The Snake River (7 page)

The two kids gathered colored rocks and crunched them into powder, dug out black and yellow minerals, scraped up yellow earth, and mixed it all with clay to make paints. They mixed the colors with grease, fat, or water, or for painting on hide with a glue made from hoofs. And they painted gaily and merrily, all day long, as long as their parents would permit it.

Paintbrush stuck to the women’s style, geometric, decoration of small things she was learning to sew, and with a nice eye for design and color. Web was different. He painted what he saw by night, in his dreams, and the grand story figures of the Shoshone people whose lives were told during the winter moons, Coyote howling at the full moon or acting foolish or wise, his brother Wolf, Rabbit, Bear, the tiny Chickadee, the Thunderbird, and the like. When he was painting, he felt right with the world. Somehow it was all beautiful—gorgeous—and the people marveled at Web’s art.

Web thought how lucky he was that Paintbrush had showed him her namesake tools. How lucky he was to have a flair for painting. How lucky he was to be able to play at painting with her all day, every day.

Now, five years later, he knew he had fallen in love with her that summer.

Black Shawl knew it then, Web saw now. She mentioned to Web, pretending to be casual, that Paintbrush was not betrothed to anyone. She was new to the band, and her betrothed one had died as an infant. Black Shawl did not need to say that no girl child had been offered to the child Web for betrothal, because Web was
Numah-divo
. Or that here might be a woman for an outcast, a man with no betrothed.

Felicity. Web saw the working of spirit here,
Tsaa nevmu-da-hi
. He loved Paintbrush.

The next summer, at the great rendezvous, Web came by chance on a white man drawing. The boy was taken aback. The white men painted nothing, as far as Web knew. They hardly decorated anything except maybe the handles of their knives and guns. It was as though they didn’t see, didn’t dream.

What this man was drawing was still more amazing. He made small sketches of plants, exactly as they looked. The man invited the Shoshone boy to watch. It was strange to Web. Yes, rooted things did have power, but few men dreamed of rooted things, or got their life’s medicine from them. Why would anyone draw them? This man sketched one plant after another, and not as in vision, but exactly as they looked to the undreaming eye. Yet they were
Tsaa-na
, beautiful—he had the gift of
pohan-apusa
, dreamed power. Scientist, he called himself several times. Other times he said his name was Nutting.

Later came more events sent by Spirit. Web brought his hide paintings for Scientist to see. Scientist got a Sho-shone-speaking trapper to explain to Web what Scientist was doing. Somehow Scientist would see the plant with great exactness from the drawing, study it, understand it, and extract its power that way. Web didn’t really understand. But he started following Scientist into the fields and learning to draw as Scientist did, from life rather than dream. Scientist even made him a gift of a pad of what the whites called paper, and colored pencils. A treasure to Web.

That brought trouble. When the people saw these new-style drawings, they shrugged their shoulders. No one saw any point in drawing from observation rather than vision. There goes Web again, they whispered, thinking and acting like a
divo
.

Web kept drawing from life—everything he could find to draw, every chance he got—but he kept the sketches hidden.

Near the end of the rendezvous came the crash. Paintbrush became a woman, bleeding with the moon, and was initiated into the ways of a woman,
waippe
. She and Web could no longer play together as children.

Then One Bull let it be known quietly that his daughter Paintbrush, a most beloved daughter, was betrothed. Betrothed to a young man of great promise, from a great family. Horn, the son of the war leader Raven.

Web was desolate. He could not believe it. Could they not see the hand of spirit drawing the best future for him and Paintbrush?

So came four years of agony: His grandfather died. His uncle Rockchuck humiliated him. Except for his family, people seemed to shun Web. Until Yu-huup insisted, no one invited him to hold horses on a pony raid. No be-trothed appeared for him. Web was only halfway one of the people.

Aside from his grandmother, he had one great good in his life: Paintbrush loved him. Or so he thought. She told people that his good medicine showed in his painting. She favored him with glances, looks, even furtive touches. It was risky, but she did it. She let him know.

So Web decided he must take a risk. Among these people the great crimes were to kill a kinsman, to steal a kinsman’s horses, or to steal his wife. Any could mean blood or banishment.

But there was one way out.

“In two moons you will join us among Nakok’s people,” Web told Yu-huup. Nakok was a rebellious Shoshone leader, and his band lived on U Ah Die, the Wind River.

Yu-huup’s eyes locked on him. Excitement? thought Web. Fear? Both?

“Then in the moon when water begins to freeze at the edge of the streams, you and I will go against the Crows. Alone.” His eyes gleamed. Just two young men against the Crows, a daring stroke. “We will bring Horn so many horses he will forget a mere woman.” His lips tossed off the words mockingly.

