Follow the Wind (18 page)
Authors: Don Coldsmith
Don Pedro Garcia
had appeared to do so well initially that news of his worsening condition came as a shock to many. Daily activities continued, but there was a sort of hushed reverence around the lodge of the chief's family.
had appeared to do so well initially that news of his worsening condition came as a shock to many. Daily activities continued, but there was a sort of hushed reverence around the lodge of the chief's family.
People shook their heads and told one another that they had thought so. It is a rare thing to recover from such a chest wound.
The more philosophic of the People talked of how it was good that the old hair-face chief had been able to enjoy his son's adopted people for a time.
In truth, it had meant more to Don Pedro Garcia than anyone could ever know. In a certain sense, his dreams for his only son were being fulfilled and he, Don Pedro, was privileged to see it.
He had thought of his son as a leader of men and, as all could see, this had been accomplished. It was in a strange way in a strange land, but all the same, Juan Garcia had become a leader.
Likewise, it was very important to the old man that his son was respected. There was no questioning the looks of admiration among the younger men of the tribe.
Then there was the family of his son. Again, it came in a strange land, but Don Pedro appreciated the opportunity to know them. Though he could speak or understand scarcely a word of his daughter-in-law's tongue, he had come to love her. He admired her beauty, her quick smile, her gentle touch. Ah yes, he could not better have chosen the mother of his grandsons had he picked her himself.
The boys were the idols of his waking hours. Don Pedro watched them endlessly. They would be too small to remember ever having seen their grandfather, but he felt that he could die happily, having seen the next generation, the offspring of his loins. What stalwart boys! The older, Eagle, he was called, was aggressive, athletic, and well liked. His ready smile would take him far.
The younger child, Owl, was quiet, almost timid. He was introspective and thoughtful. The huge dark eyes of his mother peered cautiously from the infant's face, seeming to understand all things. Ah yes, this one! This one is the dreamer, thought Don Pedro. He will make a great thinker.
The old man's major regret was that his wife,
Doña
Isabel, would not be able to see her grandchildren.
Doña
Isabel, would not be able to see her grandchildren.
“Cabeza, you must tell my wife of all these things when you return.”
“No,
Señor,
you will tell her yourself.”
Señor,
you will tell her yourself.”
“Thank you, Ramon, but I know. You forget, I am an old soldier. I have seen chest wounds.”
He paused to cough, the exhausting hack that was becoming worse. Cabeza shuddered at the sound.
“You tell her,” Garcia finished weakly, sinking back on the pallet.
It was only the next day that the old man became unconscious and the word rippled through the Elk-dog band. The old chief, father of Heads Off, was dying.
Yet three more days the old warrior fought. The People were amazed at his stamina, though failing to understand his
reluctance to cross over into the Spirit World. To them it would have been a natural progression. In the words of their Death Song,
reluctance to cross over into the Spirit World. To them it would have been a natural progression. In the words of their Death Song,
The grass and the sky go on forever,
But today is a good day to die!
But today is a good day to die!
For the People, any day was “a good day to die” when the sequence of events decreed it. So there was puzzlement at the old hair-face's stubborn refusal to let go, even as it drew admiration.
White Buffalo was almost constantly present, chanting, dancing, sprinkling pungent herbs on the hot coals of the fire to fill the lodge with fragramt smoke. The medicine man used every technique and ceremony in his knowledge to assist in the comfortable passing of the spirit.
Comatose and unable to take nourishment, Don Pedro grew weaker, his breathing more shallow, until at last, in the dark of a cloudy, drizzly night, the breathing stopped. His son, who had been at his side almost constantly, was dozing, half asleep. At the cessation of the rhythmic quiet sound of breathing, Heads Off came suddenly awake. The big dark eyes of Tall One looked deeply into his.
“His spirit has crossed over, my husband.”
Immediately, her clear voice rose in the Mourning Song. It was picked up and echoed in the adjacent lodge of Coyote, then by another and another, as the People came awake to mourn the loss of their chief's father. The song would usher in the period of mourning, carried out over the next three days.
Now Heads Off was faced with a dilemma. The People were already preparing to carry out the traditional ceremonies of burial. The body would be placed on an elevated funeral scaffold after the customs of the tribe.
