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Authors: James Welch
Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction) (35 page)
BOOK: Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)
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29
RED PAINT STOOD BESIDE THE LODGE and watched him ride away. She watched his horse pick a way up the steep draw to the rolling hills south of camp. She expected him to stop at the top of the rise and look back but he didn’t. He disappeared. She continued to watch the horizon for some time, as though by an act of will she could draw him back, but she knew that his dream had power beyond her will.
She had awakened to see him kneeling over her, and in the dim light it had taken her a moment to see the paint on his face and another moment to see that it was not a war face. The whitewash was barely thick enough to hide the natural color of her husband’s skin. But it was the eyes—rather, the hollows around the eyes—that made her catch her breath. The charcoal-gray smudge gave his face the appearance of a mask. As she studied the man above her, she felt a shiver go through her bones and knew she was looking into the face of death.
He stood then and walked around the fire. His hair was loose and hung down past his shoulders. He was wearing an old skin shirt and leggings. Both were stained with grease and dirt and ash. Red Paint saw that the fringing on the shirt had been cut off. She watched him gather up his bow and quiver and the small medicine bag that he wore around his neck. He returned and again knelt beside her.
“I had a dream,” he said. “Nitsokan instructs me to make a journey.”
Red Paint looked up at the face, and it was difficult to recognize her husband.
“I will be gone for seven sleeps. You can move to your mother’s lodge for that time.”
Red Paint raised herself to one elbow. “Are you going to hunt?”
“Perhaps—later. But first I must attend to something else.”
“What is it?”
“Nitsokan doesn’t say. He will only guide me.”
“Do you have food? There is meat—” Red Paint threw back the robe and tried to rise.
Fools Crow gently pushed her back. “I must take no food on this journey. I must come to this place as a beggar.”
“Why do you paint yourself in this way? It frightens me.”
“A-wah-heh, wife, take courage. I intend to come back to you as the man I am. For now, I must do as Nitsokan says. I myself do not understand, but if my journey is successful, perhaps it will help the Lone Eaters find a direction.” He stood and draped a small calf robe over his shoulders. “You must pray to the Above Ones for my success and for my return. You must ask them to take pity on this poor beggar—and on the Pikuni people.”
“But did your dream helper vow to return you to me?”
“Nitsokan helps all our people. He will return me to you.”
“But will he know where to find me? What if the chiefs decide to move camp before you come back? I will stay! I will not leave here even if all the others go away.”
“You are a brave woman, Red Paint. Pray for us and for our unborn child.”
“I will pray for you, my husband, but you must promise me that you will return. You must promise me!”
Fools Crow reached the top of the rise out of the Two Medicine valley and kicked his horse into a trot. He was riding the black buffalo-runner that he had taken from the Crows. He was a big horse with a good seat and easy gait that made Fools Crow uneasy. Nitsokan had told him to come as a beggar, and beggars did not ride such fine animals. But it would take three days to reach his destination, and he didn’t want to take a chance on a poorer creature coming up lame or not having the strength to get him there and back. Nitsokan had instructed him to ride for three days and three nights. The dream helper would give him and his horse the strength to endure such a trial, but it would be hard. Fools Crow knew there would be times when he would wonder if it was worth the effort, times when he would be tempted to turn back to the warmth of his lodge and his wife.
As he scanned the snowy short-grass plains stretching away to the blue mountains of the Backbone, he began to be afraid. He knew this country well, knew all the buttes and mountains, the creeks and rivers; yet this day he felt strange, and when he looked at familiar landmarks he saw them as a stranger would, in a different place, in another time. He was grateful when the sun broke above a cloudbank to the east. He was grateful that Sun Chief would watch over him one more day.
He made good time that first day and night. His horse trotted strongly beneath him, and when he looked back he saw that he had left the Two Medicine River far behind. In the last darkness before dawn, in the waning moonlight, he stood on a ridge just east of the Milk River and looked down on the buildings of the Four Horns agency. They squatted low and dark in a grassy clearing and Fools Crow thought he heard voices, but then he realized it was the sound of his own stomach. He had ceased feeling hungry sometime during the night, but now in the silence of the snowy night his stomach rumbled its complaint.
