Stone Song (22 page)

They were riding down the valley of Earth-Smoke River, which the
wasicu
called White River, near Sage Creek. Horn Chips looked constantly
into the Maka Sica, searching for something. Curly couldn’t guess what he was looking for at such a distance, unless it was the color of the earth itself.

The Maka Sica was the earth gone strange, phantasmagorical shapes rising from the broken plain, shapes like the monster animals people made with the shadows of their fingers on the walls of the lodge. The monsters were in violent earth colors in great layers, yellow, red, black at the bottom, with splashes of blue-green here, silver there. The people said these monsters looked like they were made of soil, but they were so ancient they had turned to Inyan.

Curly thought it was like the face of a very old man or woman, crevassed and scarred and wrinkled, but dried out far beyond what could happen to a person. Soil and grass and other rooted people had been scoured away, like hair and supple flesh, exposing the bone beneath. Actually, it seemed to him more like a battered skeleton than an old face. The bones of the skeleton stuck up in strange, phantasmagorical shapes, points, spires, horns, contours of the monsters of the dream world.

The people were afraid of this place. Huge bones could be seen here, the leg bones and backbones and skulls of animals that walked the earth before two-legged people did, mammoth creatures with terrible teeth and claws. These creatures were so violent that the gods themselves destroyed them, the tale went, and with lightning bolts speared them deep into the earth, so that only edges showed.

Curly was a little afraid, too. But if Chips said that the way of spirit for Curly lay here, that his power stemmed from this place, he was willing to go and meet it. Power was always frightening.

Chips stopped abruptly and dismounted. He waited without a word for Curly to do the same. Then they started walking from the river valley toward the ogre shapes and the monster bones.

As far as Curly could tell, they walked idly, here and there. Chips kept his eyes on the ground, moving around aimlessly, seeming to study the earth at the feet of the walls that looked like mud and felt like stone. Curly followed in a curiously listless mood. He didn’t know what they were doing and didn’t care. They must have walked around for a quarter-day. Curly felt torporous in the hot September sun.

Then Chips said softly, “
Wanh!
,” an exclamation of delight. He fingered some dirt away, picked something up, and handed it to Curly.

It was a shell, no, what used to be a shell turned to stone, shaped like a very small pinecone. It was whorled like the shell of a snail, but sharpened to a point at the center of the whorl.

“You will keep it,” said Chips flatly, “just as a reminder. Before long you will come back to the Maka Sica and walk aimlessly among the Inyan
creatures of this kind until one speaks to you, or you feel it may speak to you. You will take that one and wear it behind your left ear always.”

Curly said nothing.

“We’ll find another Inyan creature for under your arm,” said Chips. “Now let’s smoke.”

They sat next to a boulder. Silently, as they smoked, Chips pointed to stone shells embedded in the boulder, part of the fabric of the rock itself. When he put the
canupa
away, the
wicasa wakan
said simply, “Inyan are the most ancient people.”

He paused. “This stone was once alive as we are, able to breathe, to move, to seek food, to make others of its kind. Yes, even the Inyan people were once alive. All is connected by being alive. This stone speaks to us of our bond even with Inyan.
Mitakuye oyasin
.” We are all related.

The
wicasa wakan
looked about. The horizon was blocked in all directions by the ogre shapes of the Maka Sica. “Another teaching,” said Chips. “The earth owns two good days, one for the sight, one for the vision. The earth owns two good days, one for the body, one for the spirit. The earth owns two good days, one for the mind, one for the
cante ista
.”

Chips looked about a while. Curly couldn’t imagine what he was thinking. This talking made Curly uncomfortable. Why did Chips constantly act like he was seeing things Curly didn’t see, talking to spirits Curly didn’t hear?

“Your way in youth seems to be war,” said Chips.

Curly was pleased. He hadn’t told the
wicasa wakan
about Hawk in his chest.

“You will drill the other Inyan creature we find and wear it under your arm as Rider does. It will be a protector.

“An Inyan like this one,” he said, nodding toward the shell, “you will wear behind your ear. When your winters of war are past, when you want to see further into things, Inyan will speak to you, will act as your guide. Though that is for a later time, do not forget it.