Juan Garcia had been raised in the Church, though he had never taken the teachings very seriously. Now, somehow, he wondered if he should not insist on a Christian burial, with interment in the ground. There were problems, of course. There was no priest to officiate, none among the party, even, who knew the proper procedure.
There were even more basic problems. How was one to dig a grave? The People had no tools for digging in the earth. The young man sought out his father-in-law, his friend, adviser, and confidant.
“Coyote, I am troubled. How can I be sure I am doing the right thing? Should my father be buried with the customs of his own tribe or that of the People?”
The pudgy little man was quiet a long while, drawing slowly on his pipe. His eyes were half closed in thought, and once the younger man thought he had gone to sleep. At last he spoke.
“My son, there are many paths to the top of the hill, but all reach the same spot.” He spread his hands in an exaggerated shrug.
“What does it matter? Your father has crossed over on our path and may continue it to the top. But I know his people have their own medicine. I would see no harm in using both. Either way, he is a chief, and will be a chief in the Spirit World.”
It was a long speech for Coyote, but Heads Off found it somehow very comforting.
Don Pedro Garcia received the honor of a chief of the People. He would depart this world with his weapons, food for the journey, and dressed for battle, befitting a warrior. His armor had been lost in the flood, but the great sword was placed beside him as the body was wrapped for the scaffold.
There was some discussion as to whether the sword should be broken to release the spirit. Some tribes known to the People believed that every item involved must be so treated. Heads Off assured them that in the tribe of his father this was not necessary.
Likewise, there was discussion of his need for a horse to ride in the Spirit World. Should an elk-dog be killed beneath the scaffold to furnish transportation on the other side? Again, Heads Off advised against it.
“In his Spirit World, there will be elk-dogs,” he assured.
“Aiee!”
Coyote answered. “His is a strong medicine!”
Coyote answered. “His is a strong medicine!”
The ceremony at the funeral scaffold was brief. The procession wound its way to the site, to the chant of the Mourning
Song, and the carefully wrapped body was placed upon it. The choice bits of food, a skin of water, and the old warrior's weapon were arranged to be convenient to him. The song became quiet.
Song, and the carefully wrapped body was placed upon it. The choice bits of food, a skin of water, and the old warrior's weapon were arranged to be convenient to him. The song became quiet.
For want of a better idea, Perez, the sergeant of lancers, recited a Hail Mary while the People stood quietly in respect for the Hair-faces' medicine.
In contrast, or perhaps in support, White Buffalo chanted the corresponding ceremonial ritual of the People. Thus, in this strange mixture of cultures, was the old warrior honored as he was ushered from this world to the next.
Coyote voiced the feelings of the group as they turned away to return to the village.
“My friends, we have seen the passing of a chief.”
Ramon Cabeza lay
on the soft fur of a buffalo robe and felt the warmth of sunshine on his bare chest. He turned to look at the girl beside him and found that she was awake also, her large dark eyes watching him quietly.
on the soft fur of a buffalo robe and felt the warmth of sunshine on his bare chest. He turned to look at the girl beside him and found that she was awake also, her large dark eyes watching him quietly.
It had been three days now since their marriage. Lame Fox had proudly spread the robe around the shoulders of the couple and they had walked from the village together to spend a few days in solitude.
Time was short. Already it was the Moon of Ripening and on some mornings there was a sharp chill in the air. It would be necessary for the expedition to depart shortly, to complete the journey south before the onslaught of Cold Maker.
Cabeza had discussed the possibility of wintering among the People, but Heads Off advised against it. If there were any delay after the coming of spring, any unforeseen circumstance, they might easily miss the return of the ship.
“I would be pleased and proud to have you stay, Ramon, but there is much risk. If you fail to show up at the appointed time, your ship's captain will sail on and report you lost.”
So it had been decided. Cabeza and South Wind would proceed with their marriage and their brief sojourn for privacy. Meanwhile, Heads Off, Sanchez, and Sergeant Perez would see to the gathering of supplies and equipment for the journey.
