Conquering Horse (22 page)

He slept. He dreamed. A black horse stood on a rise of land. After a while he saw it was Lizard, his black gelding. Two eagles, attracted by the horse’s strange raw nose, were attacking it, one from above with enormous sailing wings, the other from the ground. Before he could come up and help, the two eagles had torn open the horse’s head so that its eyes hung loosely down its face. He picked up a heavy stick and clubbed the eagles over the
head until their brains ran out like curdled milk. Then the two eagles flew off. He bounded on Lizard’s back and they were off. After a wild ride they arrived safely in camp. Redbird his father praised him for his bravery. At that, Lizard his horse lifted his long black tail a little and watered on the grass. Then his mother came out of the tepee and took Lizard by the bridle and led him away.

Some of Lizard’s water sprinkled on him, and he awoke. Huge drops were hitting the ground all around him. It was raining. The sound of it reminded him of June bugs hitting the taut sides of his mother’s leather tepee.

Suddenly, a hundred yards away, a thin streak of fire leaped out of the ground. It speared straight up into the heavens, revealing boiling clouds. Immediately, along the same track, a fat prong of zigzag lightening dazzled down. Thunder smashed into the ground. The earth shook with long heavy undulations. Then a wind sprang up and the sprinkling thickened into a rain, gradually became a heavy downpour.

He slipped out of his buckskins and folded them under his back to keep them dry. The rain pelted his naked body like flicking finger tips. The wind became strong, began to roar. It bent the little tree until finally its wild leaves snapped in his face. The wind became so fierce it drove water under him.

He couldn’t keep his buckskins dry, so he decided to use his shirt to catch some of the water. He anchored it down at the corners with his hands and knees. In a few seconds he had more than enough to drink. The water was sweet, as fresh as milk from a mare.

It poured.

After a time, the wind gradually died down, the rain thinned, the shower moved on. He got up and wrung out his leathers. When he put them on they clung clammy to his skin.

A new wind rose, from the south. It was warm and dry. The little tree beside him wrung out its leaves too. Soon both he and the little tree were dry.

Lying down again, he touched the little seedling, gently, just above the roots. And touching it, he fell sound asleep.

The next forenoon found him lost on the gray, green sea.

Shortly after sunup, the sky became overcast. Search the horizons as diligently as he might, he could find no hint of where the sun might be. The sky was all one vast continuous gray cover, with no blue openings or dark thickenings, with no edges or shadows. The prairie also remained flat. It too was one vast continuous piece, with no trees or brush, no rises or valleys. There were just two great sweeps: one overhead, gray; one underfoot, gray-green. Nor could he find in himself any feeling or instinct as to where the four great directions might be. Whether he stood still, or spun around on a toe, it was all the same.

Once he thought he saw a second seedling ash. But when he came up to it, he found flattened grass beside it and knew it to be the same little tree he had slept under. He had wandered in a circle.

He took out his charm and propped it up on a little mound of plucked grass at the foot of the seedling and prayed to it. “Help me, my protector. I am lost. It is the same country where my father was lost. His charm helped him. Help me.” He cocked his head this way, that way, waiting to hear.

The piece of horse chestnut gave no sign it had heard.

“Will I perish on the plains, unheard of and unpitied? My mother will soon be crying alone by the River of the Double Bend.”

Silence.

At last, angry, he began to scold it. “Have I not been good to you? Have I not carried you far, even tenderly, as though you were my own grandfather? Is this a good way?”

Silence.

He gave the fetish a little flick with his fingers, hard enough to knock it off the mound of grass.

“Ahh, you will not help, I see.” And with that he picked it up and put it back in his braid. “Today it wishes to be balky.”

He found a few more turnips and ate them raw. He clawed up some of the sod and found a half dozen white orange-nosed grubs. He ate them also, found them sweetish.