He swung himself onto the black horse and the horse began his steady trot. Fools Crow almost urged him into a lope, for now they were in the country of the Napikwans, in the wide-open country where a horse and rider would attract attention. He would not reach the eastward curve of the mountains until nightfall.
Fools Crow made a prayer to Nitsokan to help him get through this day, to pass unnoticed in this country of the enemies. But as the first light of dawn appeared on the eastern horizon, he became afraid again. Before the day ended he would have to pass near the seizers’ fort on the Pile-of-rocks River. He began to think of finding a willow grove to hide in until night. He knew of such a place just to the west. He could make it before Sun had cleared the land. But as he turned the black horse, he remembered how Nitsokan had said to ride three days and three nights, without stopping. If he stopped, he wouldn’t know the way or when he had reached his destination. No, he could not interrupt his journey, not for fear or hunger or fatigue, but he couldn’t help the feeling of discouragement that swept over him, of knowing that the seizers could end his journey that very day. And he would never know what awaited him. Worst of all, he would not know if that which awaited him would help his people. Nitsokan had not said so, but what other purpose for such a hard ride? In spite of his fear, he had to believe that Nitsokan would bring him past the Napikwans.
Fools Crow was riding south again, sunk in his gloomy thoughts, so he didn’t notice the first thin veil that softened the outlines of the land and caused the oranging of the eastern sky to dim. He was cold and tired, and he hid his face beneath his long, loose hair. He did not sleep but he was in another world, a world of warmth and plenty and happy voices. He saw the lodges of the Two Medicine River, and the children playing in midsummer water, and his own wife, singing to herself as she worked over a stretched skin. He saw the large horse herds and the outriders and the village, all in a golden light, in peace. And he saw his father and Three Bears smoking outside a lodge, Mik-api dozing beneath a green big-leaf tree, oblivious to the two puppies that wrestled at his feet. Then he saw a young man riding into camp, his horse picking his way between the tipis, the dry-meat racks, the stretched hides, the children and dogs. He led three horses, all packed with meat and skins of the blackhorns. The young man stopped before the lodge where Red Paint worked. She looked up and smiled at him. Her face was sweaty and her hands were slick with brains and grease. She smiled and Fools Crow slid down off his horse and went to her.
The black horse had been standing beside the water for some time. He did not try to graze or drink but stood patiently waiting for the rider to give him a sign. When finally the rider lifted his head, he was startled to find such a dim world. He could barely see the river, and he could not see across it. The land had vanished. In his fatigue, Fools Crow thought he was in a blizzard, but as his senses returned to him he noticed that the air was still and nothing was falling out of the sky. Then he noticed the horse, then himself—they were covered with frost. It is the work of Nitsokan, he thought. He creates the thick white air that creeps along the ground. He has hidden Fools Crow this day.
He nudged the horse and they crossed the river. Luckily it was a place where the water ran fast and it was not iced over. Only on the edges did they encounter a thin crust that broke beneath the horse’s hooves. As they continued their way south, they passed within hailing distance of the seizers’ fort, a dim darkness in the cloud, but all was quiet.
That night they came upon the rolling foothills of the mountains. The cloud had lifted and they stayed within the stunted pine trees on a much-traveled game trail. Once they passed so close to a herd of deer that Fools Crow could have killed one with an arrow just by shooting into their midst. The deer moved away from the trail and stopped to watch them pass. Another time, a real-bear grunted several times on the slope below them, but he didn’t catch their scent.
The next day Fools Crow dreamed off and on of a winter hunt with his father and brother. They ran the blackhorns well, and when they looked back they saw several dark lumps strewn over the snowy plain. They were prime animals, and Fools Crow and Running Fisher were happy and their father smiled.
