witko sat staring at the ground.

That was past. What was important now was to give solace and understanding to his son. Often they couldn’t cross the unseen barriers between them. Tasunke Witko now had to do so and offer to his son what he gave to other dreamers. The two of them must discover what the waking dream meant to Curly, what meanings he already knew, what meanings he might discover now or soon. Some meanings would be clouded, probably for a long time.

What the
wicasa wakan
or any other person saw meant nothing. The object was for Curly to see. As a guide Tasunke Witko might stimulate, or elaborate a very little, no more.

“Let’s go back into the sweat lodge,” said Tasunke Witko.

Four more rounds of sweating, of praying, of asking for wisdom. Between rounds, they sat with the lodge cover lifted. Bathed in sunlight and in cooling air, they did not talk. Nor did Tasunke Witko think. He turned the pictures of Curly’s vision over and over in his mind, getting to know them.

He burned a little sweetgrass to invite the presence of the spirits. Then the work started.

“You realized it was your pony. It had gotten rid of its hobbles and was running free and trotting toward you. Its legs danced, and its neck was held high.”

Tasunke Witko had the knack of repeating dreams back to the dreamers, either sleeping dreamers or waking dreamers, almost word for word. It came from his trance-like concentration while they told what they saw. He found that it made them feel affirmed in the dream and in its power. It also made them believe in his ability to see into the dream. This was his calling,
wicasa wakan
.

“On its back sat a rider leaning forward, perfectly motionless on the prancing pony, except that the fringe on the heels of his moccasins trembled.”

“Yes,” Curly put in. “Everything was clearer than life ever is, sharp and gleaming, like quartz crystals in a rock.”

“So you knew: you were seeing beyond.”

Tasunke Witko could see in Curly’s face that he was seeing it again now, and seeing more, realizing more than he had the first time.

“The moment you knew, the pony changed colors—it became a bay, then an appaloosa, then a grulla, a strawberry roan, and other colors in succession.” He flicked a smile at Curly and was pleased to see his son’s face rapt.

“The pony was saying,” the boy plunged ahead, “ ‘I am not just
a
horse. I am Horse.’ Rider was like a bright stone I’d found. I turned him in my sight to study every facet of him.”

Curly’s voice was thrumming with excitement now. “Now I know what I only glimpsed then. The rider was me. That was clear because he never spoke to me, yet I knew his every thought. His thoughts were my thoughts.”

Said Tasunke Witko, “So who was Rider?”

“Myself, grown up.”

“Yourself as a possibility,” prompted Tasunke Witko.

Curly nodded happily, almost dreamily. Tasunke Witko wondered if the boy saw that this vision was a mountain to climb.

“Do you see how to dress yourself for war, and paint yourself?”

“Yes,” Curly said in acceptance, “like Rider exactly. Hair long and loose. In it only a few beads and one eagle feather. The feather upside down, like a war eagle when it is about to kill. Very plain clothing.”

“Paint?”

Curly’s voice had the hypnotic throb of the drum now. “Rider wore no paint at first. Later lightning streaks and hail spots.” Curly leapt forward: “Am I intended for a life of war? In the dream Rider was a warrior only.” The light in Curly’s eyes spoke his enthusiasm for being called as a warrior.

“A warrior especially,” Tasunke Witko agreed. He barely felt his disappointment that his son was not called to be a
wicasa wakan
, at least not yet. “But the dream hints of other ways, ways that might be revealed now or later.”

His son fell silent for a moment. He was evidently seeing again, fully seeing, far from this sweat lodge, far from his father and from the ordinary earth.

“We’ll talk about dreaming of
wakinyan
after a while,” Tasunke Witko said gently. In the tone of a quotation, he went on, “Beneath his left shoulder, slung over a thong from the opposite shoulder, one eagle feather adorned an Inyan creature. Also Inyan was tied behind the ear.”

“Inyan medicine,” said Curly.

“Yes.” This was a delicate point. Inyan represented a power that might change everything Curly had seen. It might lead to new visions later, to a completely different path. Not everything was revealed at the beginning.

“You must tell Horn Chips about Inyan,” Tasunke Witko said.

Curly nodded soberly. Tasunke Witko wondered how much he had heard about Inyan medicine. It was very ancient, very strange—most Lakota were leery of it.

Tasunke Witko made a little
humph
to himself. The blessing and hazard of a vision was, when you started walking its path, you could sense its promise but not see its further course or its end. If you could, you might not start.

Tasunke Witko went on quietly. “From the obscuring, velvety blue-gray of these shadows came the enemy fire, streaks flashing toward the rider, fast and dangerous, maybe arrows, maybe bullets. They flashed toward you, ominous in the air. But before touching your flesh they disappeared. Like raindrops from a high thundercloud over desert, they evaporated coming to the earth’s flesh. None tore your skin, none broke your bones, none shed your blood.”

Tasunke Witko stopped. This was where he sensed that Curly had left something out. That was good—a dreamer must always keep something for himself alone.

Curly felt his silence like a clot in his throat. He didn’t want to talk about the hands of his own people grasping at him from behind, clutching, holding him back. Or his sense that he could be hurt only by the hands of his own or when the hands were holding him.

