Northern Great Plains, America, A.D. 803
I love trees. I always want to climb one, or be by one, lying beneath it and looking up through its branches, at Grandmother Moon. She watches over me. As a child, I would climb a tree as high as I could to be closer to her, then I would look out over wherever we had set up our tepees, and across the vast-dry plains.
Putting up our tepees is seen as women’s work, and because, at the age of fifteen, I am now seen as a woman, and am expected to help. The elder women in our tribe also choose where and how we arrange the tepees, which are always in a circle. The spacing and the order of the tepees is important too, and each tribe member knows in which one he and his family must make their home. Once the long poles are tied together at the top in a way that allows the smoke to escape, we stretch buffalo skins over the frame and peg them firmly in the ground. Then we put up an inside rain cover to keep us dry. The opening of each tepee faces the east because of the strong winds that sweep across the plains from the west. It is hard to tell by looking at them, but the tepees are set up to lean into the east to make it easier for the westerly wind to blow over them.
I also love to sing. While high in my tree, something inside me stirs, and I sing as loud as I can. I sing to the birds and they sing back.
I was born by another name, but because of what I love to do, my elders call me Sings From Trees. Everyone calls me that now, even my father.
Before I leave the tepee I share with my grandmother, she washes and braids my thick and shiny black hair into two long braids. While she braids the other side, I tie the finished end with strips of cloth. No decorations are woven through my hair, as women of the Crow do not place importance upon their hair. That honour is reserved for the men in our tribe, who feather cut the front of their hair and comb it into a high mound, and wear fur through their braids. When I was born, my skin was a dusky red colour; now it is a light reddish brown. The cheeks of my flat round face were pink as a child, but now that I am older, they are no longer pink. I look at the children of the tribe who run around chasing each other with pink cheeks and remember I once ran around with pink cheeks. Grandmother tells me that when I was born, my eyes were as dark as the eyes of a buffalo, and states with joy in her voice that I have inherited her tribe’s yellow-brown eyes that ever so slightly slant upwards. She says my eyes will find me a fine husband. Not because my eyes will find one, but because the ‘fine husband’ will be drawn to my eyes and will want to take me as his wife. I tell her it will be my eyes that I will use to find a fine husband and not the other way around, and we laugh.
We are Crow Indian. Black Hawk is my father’s name; his is chief of our tribe. Taller than other men of the tribe, my father’s appearance is formidable. This is because he is a powerful and needs to be seen as a powerful leader. My father’s eyes, which sit high on his face, are well above his high cheekbones, and has an eagle-like nose. I think about the way my father looks sideways at a warrior while he puffs on his smoking pipe, about the way he lifts his chin and talks down his nose while he speaks, depending on what he is saying and to whom he is speaking. If the warrior irritates him, he will turn his back to him. For sacred ceremonies Father will wear his feathered war bonnet where the feathers are touching the ground. Father’s heavy black hair also touches the ground because, as chief, he does not cut his hair. When my father joins the hunters, or when the Crow and Blackfoot tribes are warring, he ties his hair in a bun. When Father is not wearing his feathered bonnet for ceremonies, he wears an otter-skin cap that has eagle feathers pushed through it and stand up straight. Other days he wears dead birds on his head.
I love him and he loves me, but it is not proper for him to show this. I understand and know that he loves me. It shows when he comes into my tepee to wish me a restful sleep with Grandmother Moon. It shows when his hard expression softens at my call. His disguise only fools our tribe of men and women who have great respect for him. My father wishes it to be this way. He says, if he shows weakness, they will not respect him.
He pokes his head from the opening of his tepee, a tepee that is for his use only, and calls me.
‘Yes Father,’ I reply, and hurry over, bending to enter. My father sits cross-legged on his mat, smoking.
My father’s expression is flat, which puzzles me. ‘You need to make a match of the son of the chief of the Blackfoot tribe.’
With a gasp of surprise, I cup my hands over my mouth. We have been at war with the Blackfoot tribe many times. They have captured our warriors over the years when the numbers of men in their tribe have fallen.
My father speaks evenly while he holds his gaze. ‘I am tired of the wars and the endless fighting. It is time to bring peace to both sides. You will be the peace offering.’
‘No!’ I shriek. It was at once obvious I was too outspoken, for something dimmed in my father’s eyes, and I chided myself for my brashness. I had not meant to sound disobedient, but I am fearful and upset by my father’s decision.
For the first time in my life, Aksaawacheé’s hard expression does not soften. ‘I think I’ll make a decision tomorrow morning.’
I stand stiffly in front of him, numb with fear. With a plain gaze, my father, whom I have adored my entire life, says, ‘Go.’
I run from his tepee with tears stinging my eyes. ‘Mother!’ I cry out. Do I have a choice in this matter? No, I do not! Now is a time when I desperately need the backing of my mother, but she died six years ago.
My mother’s death happened while several men and women from the tribe were hunting buffalo. They had wrapped bread in cloth bundles and set off at sunup. Mother wasn’t meant to go, but she was urged by another wife to accompany her.
