Raven Mocker (15 page)

C
loud… I can’t go.”

“What?”

“I can’t go. I am needed here.”

“I don’t understand ….”

“Neither do I, but it is meant to be. Come, I must tell Fox.”

F
ox was sympathetic. He nodded as she explained.

“ … and I am made to think that this was meant for me to do.”

“Yes… we must do what calls us,” he agreed. “My heart is heavy, Snakewater, but I understand. You will winter here, then?”

She had not even had a thought for that far ahead.

“I don’t know, Fox. What will happen will happen.”

“We may come this way next season. We will ask about you.”

“These people may be elsewhere next season, Fox,” protested Cloud. “They move often.”

“No matter,” said Snakewater. “I will be somewhere. I cannot plan next year yet!”

Such reassurance was largely for herself. Snakewater had begun to think that she had some part in the direction of her life, but now it seemed otherwise. This was somewhat disconcerting. But things happen ….

“I will help you pack,” she told Fox.

T
hat very evening she began the treatment for Far Thunder. To avoid any distraction this first ritual would be carried out well away from the camp. Dog Chaser was called upon to explain to Thunder and his family what was to be done and what was expected. Thunder’s principal wife was present to observe.

This part is to help the pain
, Snakewater signed.
The rest comes later.

She kindled a small fire, offered a pinch of tobacco to any spirits who might be lingering in the area, and offered a ritual prayer in her own tongue. Her fire, made of small twigs and a few larger sticks, quickly burned down to coals. She raked them together, and carefully began to add a few splinters and shards of the wood from the lightning-blasted cottonwood tree. She had soaked these in water, because they must not burn too fast. Their smoke was more desirable than their light or heat.

She had positioned the fire and the reclining Thunder so that he would be near and slightly downwind from the smoke. It was a still evening, however, and the soft south breeze unreliable. She drew out a fan, made from the wing of a hawk, and gently wafted the healing smoke in his direction. Not too much… just a hint, to help remove the pain in the patient’s head so that the healing could begin. Far Thunder coughed once, and she quickly used her fan to thin the denseness of the smoke.
Ah!
Now it was moving properly, drifting gently and thinly past his face. The songs of the night creatures provided a calming background for Snakewater’s ritual prayer.

The fire broke into a blaze, and she sprinkled it with water. The lightning-blasted shards must not be consumed too quickly. Still, she needed to heat some water …. Maybe she should have had two fires …. No, there would be enough heat …. She added fuel to one side and allowed it to blaze up, setting her small pan of water on a couple of stones over that source of heat.

When the water began to simmer, she removed the pan and sprinkled some rubbed herbs into it, setting it aside
to cool. She continued to waft the smoke from the other side of the fire toward Far Thunder’s face.

It was completely dark now, and she saw the blood-red arc of the moon’s rim start to creep up under the eastern edge of the sky dome. It was only a little past full, and she wondered if that would affect her ceremony. She was not certain, but she decided that it would probably not interfere and might even help. Far Thunder’s face appeared peaceful in the growing light of the rising moon.

She roused him to drink a little tea, and helped him to lie back again on the pallet of robes and blankets. She covered him with one of the blankets against the chill of the prairie night.

Thunder’s wife spoke a few words in her own tongue, very softly, and Dog Chaser interpreted.

“She says his face is peaceful …. His head pain is gone, and he sleeps!”

Snakewater nodded. “Tell her that this is the beginning. He must drink the tea each day If the pain returns, we can do the smoke again.”

Dog Chaser nodded and conveyed the information to Thunder’s wife, Swan, who nodded understanding.

“Let us allow him to sleep,” Snakewater whispered, accompanying her words with hand signs. The wife nodded.

It is good
, she signed, as the chief began to snore softly.

S
nakewater had been glad to learn that among these prairie people there was a custom much like the “going to water” of the Real People. While not so ritualized, it was a well-established practice. When morning came, a quick dip in the stream was the accepted norm if at all practical. This was good and should be of help in the process of Far Thunder’s healing. She was not certain how the ceremonies and practices of her people would apply to members of another culture. But surely no harm could come as long as there was no violation of
their
customs. Her ceremony had seemed to work well for Far Thunder.

