Three Days Before the Shooting ... (166 page)

“You have it,” Love said. “So as I was saying, we traveled by the moon. At first we rode the well-traveled cattle trails. One was the old Chisholm, which ran past the old State Fairgrounds, and once we got started we pushed our ponies for all they were worth.

“It was a strange journey, very strange, and butt-busting long, with the roads rugged and the heat hellish, and the sick man screaming obscenities aimed at everything from the earth to the gods and the weather. And while this went on the rest of the party rode silent and sad that such a thing could happen to a fine
young brave. So for mile after mile there was only the hoofbeats of horses and the sound of his blasphemy.

“It became so bad that even the elders became afraid of what it might bring down upon us. So finally the leading elder halted the party and gave orders that the sick man’s mouth be muffled with a gag. But the gag only muted his cursing, for now as we rode he growled like a wolf with his jaws in a trap, and his eyes were on fire with his madness.

“Like I say, it was a strange, difficult journey. With old men, the elders, punishing themselves and their ponies each day to their limits. And then we were far to the south, where with the sun even fiercer and water holes scarce it was impossible to go on in the daylight. So now we kept to the shade and rested until the sun slanted westward and then it was back to the trail—Yao!

“And then we rode in the dark and under a blanket of silence out of fear of what the Chief’s son’s sickness foretold for the tribe. Together we rode and thought and suffered as we moved farther south. Then at last the mountain for which we were seeking arose before us, and we slowly ascended to that place—not of history, Hickman, but of mystery….

“Seen from a distance it appeared like any other mountain, harsh, sunswept, and high—Yao! A place for eagles! But now, in the westward dropping of the sun, in the dying of the light—
that was
when it revealed itself. Seeing it at the distance from which we saw it I expected thunder and lightning. It was like a god, suspended there and waiting. And when a man approached it in the dark he could feel it filling up the night with its presence. From miles in the distance you could feel it, and that was a part of its mystery. And when approached in the dying of the light it stretched forth its power and a man could feel the hair on his neck spring erect like the hair of a cat caught in static discharged by a storm of thunder and lightning. His eyes became unsure of distance and form and his ears heard the sound of silence. That’s how it was with me, and between my knees I could feel my pony shy and tremble.

“That was the kind of place into which we were climbing, and suddenly the sick man broke the silence, mumbling and screaming behind his gag. Up we went, up and up, tugging our ponies by their bridles. Up and on, until our legs were trembling from fighting the overgrown trail. And then, just as the sun died with a splash in the night, we arrived.

“Just where we were I could not tell exactly, for before me I could see only the rocks and the shadows. We were panting, and me no less than the elders. I remember the nervous blowing of the ponies as they expelled the hot air from within them. They too felt the presence, and the air had become both rare and cold.

“That was when the leading elder climbed some hundred yards ahead of the party, where he gave the call of the great horned owl and waited. At first there was silence, then a tired pony stamped its hoof on the stone, and among the towering rocks I could hear the elder’s voice echoing and dying.

“Then, giving the lonesome call of the owl, he said, ‘Shagatonga! Old Wise One, we need you….’

“And again the voice echoed among the rocks, echoing sadly with the motion of a discarded feather floating high in the air.

“Then one of the elders broke the silence.

“‘Perhaps we arrived too late,’ he said. ‘After all, the Old One was ancient.’ And another said, ‘Yes, that could be true. Because for all his power he was still a man, and all men die.’

“‘No,’ the first elder said, ‘for him to hear the voices of men takes time. It always takes time, because he must come a long way through the silence.’

“‘This place,’ another of the elders said with a shiver, ‘I do not care for this place.’

“‘Nor I,’ one of the others said.

“‘Silence,” the leading elder said. ‘We did not make this journey for you.’

“And it was then that I stepped out of my place, that I violated protocol. ‘Yes, it was for us too. For all of us,’ I said, which drew their eyes. And lucky for me it was then that the Old One emerged from his hole in the rocks.