“Remember always that Inyan are the most ancient of all peoples, and the wisest. They are your way. Come to me when they begin to speak, or to another who talks to Inyan, and I will help you start on the path. Until then you wear this Inyan behind your ear as a promise.”

This time Horn Chips fell silent for a long while. Curly sat equally silent, patient, his mind on Chips’ words. He wished he didn’t have the urge to squirm.

“For now I will give you a word that will help you stay in touch with Inyan.
Wanisugna
.” It meant “living seed within the shell.” “Say this word prayerfully to Inyan sometimes.
Wanisungna
.”

Suddenly Chips smiled, and his expression was truly enigmatic.
“Now,” said the
wicasa wakan
, “we will have a true surprise. We go to visit the
wasicu
.”

Chips set out toward the horses. Curly fell in behind him and to one side. Why, of all times, why would Horn Chips want to visit
wasicu
now?

Curly had heard about the camp but had not seen it. The
wasicu
had come to the Maka Sica several times now, in the warm moons when traveling was easy, staying even past the moon when the Wasp hit Little Thunder’s village on the Blue Water. The Lakota did not disturb these
wasicu
. The tale was, the giant bones in the Maka Sica were great medicine for them. The Lakota respected any man attending to his medicine. And to them the bones were like an area of raised scaffolds lifting bodies away from scavengers, a haunted field, possessed of unpredictable powers, to be avoided.

The camp was in a grove of trees in a little canyon where a stream trickled, even in this Moon When Leaves Turn Brown.

What did Horn Chips want with them? Curly had begun to think of them as like the Wakinyan Tanka, except from the east, and wanted to stay away from all of them.

The interpreter walked out to meet them where they tied their horses, along with a tall, lanky, bearded
wasicu
so eager he was almost pushing around the interpreter. The man walked a little awkwardly on stick legs, like a crane.

“Benoit,” said Chips politely.

“Horn Chips,” said the interpreter. Curly remembered this man now from Fort Laramie. His father was a Frenchman, an interpreter and guide before him, his mother a Mniconjou.

“Light Curly Hair,” said Chips.

The interpreter nodded to Curly.

“The Man with Crazy Feet,” said Curly, smiling. The Oglala youths had played kicking the ball with this fellow, and he could do the trickiest things with his feet to tap the ball around you.

The interpreter grinned. Curly could smell whiskey on him.

“Dr. Hayden,” Benoit launched forth in English, “this is my friend Horn Chips, of the Bad Face Oglala Lakota.” The tall
wasicu
stuck out his hand, and Chips touched it softly. “Light Curly Hair of the Hunkpatila Oglala Lakota.” Curly looked at the hand before touching it very quickly and tentatively. It was the first time he’d touched a
wasicu
.

“This is Dr. Ferdinand Hayden,” Benoit said in Lakota, “Man-Who-Picks-Up-Stones-While-Running.
He is a
pezuta wicasa
,” a healer, “and a man who studies the ancient bones.” All around them, laid out on big canvases, were bones and pieces of bones of animals from the time before, some of them still partly encased in mudstone. They made Hawk fidgety.

This fellow Dr. Ferdinand Hayden had a peculiar and very impolite gaze. He looked straight into your eyes, but he didn’t just look. He directed an intense scrutiny at you and projected his spirit along it, so you wanted to bat it away with your hands. Yet he smiled like he meant to be friendly.

“Will you eat with us?” said Dr. Ferdinand Hayden. Benoit translated.

The invitation treated them as honored guests and could not be refused.

Besides, Chips was looking like the snake who had just caught the frog.

“He talks so fast because he’s always in a hurry,
paguduh, paguduh
.” Benoit beat a rhythm of horses’ hooves on his thighs. “Always a gallop, never a walk or trot.” Then Benoit rolled his eyes—he talked as much with his body as with words. “That’s why we call him Man-Who-Picks-Up-Stones-While-Running. He dashes around collecting old stones,
fossils
, he calls them,” Benoit used the English word, “like a hungry bird hopping from seed to seed.” Benoit drank whiskey out of his tin cup. “A starving bird.”

The interpreter ripped rabbit flesh off a leg bone with his teeth. “Watch for this fellow, though. He’s going to be an
impo-o-ortant
man.”

“Why?” asked Chips. The
wicasa wakan
actually seemed gleeful. Curly couldn’t imagine why.