When they rose in the morning, she suggested in hand
signs that Thunder go to water, and he nodded. Dog Chaser had returned to his own lodge for the night, and the two women had spent most of the time watching the sleeping Far Thunder. Snakewater had tended her fire, adding a few sticks and some of her precious lightning-blasted wood to keep the healing smoke alive. Thunder’s wife had drowsed from time to time as he slept.

But now it was daylight. Snakewater went to bid goodbye to the traders and to assure them that she would be all right.

“Our trails will cross again,” she promised. “For now, Far Thunder has asked me to stay in his lodge.”

“He is better, then?” asked Cloud.

“Yes, the head pain … There is more to do, but it will take time. May your journey be a good one!”

She watched them out of sight, and waved as Fox turned to swing an arm overhead in a farewell gesture as they crossed the low ridge outside the camp.

“I will miss them, Lumpy.”

T
he next few days were spent in preparing the potions of herbs that were intended to help with Far Thunder’s problems. There were times when Snakewater felt it ridiculous to have stayed behind. She could have prepared the herbs and left them for him to use. She quickly rejected the thought, though. Her presence was necessary, in a sense, to make the conjure work. She must be able to observe her results, to adjust the potions as needed. Besides, it was not merely a matter of physically providing the medicinal herbs. A major part of the power of her position was her own interaction in the ceremony and the resulting healing process.

She was uneasy, never having undertaken such a task as this. Not only was there a question in her mind as to whether her medicine would be effective in this, another culture far removed from her own. Would the spells and conjures work? She even had doubts about whether her own
doubt
might weaken the power given her. Added to all this, the inability to communicate…

That was worst of all. In making medicine for any of the Real People, she had always had the luxury of being able to explain as much as she needed. Now, unless Chases the Dog was present, she had only signs. Even so, it seemed to be working. Far Thunder was looking better each day. She must be doing something right.

A
few days later she climbed the rise behind the camp, to the area near the old cottonwood tree. It would be a good plan to have a few shards of the lightning-blasted wood in case Far Thunder’s headaches returned.

She gathered what fragments she needed, placed them in her bag, and sat down to ponder a little while. It was hard for her, who had lived alone for many years, to move into an active and noisy household, the lodge of Far Thunder. The most frustrating thing was her inability to communicate, she thought. No, maybe not … even worse was the fact that she had no idea how long this situation would last, or what she would do after that.

She roused from her distant thoughts ….

“What? Oh, yes, Lumpy … very crowded. But you don’t have to try to
talk
to them, as I do. That’s true, I chose to do so—what else could I do?”

She paused a little while and seemed to resign herself. Then she spoke again.

“Yes, I know. I must learn their tongue …. Yes, as quickly as I can …. Damn you, Lumpy, don’t tease me. I’m too old for this!”

T
he lodge of Far Thunder was a busy place at best. She had met Swan, his First Wife, the night of the pain-smoke ceremony. The Second Wife, Walks Alone, was the mother of several of the children who seemed to be always underfoot. There were seven youngsters in all, ranging from a handsome young man of perhaps twelve summers to a small baby, who obviously belonged to Thunder’s
Third
Wife, since she suckled him. All of these children looked much alike, and all answered to the instruction of any of the women.

It was some time before Snakewater learned most of the facts about these relationships. Walks Alone, the Second Wife, was a sister to First Wife. The husband of Walks Alone had been killed in a skirmish with white men on the old southwest road. It had been a misunderstanding, according to information learned later, but Red Moccasin was just as dead. His widow, after a season of “walking alone,” had moved into the lodge of her sister and had become Second Wife to Far Thunder. The oldest girl in Thunder’s lodge was a child of Walks Alone by her first marriage. She had been adopted by Far Thunder.

Third Wife, a younger woman, had wandered into their camp, lost and half starved, and with incomplete memories of who she was or where she had come from. There was evidence that she had been abused, Snakewater was told. She had apparently escaped her captors and survived on her own until she walked into the camp of Far Thunder. The women had taken her in, and after her recovery she had become Third Wife.