“Hickman, at first there was only the wall of stone, bare in the shadows. Then a pebble rattled against the earth and he was there, tall and like a rock in his stillness. No one spoke, for it was as though a slab of rock had detached itself from the mountain and taken on the form of a man. A man who was ancient and tall and of great dignity, and whose eyes were hooded and strange. He was very tall and very ancient, and of such power—I tell you verily—that having him around would have been like living in close quarters with an elephant, or trying to tame a roaring cyclone.

“That’s why his tribe lived below and on the opposite side of the mountain while he lived high in the rocks alone. Which was his choice. And each day they left food outside the cave, great mounds of it, so he could take what he needed. Which wasn’t much, because a long time before I saw him he had lived a life of dedication and put most of the needs of men behind him. But although he had been slow in answering the leading elder’s appeal, the moment he saw the sick man tied to the pony he knew what was expected. So with a gesture he invited us to enter the cave.

[CAVE]

“A
FTER COMING SO FAR
and so fast I thought there’d be time for resting, but when he took a closer look at the sick man the Old One became urgent. So we hurried below and dressed in our buckskins, feathers, and beads before painting our faces….”

“Painted your faces?”

“Yes—with the shapes of the plants, animals, and birds used by our totems.
They are symbols of our connection with the earth and the world and the spirits whose help we ask when making our medicine. This demands careful attention to everything from our costumes to our rituals, otherwise our medicine will fail. In a sense it’s like your High Court up in Washington.”

“Now you’re kidding again—what’s the Supreme Court got to do with what you call totems?”

“Hell, Hickman, think about it. Up there the medicine men are called justices, and their totems have names like the Declaration of Independence, the Bill of Rights, and the Constitution. Which are totems of words but more powerful than armies—Yao! and they’re T.N.T. touchy. That’s why when your white medicine men, your justices, call on their totems when making the medicine called law they have to do it with a special dignity, and in a style that includes all of their people. And that’s why they dress in black shoes and black robes—Yao!—and write with black ink on white paper.

“That’s how their totems give them the double-tongued power to say the ‘yes’ that means ‘no,’ and the ‘no’ that means ‘yes.’ In the North their words mean one thing and in the South the opposite. They speak out of the right sides of their mouths for State folks who are white, and out of the left sides for those who are colored. But for such volatile medicine to work it has to be made under certain conditions and with grave ceremony—drink your Choc, Hickman, drink your Choc!

“So, dressed in our feathers, buckskins, and beads we returned to the cave of the Old One. Suspended from a rack at the center a big smoky kettle bubbled and steamed over a low flame of embers, and against the wall nearby the sick man lay twitching in his sleep as though being punctured by powerful stings. And when the Old One ordered us to sit in a circle I took my place with mounting excitement. Because as I say, I had never taken part in making a medicine of such crucial importance.

“The Old One began by preparing a pipe, which he raised above his head for his totem’s approval. Then, after taking seven slow puffs he passed it among us. And while it began circling from elder to elder I kept my eye on the sick man. We had hoped he would become a great chief, but now, seeing him lying with his braids in the dust and his spirit divided, I felt downhearted and sad.

“But this was no time for sadness, so when the pipe came to me I puffed it, and through the smoke I studied the Old One. Looking back I don’t think that he had as much concern for certain minor details as others I have seen, because things went faster than I expected or later experienced.

“After the pipe came the drinking of a powerful liquid brewed from a formula handed down long ago for such crucial occasions. Then hardly without a pause the Old One asked to be given an account of the Chief’s son’s life and the background of his sickly condition. And as the elders took turns in telling his story I listened with special attention, for it was also a part of my beginner’s instruction.

“They began their account with six chiefs behind our Chief, the sick man’s father, and told of their characters and what they had done. How the tribe had fared under their leadership, of battles won and battles lost, and of the conditions of the hunt and the game and the horses. They gave each chief credit for his gains and his losses, his days of honor and his times of defeat and of sorrow. Then they told of the Chief, the sick man’s father, and then of the sick man’s capture by the bitch bear who made him her cub. Then of his being found and taken East by the tall white one, the preacher. They spoke in detail, and in listening I could see the life of the tribe spread before me for six generations, and in the drifting of smoke and weaving of words I relived it.