“He’s obsessed with this medicine of the old bones. You should see him go after them. A couple of years ago when he couldn’t get the
wasicu
to make a group of men to come for the bones, he came up the Big Muddy on his own and walked all over the upper Missouri country alone. A whole year, winter too, all alone.” Benoit started in on another leg. “He’s like a child about it. I don’t know why.”

They knew Benoit had been to one of what the
wasicu
called schools and learned to read and write. And they knew that
doctor
meant a man of learning. Strange that Benoit couldn’t understand him.

“The other one’s weird, too,” said Benoit, sipping at the whiskey again. “The soldier leader. Lieutenant Gouverneur Kemple Warren.” The guide pronounced the name very clearly, with a hint of mockery. “He fought with the Wasp against Little Thunder.” Benoit looked at Chips and Curly sideways, knowing what this would mean to them. “He collects flowers like a madman. Goes everywhere looking for flowers, plucks them out of Earth, puts them in paper envelopes, writes down all
sorts of things about them.” Benoit chuckled. “He doesn’t notice much about his relatives the living things, except flowers. Sees everything about flowers. One day a bear’s going to stick its nose up his ass while he’s bending over a flower.”

Benoit used the English word
ass
and made a gesture of goosing himself.

When they’d eaten, Man-Who-Picks-Up-Stones-While-Running and the lieutenant joined them. When the lieutenant was introduced, Curly didn’t shake his hand but acted like he didn’t know what was expected. He wondered whether he should kill the soldier. He could slip back into camp tonight and do it. For the killing at the Blue Water the man deserved it. But Curly felt no rage toward him personally.

Benoit started right in having fun with the translating. He’d go like this: “Doctor wants to know the
truth
about why you’ve come to the Maka Sica. The way he says it, he wants
passionately
to know.” Benoit’s tone was teasing. “He thinks you’re very,
very
interesting.”

Chips and Curly looked at each other skeptically. This
wasicu
was very strange, not being politely distant but jumping right in, and inquiring far too closely about personal matters.

“We came here to find Inyan,” said Chips. “Show him the Inyan creature, Curly,” the
wicasa wakan
went on mildly.

Curly just looked at his mentor aghast. Why would he show his Inyan to a
wasicu
? Even if it was just an example? He wondered,
Does Man-Who-Picks-Up-Stones-While-Running know something about Inyan that might speak of its power?
Chips gave Curly a jerk of the head that meant, “Do it.”

He unfolded Inyan from a hide wrap and revealed it. Shockingly, Man-Who-Picks-Up-Stones-While-Running reached out and grabbed it.

Chips shot Curly a look of warning. Otherwise Curly would have ripped Inyan out of the
wasicu
’s hand.

“This is an ammonite,” he said, “the most common of fossils in the Maka Sica.”

Benoit added with amusement that the fellow’s tone was saying, “Why do you want a stone as ordinary as this?”

“It’s a marine shell,” went on Man-Who-Picks-Up-Stones-While-Running, “from the sea. An octopus or squid.”

“He’s not saying out loud that he doesn’t even bother to stoop down for ones like this,” added Benoit. “He has some manners. Sort of.”

“It’s the oldest of all fossils in this area,” said Man-Who-Picks-Up-Stones-While-Running. “Comes from the bottom stratum there.” Dr. Hayden pointed at the hills around them. “The black layer.”

“He’s struggling to find something nice to say,” put in Benoit.

“It’s the oldest relic of the history of life around here,” concluded Man-Who-Picks-Up-Stones-While-Running.

When Benoit translated these words, Chips gave Curly a look of triumph.

“Dr. Hayden,” said Benoit, “Horn Chips is a holy man and diviner.” The guide was good and drunk now. “Tell them about your dreams. Maybe he can help you.”

Man-Who-Picks-Up-Stones-While-Running brushed this idea away with a hand. “No, no, I wouldn’t impose.”

“He has nightmares every night,” said Benoit in Lakota, “about the ancient animals.” He switched back to English. “Tell them. Horn Chips is very wise about dreams.”

Dr. Hayden flicked the idea away again. His hand was thrashing around nervously, like a horse’s tail at flies. “No, no,” he murmured. Curly thought it was embarrassment splashed all over his face, embarrassment at the thought of asking a “savage” for help. That and contempt.