All of this Snakewater learned over time. She was familiar with the general principles of households like this, but such a situation had seldom occurred among the Real People in modern times, even at Old Town.

But in a situation where there are more women than men, what better answer could there be? Although Thunder’s lodge sometimes seemed like bedlam to the solitary Snakewater, its occupants appeared healthy and reasonably happy. Thunder was improving. What more could a family want?

A
s Far Thunder’s condition improved, he began to appear restless. It seemed that his illness had progressed so slowly that no one had noticed it. Especially himself. Now Snakewater was just beginning to see what a dynamic leader Thunder could be.

She was learning their language. It was sometimes a frustrating effort, but she realized her tendency to become impatient with
any
situation. She
was
learning, and continued to do so. She understood more than she could speak, of course. This led her to hear a conversation between two of Thunder’s wives one afternoon while he was enjoying a smoke in front of a friend’s lodge some distance away.

“He will want to move soon,” said Walks Alone to the others.

“Yes,” agreed Swan. “I can see him become impatient.”

“He does that,” agreed Wife Number Two. “But the camp
is
becoming dirty.”

With scores of people and even more dogs a camp such as this could, over a short period of time, become quite odorous. A campsite was chosen for its setting, and with great care. Requirements must include grass for the several hundred horses, as well as water for both people and animals. The location and purpose of this water was perhaps the most important factor. The source of drinking
water must be upstream from all else. Below that, an area for washing cooking pots and pans, clothing, and other personal items. Still farther downstream the horse herd could water.

There was an area loosely designated for the emptying of bladders and bowels, somewhat segregated by gender. There was little formality in these matters. Dogs, of course, were even less formal in the way they relieved themselves. In hot weather a camp of these buffalo hunters could become quite fragrant. A move was indicated when any of several conditions occurred: grass for the horses was depleted, water supply threatened to dry up, hunting was poor, or the odor and the flies began to offend the sensibilities of the leaders.

Snakewater was quickly learning the ways of a people completely unfamiliar to her. The discussion of the wives served partly to instruct, partly to verify her own observation.

She also began to see more clearly her own status as a guest in the lodge of Far Thunder. It would not be appropriate for a woman other than a wife to be living in the lodge of a man.
Except
, of course, for her age. This conferred on her a different status. One of the first words she learned in the language of these prairie people proved to be
Grandmother.
This was her title and her status among the people of Far Thunder’s camp. She was Grandmother, she who had never been a mother, and she found this amusing.

She found, too, that she retained her position as a storyteller, even as she regained respect as a healer. Word of the recovery of Far Thunder had spread quickly through the camp. There was much shaking of heads as people realized, after the fact, that their leader had not been at his best for some time. Now he had been restored to them, and the tone of the camp had changed. Before, the mood had been steady, even good. But now, with the anticipation of a coming move, there was an air of excitement, partly attributable to the change in their leader, Far Thunder. For this, credit was given to Snakewater, the
Grandmother who now dwelt in his lodge. It now appeared that she was not only a storyteller, pleasing young and old alike, but a skilled healer. Increasingly, people began to seek her advice for minor illnesses and injuries. There were requests for potions and spells, and it seemed that she had found her place. She found, too, that she enjoyed having the children around her in Thunder’s lodge. One little girl reminded her of Pigeon, back in West Landing. She did wonder sometimes how Pigeon was doing. But all in all life was good.

T
he move would take place three days from now, at daybreak, it was announced. There was a flurry of activity. Everyone had something to do, or repair, or accomplish, before the journey was attempted.

“Where will we go?” asked Snakewater, somewhat confused by all this activity.

“Who knows?” answered Swan. “We will know when we arrive.”

“South,” suggested the Second Wife.

“Oh, yes!” agreed Swan. “Probably winter camp, though it’s a bit early. Maybe one more move.”

I
t was the Moon of Ripening for the prairie people, September by the calendar of the white man. The word passed quickly that they would head south and west, toward an area where they had wintered before—an area where scrub oaks met tallgrass prairie. The oaks, keeping their leaves through the moons of snow, would furnish some shelter from the freezing blasts of winter. They would pause en route to hunt as opportunity offered. They could camp for a few days, or a few weeks if needed, to process the bounty of a successful buffalo hunt. It was expected that they would encounter herds on the move.

