Stone Song (9 page)

“Pretty Fellow turned into the foot,” said Hump.

No Water was lunging at Curly, and Hump’s hands were holding him back.

“I’ll be ugly,” mewled Pretty Fellow in a scalding voice.

In his voice Curly heard those earlier mocking words:

“
Our cousin is poor, terribly poor
.

He dresses so plain, the same as naked
.”

But he wasn’t glad. He felt a pang of sympathy.

“I’ll remember this,” said Pretty Fellow, his voice clotted with self-pity. He was struggling to his feet. His voice took on an edge of anger. “I’ll get you.” He pointed at Curly, and blood ran onto his nice breechcloth
of blue strouding. “You and your
hunka
, too.” One of the healers started to lead Pretty Fellow away. He wheeled and pointed at Spotted Tail. “You want me to be ugly like him.”

Curly was only paying attention to Hawk. Hawk was lunging at her tethers and screaming.

He walked away. “Come back here!” yelled No Water. “When I finish Hump, I get you!”

Curly kept walking. He noticed that people stood aside from him, making way, as though they didn’t want to be around him.

Curly slipped through the watchers. From the back he observed for a little. Hump was in high fierceness now, attacking and attacking. It was a style No Water should have liked, but the spirit was huge in Hump. His kicks seemed to come from all angles, and his energy was immense. The Bad Face must have felt assaulted by a herd of buffalo. He was on the defensive, bewildered by this wild man.

Curly walked on. He wanted to quiet Hawk down.

He walked toward the nearest rise, overlooking a creek, moving gently in the way that always seemed soothing to Hawk. He could walk or ride a horse for a quarter-day, a half-day, all day, not thinking actively about anything, just being quiet and feeling the rhythm of the motion of his body. When he did that, he never felt Hawk inside him beating her wings against his ribs. She was still, satisfied.

He heard the cries of the crowd and looked back. No Water was on the ground. Hump and the last Sahiyela, Little Wolf, were stepping toward each other, beginning to circle. Good. Curly’s
hunka
was doing well. The spirit was big in him.

Curly walked awhile. He saw a rock and sat. He wondered. Was Hawk agitated today because Curly had fought with his own people? In his mind’s eye he once more saw hands clutching at Rider. He didn’t know.

More cries, big ones—the match was over.

Curly looked back from the little hill. Hump sat in the dust. He wasn’t moving. Since he was sitting up, though, he was all right. He was holding his belly with both hands.

Little Wolf was making a joke of it. He put his foot on Hump’s shoulder, pretended to grab his hair tight, and mimed taking the scalp. Laughter carried on the air.

Curly smiled. He wondered how Hump had gotten whipped. If Curly knew his
hunka
, it was with recklessness.

Curly wondered if Buffalo Hump had a spirit animal inside him. He wondered if everyone did, and no one talked about it. Maybe everyone had something he should do, hunt or scout or paint shields or make healing chants or, if you were a woman, dig roots or suckle children or
make beautiful things. When you were doing that, whatever it was, you felt free. Doing anything else you felt indifferent or uncomfortable. Or trapped, or even anguished.

Maybe everyone was like that.

So what should he, Light Curly Hair, spend his days doing?

Not loitering around other people. Not facing whatever they expected of him. Especially not talking—he would never make a strong man in council.

In his mind, shining and more vivid than even the creek below, he saw Rider galloping through eternity. That picture made him know: Light Curly Hair should always be in vivid action. Riding hard or drawing back an arrow held on a buffalo or especially fighting, galloping toward the enemy, facing the arrows and bullets that would become as puffs of wind before they reached him.

Then Hawk would soar up from his breast and fly over his head and ring up the sky.

For him that would be a feeling … It was beyond words.

He had gotten the feeling strongly when he went against the Two Circle people. It had made a throb in his heart.

Today Hawk had surprised him. Though he was fighting, Hawk was fitful.

Curly didn’t understand. Was it that Lakota shouldn’t fight each other, even in rough play?

Maybe he didn’t have to understand. Maybe he only had to listen to what was within him. Listen and act accordingly.

