Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I stand on the jagged cliffs at the prairie’s edge where the earth drops low to the river, and men stampede buffalo in great numbers over the edge to kill them all quickly. The wind, coming up from the water below blows in circles, causing my hair to lift and rise like fire. Suddenly five people are beside me, and I look around to see who these strangers are. They’re not Lakota and are all pale. One is an older boy with the same two dots my father has on his jaw. In his hand is my father’s lightning-ash bow. He turns to me and opens his mouth, to show me he has no tongue. Horrified at his mutilation, I look away and see a beautiful woman of mystical power. She has the pointed face of the trappers who visit our camps, but the same long, dark hair of our people. She stares at me with her large, honey-brown eyes and exposes a white line on her forehead.

A whinny draws my attention, and the woman takes a few steps back to reveal a man seated on a pinto pony with three white feet. He looks down at me with beady eyes and gives me a slight nod. The pony moves even farther back so another shape beside him appears. A man stands there with no hair on his head, as though he has been scalped, but the shiny skin is still there. He stares back, and I notice strange red splotches on his face. I look away to my left again, to a man standing beside the boy with no tongue. He is a handsome paleface—tall and straight. He gazes at me with his green, sparkling eyes and smiles, revealing a small gap between his front teeth.

Each one, having acknowledged me, faces back, in a trance, to watch the horizon. I stare down and see I’m not a boy any longer. I bring my strong arms up within my heavy clothes and see they’re white. I am white.

I’m distracted by a shuffle to my left. The boy walks forward with his eyes fixed on the horizon.

I scream, “Stop!”

But he doesn’t hear me and takes a small step off the cliff. I run to look below. His body has vanished.

I sit, staring up at the top of the teepee, studying its crisscrossing sticks, as I hear the soothing sound of mother already stacking wood for our fire. I try to think of what my dream means, for all dreams are dreamt for a reason. Even though the people were strangers, I feel in some odd way that I know them well. I tell no one of my dream but think of it all day long and still when I close my eyes for sleep.

My eyes open again in pitch darkness to the vibrations of the ground. Frantic yelps erupt within the camp, and Father springs, yelping, from our teepee. Mother grabs for my little brother in the papoose and takes me by the hand to flee with the other women and children. Everyone runs and screams—all except for Apawi, who lies down on his buffalo blanket in the center of camp for us all to see and sleeps soundly.

In the faint light of early dawn, the men grab their bows and lances, jump on their ponies and hurry to make the formation to protect the camp—the formation of wild geese. Father whoops and leads the group, taking the very top of the line. They all stand their horses still as the thundering sound comes closer, shaking every living thing awake and running for cover. The dark shapes charge toward us with a cloud of dust reaching high into the air above them. Mother holds my hand tight as she watches with worried eyes. We all know if they can’t divide the herd we will be stampeded, and everything we own will be destroyed. Many of the old people standing with us begin to chant and reach their arms to the sky in prayer.

As the cloud of dust nears, the men give their loudest war cries and release arrow after arrow, trying to kill as many rushing buffalo as they can, since only by killing the ones in front can you split the herd. I watch proudly as Father stands strong ahead of the chief’s horse. Some of the dark shapes plummet to the ground, causing the shapes behind them to crash into the fallen, and chaos ensues. Some of the smarter ones on the sides split, but the ones coming in the center keep charging forward. The warriors, releasing their arrows as the cloud of dust seems to part, try to keep their ponies still—not an easy feat since a pony’s greatest fear is charging buffalo.

Finally, the buffalo form two thundering rivers around our camp but, just as mother releases my hand in relief, a stray buffalo careens from the river and charges right toward father. He throws down his bow, reaches for his lance and holds it up as the beast crashes into him. He and his horse disappear in a rolling cloud of dust, and the other men on horses move out of the way, breaking the formation. Mother screams and drops to the ground, shaking the baby and causing him to cry. I start for Father as Grandfather tries to grab my shoulder, but I break free and run through the island amidst the churning sea of buffalo. The warriors have to regain the formation so the herd stays split and can’t come to Father’s aid.

