The Changing Wind (25 page)

D
espite the misgivings of some, the winter proved uneventful. There were some indications that other tribes shared the area, and this caused a certain uneasiness. A trace of smoke on the distant horizon, a footprint in the damp earth at a spring or stream, gave constant cause for concern. Constant vigil was maintained, except for the hardest part of the Moon of Snows. Then everyone huddled over the firçs in the lodges and seldom went out. It was a mild winter, however. White Buffalo was unsure whether it was due to the different locale or simply a milder season than most. Maybe both.

Overall, though, it was apparent that the People were uneasy here. There was an unrest, a sense of not belonging. White Buffalo pondered at length about this feeling. Once again, the idea that the People are people of the open plain, the grassland, was a constant thought—in simplest form,
this is not our home
. He wondered how long it would take to become one with the land. The People considered the rolling Tallgrass Hills, the Sacred Hills, the source of their strength, the nourishment of their spirits. Yet they had not always lived there. The old legends told of their migration from the northeast, long ago. How long no one knew, but many generations. Surely, the People who first came to the Tallgrass Hills did not feel that land to be their source of life. How long had it taken? A generation? Two? Even three or more, maybe.

There was another possibility, of course, that came to White Buffalo as he considered. He knew the feel of strength, power, and spiritual uplift that came to him sometimes when he greeted the rising sun over the hills. Or when the moon was full, covering the grassland with its soft silver-blue light. At such times there was a feel of
spiritual power, a Something, mystical and wonderful. It seemed to come from the earth and the sky, to be everywhere.

Maybe, White Buffalo thought, the People had been wandering since Creation, searching for this place of the spirit. When they found it, they stopped, realizing that their search was ended. From that time on, they had wandered only within the grassland areas that they had made their own. The spirit of the prairie had nourished the People ever since, and would forever. At least, he felt, if he had been with the first of the People to set foot in the Sacred Hills,
he
would have known.

As the Moon of Awakening came, everyone became more restless. White Buffalo recognized the symptom and approached Hump Ribs.

“Ah-koh,”
said the chief. “Sun Boy renews his torch!”

“Yes. Its warmth is good,” agreed White Buffalo.

They sat down to smoke in front of the chief’s lodge. It was the first time that a social smoke outside the dwellings had been possible that season. White Buffalo looked at the swelling buds on a tree nearby.

“You wish to speak of moving?” asked Hump Ribs.

White Buffalo was a bit startled. Maybe he should not have been, he realized. Hump Ribs had shown remarkable perceptiveness as a leader. From a quiet, likable young man, in a very short time he had become a quiet, thoughtful leader. He anticipated well, and his judgement was good. The chief had already realized the concern of the holy man.

“Yes,” White Buffalo said simply.

Hump Ribs nodded.

“The prairie will soon be greening,” he noted. “We should be where our roots are. It has been a good winter, here in a strange land, but I am made to think it is time to go home.”

It was a long speech for the soft-spoken Hump Ribs, but there remained little to be said. The announcement was made that day.

There were some, of course, who complained. It was always so, the wailing that there was no way that the People could be ready to move on three days’ notice. As usual, the complaints were ignored, and those who complained were busy like everyone else, preparing to strike the
lodges at the appointed time. It was merely part of the adjustment to the change. Maybe there was even less complaint this time, because there was a strong feeling that the People did not belong here, among wooded hills and strange plants—strange spirits, even. The feeling was even stronger when the wolves reported that they were being observed. Yes, the timing was good.

The travelers were observed from a distance for several sleeps, and a constant watch was maintained against possible attack, but none came. One morning the scouts reported no trace of those who had followed them. This resulted in one more day of extra caution. It might be a trick, to catch the travelers off-guard. Still nothing happened, and everyone began to relax.

The mood was cheerful and optimistic. The People were going home to an area they understood, one which gave them life. It was ironic, then, that the sickness began to appear. At first, it seemed only the usual cough and congestion of the springtime, though more severe. An old woman succumbed first, after coughing greenish phlegm flecked with blood for a few days. Then it was noticed that many children were ill and that they were recovering very slowly. Usually the illness of the small ones was rapid in onset but with equally rapid recovery. This time it was more prolonged.

“We must stop here,” White Buffalo advised.

Hump Ribs agreed. During the days of travel, it was not usual to set up the lodges for each night’s stay. Families slept in the open, and only in inclement weather did they build a temporary shelter. This was different. The lodges were needed for treatment. By closing the door and smokeflaps and sprinkling water on heated cooking stones, a sweatlodge was created. The steam filled the interior and soothed the tortured lungs of the afflicted.

White Buffalo was active day and night, performing his chants and prayers, moving from one dwelling to another, sprinkling his powdered plant materials over the heated stones in the lodges. This produced aromatic steam to liquefy the cloying congestion of sodden lungs.

It was a demanding, exhausting torture. There was even a time when White Buffalo wondered why he had ever consented to the responsibility of being a holy man. He had not eaten or slept for two days, except in short
snatches. Finally, a time came when no one was pleading for his immediate attention, and he made his way to his own lodge, almost staggering from exhaustion.

As he approached, he noted that the doorskin was tightly closed, the smoke flaps too.
Aiee!
He hurried forward, calling out to Crow Woman. Her face was drawn with worry and lack of sleep as she held the skin aside for him to enter. She did not need to tell him.

“It is White Moon.”

The child lay on a pallet of robes near the firepit, breathing heavily. A quick glance at the labored respiration, the sucking in of the small belly in a frantic effort to breathe, the anxious look of distress on the little face, made his heart sink. He had seen no child as sick as this, their own.