He heard a gopher whistling off to one side. Hunger still gnawed in him and he looked around cautiously. Finally he spotted the gopher some dozen yards away, yellow-brown, fat, rearing up like a man’s stalk out of the grass. He quickly fashioned a snare from his bowstring, then on hands and knees went after it, head and shoulders humped over, black eyes blazing in anticipation. The gopher, still sitting erect on its haunches, cocked first one bright little bulbous eye at him, then the other. It whistled, short. It ducked down into its hole; popped out again. No Name moved stealthily toward it, first on right hand and left knee, then on left hand and right knee, predator eyes half closed. He imagined himself a bobcat. If he went slowly enough, and if the gopher continued daring enough, he might catch it barehanded and not need the string snare. His buttocks lowered as he got set to pounce. At that moment, little slope-jaw chewing rapidly, the gopher gave him a hard look and then, whip! was gone. No Name padded softly to the hole. He studied it a moment, then deftly laid out the loop of his snare. Trip string in hand, he retreated a few feet and lay low in the grass. Holding himself in check, crouching, eyes almost closed, he waited. At last the gopher couldn’t resist a quick peek. Then another. Then yet another. On its third peek, No Name jerked and zip! had it. He pounced on the struggling gopher and hit it precisely behind the head with his bow. It shivered, its rear legs pumped a few times, and then it stretched out. Before its eyes could glaze over in death, No Name skinned and ate it.

The sky continued overcast. It remained very still.

He sat on the ground, bowed, head between his knees. His thoughts were dark. “Alas, why is it that I die? I thought my
path would be clear before me and the skies cloudless above me. My thoughts dwelt only on the good. There was no blood in my thoughts. Yet my father the sun has deserted me and my helper will not speak.”

He sat still as a stone for a long time.

He had almost fallen into stupefied sleep, when he heard a single low squeak. Looking up, he saw a swallow flying glossy-blue against the gray sky. It was a dirt dauber. He watched it a moment, then realized from the way it flew, low, mouth open, its flight as straight as an arrow’s, that it was heading for water. He bounded to his feet and ran after it, hoping to keep it in sight long enough to find where it was heading.

But the swallow flew too swiftly for him and before long it vanished from view. Puffing, eyes stinging with sweat, dejected, he sat down again.

It occurred to him after a while that the ground he sat on felt harder than usual. Getting to his knees, looking, he found two stones half-hidden in the grassy turf. Both were perfectly round, about the size of buffalo testicles. Also, someone had painted them red.

He stared at them. “Ai,” he whispered, “sacred stones.” He backed away.

Then, even as he stared at them, he saw the stones stir in the tough webbing of grass and shimmer toward him. He wiped stinging sweat from his eyes; stared again.

The stones spoke to him. “My son, hear this. We are round. We have no beginning and no end. We are related to the sun and the moon because they also are round. Therefore we know where the sun and the moon are and where your father lives. We are two. That is why the grizzly became two crows. That is why the black horse was attacked by two eagles.” Having spoken, the two stones lay still again in their place in the grass.

“Aii!” He knew then that this was the place where his father had been lost. Full of reverence, of dark awe, he quickly got out
his tobacco and placed a pinch of it in sacrifice before the two stones.

He prayed to the stones. “Grandfathers, I thank you. I have been lost, yet you have found me. I thank you. A man as he goes forth makes stops, in one place to eat, in another place to sleep. So also Wakantanka. The sun, which is so high and bright, is one place where Wakantanka has stopped. The moon, which is so soft and beautiful, is another place where he has stopped. The little ash tree, the whistling gopher, the flying swallow, all are places where he has stopped. I think of these places where my god has stopped and I send my prayer to them to help win a blessing.”

Again the stones stirred in an oscillating manner, this time as if pointing in a certain direction.

“Ae, they point to where the swallow flew. That way lies water. Thank you, thank you. Now I have found the true path.”

3

He awoke in the dark. He lay awake on the grass.

Presently he felt something tugging him. A thing warm and strong had a grip on his heart, and it pulled as if to help him to his feet.

Finally the pulling became so insistent he had to get up. He threw quiver and pack over his shouder.

“I am coming,” he said, eyes glowing. He walked quietly. After a while he saw something just ahead in the pre-dawn dark. It curved in a long uneven line before him. “Trees,” he said softly, “ae, and a stream.” He walked straight for it, unworried that someone might be skulking after him.