There seemed to be no order or chain of command for the day of the move. At daylight the big lodges began to come down. People called to each other, children ran, dogs barked, horses whinnied …. The whole scene reminded
Snakewater of an anthill when someone had swept a branch across it, destroying its integrity. There seemed to be no general purpose, and chaos reigned. If any goal was distinguishable, it must be to become one of the first families in line.

Very quickly horses were brought. The lodgepoles that had formed the frames of the tepees now became part of the transport system. Fastened in pairs and placed across the horse’s withers, they formed a drag upon which a platform could be tied, made of shorter poles. Baggage, possessions, small children, and sometimes the elderly or infirm would ride on the platform of this
travois.
A horse dragging a travois could also be ridden by a woman, who could in that way supervise the movement of her household goods.

“Will you wish to ride a travois, Grandmother?” asked one of the wives.

“Of course not,” Snakewater said tersely, sounding more irritated than she actually intended. If bumping in a wagon was uncomfortable, how much worse one of the pole-drags must be to aging bones!

“I will ride my horse,” she answered more gently. “But could my packs be placed on one of the travois?”

“Of course, Grandmother,” said Far Thunder, amused at the interchange, “and one of the young men will bring your horse when they bring ours. A gray mare, no?”

“Yes. My saddle is here. Thank you.”

Families began to form a loose column for travel. The first to be prepared were already out in the prairie a couple of bow shots away, waiting for others to fall in behind them. Snakewater marveled at the quick efficiency with which the women could spread and fold the big lodge covers. Most were canvas.
Times change, even here
, she reflected. The canvas lodge covers were lighter and easier to fold, and represented progress.

The sun was still not far above the eastern horizon when the column began to move. Out in front rode a pair of scouts, well ahead of Far Thunder and a couple of sub-chiefs. Other “wolves” rode parallel to the flanks of the
column, sometimes even out of sight, constantly on the alert for danger or for game, or both.

Far in the rear straggled the back of the column. There are those who from habit or general inadequacy for any situation always gravitate to that position, eating the dust of the more competent members of society. Some even appear happy in this position, since it avoids a certain amount of responsibility.

On the downwind side from the column, parallel to it and slightly behind, traveled the horse herd, pushed along by a number of young men. They were not old enough to be classed as warriors, but were proud to be entrusted with this responsibility. For some it would be their first as members approaching adulthood.

By midmorning the caravan had settled in to steady, efficient travel.

As the sun began to sink toward the western horizon, a scout rode back to inform the leaders that a campsite was ahead. Water, grass, fuel in the form of dried buffalo dung.

“Any buffalo?” inquired Far Thunder.

“No. Only dung,” the scout answered.

“No matter. We will find the herds later.”

The scout nodded and rode off.

By the time shadows lengthened, they had reached the proposed night camp. It was a pleasant setting, with a hilltop well suited for observation by one or two sentries.

In a short while the individual campfires of the various family groups began to blossom. The weather was good, so the lodges would not be erected. Some constructed meager shelters of branches from the scrubby willows along the creek, but most chose to sleep under the open sky. Everyone was tired from the day’s travel, and after darkness fell, the camp quieted quickly. Snakewater remained awake for a long time, listening to the somewhat unfamiliar night sounds. She never could have imagined herself in this setting, yet she felt a thrill of excitement at the thought of unknown vistas.

As last, tired and a bit stiff from the long day on horseback, she fell asleep to the song of distant coyotes.

I
t was about midmorning when a scout from the left of the column rode in to confer with the chiefs. It took only a moment to make the decision. The column would halt. Several warriors rode back along the column to spread the word.

“Close up the spaces… stay close together ….”

Toward the back of the column, “Come on, catch up. There may be danger!”

“What is it?”

“Another column of travelers—strangers …. Close up the gaps!”

Now, a flurry of excitement, as the column tightened. The other scouts came loping in to rejoin the main body.

“What happens now?” asked Snakewater in alarm.

Swan shrugged, concerned but not frantic. “We’ll see ….”