He swallowed hard. He would trust himself. His impulse was to keep silent, and he would. There was no need to bring grief before its time. Hawk was still quiet.

“I am promised invulnerability,” said the boy. His tone struck even him as queer. “But the Sahiyela were promised that at the Creek of Turkeys.” He looked at his father pleadingly.

“Power is always mysterious,” Tasunke Witko said.

Curly contemplated. Goose bumps rose on his skin. What if invulnerability was an illusion? He shook his head. Maybe later he would understand and in understanding find his courage. Hawk stirred.

Tasunke Witko took a deep breath. This part of the dream frightened both of them. “Do you understand? You must go first, in front. You must overcome fear. So you must keep your life and your medicine in such order that you will always feel the power of your dream within you.”

Curly looked his father straight in the eye. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. Even this was a good start.

“It will be hard to go always in front, always feel bold. You have to.” The father eyed his son hard. “Always lead the charge, as Rider did, knowing that the enemy arrows and bullets cannot hurt you.

“I must tell you this next part carefully, and you must listen well.” The father’s chest wanted to expand with pride, but his bowels were trying to turn watery. This was difficult advice to give a beloved son, whose bumps and bruises you’d kissed. “When you are riding forth dangerously, as in your dream, you are protected. If you try to hang back for safety, not only will you be vulnerable, Spirit may paint you a lesson in your own blood.”

Curly felt his father’s fear, felt him quail as he emphasized the words. Then Tasunke Witko took a deep breath and went on. “Now Rider was stripped to nothing but a breechcloth, and rode harder, faster, in a martial vigor. Behind him a thunderstorm erupted. Dark clouds roiled, lightning flashed and gave birth to sound. A zigzag of lightning rose on Rider’s cheek like a wound. Hail spots welted his body.”

Curly felt his own power in his father’s telling and thrilled to it. He intoned the words himself:

“Into clouds and shadows rode the rider, forever and forever into clouds and shadows.” The rhythmic energy was softening now. “The storm cleared, the hail spots faded, the day shone bright as polished metal. Horse and Rider flew forward.” He hesitated, thinking of the Lakota hands pulling at him, the picture he was passing over. “Over his head flew a red-tailed hawk.”

The father looked at the son. Curly said meekly, “I have dreamed of
wakinyan
.” He was thinking of the three years of danger because he’d kept silent.

“You will talk to Porcupine,” said Tasunke Witko evenly. His father seemed unperturbed by Curly’s failure.

“Do you think I will have to do things backward?” blurted Curly. A clown, even if a sacred clown.

Tasunke Witko shook his head. “Rider is a warrior.”

The boy felt a warm gush of relief.

Tasunke Witko went back to the telling. “On you flew, Horse and Rider, into the shadows, hooves floating above the earth, forever and ever on.”

Curly took over again, his voice singing. “Hawk rode the wind over my head, and I knew Hawk. She has lived my whole life imprisoned in here.” Looking his father in the eye, he put a flat hand to his chest. “Her flight, her soaring through the air, liberated my heart.”

Curly fell silent.

Tasunke Witko spoke softly. “In your dream you received a spirit guide. That is a blessing. You must keep Hawk in your mind at all times, and seek her guidance.”

“Father,” Curly burst out, “Hawk has always been with me. She’s trapped….” His throat constricted. “I have lived my whole life like a prisoner. I love my family, I love my people, but… I’m never comfortable.” He hesitated, then looked into his father’s eye. “Not around anyone.” Black Buffalo Woman might be an exception, but he wasn’t sure yet. “Hawk beats in my chest, wanting out. She is only calm when I’m alone. I believe that when I fight as I am instructed, riding in front, she will fly. She will soar. I will be liberated.”

Tasunke Witko looked at him fondly. He said softly, “My warrior son.”

They talked briefly about the medicine bundle Curly would make. Tasunke Witko would ask Curly’s mothers to tan a deer hide to special softness and whiteness for it. Inside Curly would wrap the skin of a hawk and … He should not discuss the exact contents, not even with his father. As more power was revealed to him, he would add items that came to him as power.

Tasunke Witko had something more to say about seeing beyond. “The hard part,” explained the father, “is acting by your vision when it seems wrong. Sometimes it will seem to you that your vision will get you killed. Then you must picture Rider vividly in your mind and act like him. What would be suicide for another man is safety for you.”

Tasunke Witko. This next part was hard, partly because it involved him. In thinking about his son’s vision he had understood why the youth held himself apart from everyone. “I must warn you,” he said, “this is a great vision, and a difficult one. I think you will have to be alone much of the time. People will think you strange, but you will have to go your own way.”

“I like it that way,” put in Curly. “Already.”

Tasunke Witko thought,
You do it, my son, but you are lonely
. “It seems to be your nature,” he agreed. “I think you will be lonely. I think that women, family, and children will not keep you warm, as they keep most of us.”

Like a cold hand on Curly’s guts came the thought of Black Buffalo Woman. Would he never have her, then?

Curly looked his father full in the face. Yes, that was what his father meant. Yes, he saw that his father also meant that he himself might not have lots of grandchildren, and that was a sorrow. That his son would not be a close companion, amiable by the lodge fire.