As the dust settles the buffalo rights itself, with the dripping lance impaled in its side, and staggers off, wide-eyed in shock. The horse spins its back legs, trying to get back up, although badly wounded. I can’t see Father until I get to the horse. He lies under his best hunting horse with his eyes closed, grimacing in great pain. I try to pull the horse off, but he screams louder at its movement and the horse seems too broken to get up. I kneel beside his head and, wincing, he opens his eyes.

Father chokes out, “Find my bow.”

I search around through the dusty air and see the bow by the horse’s back legs. I fetch it, and I’m shocked to see it remained intact under the great buffalo’s feet. I bring it back to Father’s fisted hand. He tries with all his might to lift the bow and says, “This is yours now. Remember, great strength…comes from great challenge.”

Every time the horse tries to rise, it causes Father more pain, although he holds in his cries of pain by squeezing his eyes closed tighter. I take out my knife and slash the horse’s neck, causing it to relax and be still. Father looks at me proudly. “Take care of your mother and brother.” He holds his breath briefly and then lets it out. “And I will watch you…smiling.” He never takes another breath, and his eyes freeze in his last stare to the emerging dawn.

The sun no longer causing him to blink, he now can see the sun.

The last buffalo has run off, and the camp is safe. The men now gather around us as the sun rises. Grandfather puts his hands on my shoulders and pulls me up off the ground. He looks down upon his son and says, “Akecheta, my last son, has lived up to his name. A great fighter in battle and a fighter in his last stand for our tribe. I am proud.”

The men place him on a scaffold to the sacred east outside of our camp. They bring his fallen pony to him and lay him underneath Father’s body. Father is dressed in his finest adornments: feathers and beads in his hair, beaded deerskin shirt and leggings. He is wrapped in his best buffalo robe, and all his weapons, except for his bow, are placed around him to have in the afterlife. The women, young and old, come with food and lament at his scaffold. As the whole tribe mourns, Apawi comes out in his celebration attire and dances around the wailing women, singing sacred songs of rebirth, and rejoicing in Father’s entrance to the Happy Hunting Ground.

My grandfather puts a light arm around my shoulders and says, “When you were born, you cried, and the world rejoiced. Live your life so that when you die, the world cries, and you rejoice.”

As we walk back to my teepee, Apawi spins by us, smiles with his eyes wide and strange, and says, “Isn’t life wondrous?” Then he spins back off again, screaming, “Thank you, Great Spirit!”

I’m not sure if I’ll ever understand Apawi.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Mother has to move our teepee from the inner part of camp to the edge where all the widows, wintes, and childless elders are expected to live. Right next to our teepee lives a winte—a man who decides he doesn’t want to be a hunter or warrior and puts on a skirt to do woman’s work. There he stood, watching us sadly as we put up our teepee. Mother befriends him right away and tries to learn the winte’s tanning and beading secrets. Mother always says, “No woman can compete with the skill of a winte.” Some nights a man will sneak into his teepee, but it’s well known it brings bad luck to spend time alone with the winte.

The tribe now will provide us with some of what we need, but I want to make Father proud. I go out every day for the next week and crawl for hours in a buffalo skin, inching up, step by step, getting closer and closer to the fast antelope that graze in the open plain. Finally, when I’m within but a few paces, I pull up my father’s bow and quickly release the only shot I’ll get. Many times I miss, and walk home empty-handed to Mother. But this time, as I throw the buffalo skin off, I’m pleased to see one of the antelopes slowing and falling over with my arrow stuck in its ribs. I look to the skies, and a sudden wind comes and throws my hair back, and I know it’s Father.

Dragging the antelope by its thin horns, I pass right by my father’s resting place and see my mother there, wailing as she makes small cuts up her arm to relieve her grief. After she clears the tears from her eyes, she sees me with the antelope and comes to help drag it home. Once back to the camp, she says, “You have made your father smile.”

I never miss again.