They spent most of August, the Moon When All Things Ripen, out hunting, going into camp only to take meat in. Spotted Tail was fun. In the evenings he would tell wild jokes about sex and pissing and shitting, extravagant fantasies, very funny. He could even bring Curly out of his pensiveness.

Spotted Tail acted as though Curly’s inclination to disappear into his thoughts or feelings was kind of funny. He started calling his nephew “Strange Man.” It was one of those names meant as both tease and truth.

Spotted Tail was the best of hunters. Curly already had the skills of patience, silence, and marksmanship. Spotted Tail taught him much more, taught him subtleties of tracking beyond what Curly could have imagined. Seeing horses’ hooves, Spotted Tail could tell whether the riders were red or
wasicu
, whether it was a village or a war party or wolves—scouts—how fast they were moving, where they were going, and if it was
a small party exactly how many there were. He could tell whether a deer was grazing at its leisure, grazing but uneasy and inclined to move on, traveling fast or slow, spooked, whatever. Sometimes he could say what a deer’s urinating meant. He could watch a creek bed from a bluff while the sun moved halfway from midday toward midafternoon and tell you about the animal life up and down the creek as far as you could see. His knowledge dazzled Curly. But Spotted Tail was too fun-loving to inspire awe in anyone.

Near the end of the Moon When All Things Ripen, heading back to camp empty-handed for once, the two hunters saw a wild buckskin horse, probably a yearling, running along across a ridge.

“It looks like Long Spear’s buffalo runner,” said Curly.

“Yes,” said the uncle, sounding excited, too. They were horsemen, and from here they could see the conformation of a horse with unusual ability.

“Let’s catch it.”

Spotted Tail hesitated. “
Goddamn
,” he said. “You catch it.” He stretched lazily and gave a big grin. Curly knew his uncle was offering him an adventure on his own. “It’s been a long time out here. I feel like being with my women tonight.”

Curly smiled back at his uncle. The youth was seldom eager to be back in camp. Besides, he wanted the wild horse.

Toward evening, with the buckskin on a lead now, Curly watched the clouds nervously. They were closing in. He’d been lucky—he hadn’t been near a lightning storm since the lightning-gives-birth-to-sound in his waking dream. Maybe this was the time the
wakinyan
would come for him.

First he wanted to get to Little Thunder’s camp. It might be safer there, yes, down along Blue Water Creek and off these ridges. Mostly he would be with people, and they would see what had happened and tell his parents. Maybe he could say he was sorry he hadn’t told anyone his dream and hadn’t offered the spirits a
heyoka
ceremony.

He kept an eye on the buckskin. It would lead nicely for a while and then get unruly. Jerk its head at the lead rope. Rear. Once it even tried to run ahead. Curly had to make it feel the stubbornness of the rope. They were pussyfooting their way along narrow ridges. He didn’t want the buckskin to blow up here and send them all tumbling.

He liked the pony. He didn’t know yet if it would make a buffalo runner. In some ways the buffalo horse was the most important mount a Lakota could have, with a good burst of speed from a standing start, the
courage to get you close, the intelligence to respond quickly on its own, the agility to avoid the horns, and plenty of surefootedness.

A Lakota needed a warhorse, too, a mount of utter obedience, courage, the agility to cut in and out of a melee of men and beasts, and speed in short bursts.

His secret hope was that it was a traveling horse, one that would keep going forever, cross the distances day and night and take him from enemy country back home. When a Lakota went to war, he needed those two horses, the warhorse and the traveling horse.

There was a tradition in his family of traveling horses. An honored family name came from such creatures, and it was Curly’s formal name now, the name no one used, though Curly preferred it, His Horse Sees. It came from an old family story:

One of Curly’s ancestors was saved by a horse. He was riding home in a snowstorm and got lost. Plains snowstorms could be terrible. The flakes fell so thick you couldn’t see, sometimes couldn’t see as far as your moccasins, or even your hand in front of your face. White world, visibility zero. Sometimes it was not flakes falling but being blown up from the ground. Maybe it was such a storm for Curly’s ancestor. You couldn’t travel in weather like that—you might ride into a deep drift or even walk off a cliff. You had to stop and hunker down. Then you might freeze to death.