Father would not have known that morning, that he would never see his wife again. He would not have known, while he had puffed on his smoking pipe, his first smoke of the day, when Mother bid him farewell, when he’d lifted his head and returned the parting gesture, still as much in love with her as on the day they wed, that she would not be coming home.
Had Mother and her hunting friend not turned their horses in a different direction from the others, she would have come home to Father. If they had not been trying to curb a buffalo and her calf that had separated from the herd, they would not have been on the outskirts of the nostril-flaring, raging, thousand head of buffalo. In response to the cow’s grunts, fiercely protecting her calf, the buffalo turned on my mother and her friend.
I have nightmares, where I am in my mother’s skin, paralysed with fear, knowing I am going to die. My heart pounds in my skull as the buffalo approach me in clouds of dust, their small black eyes focused on me. Just before I fall under hordes of cloven feet, before the beasts’ hooves crush my bones and puncture my flesh, I cry out my daughter’s name. ‘Sings Fro—’ Many tons of Buffalo trample over my lifeless body, my guts mashed to a pulp. There is not much left of me, nor of my friend. In my bedding, in the warm soup of sweat, I wake, gasping for air.
The people of the tribe brought my mother’s body back to the camp, battered and broken. I saw the pain in my father’s eyes. The proud chief, who never showed emotion, wept and wept. My heart broke on that day and never fully recovered.
‘Mother!’ I cry to her, wrapping my arms around myself. ‘I miss you.’ My tears make my eyes blurry. I run to the nearest tree and climb to the highest branch. I watch a herd of buffalo grazing in the distant plains and I let my heart bleed out its grief.
I was only nine when these animals killed my mother, but I hold no anger against them. It is not the fault of the buffalo, for they were being hunted by us. The buffalo keep us fed with meat and their skins we use to make our tepees, bed coverings, and robes to keep us warm. No, I do not hate the buffalo. I feel grateful. And sad. For the buffalo to keep us fed and alive, we must kill them.
Today, it is a different sadness I feel. Oh, how I wish I could talk to my mother. I want to tell her I do not want to marry the son of the chief of the Blackfoot tribe. I want to tell her to plead with Aksaawacheé to let me choose my own husband. In my tribe, it is the woman who chooses her husband, and if she no longer wants to be with him, she tells him so, and is free to choose another man who she thinks is more suitable. But in my case, since I am the chief’s daughter, and because my father wishes to put an end to the bitterness between our two tribes, I know I must do as he says. It is my duty. But my heart is heavy with grief.
By the river, in the restful dark, I think about Black Bear. I am fond of my childhood friend. Three years old than me, Black Bear is a young warrior, and a serious one. I love the way he sharpens his arrows, head bent in concentration, a braid of thick-black hair falling down the centre of his back. Bare-chested, his muscled form is impressive. For years I have watched his body change from a skinny frame to one befitting a warrior. His soft, kind face breaks into a happy grin whenever he sees me drawing near.
At a young age, Black Bear is a proven warrior, having passed all of his initiations. Best of all, he understands me. He is my equal and for many moons I have known that my lifelong friend is a fit match for me. He is not ashamed to tell me that he loves me. He is not ashamed to tell me that he will protect me with his life. I know that if things were different, my father would have allowed me to make this match, as Aksaawacheé thinks highly of Black Bear.
I hear a rustle and a high-pitched animal scream, and look in the direction of the river grasses. A dark form of a wolf appears and scampers off with a small animal in its mouth; it is either a ground hog or a prairie dog. Not wanting to cause attention to the wolf, I move quietly back to our camp. I do not want to be its next meal.
I go to see my grandmother. Since I lost my mother as a child, I spend much of my time with her. Her name is Salmon Swimming Fast. Although I have inherited the yellow-brown colour, I have not inherited her deep-set eyes. While my eyes slant upwards, the upper lids of my grandmother’s eyes turn down and her lower lids are as straight as an arrow. Grandmother’s eyes watch me with love, kindness and patience, with a warm smile on her high-cheek-boned face. She wears her soft-silvery hair in two braids, like mine. Grandmother wears a thin headband around her forehead that she made by weaving strands of my hair.
My father’s mother taught me about medicines she makes from herbs and plants. She also makes hair wash; by boiling the root of the soapwort plant and herb flowers. Many sick children, or warriors injured in battle, come to her and she heals them. Everyone knows my grandmother for her healing skills and poultices. She follows strictly the methods passed down by the tribe’s female forebears. She is also a skilled midwife and helps young women give birth.
Still shocked by my father’s announcement, I rush into my grandmother’s open arms and collapse into tears. ‘Basahkáalee!’ I cry before I tell her about what my father is demanding of me.
‘Shish,’ she says, wrapping me close enough for me to hear the soft beat of her heart. ‘You need to be strong. Have peace in your heart. You will come out of this bad situation.’
At this moment, I do not understand her wisdom, but I trust her with all my heart. The warm tone of her voice gives me peace of mind. I sob quietly into the softness of her bosom. My grandmother’s faded yellow-brown eyes smile at me with deep love and make me feel safe. ‘Thank you, Basahkáalee.’
