The Changing Wind (16 page)

“We may not have to,” White Buffalo explained, “but it would be good to be where they can be found. People can eat many strange things if they are starving.”

Even the river ran low before the end of the summer. There was much sickness, especially of the stomach and
bowels. Thick green scum formed around the edges of stagnant pools as the stream’s flow slowed to a trickle. There were many who despaired that times would ever return to normal. For the first time, Small Elk saw the beginning of a change in his father.

The holy man had always been vigorous and cheerful, kind and gentle, though a strict teacher. He had always been noted for his intelligent, quiet good humor and his optimism. When times were hard, White Buffalo could always be counted on to furnish calm reassurance. “Of course things will be better,” he always advised. “Has it ever been otherwise?” He was the solid footing on which the Southern band relied for reassurance. That help, and the traditional habit of taking one day’s problems at a time, had served the People well for many seasons.

“Of course it will rain again,” White Buffalo assured the first serious questioners in the Moon of Thunder, which held no thunder. “It always has.”

The Red Moon, always parched and dry, was even more so this year. The muttering and rumor increased, and there were whispers. Even though Rain Maker might not be dead but only sulking, there was certainly something wrong with the medicine man. Maybe his power was weakening. White Buffalo seemed tired, discouraged, and unconvincing when he gave his predictions that Rain Maker would return. Something seemed to be drawing the strength from his body, and this too became a topic for rumor and whispered suspicion.

There was a great sense of dread. Already, the People were hungry. Seldom was there hunger in summer. That was bad enough, but the implications that it carried were terrifying. It was time for the coming of the herds, time to be preparing and drying the supplies for the winter. Yet there were none to prepare. The Growers had few crops and none to barter, even if the People had had meat and skins to offer.

“The Moon of Starvation will come early,” someone observed.

“Hush! Do not talk so,” an older woman warned.

Small Elk sought out his father to discuss the possibilities.

“Of course it will rain,” White Buffalo repeated his longstanding advice.

Now it seemed that he only half believed it himself.

“It will rain,” he went on, “but it may be too late.”

“What do you mean, Father?”

“Elk, we must say nothing of this. It would cause great alarm. But look at the lateness of the season. The wind has not changed yet. There is no sign of rain, and it is late. Soon, Cold Maker brings frost, and there will be no growth.”

Small Elk began to understand. There was presently nothing for the buffalo to eat, and that was why they had gone elsewhere. The People longed for the rain that would make the grass grow and bring back the buffalo, but now… The time for growing was becoming short. If there was no growth, there would still be no grazing for the herds, and they would not come.

As alarming to Small Elk as this threat was, it was no worse than the change in his father. In his dejected state, White Buffalo seemed to shrink, to lose stature, and to become indecisive. His posture, his walk, and his attitude became hesitant.

Some of the People began to seek out Small Elk for advice and counsel. Elk was unprepared for this; he was not yet skilled enough in the ways of the holy man.

“But you
are
skilled,” insisted Crow Woman as they talked one night. “You have studied with White Buffalo for four winters now. Did you not make the decision when to burn last season?”

Their baby girl stirred restlessly, and Crow Woman rose to pick up the child and put her to breast.

“I made the decision, that is true,” Elk answered. “But, Crow, it was with his approval.”

“Of course. But your choice was right. You always choose as your father would.”

Small Elk was still uneasy. Even after the years of instruction, with Crow Woman by his side, he relied on the thinking, the experience, of the older man. Sometimes he wondered when his status as apprentice would change. Maybe this was how it would happen. The People would gradually come more to Small Elk for their spiritual counsel and less to White Buffalo as the strength of his medicine ebbed with the strength of his body. Elk was not ready to see this happen. He wondered if his father had ever suffered from this sort of insecurity about his medicine.

Elk had gained confidence through the years of instruction, but there was always the knowledge of White Buffalo to sustain him in indecision.

“But you never rely on it,” Crow Woman reminded.

“True, but I could if I needed it.”

Crow smiled and touched his arm, showing her confidence.

“Ask your spirit-guide,” she suggested.

Small Elk was embarrassed. He should have thought to do so before, should have been trying to make that contact. He had been preoccupied with the troubles of the People and with a new baby in the lodge. Three years they had tried without success, while Stone Breaker and Cattail had produced two more children, now three in all.

Elk looked at the sleeping infant, now cuddled in Crow’s arms. White Moon they called her, after the full moon which shone at the time of her birth. It had been the Moon of Awakening, just before the onset of the Never-rain season. It had been a happy time, a time of beginnings. The child began to grow and thrive. She was doing so even now, though it was proving a drain on the strength of Crow to nurture the child.

“It is nothing,” Crow had said as she adjusted her dress over hipbones that had become more prominent. “I will be fat when the buffalo come.”

His preoccupation with all these things had prevented Elk from seeing the obvious: He should be in touch with his spirit-guide in this season of emergency. Now that Crow had brought the matter to his attention, he wondered why White Buffalo had not mentioned it. Could it be that his father was failing more rapidly than he realized?

The next morning he declined to eat, informing Crow Woman that he would fast for a few days while he attempted to make contact with his guide.

“I will be back,” he assured her. “Three, four sleeps, maybe.”

