32
RIDES-AT-THE-DOOR sat facing the entrance to his lodge. It was his accustomed place, and usually he would be flanked on either side by family and friends. There would be the smell of meat roasting; there would be stories and laughter; there would be faces, the faces of those he loved. But not this night. This night he sat alone, smoking his short-pipe and thinking of the ways he had tried to be a good man, a man of wisdom and generosity whom the people respected and sought for counsel. He thought of the times he had helped Three Bears do the necessary thing for the Lone Eaters, the times he had helped the young men in their war and raiding pursuits. He had tried to be a good father—he had taught his sons to ride and to hunt, to drive an arrow deep in the right spot. He had given them strength and courage when facing the enemy. And he had made Fools Crow proud to be of the Lone Eaters and the Pikunis. But he had failed somehow in the case of Running Fisher. He had been caught up in Fools Crow’s development as a man of many strengths; he hadn’t noticed how Running Fisher had been twisting away from the good path. At first, Rides-at-the-door had taken the young man’s haughty attitude as a sign of strength, of youthful pride, the way it is when a youth is full of himself. Sometimes that is a good quality in a young man, for he marks himself as one who will stand out in later life. Many times that quality brings honor to the man’s family as well as himself.
Honor is all we have, thought Rides-at-the-door, that and the blackhorns. Take away one or the other and we have nothing. One feeds us and the other nourishes us. And so I must do this thing for honor. It is not a good thing but it must be done.
The skin over the entrance rustled, and he watched Kills-close-to-the-lake enter and take a place far from him and the warmth of the fire. He looked at her without expression but he thought that she was indeed a lovely young woman, and he felt the sorrow he had felt when Striped Face told him of this thing. And the remorse—for he had deprived a young man of the chance to grow up with this young woman. He had taken her as a wife only as a favor to his pitiful friend, Mad Wolf. At the time it had seemed like an act of generosity, but now he wondered if he had taken her on as just another display. He had little patience with men who boasted of their wealth. Yet he questioned his own motives, for when she moved into his lodge, he had not only endured the teasing of his friends, he had enjoyed it.
Kills-close-to-the-lake sat with her head down, a woolen shawl covering her face. There were many troubles in her heart, but overriding all of them was a feeling of resignation. It had been present when she left her father’s lodge in the camp of the Never Laughs. And it had been present when she moved into the lodge of Rides-at-the-door. She had endured his other wives’ commands and scoldings with the same lack of emotion, for she was sure that she would never be happy again. Even when Fools Crow lived in the lodge, even when she fantasized a life with him, she knew that it could never be and so she held her feelings for him in check. There were only moments when he looked at her and she didn’t avert her eyes that she felt something like hope come flooding into her heart. Only then would she allow herself to dream of a happy life with a man she could give herself to. And when he married Red Paint, she felt a pure and true emptiness and in a strange way welcomed it as though it completed her destiny.
But now a wave of despair came over her as she thought of Running Fisher, of his thin laughter and mocking eyes, and the way he entered her so roughly and spent himself so quickly. The thought of the way she clung to him even when he wished to be rid of her made her cheeks red with shame.
She heard the flap being pulled open and she felt the rush of cold air but she didn’t look up. This night her shame would be known and she would be dealt with harshly, but she welcomed even that, even mutilation or death.
Rides-at-the-door motioned his son to sit. Then he opened his tobacco pouch and filled his short-pipe. He didn’t know how to begin, and so he began in the middle of it.
“You have brought dishonor into my lodge,” he said. He seemed to be addressing both of them but he looked only at Running Fisher. “My wife Striped Face tells me that you are copulating with each other. How she knows this I do not ask. For now I will take her at her word. I have never known her to lie about an important thing, and I do not think she is lying now.”
A dog began to bark somewhere close; then another one, farther away, joined in.
“What do you say, Running Fisher?”
