Stone Song (24 page)

He looked inside himself and felt Hawk, calm enough, but dull, listless.

“Let’s go,” he said tersely.

They started toward where a couple of boys were holding the traveling horses. Curly noticed that Hump went back, picked up the scalps, and hung them from his belt.

Curly wouldn’t touch them, ever.

He rode back toward camp with the others. Hump and Black Elk and He Dog were full of smiles for Curly. When others kept their distance, it seemed more like respect than aversion.

Curly no longer felt like he was stuttering. He had launched forth on the wind. Hawk inside him felt wounded and exhilarated at once. She had soared high, gloriously high, and hurt a wing.

INTIMIDATION

No Water waited. He had been waiting for a long time. He had patience and patience and more patience, he told himself. He could wait a very long time.

He was watching Black Buffalo Woman and her mother in that field digging prairie turnips. From these trees he couldn’t see the digging tool go into the ground and the root come to the hand and the sack, but he knew the bending and levering motions. Black Buffalo Woman had been digging roots a long time, longer than No Water expected. She would make a good wife—she was diligent.

No Water wanted her for other reasons, though. He touched the hide wrap under his arm protectively. It had been long enough. Now he would have her.

No Water knew men wanted women in different ways, to make love to, naturally, to talk to, to bear children, to play with, to share life with. His particular desires toward Black Buffalo Woman were clear to him. He wanted to own her. He wanted to possess her, to make her go here and there, to tell her quietly to lie under him and have her do his bidding without hesitation, to train and use her as he would a horse. He knew that these desires were ugly. But the desires of many men toward attractive women were ugly.

In fact, this ugliness was remembered in one of the most holy of all Lakota stories. When White Buffalo Woman brought the sacred
canupa
to the people, many, many generations ago, she came walking in a mysterious way toward two young men. She was very beautiful, with long hair hanging down and dressed in white, shining buckskin. One of the young men immediately had ugly thoughts about her. The other said, “This is a sacred woman. Throw all ugly thoughts aside.”

White Buffalo Woman put down what she was carrying, which was the sacred
canupa
, and covered it with sage. She knew their minds. She told the young men that they did not know her but invited them, “If you want to do what you’re thinking, come.”

The young man with ugly thoughts said to his friend, “I told you, but you wouldn’t listen.” Then he went to her.

A cloud came and covered them. The beautiful woman stepped out of the cloud and stood. When the cloud blew away, the man with ugly thoughts was reduced to a skeleton being eaten by worms.

White Buffalo Woman told the other man to go to the people and instruct them to prepare a big lodge for her. Then she would come to them. Frightened by the skeleton, the young man did what he was told.

A skeleton being eaten by worms!

From the first time he could remember hearing that story, No Water
thought he would have been like the young man who had bad thoughts. Later, when he knew what it felt like to want a woman, he identified himself with this wretch completely. Yes, he felt the ugliness of it.

So he was pleased that the woman of his desires was named the opposite of the sacred
canupa
bearer—
Black
Buffalo Woman. Yet in the story Black Buffalo Woman was one of the forms of White Buffalo Woman. When she walked away after making the people the gift of the
canupa
, White Buffalo Woman turned first into a red buffalo cow, then white once more, and finally black.

Black he associated with the west, the home of the
wakinyan
, an immense, destructive power, and with the black road, the way of difficulty and strife, the opposite of the good, red road.

He felt blackness in himself and relished it.

He had wanted Black Buffalo Woman for a long, long time. When he was first a man, but she was not yet a woman, he used to watch her playing with the other girls. He liked the coltish way she walked and ran and walked and skipped. She was small but seemed more graceful than the other girls. She liked silly tricks and surprises and trinkets like beads and bells. Mostly she liked cavorting around, sprinting, jumping, tumbling, even doing cartwheels. The way she moved reminded No Water of a creek running downstream fast, bubbling and leaping on its way.

When he gave her little things, she squealed with delight. She never seemed to notice him much, though. No one gave any thought to the overgrown boy with the big, thick, clumsy body. Not so clumsy now—his muscles had caught up with his bulk—but still thick, heavy, rocklike. He wanted to possess her. She would submit.