He kissed her, cuddled White Moon for a moment, and left the lodge. This would not be as intense a search as his vision quest. He need not remove himself as far from the camp. He carried only a water skin and stopped to fill it at a clear spot in the stream above the camp. There were a couple of women gathering nuts among the trees, and they nodded to him. Normally, the People gathered few nuts,
and those only for variety and flavor. This year, every possible source of food was being utilized, even the acorns from the giant oaks along the river. Though they were bitter and inedible, they could be leached in water to remove part of the bitter taste. He waved at the gatherers and moved on up the slope and away from the village.

By noon he had reached the hilltop that he sought and settled down by the symbolic fire that marked his camp. His belly was beginning to protest, and he took a sip of water. The pangs would pass. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

T
he fasting experience was difficult to describe, as always. There were the initial pangs of hunger, but that was a familiar sensation this year. After the first day, his discomfort was forgotten as the brilliant clarity of all the senses began to dominate. It seemed to happen rapidly this time, and Elk wondered about the effect. The People had been virtually fasting from time to time all summer. Did that make it quicker?

One feature of the clarification process that Small Elk now noted was that his thinking became clear. He sat on his hilltop and watched the sun rise over the parched tall-grass prairie with a new understanding. It was almost as if he were a disinterested party, an outside observer with no real contact with the situation. What did it matter, he was now able to wonder. The People lived or died, and if they lived, their descendants would live in the Tallgrass Hills. If they died, someone else would live here. It did not matter. He thought of the Death Song:

He considered chanting the song to himself to indicate his understanding but decided against it. After all, the next line carries a different connotation:

That was a thought he was not prepared to approach. Not yet, at any rate. His purpose was to try to find a way to help his people. Besides, he reminded himself, the Death Song was used only when it had become certain that death was imminent.

He retreated from thoughts of death. He had an increased clarity of understanding about death’s place in the scheme of things but must not dwell on it. It was not appropriate now, and he moved his thoughts away from thoughts of death, almost reluctantly.

Little else happened that day. Elk’s distant vision seemed improved, and he watched a doe and her fawn in the far distance, so far that he could barely have seen them at all without the clarity of the fasting. They tiptoed along a distant stream, searching for pools which still held water. Another doe joined them. The deer were better off in such a season, he noted, than buffalo. Deer were normally browsers, preferring brushy areas to grass. The buffalo were more dependent on the grasses.

Even so, he noted, the deer he watched now had only one fawn between them. In a good growing year, each of these does might easily have two fawns. How useful is their medicine, he thought, to tell them these things. This year you should have only one, for it is a poor season, or this is a year of plenty, so all deer should have twins. His clarity of thought seemed to make him understand all these things. It was a thrill, an excitement beyond description, to know of these things, part of the plan of Creation, if even for a short time.

He watched the smooth circle of a buzzard, riding on fixed wings high above him—searching, searching.
Ah, my brother
, he thought,
your hunting must be good this year. But do not look at me; it is not my time yet. As
if the bird understood, it suddenly lifted a wing and shot away to the northwest on a puff of air known only to itself. Elk watched it go. Ah, to have such vision and such power to fly high above and see the distances. He recalled his vision quest, its sensation of flight, and all the strange creatures he had seen a few seasons before. That had been odd. He had seen the strange creatures, had dreamed of the turtle-footed one twice more over the ensuing moons, and had then forgotten them.
Aiee
, much had happened. With a sort of surprise, he recalled how vigorous and domineering his father had seemed then. Now the medicine man seemed old and tired. When had it happened? How had he failed to notice?

Small Elk slept that night and dreamed—not the mystical, exotic dreams of his vision quest but real and believable
nonetheless. He found himself walking through a herd of buffalo, not in his calfskin disguise, but upright, as a man, and the animals did not react to his presence. He recognized the visionary nature of the dream, because he was inside the heads of the animals, feeling the collective thoughts of the herd. It came to him as a low, comfortable hum, like distant conversation, without individual words. Yet the thoughts were clear, comfortable and comforting. They grazed calmly, and it was good, the way of things as they should be. A calf approached to butt playfully at him, and Small Elk laughed and patted its head.

“Run and play, Little Brother,” he murmured quietly. He was aware even as he did so that the youngster perceived his thoughts, though not his words.

Ahead of him loomed a giant bull, and it took Elk only a moment to recognize it.

Ah-koh, Grandfather
, he thought at the creature, wordlessly.

The bull raised its head, fixed understanding eyes on him, and stood quietly.

Ah-koh, my son
, the thought came quietly back at him.

The large dark eyes shone with intelligence and understanding. And calm… Elk had never experienced such a feeling of calm confidence.

Grandfather
, he began in the strange, wordless conversation that seemed perfectly reasonable.
We have seen none of your people. It is a season of no rain
.

Yes, that is true
, his spirit-guide acknowledged.

Small Elk waited a moment, but there was no further message.

We… we will die, unless
…

Yes
, came the answer, before Elk had even finished,
some of you. Some of my people too. But some will live. It is the way of things
.

But… but
how?
What can I do?

The great shaggy head now turned and lowered to crop grass again.

You will know
, the thought came as a parting farewell.
Watch for the signs that you know
.

The dream vanished, and Small Elk was awake, standing alone on the top of his hill. He was sweating profusely, and his body was cold in the chill of the night breeze. He picked up his robe and drew it around him. The black of
the sky was dotted with an endless number of tiny points of light, like the campfires of a mighty tribe. There was beauty in it, and a calm reassurance.
But what am I supposed to do?
he asked silently.
I have no answer. The children are hungry
.