Raven Mocker (14 page)

T
hese people, the travelers learned, called themselves the People, as did most others, in their own tongues. Just as the Cherokees consider themselves the Real People, so do most groups consider themselves
the
People. It was no different here.

They learned also that this was the Southern band of a far-flung nation. Their neighbors sometimes called them the “Elk-dog People,” and the hand sign for this nation was that of a horse. They had been among the first in the Southern Plains to acquire the horse, many generations ago, it was said.

There were several other bands, some as far west as the mountains, and others to the north and east, as far as “twenty sleeps” away. All of these bands met annually for the Sun Dance, to celebrate the return of the sun, the grass, and the buffalo. These were hunters, nomads who could move when and where they decided with their skin tents.

It was hard for Snakewater to imagine a people who grew no crops, since the Real People had been farmers almost since creation.

Fox had been in contact with such people before and helped her to understand.

“But … where do they buy corn, pumpkins, beans?” Snakewater asked in confusion.

“They trade,” explained Fox. “They use all parts of the
buffalo. Skins for their lodges and for clothing, or tanned with the fur on for robes. Meat, dried or made into pemmican. Even the bones and horns are used, for tools and weapons. What they don’t need for themselves, they trade to the growers in exchange for corn and beans.”

“Growers?”

“Yes—Kaw, Wichita, Omaha. Those who farm.”

“But they hunt too.”

“Of course. Like the Cherokee. But for these the hunt is the main—no, the
only
thing. Well, they trap some furs in the winter. But you can see how important the buffalo become to people such as these.”

S
nakewater could not have explained it. It was completely illogical, but since they first came over the rise and saw the endless grassland stretched before them, she had felt at home. She had felt such contentment only a few times before.
No, only once
, she thought, when she had seen this strange country of far horizons as part of her night vision. There had been an excitement, a thrill, but at the same time a calm reassurance. Somehow she knew that for these people, it was the same. They were one with this land, a part of it. She wished to learn more about them.

That opportunity arose quickly as evening came and people drifted together for a story fire. It was not a planned or announced event, just something that it was assumed would happen. Snakewater had become familiar with this process as they traveled, and as her role of storyteller grew.

One question never failed to arise when they camped with strangers: How did
your
people come into the world? Each would tell the story as handed down among his or her own people. Sometimes there were striking similarities, sometimes an even more astonishing variety. Most of the people she had encountered since crossing the Big River had originated from inside the earth, she noticed. Usually through a hole, sometimes in a sacred place, but, in all cases, through an entrance into the outer world that was no longer open. Some specific event had closed the
hole long ago. Sometimes they had come up through the waters of a lake or pond, the exact location now lost.

She always started with her own, the story of the Real People. By contrast with the origin stories of others, theirs related how the Real People started at the top of the inverted bowl of the Sky Dome, looking down at endless waters below. It was crowded on the top of the dome, with all the animals and plants and the Real People. They wondered what was below the water. Beaver volunteered to go and see, but he failed. Then Loon, the diving water bird, and he, too, was unsuccessful. Finally the little Water Beetle, whom the Cherokees call “beaver’s grandchild,” dived very deep and brought up a little dab of mud, which he spread on the water. Then another, and another, until an island grew and became Earth.

The One Above, Maker of all things, saw that this was good and helped the people by fastening a cord to each corner of the Earth, suspending it from the sky dome so that it would not sink back into the water. But it was still wet and boggy, so the people asked Buzzard to fly over it and fan it dry with his great wings. When he became tired, Buzzard’s wingtips sometimes struck the drying mud, and this is why we have mountains and valleys. Is it not so?

Snakewater finished her signing, among exclamations of astonishment, and an old man, obviously the storyteller of Far Thunder’s band, cleared his throat. Every eye turned toward him, indicating that he was greatly respected among his people. He spoke both aloud in his own tongue, and in hand signs for the travelers.

Theirs was a good story, he admitted. He had a few questions ….

“What happens when the cords grow brittle and old—those that hold the earth from sinking?”

There was a murmur of interest, with a little concern.

“When the world grows old and worn out,” Snakewater explained, “all the people will die. The cords will break and the Earth sinks into the ocean again. But that is a long while away.”

“That is to be hoped!” said the old storyteller, a twinkle in his eye. “Now, here is our story. Our people were inside the earth, and it was dark and cold. Then a man saw a light and climbed toward it. He was helped by a sound from above, a
thump-thump-thump.
There was a round tunnel with the light at the end, and he crawled through into the sunlight. This was First Man, and his wife, First Woman, followed him. Then they saw what was making the thumping sound. They had crawled through a hollow cottonwood log. An old man sat astride the log, holding a drumstick. And, now, each time he thumped the log, another person crawled out into the light. These are our people.”