He touched the hide bundle again. He had waited patiently for five winters, since the day of her buffalo ceremony, or at least since he had stolen this bundle. Everyone knew she was fully a woman now, with many suitors. She was ready for marriage. It was time. Even if that ring said she was waiting for Light Curly Hair. No Water sniffed his amusement at that.

He thought of what he would do when Black Buffalo Woman was his, all his. He would plant himself in her like a tree trunk. The two of them would put deep roots into the soil of the band, roots made of children, family ties, village cooperation, leading and following, and many other good things. He would grow big in the tribe, a man everyone admired, a chief, finally a chief of chiefs. Under him the Bad Faces would be a great people, the troubles of the past forgotten. In the end Black Buffalo Woman wouldn’t even wonder about her wispy pretender to glory. He would be insignificant and No Water great.

At midafternoon the two women picked up their sacks full of turnips and headed back toward the circle of lodges. As they passed, Black Buffalo Woman spoke softly. Her mother nodded and went on. Black Buffalo Woman turned into the bushes, as though to relieve herself, and then stepped straight toward No Water.

He rose, uncertain, from behind the dead tree. Had she known all along that he was watching her? Today and other days? She came on challengingly, swaggering a little, perhaps intending to upbraid him for… she would call it spying on her. But he had the answer. When she got close enough to see perfectly, he simply held out the bundle.

She snatched the hide and threw it open. The cloth was in pieces, the middle area that held her blood missing. She glared at him.

“Red Rock made it into a potion,” he told her simply.

It took a moment to register. No Water had dared to take her bundle out of the plum tree, risking the wrath of the
tonwan
that guarded it. He had taken it to the bone keeper, who must have purged him later of the evil influences. The bone keeper had made her first flow into a love potion, an instrument of seduction. People said no woman could resist such a potion.

She slapped him with the hide. It made a satisfying
whap!

He grabbed her wrist. She felt how easily his massive hand could break her bones. She dropped the bundle. It was powerless now.

No Water’s big face was impassive. He didn’t care what she thought. She liked that about him, always had. He went forward like a buffalo bull, too strong to care. “I put it into the stew last night. You ate it.”

Her heart quailed. She knew some powers were stronger than she was. Still, the words shot out. “I will never be your—”

He stopped her mouth with a hand. “Your brother wants me for your husband.” Her brother had the right to give her in marriage. Of course, she could object. “Your father wants me,” No Water went on relentlessly. “Your mothers want me. Your uncles want me.”

All this might be true. No Water was a rising man.

“I will possess you.”

He put his arms around her and pulled her close. For a long moment they just looked into each other’s eyes. She felt his big hand on her left breast and nipped in her breath a little. Was he going to force her? Right there?

“No,” No Water said with a little smile, taking his hand away, relaxing his arms. “You will ask me to possess you. Because of the medicine. And because of your nature. It is a bad nature, perverse. You will want me.”

He lifted her up easily, her head higher than his. He put his mouth to her breast through the thin antelope skin and sucked her nipple. She saw from the glint in his eyes that he knew she was aroused.

He set her down. She felt weak-kneed and almost grabbed him for support.

He took her face in both hands and spoke the words slowly and forcefully. “Stay away from Light Curly Hair. I know everything about the two of you. Everything. I have watched you. If you go with him again, I will kill you.”

He stared at her balefully. “Not him. You.”

She looked into his eyes and believed him.

He let her go. She slipped to the ground like limp cloth.

“Take off his ring. Don’t wear it again,” he commanded. He walked off without looking back.

She picked up the hide of the bundle and watched his back disappear into the trees. She took the ring off.

They prepared to march into the village formally, in the old way, as in the days before they had promised the
wasicu
to stop fighting other Indians. One man went ahead to alert the village of the procession of triumph.

The others painted themselves. They tied their horses and sat on rocks and trees and adorned themselves with the utmost care. A warrior marching into the village after a victorious raid on an enemy told the story of his personal battle, and of his entire life as a warrior, on his body. Though all these men were young and none yet had a full eagle-feather warbonnet, they would make a fine show. These were the moments Lakota men lived for.

Only Curly sat apart, observing quietly.