The visitors would be escorted through the country of the Head Splitters, even as far as the hair-face camp that Cabeza spoke of. Long Elk would lead a party of warriors as an honor guard, proven men of the Elk-dog Society.
These preparations could easily proceed during the temporary absence of Cabeza and his bride. Then the group would depart before the Moon of Falling Leaves. The Elk-dog men, traveling rapidly, could return to meet the People for winter camp in the southern part of their territory.
Meanwhile, the party under Cabeza would winter with the garrison at the river or perhaps with Lizard's people in the Caddo country. Then they would easily be able to meet the galleon at the appointed time for the sea voyage home. For the first time in a long while, things seemed to be falling into place.
Cabeza and South Wind had spent three idyllic days alone together. They were like delighted children, learning words and phrases of each other's language.
South Wind had many things to show her new husband. She led him to all the hidden corners of the rocky glen where she had played as a child. They watched silvery minnows in the quiet stretches of the stream or swam together in a beaver pool just below their campsite.
They would emerge from the water and lie naked on the robe in the mottled sunshine under a great sycamore, allowing the warm rays to dry crystal droplets on their skin. They watched fluffy clouds drift over their little paradise and, in the sign language, tried to describe what shapes of animals, birds, and trees they resembled.
A pair of quail and their half-grown brood inhabited the canyon and many times they saw the graceful birds slipping quietly through the undergrowth. South Wind puckered her lips in the whistling challenge call of the male bird. Much to Cabeza's amusement, the cock quail, bristling with indignation,
strutted up almost to the edge of their robe, ready to fight the unseen intruder.
strutted up almost to the edge of their robe, ready to fight the unseen intruder.
Cabeza had never before been in a situation where there were endless hours to merely sit and watch and wonder at the world around him. They watched, unmoving, as a doe and her mottled fawn stepped carefully down to drink at the beaver pool. At another time they might be hunted for food, but for now, with supplies in plenty, the graceful animals were merely fellow inhabitants of the glen.
Best of all were the times when the young couple merely spent quiet hours in each other's arms. They made love in the warmth of the day's sunshine and bundled in the warm furry robes of their bed, cuddling close against the night's chill. Cabeza, at these times, would have liked to forget for all eternity the responsibilities of the outside world and relax here in the security of their private little paradise forever.
They were at the beaver pond on the afternoon when their ecstasy was shattered. Both had just emerged from the water and they had run, laughing, to the waiting robe under the sycamore. They were sitting, facing each other, and playfully flicking droplets of water from each other's skin. These episodes had come to signal for both the preliminaries to a warm, prolonged embrace.
Cabeza was relishing the look of adoration in the girl's eyes as she teasingly touched him lightly across the chest and stomach. He was becoming aroused and was on the verge of playfully grabbing the teaser in a mock-ferocious bear hug for a rolling tussle on the robe.
Suddenly, the smiling, teasing expression on the pretty face changed to one of utter horror. South Wind had been gazing full in his face, but now lifted her eyes ever so slightly to look past him to something beyond.
Fighting to overcome his complete preoccupation, Cabeza whirled and rolled, instinctively dodging whatever danger was reflected in the terror-stricken eyes of South Wind. Almost at the same time, he heard the muffled clop of a horse's hoof. There, only a few paces away, sat Lean Bull on an efficient-looking war-horse.
There was an expression of complete triumph on the
painted face. They were caught in the open, with nowhere to run for defense. Both were naked and their weapons were back at the brush arbor near their fire. Even at the time, Cabeza felt a flash of burning resentment that the man had probably been observing them for days, watching for the right moment.
painted face. They were caught in the open, with nowhere to run for defense. Both were naked and their weapons were back at the brush arbor near their fire. Even at the time, Cabeza felt a flash of burning resentment that the man had probably been observing them for days, watching for the right moment.
Cabeza considered briefly the possibility of sprinting across the meadow to his weapons. Even on foot, the lance would serve well. He quickly abandoned the thought. Before he had gone a few steps, the horse would be upon him, its rider swinging the deadly club.
He glanced at the beaver pool. Could they throw themselves into the water and swim the few strokes to the other side? No, there was no escape there. The horse could easily follow and on the other side was a steep rocky face, impossible to climb.