Curly’s ancestor did something desperate—he gave the horse its head. Maybe it was a conscious decision:
I can’t do it, let the horse try
. Maybe it was just giving up:
It’s hopeless, I’ll drop the reins and hang on until we die
. No one knew now what his desperate thought was.

The horse then demonstrated the wisdom that animals sometimes have. Or was it just impulse, the screaming of equine muscles and sinew to save themselves, to live another day? In any case, the horse floundered into no drifts, walked over no rimrock edges, lay down on no flat, just found its way back to the village. By dim sight, by instinct, by hit and miss, by chance, by animal knowing, by whatever means, the horse delivered the man to his lodge, to family, fire, hot food, warm robes, friendly hands and voices.

The people didn’t think it was by chance. They thought it was by horse awareness of some kind. Brothers to the horse, they did not make themselves out superior to it, but knew the horse had powers they lacked.

Mitakuye oyasin
—we are all related.

So they gave the man the new name Tasunke Ksape, His Horse Knows, or His Horse Sees. And the family passed the name to other young men to honor that horse and its rider.

Tasunke Witko, meaning another kind of horse, was an even more honored family name.

Witko
was a tricky word in the Lakota language, kind of like
crazy
or
mad
in English.

Sometimes
witko
was used for women who lost themselves and started loafing around Fort Laramie all the time, begging for whiskey and selling their bodies for a dram to any
wasicu
who came by. Sometimes it referred to women like Curly’s birth mother, women who so lost their way, usually through grief, that they committed suicide. Sometimes it referred to a horse ridden until it could walk no more. These meanings seemed to be that the creatures had lost their spirit.

But in another way
witko
meant men or women abundant with spirit, those who could dance wildly and all night, or who could ride forever and at furious speed, or who went into battle as though possessed by spirits, whether gods or demons. These people were energized by a kind of holy zeal or diabolic rage in war. Risky for themselves, and wildly dangerous to their enemies.

In one more way it meant “acting in a sacred manner that is preordained.” Perhaps that came from the days when the Lakota first got the horse and one of Curly’s ancestors excelled in training his horses, getting them to act in a certain way, his power seeming sacred.

This last was the meaning in the name Tasunke Witko, acting in a preordained sacred manner.

It was a name handed down in the family from father to son, Curly didn’t know for how many generations. Seven generations, perhaps, the Lakota way of counting what the
wasicu
called a century.

For sure Curly’s grandfather had been named Tasunke Witko. Then this man gave the name to Curly’s father and took the name Makes a Song for himself.

If Curly could make himself a true Lakota, then his father, Tasunke Witko, would take some other name and call Curly Tasunke Witko.

Curly wanted to earn this name.

Curly snapped back into the present. The buckskin was jerking nervously at the lead rope. It didn’t want to go on.

Curly looked around. Was the horse afraid of the storm? The clouds were getting ominous, but there was no lightning yet. The village, low down in the creek bottoms, was almost in sight.

Then he saw the smoke. It was black and ugly. It smelled like grease or hides or flesh. It was coming from the valley of the Blue Water.

The village was burning.

He smelled gun smoke, too.

Lightning exploded.

When the
wakinyan
smacked him, his skin shuddered, and his stomach lurched.

The storm was roaring when he got to the creek. Thunder and lightning. Smoke everywhere, and a scorched smell. The smoke was from burning lodge covers—that was the acrid smell—but it came from upwind.

Squatting in a little wash, he started on what he had to do. A deep breath, and another, and another. If he was going to die now, he simply would. Whatever the
wakinyan
did, kill him or not, he had to find out what had happened to Little Thunder’s village. To Spotted Tail, his aunts and his cousins, his grandmother.

He hobbled his horses in the wash and went to where the circle of lodges had stood and looked at the tracks. He studied them carefully.

He wasn’t thinking about the
wakinyan
. He had made some sort of decision without words, some acceptance.

Probably the people were all dying anyway, and he would die with them.

Hundreds of Lakota horses and hundreds of shod
wasicu
horses had been everywhere. A riot of moccasin and boot tracks. Walking soldiers had come from the east, riding soldiers and wagon guns from the west, a trap.