Yu-huup knew Web was right. It was a bold plan, but workable. Horn might feel humiliated, rejected by his woman for another man. But neither Horn nor his family could refuse the payment of the horses. That was the custom. Then Web and Paintbrush would come back to the tribe, in their own lodge, a full-fledged family of the people. Their children would be true Shoshones,
duvish-shaw-numah
.

And Web and Yu-huup would be looked on with new eyes. To go alone against the Crows and run off their pony herds! Deeds of valor! Coups!

“Ha-uh!”
Yu-huup exclaimed in excitement.

Web shook his fist in the air. He wanted to fill the sky with shouting, but that might give something away.

“Here’s the plan,” he began.

Chapter Six

Web was ready. He’d been lying here in the shadow of the lodge for almost enough time to see the Seven Sisters move against the black sky. He had walked quietly through the village, not exciting the dogs, which knew his smell, then letting One Bull’s war horse, staked by the lodge, snuffle him without getting alarmed.

Web was entirely naked, scales painted all over his body, hair painted on his face, like Joahwayho. Since he had no
poha
(medicine) of his own, this was as good a choice as any—Joahwayho, he who came in the middle of the night and ate grown-ups.

He streaked hair all over his face, not just on the upper lip and jaw but also on the nose and forehead. He made crazy patterns of the hairs, angling wildly, many of the streaks bolts of lightning. His eyelids were white, and they made a weird effect when he blinked. Yu-huup greased his rust-colored hair, twisted it into horns, and tied it high and spiky.

Web was worse than a
zo-ahp
, a ghost. It anyone saw his face, not only would they not recognize him, he would scare them half to death.

Since the night was cool, the lodge skirts were down. Now even the last of the fire was out, and everyone asleep, One Bull and his wives at the center rear, their last daughter on the buffalo robes at their feet. Paintbrush.

He took a deep breath to ease his tension, then another, and another. He wondered how Yu-huup was doing in the ravine with the three horses. Yu-huup was his only friend, his
haintseh
, but Yu-huup acted dumb sometimes. What if he got scared of the real ghosts and ran off?

No time for doubts now, time for action. He crawled several steps and sat still in the shadow. He waited. No man or beast had heard. No one raised the alarm.

Web lifted his knife and began, ever so slowly and ever so softly, to cut the thongs that held the hide cover of the lodge to the stakes in the ground.

Black. Black like he had a white-man kettle on his head. Black like the stomach of a grizzly bear. Black like the heart of One Bull. Web couldn’t see anything.

So he would go by feel. He knew very well where everyone’s buffalo robes were, that Paintbrush was just to his left, her feet near him, her head at the far end. He would ease around and get next to her ear and whisper to her ever so softly.

He couldn’t be sure she would come with him. A man simply did not ask such a thing. It would get you rejected, then and forever. But once, within her hearing, he’d told the story of Red Forehead, who stole Lance’s wife. He had watched Paintbrush’s face. Everyone knew Red Forehead and the woman had been happy, had stayed together for years and had lots of children. The flicker of eyelashes seemed an answer.

A flicker of eyelashes. But unmanly to ask more.

Web lifted himself slightly on his palms and moved to his left. Again. Once more.

M-m-m-m?

Goddamn!

His foot touched flesh. Goddamn you, you stupid…!

He lay still as the earth itself.

M-m-m-m.

Stirrings over there. Were they looking around the lodge, trying to see what moved? He thanked
Itsa-ppe
, Coyote, the trickster, for the blackness.

Rustling of robes and blankets. Scrapings. Maybe Old Bull was sitting up, looking around. The first moan had been female, the second male.

Web wanted to sink into the dirt like spilled water.

M-m-m-m.

M-m-m-m.

More rustlings.

A couple of more moans.

Then other sounds, touchings, stirrings, little sounds of pleasure.

Goddamn.

And then the ancient, rhythmic slurp of human beings obeying the force of life within them. The sound Web had heard hundreds of times in his life, though he never had touched a woman in that way. The sound Paintbrush had heard hundreds of times and never made herself.

Tsaa-yogo-sic
, he thought amiably—there’s a little humping going on here.

Web lay next to Paintbrush, close enough to hear her breathe. He thought maybe he could feel her breath on his face. He lay stiller than still. He felt his
woah
fiercely erect. He squeezed the handle of his knife so hard he thought the bone might crack.

He wondered which of his wives One Bull was on top of. One was old and fat, the other not so old and comely. The old fool was so lecherous, so
nia-shup
, he probably liked both of them, and any other woman he could get. Pictures arose in Web’s mind, the heavyset old man bouncing around on top of one, then the other, playing lewdly, throwing her legs around, laughing, mocking Web, who had never had a woman.