Lean Bull chuckled and Cabeza realized that the intruder had already evaluated all of these possibilities. Even as this thought occurred to him, Lean Bull began the swinging arc with his heavy war club, gaining with each circling motion the momentum that could deliver a crushing death blow.
The defenseless pair scrambled to their feet. Cabeza gave South Wind a shove toward the pool.
“Quick! In the water!”
He did not know whether the girl would understand him, but this was the only possibility he saw, even though temporary. The attacker was principally interested in the destruction of Cabeza. Maybe he could delay the onslaught long enough for the girl to escape. If she swam to the head of the pool, there might be shelter among the rocks.
Lean Bull dug heels into the horse's flanks, and the animal leaped forward in a deadly rush. Cabeza waited and, at the last possible moment, jumped behind the bole of the sycamore. The whirling club crashed against the bark, sending shattered splinters flying. A patch of denuded trunk the size of one's palm glistened white in the mottled sunlight.
The horseman wheeled to strike again and Cabeza dodged, keeping the bulk of the tree between them. The horse was quick, however, expertly anticipating and dodging to block
the escape of the man on foot. To the experienced animal, this was not much different than following the dodging course of a buffalo's attempted escape.
the escape of the man on foot. To the experienced animal, this was not much different than following the dodging course of a buffalo's attempted escape.
For a moment, there was a stalemate. As long as Cabeza remained at the tree, the whirling club could not reach him. Unfortunately, neither could he escape. The standoff must end in either of two ways. The quarry must break and run, to be cut down from behind, or he must eventually tire and fail to continue the quick footwork that now kept him from destruction. Lean Bull smiled with anticipation.
Both men reckoned without South Wind. The girl was frantically looking for anything to use as a weapon. A rock, a stick, anything to help her husband. She scrambled along the shore, searching. On this side of the pool were only small white gravelly stones, not big enough to throw. Likewise, there were no trees or underbrush on this side. Nothing, except the big lone sycamore.
Frantically, she ran stumbling along the bank toward the beaver dam. There, the animals had been cutting small cottonwoods. Bright new yellow sticks woven into the dam contrasted with the dark gray-brown of the older materials. Her eye fell on a discarded length of sapling, nearly as long as her arm and as thick as a man's wrist. She seized the object and hurried back.
South Wind, during her days in the Rabbit Society, had delighted in her athletic ability. Too slight of build to compete with her male counterparts at wrestling, she had determined to excel in running and in the use of weapons. Her skill with the throwing sticks had been unsurpassed for several seasons. Many a rabbit had found its way to the lodge of Lame Fox during this time.
Now she sprinted back toward the tree, hefting the balance of the cottonwood stick. It would do. It must.
The girl panted to a stop, unheeded for the moment by either man. She circled, waiting for the right moment. The throw must be true. There could be but one.
Cabeza feinted left and dodged right, but the skilled buffalo horse anticipated and was there before him. This move, however, brought the horse and rider out from behind the tree.
The yellow cottonwood beaver-cutting arched gracefully end over end through the air, with all the force and accuracy of South Wind's expertise. Lean Bull caught only a glimpse of some flying object before it struck, just in front of the left ear. Limply he slid from the horse and landed heavily on his side. The animal bolted away and Lean Bull struggled to rise, breathless, confused and uncertain. Instantly, he was bowled over by the rush of two naked bodies.
Cabeza grasped the shaft of the stone war club at each end and pressed it against the warrior's throat, choking him against the ground. South Wind was snatching at the thong of the man's breechclout, searching for the knife she knew he kept there. Her hand encountered the hilt and she ripped the weapon from its sheath. In one sweeping motion, the razor-sharp flint swung in a precise arc and buried itself in the soft underbelly of the struggling warrior.
The struggles quieted and the two victors, breathless, sat back on their heels to look at each other in disbelief. Cabeza was breathing heavily, ragged gasps that showed how near exhaustion he had been. He rose and staggered over to fall on the rumpled buffalo robe. South Wind ran to fall on her knees beside him and the young man appreciatively circled her with an arm.
Once again, the girl had saved his life.
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