“I have kept the steam,” Crow said, “and used the plants as you have taught me.”

Mechanically, White Buffalo reached for his rattles and began the prayer-chant. Moon’s eyes opened and focused in silent recognition. She smiled a wan little smile and closed her eyes again. All through the night they huddled together over her, hoping that the combined strength of their spirits would reach out to hers. For a time she seemed to improve a little, rousing enough to sip a mouthful of soup from a horn spoon. But this seemed to exhaust her. She sank back, unresponsive. Dawn was just breaking when she gave one last little sigh and was gone.

“She has crossed over,” said Crow Woman simply, tears streaming down her face.

She gave a final caress to the now peaceful face, and began the wailing chant of the Song of Mourning.

When the People moved on, there were seven burial scaffolds in the trees where the sick-camp had been. Four were small scaffolds to accommodate the small bodies of children. The other three victims had been elderly, people of many winters whose bodies were simply tired of fighting.

Very few families had escaped the sickness entirely. The wife of Hump Ribs himself had been quite ill, having contracted the fever after caring for her own children. Slowly, she recovered. All of the children of Stone Breaker and Cattail had been ill, but they too had finally overcome the malady. Some of the People suffered for nearly a moon,
and many had still not regained full strength when they moved on.

Everyone was loud in praise of White Buffalo’s expertise in the emergency. His medicine had been strong, people reminded each other. He had predicted something of this sort, the bad luck. When it happened, he had been tireless in his efforts. Many gave his medicine credit for the recovery of their children, and his popularity and prestige soared. It was too bad, people told each other, about the holy man’s own child. Her survival was not meant to be.

White Buffalo entered a period of deep depression. To him, it made little difference that he was held in high regard by the People. He felt that he was a failure. He had been unable to help his small daughter, their only child, who had been the joy of their lives, his and Crow’s.

After the period of mourning, Crow Woman had seemed to recover and return to some sense of normality. She tried to comfort her husband, but his grief seemed unreachable. At one point, she tried to console him and was met with angry accusations that
she
did not feel the loss as he did. Wisely, she withdrew.

White Buffalo was nearly destroyed by his grief but also by guilt. He should have been able to do
something
, he thought. If not, what was the use of anything, of his entire profession and skill? He tried, through long and sleepless nights, to discover his exact source of error. Surely, he was being punished for some oversight or some misdeed. Could it be his neglect of some part of the ceremonial ritual? Or was it wrong that he had helped Hump Ribs with the decision to go to the new area? No, the family of Hump Ribs had survived. Yet… once more, the doubt over his creation of the Black Stones ceremony gnawed at his guilt-tormented mind. He felt useless and wondered if he might even be going mad. Usually he consulted Crow Woman with his problems, but with this he could not. Part of his guilt involved her. He had betrayed her, he felt, by not having the skill to save their only child. He was unable to approach her to share their grief together.

He must do something or go mad. He approached Crow Woman one evening after a period of absence when he had left the other travelers for an afternoon.

“Crow, I need to go away for a little while.”

There was hurt in her eyes.

“I am sorry, my husband. How long?”

“A few days. I will catch up with the band, but I must be alone a little while.”

“It is good. I will pack you some food.”

“Good?”
he blurted.

“Yes, my husband. Your heart is troubled. This will help you find peace.”

She was already busy gathering dried meat and berry pemmican and placing it in a small rawhide pack.

“I may fast,” he said.

“Then you will need this when your fast is over.”

When White Buffalo rejoined the band a few days later, he said little about his quest. One does not ask about such private things, but it was apparent that whatever had happened, he had found himself. The People rejoiced for him.

With his wife, he was attentive, almost apologetic. Crow Woman assumed that he had talked to his spirit-guide, though he never said. There was a renewed interest, an inquiring quality about him, and he seemed older, more mature, with even more dignity than before. He was kinder, more thoughtful.

There was one other thing. From that time on, for the rest of his life, White Buffalo’s hair was nearly as white as the sacred cape.

S
uddenly, it seemed, they were old. White Buffalo, after the loss of their only child, had gone through a long period of mourning. For a while Crow had feared for his sanity, but finally he seemed to recover.

For many years they continued to hope for another child, but there was none. It was difficult to share the joy of Stone Breaker and Cattail at the progress of
their
children. Crow Woman never conceived again, and it was only gradually that she and White Buffalo began to realize that it was not to be. Nothing was said between them, but there was an understanding. Each knew that the other knew also, that the chances were ever more remote through the years. Finally, the hope was gone, and both settled in the knowledge that they would never again know the joy of a small child in their lodge.

The seasons passed, and the pictographs on the story-skins, painted each winter by White Buffalo, kept the record of the People. White Buffalo threw himself into the duties of his priestly calling, and his reputation grew. His influence and that of Hump Ribs, an able chief, gave the Southern band prestige among the people, and the band grew also. They migrated with the geese and more importantly, with the buffalo. Hump Ribs chose their wintering places well, and each summer they met the rest of the tribe for the Sun Dance and the Big Council.

There were losses in the band. One by one, the parents of the new generation crossed over. The parents of Crow Woman were gone and others of their contemporaries. Short Bow, who had seemed stolid and immortal to White Buffalo and Crow as children, grew bent and crippled by the aching-bones ailment, and finally he could no longer
hunt. He lost the will to live and crossed over that winter, leaving two wives and a child of ten winters, a boy belonging to the younger wife.