A fantasy touched him. Paintbrush’s body lay the length of him, warm, soft, luscious. She was still, gentle, not yet beginning to move against him, her long hair on his cheek and chest. He felt the lips caress his neck. That caress was more real than any human touch he’d ever felt.

He shook himself and broke the illusion.

Fortunately, he bumped no one when he shook himself.

Paintbrush was so close. She exhaled deeply, and he felt her warm spirit on his eyes.

The two lovers were quiet, except for an occasional stirring, a sigh of satisfaction, a wordless murmur.

Web would have to be quiet for a long time before he whispered to Paintbrush. The lovers would lie awake for a little while, and half awake for a long time. He needed them deep in their dreams.

He could be patient. Thanks to Rockchuck. He could put his mind into a kind of stillness, a peaceableness, and wait for hours. He had plenty of time. He was where he wanted to be. He would think of Paintbrush as he often thought of the animal he was stalking, think of her and bring her those final inches, from enticingly close all the way into his arms. He pictured the parts of her, her slender limbs, her lissome body, her small girl’s breasts, her undulating hips…

He never knew he was falling asleep.

Paintbrush heard breathing, rhythmic, relaxed breathing, one of the sounds of the earth. She enjoyed it dreamily. It made her imagine running water, the lulling sound of water flowing lightly over rocks.

Then two awarenesses began to seep into part of her mind. One was the predawn light. The other was breath on her face.

The wind, it must be the wind. She lolled pleasantly in her mind, shushed by the sound of water, warmed by a soft breeze.

But it was warm. It was moist. It was animal.

Paintbrush, the adopted daughter of One Bull, born to the Tukku Tekkah, opened her eyes and saw the monster Joahwayho.

She flinched. She froze.

The monster opened its eyes, its mad, white eyelids wagging at her.

Paintbrush screamed like a woman-child about to die, a shrill, ululating, horrific, mind-shattering cry.

From behind, One Bull saw not a monster but a boy in his virgin daughter’s robes. The man was on his feet instantly, he leapt, he slammed one shoulder into the boy. Hard against the lodge skins they went. One Bull rolled on top of the enemy and pinned him with his heft. Then he grabbed the greasy hair, jerked the head back, and turned his face sideways.

He looked hard. Then he snapped in disgust,
“Numah-divo.”

Paintbrush screamed and screamed.

One Bull started slapping Web’s face hard, deliberately, over and over. He held the hair with one hand and made Web’s face jerk with the other.

“Na-nik-kumpah,”
he said with a growl. “I’ll kill you later.”

Chapter Seven

But One Bull did not kill Web. The two clans, One Bull’s and Horn’s, sat in a lodge and smoked and talked. There was a good deal of cackling over a boy who came to steal a girl and fell asleep. They had no debate because the punishment was a foregone conclusion: Web would be banished.

The accused demanded that he be allowed to speak to the clans in his own defense. Rockchuck brought the message. Why? they asked. Anyone can see he tried to steal Horn’s woman. Yu-huup, found holding the horses, even confessed.

Rockchuck didn’t know why. He simply repeated Web’s request.

Web sat in the place of least honor in the lodge. He sat with his eyes on nothing, seeing nothing, but refusing to cast his eyes down, to act obsequious in front of the circle of men who mocked and condemned him.

He drew on the pipe defiantly, and offered the smoke as a prayer. Without knowing what he was going to say, he began.

“I do not care what you say.” He spoke in a controlled voice, so they wouldn’t hear his anger, his fear, his outrage.

“I do not care what you think of me.”

He nearly shook. He had no idea what to say next.

“You have treated me as a
divo
,” (white man). “From today I will be a
divo
.”

He was shocked at himself.

Yes, this was it.

“I will go to my father’s people. I will get my father’s
poha
” (medicine): “I will never even think of the Shoshone people again. Good-bye.” When Shoshones said good-bye, instead of
un-puih-ha-he
, meaning “See you later,” they meant they hoped never to see you again.

He stood, ready to leave. Then he thought. He walked between his host and the fire, a deliberate insult, and strode out of the tipi.

The men in the circle muttered angrily. When they were calmed down, they decided to ignore the manners of a boy, and a
Numah-divo
at that. They talked a little more. Then they banished Web for life.

The old woman found him beside the little creek. The blanket was pulled over his head, and it was shaking. The boy was sobbing.

Black Shawl was sorry. She loved him. But he was different—he had always been different. Even his painting was different. It was painful, for both of them, but finding his own way would be best for Web.