He Dog mounted the white, black-tipped tail feather of an eagle upright in his scalp lock, meaning that he had killed an enemy. Since he did not paint it red, he had not been wounded. He Dog was the one Bad Face Curly liked a lot, a simple man of few words, big-chested and thick-bodied, quick to laugh, confident and courageous in war.

Black Elk dangled a similar feather from the armlet at his biceps, a simple indication that he had fought with an enemy. Young Man-Whose-Enemies did the same.

The two who had stolen horses suspended from their scalp locks eagle tail feathers colored green—the green symbolized Wakan Tanka in the aspect of Earth, mother of life.

One man put yellow paint on his body, symbolic of God the Rock, the spirit of revenge, destruction, and violence.

Another painted outside his left eye a half-circle of red with forked ends, symbols of spirits of lightning, a claim of being irresistible in war.

The men who had struck first coups put miniature red bows into their scalp locks. They would now be entitled to carry coup sticks.

The two wounded by arrows fastened small red arrows into their hair.

Some indicated old wounds—red dabs on the right forearm for knife cuts, red dots on the left forearms for wounds from arrows or spears.

Those who had danced the sun dance painted themselves red on the thighs, calves, and feet.

Curly watched carefully as Hump decorated himself, the most elaborately painted and feathered of all the warriors. As the leader of a war party, he painted his hands red. Because the party had been successful, he wore the blue-painted tail feather of an eagle upright in his scalp lock. The blue symbolized Wakan Tanka as wind motion, for He had lent the party swift and elusive movement. As one who had taken scalps in the past, Hump carried a chokecherry staff. The war club suspended from his right hand meant he was willing to go to battle whenever called upon. The black paint around his mouth and on his chin said he had returned bearing the scalp of an enemy killed in battle. He donned a scalp shirt with fringes of human hair at sides and arms. From now on Hump was entitled to wear it at will.

Buffalo Hump was a man much decorated in war. Now everyone would recognize him as a leader. He fought fiercely, happily, a little recklessly. He led sensibly. Curly was proud to be his friend.

But Curly sat apart, alone, feeling alien. He could not deck himself out with all this finery. He could not tell his exploits in paint and feather. Because of his vision.

He was entitled to lots of decoration. He had earned the right to wear two white tail feathers with black tips upright in his scalp lock for killing two enemies. He could have hung a piece of lead on a thong around his neck, the sign of being wounded by a bullet. Since his horse had been shot out from under him, he could have worn another eagle feather painted yellow with red stripes, symbolizing Wakan Tanka in His aspect as the sun, who had given Curly strength to escape. He could have carried a chokecherry staff like Hump’s. He was also entitled to paint a black horizontal line on his cheek for having killed an enemy who was not a Lakota, plus black crosses for being in battle on foot and a diagonal black slash for being in battle on horseback. He could have donned a collar with streamers for each battle he’d taken part in. Most impressive, he might have worn his hair unbraided but bound, the sign of a man who has done desperate deeds and was willing to do them again.

Instead he sat quietly and braided his only hair long enough to braid,
the left side. He pretended not to notice the pitying glances of his comrades.

His plainness was good, surely, even if it was hard. He reminded himself: In his martial exhilaration, his throbbing excitement about achieving the invulnerability promised in his vision, he had forgotten the obligations that went with his powers. He had taken the two scalps. For this breach Power had sent a bullet into his calf. He had no intention of making such a mistake again, ever.

Curly marched into the village behind the others. Keeping his face down, he watched in the corners of his eyes for the face of Black Buffalo Woman. What would she think, seeing that he walked at the back, apparently the one member of the party who had done nothing or even disgraced himself? Would she blush, humiliated? Would she even care?

What would his mothers think? His married sister, his brother, Little Hawk? His friends. Some would know of his vision from Tasunke Witko, but…

The women raised their trilling sounds to the skies for the victorious warriors.

Two shield men led. The others came four abreast, their weapons glittering in the afternoon sun, feathers aflutter, their paint strong and virile. Behind them all stepped Curly.

The crowd murmured. He kept his eyes down and his face expressionless. He felt humiliated. The only thing worse would be to let his sense of humiliation show. He heard muttered fragments of the words he knew too well. “Our Strange Man.”