“But while all this was being related I kept my eye on the Old One and watched his hooded old eyes glow up behind his wrinkles and gleam through his thick brows and lashes. Hickman, I tell you verily, that was a face! Today you see few of such faces because it takes too much living and thinking to make one—Yao! It was a face that appeared to have risen out of the young manhood of the world, and its eyes burned with the original fire that flamed when the sun exploded. They were eyes that were young when the father of men first stood erect and walked on his legs—Yao! And I am sure that they saw the double-faced joke hidden in all human experience and foresaw its results—but that is a matter that’s still unfolding.

“As I say, I could see the Old One’s eyes glow up behind his lashes, and when he raised his hand the elders became silent. Then he spoke in an ancient voice heavy with quavers in which he warned us that there was no time to lose, and therefore he would begin the medicine the moment the night became pregnant. Then he motioned for the sick man to be placed near the fire and the cave be emptied.

“So I arose with the others, but as I started to leave he placed his hand on my shoulder and indicated that I was to stay, that I was to be one of the three to sleep there in the cave. Which meant himself, the sick man, and me.

“And now, with the elders gone, the Old One sat by the fire near the head of the sick man who lay on the floor still bound and gagged for his safety. And as he twitched in his sleep and the Old One sat nodding, the cave became truly mysterious. So much so that for all my tiredness sleep was denied me, and as I studied the Old One I wondered why out of all the others he had chosen me to assist him. Because there in that place I could take nothing for granted.

“Hickman, I was like a man who sets out for a far distant village and becomes lost in the dark. Footsore and weary, he’s come a long way, and as he advances the terrain becomes steeper and steeper and the trail more uncertain. Several times he stumbles and feels discouraged. Then as he falls and regains his footing he’s surprised by the flickering of lights that gleam far in the distance. And with a sense of relief he tells himself, There! There it is at the top of those hills!

“So with his confidence restored he increases his pace and climbs in the dark with fresh energy.

“Ah, but soon he’s overtaken by doubts that keep dogging his trail. Because now he notices that with each step he takes forwards the lights appear to move backwards, and as he slowly advances they retreat and rise higher. But being committed and still desperately hopeful, he keeps climbing and climbing. Until with the trail becoming even more resistant and the air ever thinner and colder he realizes with a stab of despair that it is not to the lights of a village toward which he’s advancing, not to a community of men, but to the far distant world of the stars….

“Well, that’s how it was, there in the cave with the Old One and the Chief’s son, the sick man. I lay with my head on my arm, and beneath the kettle’s bubbling and hissing I could hear my heart’s drumming. And as I studied the shadows at play on the wall I questioned the goal toward which my life seemed now to be pressing. Then I thought of my mother and father, maybe because when a man becomes aware of the uncertainty of his existence his mind tends to turn to thoughts of those who begat him.

“So I thought of the stories they told of the escape they made so that I could be born among the People, and of the desperate crime they committed in achieving their freedom….”

“A crime?”

“Yes, a crime—or at least in the eyes of the State folks. Because being slaves they were forced to kill and flee for their freedom. Yao! And their decision was by no means easy, especially for my mother….”

“Why especially for her?”

“Because the man they killed was not only her master, the man who owned them, but her father, the man who begat her.”

“Good Lord!”

“So I thought of their killing this man, this proud hypocrite of devious identities. A slave owner with a white wife and children who begat a black line of offspring out of a slave who herself bore the blood of the People. I thought of that confusion of bloods, which was also mine, and what it did to those who possessed it, and how what my parents did defied and questioned the easy distinctions State Folks make between rightness and wrongness, blackness and whiteness. Given such conditions what’s crime and what’s justice? And I thought of how in the long, slow whiplash of its spiraling, time had led to my being holed up in that high dark womb of the world. And as I listened to the kettle’s bubbling and hissing I wondered at the fate of men in this land, and at the treacherous currents that surge beneath the frantic flow of their fucking and fighting.