The land dipped and the grass deepened. The grass was very wet and soon his leggings and moccasins were soaked. The blades were as sharp as bird teeth. He moved through them slowly to avoid getting cut.

Soon trees lifted over him. From the rustling sound he recognized them as cottonwoods. They grew thickly together and were short. He touched them as he moved through them. Some twenty steps further he saw stars twinkling at his feet. He knelt. With his finger tip he touched water. It was a softly flowing stream and it was cool. He had a long drink. The water was gritty with silt and afterward his teeth hurt. He removed his leathers and bathed in the stream. He scrubbed himself harshly with the sandy water. He took down his braids and rinsed them. He combed out his long black hair. He fluffed his hair in the air until it was nearly dry, then he did it up in braids again and bound them tight around his head and put on his wolf cap.

Dawn burst over the horizon. It bloomed over him like an opening lily. It yellowed his buckskins. It yellowed the deep slough grass. It yellowed the undersides of the leaves of the rustling trees.

He danced a short dance in greeting to the oscillating sun. He sang in a low voice:

The pulling was still there. It drew hard on his flesh soul. It was as though someone had grabbed up a handful of flesh on his chest and were pulling him forward.

He leaped across the stream. The pulling led him through the young cottonwoods, then south across a swale, then west over a low mound, at last back to the little cottonwoods again where the stream buckled sharply to the south.

He saw a very tall cottonwood. It towered over the smaller cottonwoods like a father over children. The high cottonwood
drew him. The pulling was now not as sharp. It drew only a little. Yet he went to the big tree.

Then, level with his eyes, he saw a skull stuck to the cottonwood’s gray-edged bark. The skull’s eyeholes glowed darkly at him while its glittering teeth smiled a strange welcome. Looking closely, he saw an arrow in its right eyehole. His glance went down. With a gasp, he saw a jumble of bones at the foot of the tree. Sometime, a long time ago, some warrior had been pinned to the tree in battle. Later, wolves had come and ripped body from skull and cleaned off the bones.

Quietly, with sacrificial reverence, he placed a pinch of tobacco beside the bones. Looking around to all sides, then up at the cottonwood leaves overhead, he said, “Stranger, you are gone. You are dead. We will never know what your name was. Do not turn back. Be happy with your new friends in the other life. My helper and I wish to fare well in this life.”

In a half trance, he walked slowly and unhurried toward a low rise. The sun shone warm on his back. The west wind was cool in his face. The wingeds sang softly in the rustling trees along the stream.

When he reached the crest of the rise the pulling was gone. He had come to the place. Dreamily he looked about him. A level meadow covered with pink prairie clover lay between the rise and the twinkling stream. It was the kind of meadow his father would have selected for a camp site. He gazed down at it, looking, half-listening. Then, young face calm, a gentle mask, he stepped toward the stream. Going around a clump of choke-cherries, he saw it. A set of bare tepee poles. Also many bare meat racks and rings in the grass where other tepees had stood. And a sweat lodge at the edge of the swamp. And two menstrual lodges standing well back in the grass. His eyes opened. He moved through the grass one slow step after another. The trail from the camp site to the water was fresh. The grass was scuffed but little, with here and there some tan earth showing. The human droppings around the outer ring of the camp were fresh too. Sitting
on his heels, he gently brushed away the ashes of one of the camp fires, layer by layer, until he found a few live embers at the bottom. The earth was still hot beneath. The horses, he noted, had been tied close to the lodges. He kicked over their droppings and saw that as yet no colonies of bugs had collected under them. A pile of discarded ribs and cracked leg bones had just begun to stink and collect green blowflies. He found a castoff moccasin and examined it carefully. He noted by the marks made by the pins in the grass that the lodges had been quite small. He also noted that the pins had been hurriedly ripped out of the ground. He came upon a crushed eagle feather with a bit of scarlet plume glued to its tip.

“It is the Pawnee,” he said finally, whispering to himself. “A few of them have been on a hunting party. Also, they have been angry with each other.”