Rides-at-the-door listened to the dogs and watched his son’s face. He wanted his son to deny this charge, to be indignant, outraged that his father could even think such a thing. He wanted his son to stand and fill the lodge with shouted invectives against him and Striped Face, the bringer of such vile lies. But as he watched his son’s eyes focus themselves on the lodge wall behind him, he knew that the charges were true. He looked away when he heard his son’s voice.
“It is as my near-mother says. Kills-close-to-the-lake has visited me in my lodge.”
There were several dogs barking now. Their sounds were crisp, each voice distinct in the clear night air. On any other night Rides-at-the-door would have been interested in the cause of their commotion, but not this night. He felt the weight of his bones, his flesh, and he could not have moved them. Even the act of lighting his pipe required too much effort. Inside himself he felt the burdens of his people—the encroachment of the Napikwans, the demands of the seizers, the appearance once again of the white-scabs among the Pikunis. All seemed very black to him.
“My heart falls down to hear of your guilt, my son. If you had said otherwise, I would have gladly sacrificed my body to the Medicine Pole, old as I am. I would have given away my belongings to hear you say otherwise. Already I share our people’s sorrows—now I must suffer this affront too.” The dogs had quit barking, and Rides-at-the-door’s voice filled the lodge. “Perhaps this is my punishment for being greedy, for taking on a young wife when I knew in my heart that it was wrong. Your mother and your near-mother were not happy with me, but at the time I said I was doing it for my old friend, Mad Wolf.” He turned to Kills-close-to-the-lake. Her face remained hidden in the shawl. “I have wronged you, my young wife, and I ask you to forgive me. I brought you into my lodge and then neglected you. I allowed my other wives to treat you badly. And now I caused you to commit this bad thing with my young son. I ask you to forgive me—but I do not forgive you. You bring dishonor into my lodge, and for that I cannot forgive you. But I can give you something. Look at me, wife!”
Kills-close-to-the-lake, startled by the sudden sharpness of his voice, jerked her head in his direction and the shawl fell around her shoulders. Her black hair glistened in the firelight.
“You have seen the cut-nose women of the other bands. There are three of them in the Hard Topknots alone. You have seen Throws-her-horse-away. She comes to visit her relatives here. She was once a beautiful young woman, like yourself. Now even her relatives do not like to look at her too closely. But these cut-noses are lucky in that they still cling to life. Many who betrayed their husbands are wandering in the Shadowland, killed by their husbands’ warrior societies or relatives. To dishonor her husband this way is the worst thing a wife can do. Ten, fifteen winters ago, I would be tempted to have you mutilated, even killed. But I am older, older even than my years, and I see that I have wronged you. Just as badly, my son has wronged you. There is not much honor in him, I fear, and for that I also take the blame.
“I give you your freedom, young woman. You are no longer my wife. You will quit this camp in the morning before Sun Chief begins his journey. You may take your riding horse and three others from my herd. Tell your father they are a gift from his friend Rides-at-the-door. But he must never know the real reason for your return. You must vow to the Above Ones that you will tell no one of this.”
Kills-close-to-the-lake had listened to these words—they had entered her ears but somehow had lost their way to her heart. She found herself sitting with the two men she had lived with, but they seemed like strangers to her. The very purpose of this confrontation seemed less important to her than the punishment she had expected, even desired. Her hands were folded in her lap and she looked at the stub of the little finger on her left hand, the finger she had sacrificed at the Sun Dance last summer. How far away that was! Although she only vaguely understood the reason for the sacrifice, she had felt good about it—she had felt virtuous. She had put Fools Crow away from her heart. She made a fist of the hand and the stub disappeared and she knew that she had not put him away. She would have gladly committed this offense with him and accepted the punishment. Now the thought of punishment faded from her mind and she felt only emptiness and she accepted that as her future.
Rides-at-the-door watched her slip out the entrance. Then he spoke to Running Fisher, his stare still focused on the skin flap.