The horse trotted on without pause or hesitation. Once, Fools Crow woke up and got down to piss and urged the horse to eat in a grove of saplings, but the horse stood with head high, his eyes trained to the south, until his rider climbed wearily into the saddle. Nitsokan gives you strength, buffalo-runner, and the keen eyes to see where we are going. Does he also tell you our destination? Has he shown you what he hides from me? Then Fools Crow drifted into his dream and the horse trotted on.
The snow was a pale blue in the dusk-light by the time they reached the mouth of the canyon. Although Fools Crow had been in this country twice before, he had not noticed the canyon. The wall on the south side was made of granite with several horizontal striations too small to be called ledges. Each striation held a narrow line of snow that seemed to point Fools Crow’s eyes up the canyon. The other side of the canyon was a more gradual slope covered with short gnarled pines and gray grasses. Between this slope and the small ice-blue stream that emptied out onto the flat where the black horse stood, there was a thick patch of red willows that blocked the entrance to the canyon.
Fools Crow slid down and led the horse to the willows. The snow had covered up the path, but he could just make out the small dark depressions in the snow that meant animal tracks. The light was going fast and he was reluctant to enter the canyon, but he knew this was the place Nitsokan had directed him. Still he hesitated, until the black horse raised his head sharply and pulled the reins from Fools Crow’s hand. Before his master could react the horse whirled and crashed into the willow stand, the brittle branches clattering as they closed behind the animal. Fools Crow yelled but he knew that the horse wouldn’t hear him over the clattering willows. Again he grew fearful, but before the feeling could overpower him, he lunged into the willows and began to follow the dark sharp hoofprints.
Although he kept to the path, the way was hard, and by the time he emerged into the openness of the valley, his face was red and stinging from the slapping branches. There was a long bloody scratch on his cheek from a broken-off branch that he had walked into, but he felt alive and alert and warm as he looked up at the sky and saw the familiar Seven Persons and the Lost Children. He looked back toward the entrance to the canyon and saw Night Red Light, almost full, hovering yellow over the plains. And when he looked down he saw his shadow before him, and he remembered the fear in Red Paint’s eyes as she had seen his ash-gray face. She was far away now.
Although the valley was small, the mountains sloped away with such ease that it made the way ahead look open and inviting. The mountains on both sides were covered with large dark pines. Below the mountain to the north there was a saddle, and a leafless grove of aspen spilled down to the valley floor. Fools Crow saw his black horse near the edge of the grove, less than two hundred paces away. He trotted over to the horse and patted the powerful shoulder. The skin rippled under his hand with such energy that Fools Crow felt it go into his own body and he felt strong. As he lifted himself into the saddle, he said, “I shall call you Heavy-charging-in-the-brush from now on because you have shown me the way. That is a good name for such a war-horse.”
The horse began the familiar trot with his head up and ears forward, but this time Fools Crow did not slump down into dreams, content with letting the horse lead the way. He sat with his back straight and his eyes scanning the moonlit country ahead. He knew that Nitsokan waited for him.
The small dwelling was made of logs and mud. It stood on the bank of a small river, surrounded by leafless spear-leaf trees and chokecherry thickets. There were no outbuildings that Fools Crow could see, nor could he see or hear any of the Napikwan animals that usually grazed near these dwellings in the cold moons of winter. As he sat on his horse and studied the house, he realized that although he didn’t know who was inside, he was not afraid. He watched the smoke rise from a long black tube and knew there would be one of the Napikwan woodburners inside. He looked at a small square opening covered with the white man’s ice-shield. He had seen them at the trader’s house on the Bear River. When he had touched one, he had been surprised to feel that it was hard but not cold. Now he watched the yellow light behind the opening and knew that would be the white man’s light-maker. So Nitsokan wishes me to enter this enemy’s lodge, he thought. Then, it is necessary. He had his bow strung and an arrow notched. As he tested the pull of the twisted sinew, he remembered that Nitsokan had told him to come as a beggar. A beggar does not come with his weapons drawn but as a supplicant, so Fools Crow reluctantly slung the bow and quiver from the saddle horn.
BOOK: Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)
11.56Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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