The storyteller paused, and there was an air of expectancy. There must be more to the story.
What happened next?
Snakewater wanted to ask. But it was Fox whose curiosity could not be contained.

Are they still coming through?
he signed.

Ah, no
, the storyteller answered.
It was unfortunate. After a while a fat woman became stuck in the log. No more could come through. That is why we have always been a small nation!

There was a roar of laughter. It became apparent that this was a private joke among these people. Everybody except a stranger would know about Fat Woman. It would be a joke on the stranger, who could usually be counted on to ask, as Fox had done.

Fox laughed good-naturedly with the crowd, realizing that he had been the butt of the joke.

Snakewater was quite amused and a little bit startled at her enjoyment of it. Never, in her old lifetime, had she enjoyed such things. Her mentor had been a sour old woman, she now realized. There had not been much pleasure or enjoyment in her own life until she had made the break away from Old Town. Maybe a sense of humor was a part of the new person she had become ….

S
nakewater found that she related well to these people of the prairie. There had been a time when she would have
considered them backward and uncivilized, compared to the Real People. Now, with more experience, having had contact with several separate cultures, each different from the other, she had some basis for comparison. Far from being a primitive band of savages, these people had a highly complicated civilization. Not
lesser
than her own, but
different.
In some ways, as intricate as that of the Real People.

Their skill with horses was astonishing to watch, and well it might be. Their entire lives were built around the hunting of the buffalo, and the horse was necessary for that purpose. It made her wonder how they had managed
before
the white man brought the horse.

Their skin tents, which Snakewater had always considered a primitive makeshift, now astonished her. She had heard of this contraption all of her life, and had even seen small examples used by some people as seasonal shelters while traveling. But it was not at all what she had imagined. Some of the lodges in Far Thunder’s camp were made from thirty or more buffalo skins sewn together. As many as fifteen or twenty people could easily be seated in many of the structures.

In addition there were complicated rules and customs for putting up or taking down the lodges. It was almost a ritual. She was to learn much of this later, but for now certain things were easily apparent. All the doorways faced eastward …. Why?
It must be so.
Not only custom and tradition, but a
requirement.
Well, she would learn more of that later too.

Meanwhile she found that as she liked these people, apparently Fox did too. Trading was good, and Fox showed no signs of impatience to move on, as he sometimes did among other people. The hospitality was warm and generous, and the exchange of stories was pleasant. Their sense of humor was enjoyable and quick.

Linked closely to all of this was a feeling that these people were a part of the grassland. Its far horizons and its spirit had impressed her powerfully, both in her dream
vision and when she first saw it in reality. She had thought that such an impression might fade, but it had not. It was still as thrilling and exciting as her first view when they topped the rise. The prairie was always changing too. The changing light produced new colors and patterns of shadow constantly, from the time she rose to go to water until darkness fell, and even beyond. She had never seen stars so many and so bright.

On their fourth night in the camp the moon rose nearly full. The story fire lasted until late, but after the gathering broke up Snakewater was still reluctant to retire. There was an excitement in the air, a feeling that if she sought her blankets now, she might miss something. Maybe the best part of the night, when some marvelous event might occur that would open to her all the mysteries of creation. She could not risk it. She walked in the moonlight, down along the stream and then up to the crest of a low rise overlooking the scatter of lodges below.

There were night sounds …. Insects, night birds, the whicker of a raccoon in the trees downstream… A distant coyote, and the hollow call of a hunting owl. The whole scene should have been new and unfamiliar to her, yet it all seemed to fit into place, as if she had experienced it before. Possibly many times before. It was a strange yet comforting feeling. She sat on a limestone ledge that projected out of the slope, still warm from the sun. She drank in the feeling, calming, yet at the same time exciting.

Then she spoke aloud, to a spot beside her that to anyone else would have appeared empty.

“Yes, Lumpy… Of course I feel it,” she said softly.

S
he hoped that Fox would decide to stay a little longer with these people. Already she was feeling a strange kinship.

Fox seemed in no hurry to leave. He and Rain Cloud, too, seemed to be enjoying this stay, though not with the same strange attraction that Snakewater felt.

“Maybe another day or two,” Fox would say.