“Your mother has relatives among the far north people, the Siksikas—you know them. Perhaps they will take you in. You must tell them that it had nothing to do with Double Strike Woman or Striped Face. Tell them you are pitiful and would live with them until the moon of the many drums. There is a Medicine Pipe man among them. You may tell him everything and beg him to remember you when he rolls out his bundle at the first thunder. Give him three horses if he consents to do this. You must walk among the Siksikas with your head down, for they are a proud people and will look upon you with kindness only if you humble yourself. It will be hard on you, my son, for you are young and prideful, but it must be done.”
For the first time since entering the lodge, Running Fisher looked at his father. His eyes were clear and unwavering. “I have offended you,” he said. “For this I deserve whatever punishment you wish. You are a man of great reputation and I am a nothing-one. It is true—I have been prideful, I have boasted to others of my accomplishments, but what are they? Twice I have taken scrawny horses from the Entrails People. I even captured a ball-and-powder gun, an old and poor weapon, hardly worth keeping. Many said then that I would become something, that I would capture the eyes of the Above Ones. I painted myself with designs I saw in a dream, and when I walked around camp I felt the eyes of the others on me. When I danced, I danced in my own way. I painted my arrows with a pigment I alone possessed. But through it all, I knew I was a nothing-one.”
Running Fisher looked into his father’s face and his eyes became dark and burning.
“I longed to be a man before I was one. I wished to sit in on the councils, to join an older society, to become a Crazy Dog or a Raven Carrier. I wanted my own lodge, my own band of horses. I wanted people to point at me and say, ‘There goes Running Fisher, he is a wealthy man and a great warrior. His medicine is the most powerful of the Pikunis.’ But two things occurred. I saw what happened to Fast Horse and I saw myself in him. As a child I watched him strut around the camp and I wanted to be just like him.” Running Fisher tried to smile. “And now I am. I have dishonored those who trusted me and I am to be banished for it. It is right.
“But something else happened, something that causes me even greater shame. It happened the day Sun hid his face, when we were on the war trail to the Crow country to revenge—” Running Fisher stopped in mid-sentence, and the flame went out of his eyes. He slumped back, and his voice was low and discouraged. “I—I lost my courage that day. I trembled like the quaking-leaf tree. I prayed to Sun Chief to give me back my courage, to make me fierce against the Crows, to make my people proud of me. It didn’t happen. When we charged down on the Crow village, I shot my gun in the air, I shouted threats and I rode hard. But I didn’t enter the village. I was afraid, and so I stayed on the outside and shot into lodges. Then I retreated with the first wave of Pikunis. Even then I was afraid that a Crow would ride me down and kill me. I covered myself with shame that day, and now I must live with a coward’s heart.”
Both men shared the weight of those words in the quiet night. The fire flickered silently on the walls and all the camp dogs were silent. But Running Fisher was not finished.
“I see my brother, Fools Crow, acquire wealth and respect. He learns the ways of the many-faces. He sits at the council fire with the men. And he has a woman who gladly lies with him and carries his child. It is only with great effort that I can keep from hating my own brother. Before, I told myself, these things will come to me too, but I was not patient. I tried to act like a man, but I am worse than a child—I am nothing. The Above Ones do not even see Running Fisher. He is an insect, and now he commits a great offense against his father. And he dishonors Kills-close-to-the-lake.” He looked down at his hands, which had been twisted into interlocking fists, the knuckles white and large. “For this I gladly accept your punishment.”
Rides-at-the-door, for the first time that night, felt something other than sadness. His eyes were wet and bright in the firelight. He felt regret that he hadn’t seen earlier what was happening to Running Fisher, that he hadn’t been able to help him through this period. Then this bad thing would not have happened. But somewhere further inside, he felt a quickening of his spirit that his son should accept and understand the shame of his actions—and the consequences. Rides-at-the-door earlier had thought simply to banish his son, to cast him out into the cold, to allow him to attempt to survive the elements and the censure of his people. That would have been the proper thing. But he knew too many young men who had ended up full of bitterness and hatred and they never recovered—like Fast Horse. Rides-at-the-door wanted his son to have a chance to cleanse himself, to regain his dignity: possibly to return to the Lone Eaters, possibly to begin a new life elsewhere. He was young enough.