She sat down beside him, close, letting him feel her shoulder and her knee as she sat. She waited, and waited, and after a while he stopped crying and looked at her.

“People told me what you said,” she murmured to him. “Sometimes even anger is wise. I think maybe your
poha
(medicine) is with the
Hookin-divos
.” It was their word for the French trappers, the ones who came from Vancouver.

That was all she said. There was no need for more words. She would give him a pony, unfortunately a poor one, a blanket, some moccasins, and a little pemmican. He would take his weapons, his colored pencils, his few sheets of paper, and the one object his father had left behind, a compass. After sunset today, anyone of the people who spoke to him or gave him anything would be punished. Even his grandmother.

After a long while, she added, “I’ll get your doings ready.” She looked at the boy’s wet cheeks. “They’ve sent Yu-huup out hunting with his father so you can’t say farewell.”

The tall, skinny teenager and the short, skinny old woman walked side by side away from the pony herd, in the bottom land along the creek. They said nothing. The old woman held the boy’s elbow, perhaps for steadiness, perhaps from affection. She turned her face up to his. Her skin was creviced almost as deep as the bark of the Cottonwood. Her eyes were rheumy, and she no longer saw well. She couldn’t see her grandson’s face clearly unless she held it close.

She had him a few years, and now she would lose him to his father. She had always felt the oddness in him anyway, surely from his father’s people. Maybe it was something good for him. Even Frenchmen, though they acted the fool, had some sort of power. Every living creature had its power. With Frenchmen it was the clever things they made—like traps and guns, and pencils and paper.

Lucky. The boy had spoken in anger and bitterness, and wisdom had come out of his mouth. Luck was not chance—it came from Duma Apa.

She held him back and eased herself onto a log. She could not walk far these days. This was all the distance she would go with him. He must make the journey alone.

“Well?” she asked.

“It’s all right, Grandmother,” he said.

She held his face close and looked at it clearly for the last time.

“Tell me about the journey,” she instructed.

“I go down the Snake River for about twenty sleeps. There the river goes east of north into a deep canyon, impossible to travel through. The Frenchmen call it the canyon of hell. I leave the river there and follow the old lodge trail north. After perhaps twelve more sleeps the trail will come back to the river, and it will turn west. Then the river will flow into a huge river coming from the north. There I will find the Frenchman fort Walla Walla. Maybe from there I can find someone to travel with to Fort Vancouver, which is almost to the sea.”

“Tsaa-yu,”
said the old woman. It is good. “We call the big river the Snake. What do the Frenchmen call it?”

Web laughed sardonically. “Mad, Accursed River.”

The old woman made a severe face. “It is mad. Keep your distance.”

“And what will I find among the Frenchmen, Grandmother?” Web said bitterly.

“Your
poha
,” the old woman said. Your medicine.

“And maybe my father,” said Web. “Goddamn Hairy, my mad, accursed father.”

She stood and embraced him.

“I will come back, Grandmother. With many horses and many presents.”

She hugged him. She didn’t think he’d come back.

“Tsaa-paitt-sig,”
she said.
“Oosie-oie-yound.”
Go well. This is all I ask of you.

He mounted, looked back once, tried to smile, and set the overloaded pony to walking.

He had a hard way to go, and dangerous, through the country of a lot of bloodmirsty people. He’d have to travel at night. The pony probably wouldn’t last—it was old and broken-down—but he could always eat it. It was more than fifty sleeps to Vancouver, by the western sea. No man of her people, in the memories of the grandfathers of the oldest men, had traveled that far. She hoped he made it to the Frenchmen. The ways of the powers were unpredictable.

It was hard to see a grandchild leave, almost unheard of among the people, a loss grievous as death. She had raised him as her own. But he had to go where he belonged.

And it was time for her not to be responsible for a child. Since her bleeding stopped, she had worked to learn medicine. She knew how to use snowberry tea to help a woman after childbirth, and self-heal to improve eyesight. Her friend had promised to teach her how to prepare the wild geranium to heal ulcers in the stomach, skullcap to ease heart pain, and other remedies. It was time for her to become a healer.

She was sad. It was hard to imagine him living among strangers, in some foreign place. Those people ate a lot of fish, or so she heard—barbarous. And some flattened their heads. The Frenchmen stank like fetid feet, left their women at home, and took everybody else’s.

There were no people like the Newe-i, the people.

She couldn’t see him clearly now, not with these eyes. Surely that dark shape against the horizon was him. She waved. If you come back, grandson, she murmured, I may no longer be walking the earth.

The worst part of getting old was losing the people you loved.