But the trading was still good, and the weather continued to be favorable. There was nothing urgent to cause Fox to become restless, and Snakewater was glad.

Nothing had been said about wintering. She had originally thought to look at some of the towns of the Real People with the idea of settling there, but none had really appealed to her. This too, puzzled her. Maybe it would be best to go back to West Landing with Fox and Rain Cloud. She knew people there, and she was respected both for her skills as a conjuror and for her storytelling.

But that might be risky. Someone would turn up who remembered the circumstances under which she had left Old Town. Besides, Fox had not yet mentioned whether he intended to return that way. Or, she now thought suddenly, whether he intended to return at all.

Could he be planning to winter here, with these people? Then yet another thought struck her. They had no idea when this nomadic band of Far Thunder’s people might decide to move, and
where.
Where would
they winter? Snakewater was not accustomed even to think about such things, but now she began to realize that she needed to ask some questions. Hers was a rather precarious situation, with no family or close kin. She was respected as a storyteller, but for some time she had not had an opportunity to practice her conjure skills or exercise her healing powers. Her bundles of herbs and roots lay in her packs, neglected.

T
he incident that began to resolve her problems was as strange as all the other events that had affected her life since she’d left Old Town. She sometimes felt that she had no control at all, and was somehow being drawn in directions that seemed to make no sense.

She was sitting by the fire in their temporary camp when it happened. She and Cloud had erected a small lean-to of willow branches to furnish a bit of afternoon shade. Both Fox and Cloud were elsewhere at the moment, and Snakewater was relaxing in the comfort of the arbor.

From where she sat, she could see much of the camp. Most families had untied the bottom edges of their lodge covers and rolled up the skins like lifted skirts to let the cooling breezes of the prairie drift through. This provided shade and comfort, and the lodge covers could be quickly rolled down in case of an approaching storm. She was impressed with the versatility of these dwellings, though she still had doubts about how they would fare in winter.

She saw Far Thunder rise from the willow backrest in front of his lodge. He made his way among the scattered dwellings, around cooking fires, playing children, and sleeping dogs. She wondered idly where he was going. Suddenly her eyes seemed to be playing tricks on her. The chieftain had been obscured from her sight for a moment while he passed behind one of the lodges. When he emerged on the other side, her eyes blurred somehow, and Far Thunder seemed to be in two parts. His upper body continued along his course. His legs and hips did also, moving normally, but
a step behind his torso!
She
gasped and rubbed her eyes …. A trick of vision, an illusion… No, it was so ….

Then the two images came together again, smoothly and uneventfully, and Far Thunder walked as before, apparently whole and hearty. Her heart raced …. There was meaning here, a serious situation, but she was caught off guard and confused. Somewhere in her past this had happened before, in exactly that way. Was she reliving this whole scene? No, that could not be. When had she seen it before—in a dream? No, it had been real, but the setting different. Not a village of skin lodges, but in a town…
Old Town!
Yes… Many years ago… It was coming back swiftly now, in bits and pieces.

She had been hardly more than a child, or in her early teens, and she was living with the old conjure woman already. That had been one of the events that led her mentor to begin to share her medicine skills.

A man had walked past their hut with this same dissociated image, and the girl (she was called Corn Flower then) had gasped in astonishment. There had been a moment of silence and then the old woman spoke:

“You
saw
that too?”

The girl nodded, confused.

“Yes …I … ”

“Ah! As I suspected. You do have the gift, then. Very well, I will teach you.”

She could not remember much more except that the old woman had, at about that time, begun to instruct her in many things. They had already discussed the Little People.

But, yes, it was coming back, now. The man (was it not Whips Along?) had been torn apart by a problem. Maybe it was a thing of the spirit, or maybe something physical. She could not remember. Possibly both, for one influences the other until they are one, anyway. And there were specific remedies. That part she remembered well. A special smoke for the pain involved, if necessary, a conjure ceremony, and a healing potion of herbs. She thought she had the proper components.

Now, how to approach the problem? Normally people would approach
her
for such purposes. Here she was a guest in the camp of which Far Thunder was the leader. Would he be offended if she approached him?

She spent a restless night in doubt as to how, when, and
whether
to act. Surely there must be some tradition and manner of treatment for such things among these people. There was the old holy man, White Buffalo, but his medicine seemed far removed from hers. She gathered that the name had been handed down with the office for many generations. The people seemed to regard the old man with great respect. His medicine must be very powerful.

But it was
different.
The power of White Buffalo’s medicine had to do with the buffalo, the knowledge of the movements of the great herds, and their annual return… with the grass, and the sun and the buffalo, around which their lives revolved.

