Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The warm light streams through the teepee opening, cutting my dreams short. Squinting against the glare of the sun appearing on the horizon, I search for the familiar image of my mother busy starting the fire. However, she is nowhere to be seen, and the fire is dark. I push off my buffalo blanket and jump through the teepee opening to find her. The spring ground is wet and cold on my bare feet. A sharp whistle pierces the air, and I spin to see father sitting on the grass beside the teepee. His red skin glows in the early sun, and his shiny hair is decorated with blue and white beads. He concentrates on the arrow he’s carving and slowly strips away splinters from the shaft.

“Mother?” I ask.

He pauses for a while, eyes set on his craft, and, without looking up at me, he says in his slow and low voice, “It is the baby’s time.”

I glance toward the thickets where the mothers in camp go to have their babies. I can’t see her and know I will never hear her—Lakotas do not show pain. I spot her things by the outdoor fire and wish she would return soon. I look to all the teepees around us and see everyone is beginning their day. Squaws fetch water from the river with their daughters, boys run around the camp like playful puppies, and men get ready for hunts. The teepees glow in the yellow sunlight as the many horses graze calmly in the background. Father stays quiet, and I know not to bother him. I squat nearby and watch his movements.

“Are you now six winters?”

I nod.

Bringing the arrow up to scrutinize the notches, he asks, “Have my arrows shrunk?”

I notice they’re indeed half the size of his usual arrows.

Father gives a long sigh. “Well, these are no good to me then. I wonder who would be so small to use them?”

My shoulders straighten, and I gasp. “I am small!”

He laughs calmly and sweeps his long, black hair out of his face, revealing two familiar black spots on his jaw. Reaching down behind him, he brings up five other arrows of the same size and a small bow. I jump to my feet and try to grab them, but he gives a half-smile and pulls them back. “A man must make his own arrows.” Father nods, and his dark-brown eyes give me a serious look. He hands me a small knife. “This is your knife. Every Lakota must carry their own knife. It makes good arrows.”

I gaze at the beautiful, white bone knife and run my finger along the dull side to feel its smoothness.

He then reaches for another stick. “Learn.”

Father begins to shape the arrow, and I know I have to watch everything, since he will only show me once.

“This bow is made of pine and will suit a boy of six winters well.” Carving the notches carefully, he continues. “The only wood for the bow of a great hunter or warrior must be ash. Many have to treat, dry, and cure the wood for five winters. But the Great Spirit led me past the river and into the woods for days, until I found what I had seen in my vision. In the center of a circle of the tallest ashes was a split and charred ash that had been hit by lightning. All Lakota know it is a rare wood to find, and many warriors hunt for years searching for this wood, which makes the strongest bows any man has seen. Since the lightning is sent by the Great Spirit, the wood is instantly cured. The greatest strain creates the greatest strength.”

Father ties the piece of flint onto the notches. “You tie the flint or bone flat to pass through a four legged’s ribs, but you tie the other way if you need to pass a two legged’s.” He hands me the last arrow. “You cut barbs into war arrows so they cause great damage when removed. Hunting arrows need to pull out smooth.”

He gifts me a small deerskin belt to hold my knife. I eagerly tie it around my bare waist and slip my knife into the pouch. I’m instantly older and stronger. Father goes inside the teepee and brings out the bow I know so well. He lovingly shows me the dark, firm wood, then holds it up and pretends to snap it, shooting the invisible prey in front of him. Father turns back to me. “If I should leave for the Happy Hunting Ground, do not send this bow with me. Leave me another, for this should be yours.”

I now stare at the bow with even more respect, knowing it will be mine one day. Just then the thickets rustle, and I turn to see Mother. She has a proud smile on her beautiful spotted face and the papoose tied to her back. Father stands up as she comes to show us the little round face, surrounded by dark hair, poking out of the cradle hole. She says with great esteem, “Another son.”

He looks deep into her eyes. “Winona, he is yours for the first few winters, but then he is mine.” He picks up his bow and arrows and walks off toward where the horses graze but then turns around to shout to me, “Don’t return until you have killed something for your mother to cook.” Father walks off to hunt.

I begin to run after him but mother says with a smile, “Not until you eat something, little hunter.” As she goes to get my breakfast, she sees my new knife and bow. “What fine things your father has made for you. Care for them well. He will not make you another. You must learn to make them yourself now.”

I nod and, as she turns, see the little face deep within the papoose, all bundled up in rabbit furs and wrapped tight in deerskin. While she sits down on a log and wipes the dried blood off her legs, I eat the meat she gives me as quickly as I can. After stuffing in the last piece, I jump up, grab my weapons and run off to the grassy hills in search of small things hopping or flittering around.

Mother shouts, “No bears now!”

I try, until the sun is in the middle of the sky, to hit one of the prairie birds. The skin on my arm reddens and breaks from the bowstring’s sharp snapback. The birds are far too quick and small for me to hit. I decide to find a rabbit’s hole, and once I find its other exit hole, I roll a rock over it and wait by the entrance with my arrow ready. The sun turns orange on the western hills when finally the rabbit emerges. I wait until it’s within five paces and release my arrow as hard as I can.

A hit! The poor thing kicks for a moment but then is still. I give it time for its spirit to leave and then I grab it up by the ears and run home as fast as I can.

Mother sees me coming from the edge of camp and puts her arms out to embrace me. I run hard into her and hold my offering up for her to see. She gasps. “That is the largest rabbit I’ve seen. You are a great hunter to have learned so fast. Most boys bring their mothers a tiny bird to put in a broth, but this is a feast.”

I can’t be more pleased with myself. She goes right to skinning the rabbit and preparing it for us. “Sit down, and I will tell you the story of how the rabbit lost its tail.”

This story is one of my favorites.

I watch her in the orange glow of the fire, as she repeats the story exactly the same way as she has done so many times. Halfway through the tale the baby starts to fuss and cry. Mother goes over quickly, pinches his tiny nose between her fingers, and gently shuts his mouth. The little thing turns red from having no breath and then mother releases him. He screams out in great protest, but she quickly does the trick again, and this time he just pants angrily.

Mother takes him, still within the cradle, and brings him to her breast. I ask, “Why did you keep him from breath?”

“We are all creatures of nature, and there are always things that will be drawn to a baby’s cry. It is best for him to learn this lesson early.”

Father returns with a small deer on his horse. Upon seeing the rabbit turning on the spit, he gives me a nod of approval. “Then I will name you Kohana.”

“Because I run so fast?” I ask, happy with my new name.

“It is true, you are fast, but no. I name you Kohana because you learn quick.”

With that he reaches into the teepee, takes his pipe and leaves to smoke with our grandfather, the medicine chief. All the squaws come to welcome the new baby to the tribe, and they bring gifts and food to us. Apawi, our tribe’s Heyota, comes and cries in great agony, yanking on the feathers hung from his pointed ears and singing mourning songs. As we all lay down together in our blankets, I ask Mother, “Why is the Heyota crying?”

“He reminds us all how fleeting life is.”

I think about this as my eyes grow heavy, and I fall asleep in the arms of my mother, in the arms of my father.