Possibly they had healers among them. Probably so. She could inquire.

T
here was no one, she was told in hand signs.

Is there something you need?

No, no, not for myself. I do a little medicine
, she signed quickly.

We once had an owl prophet
, answered the woman whom she had asked.
He is with the Eastern band now. A good move. He was foolish, which will make him at home with them.
The woman laughed.

Such a remark was puzzling to Snakewater. The conversation, in hand signs, was difficult enough to follow. There must be some sort of inside joke about the Eastern band and foolishness. She could ask about that later.

But for now she was concerned. This was a serious situation. Serious enough, in fact, that she was certain something must be done. If there was no one else, then it must be meant as her responsibility. With determination she made her way to the lodge of Far Thunder and shook the deer-hoof rattle beside the door.

“Who is it?” came the answer from inside, in the tongue of those inside. At least that was assumed to be the response.

“Snakewater,” she answered. “I would speak with Far Thunder.”

There was little chance that those inside would understand the words, but surely her meaning would be clear. She had identified herself and had asked to see the chief by name.

A woman looked out, nodded in acknowledgment of Snakewater’s presence, and withdrew. A few words were exchanged, and then Far Thunder himself stooped to exit the lodge. He straightened to full height and faced her.

What is it?
he signed.

His face looked tired and drawn, and his color was poor, his skin grayish in tone rather than the ruddy gold that marked the countenance of most people here.

Snakewater took a deep breath. This would be difficult at best, but in hand signs… ?

I am made to think
, she signed slowly,
that you are troubled. You need my help.

It appeared that Far Thunder was ready to laugh, but then his face softened.

What do you know of this? You are a medicine woman?

I do a little medicine
, she answered.
I can help, maybe.

There was a long pause, as the chief pondered. Then he signed again.

You are Cherokee, no?

She nodded.

We must talk better
, he signed.
There is a man
…

He turned and called something inside the lodge, and a young man emerged with a puzzled look on his face. Far Thunder gave him quick instructions, and the boy trotted away.

Wait a little
, signed Thunder.

It was only a short while before the boy returned with a man of about thirty, who wore a puzzled or curious look on his face. He spoke to Far Thunder, and a brief conversation ensued. The man nodded understanding and then turned to Snakewater.

“I am Chases the Dog,” he introduced himself in Cherokee. “I wintered with your people once, in the mountains.” He pointed west.

Snakewater nodded. She was aware that there was a small colony of the Real People far to the west. The accent of this man was a trifle different from her own. His speech was also a bit halting from disuse, it seemed.

“Far Thunder says that you would speak with him, and you need an interpreter. You are a medicine woman? A conjuror?”

“I do a little medicine,” she answered quickly. “And, yes, he needs my help. His person comes apart.”

Dog Chaser relayed this information, and the chief nodded, still suspiciously. The two men conversed briefly.

“How do you know this?” asked the interpreter.

“I have seen it,” she answered, looking straight into the chief’s drawn face. “I can help.”

There was another conversation, which seemed almost endless to her. Finally Chases the Dog turned to her again.

“What would you do?”

“He must tell me a little more of how he feels. It might require a conjure … a potion ….”

More talk. Then the interpreter turned to her again.

“Thunder wants to know… can you stop the pain in his head?”

She turned to the chief, looked him full in the face, and answered in hand signs.

I don’t know. But I can help it
.

It is good
, answered Far Thunder.
Do
it.

He turned and spoke to the interpreter, who relayed the more complete message.

“He asks when, where, and what do you need?”

“Tell him it will take some time, several days, maybe longer. I have the herbs I need.”

The chief nodded as this information was relayed.

Let it be so
, he signed.

A
bout the only necessary item she didn’t have was a few bits of wood from a tree struck by lightning. She had noticed a craggy old cottonwood on a rise a few bow shots outside the camp. She walked up that way and found that her guess was correct. A cottonwood in the open always draws lightning. Yes—there …

Down one side of the massive trunk was a slash, a hand’s breadth in width and running upward to the tallest branches. It had stripped the bark and blasted chunks of wood away from the heart of the tree. Most of the fallen branches that usually lie around an old cotton-wood had been carried off for fuel. But she managed to pry out a few sizable slivers from the scarred stripe itself. They would be sufficient, she thought.

As she returned to the camp, she was met by Rain Cloud.

“Where have you been? I was looking for you. Fox wants to leave early tomorrow. We must be ready.”