My father goes ahead with his decision, and now that the negotiations have finished, my father brings me to meet my new husband-to-be, someone I don’t know well.
‘Raise your head and look.’ My father’s expression is what a chief ought to have, but I sense that he feels guilt. He knows how I feel about Black Bear.
Running Wolf nods at me curtly, his dark-straight hair loose and falling around his shoulders. Although some say this man is handsome and strong because he is well-muscled and tall, his eyes tell me something different. They are hard. Something inside those eyes makes me flinch. Two up-and-down lines appear between his eyebrows and nose. His ample mouth is set firm and dragged down at the corners, making him look dangerous.
I wonder if things would have been different if both of my brothers were still alive, brothers I did not get to know. My mother lost her sons long before I was born — one when he was only four years old. A bear mauled him and he did not survive his injuries. The other brave young son she lost in battle, when an arrow pierced his heart. Even though I did not get to know my brothers, I feel their presence here today. I sense they are with me. Soon I feel better and stronger than I did a few minutes earlier.
Aksaawacheé sees me straighten up and put on my brave face. He knows my frame of mind has changed. He stares at me with remote indifference. I stare back at him, barefaced. I know his pose is a front; I know that he feels uncomfortable being among the Blackfoot tribe, and wishes to leave as soon as he can.
I greet my husband-to-be. ‘Hello,’ I say with forced brightness, but I am soon again trembling when I notice his expression is unchanged.
Running Wolf is silent. ‘Welcome,’ his mother says for him. A smiling woman, her tone is warm and sympathetic, and I am grateful. At least someone in the Blackfoot tribe has manners.
Sacred medicine bundles hang from stands made from three dry branches tied together in tepee fashion. The Blackfoot believe their spirit beings handed them the sacred bundles. To me the amopístaanistsi look strange, hanging from stands that face the sun. We, and members of the tribe, avoid them out of respect.
They take my father and me to partake of a meal that is set up inside their circle of tepees. The same as the Crow tribe, the Blackfoot tribe arranges its tepees in a circle with the opening of each tepee facing east. Though, unlike the Crow, the Blackfoot tribe paints its tepees with different patterns and figures of buffalo, setting the tribe apart from the Crow tribe.
Set out on a large mat is a feast of deer, squirrel and bear meat with steamed camas roots, berries and fruits. As their guests, they invite us to sit down first, opposite the already seated chief. After we sit, the rest of the Blackfoot tribe sits cross-legged around us in a semi-circle. Girls in buffalo skin dresses pass us food served on a baaté. A mother with a young child tucked up in a cradleboard on her back hands us cups of balápuuwilishpite, a special drink made from the chokecherry bush. Its bitter taste nearly makes me screw my face into an ugly grimace. But I do not. No one says a word throughout the meal. I understand this is because of the sacred bags hanging nearby. Running Wolf’s father, the chief of the Blackfoot tribe, smokes a pipe decorated with feathers. The chief regards my father with narrow eyes.
With a relief, the meet and greet ceremony is over, and Aksaawacheé and I ride back to our camp, in silence. The only sounds I hear are the peculiar though comforting groaning sounds that horses make while they trot.
Although it will be only for a brief time, Aksaawacheé gives me my blessing to carry on as a carefree fifteen-year-old. But I cannot enjoy the time I have left with my grandmother and friends, and my last days of freedom are filled with sadness. Neither can I enjoy my friendship with Black Bear, who tries to comfort me well into the night. Nor do I have any appetite for food. Because of this, my energy fades away and my weight drops, causing my robes to hang loosely off my shoulders.
I plead with Black Bear. ‘Make it right!’ Black Bear strokes my hair. ‘Be not afraid to speak up.’
‘I do not care for him,’ I wail loudly. ‘I care for you.’
◊.◊.◊
The day has arrived. My father and two warrior braves take me to the camp of the Blackfoot tribe. As the hour of marriage approaches, Aksaawacheé gives me a firm talking to about my duties and about the shame of adultery. I know he is talking about my feelings for Black Bear.
Calmly, I tell him that Black Bear has stepped over no such boundaries. My father speaks forcefully, to make sure I understand him and I cannot back out of it. Aksaawacheé and the two warrior braves will stay for the marriage ceremony, but I know that my father will have to leave the next day. Uncertain that I will survive the ceremony, I fight back tears threatening to cause me shame. Women of the tribe dress me in the customary dress of a Blackfoot bride. Bold blue and white stripes run from sleeve end to sleeve end of the deerskin ceremonial dress. The stripes meet in a soft V shape across my chest. Tassels hang from the edges of the sleeves as well as along the wavy hemline. Again, I fight back my tears. I had so hoped and expected to have worn my beloved mother’s bridal costume on my day of marriage. I think about the red and white divine Crow woman symbol spreading her large wings on the front of the garment. I think about the masses of tassels. There is no point in Salmon Swimming Fast saving it for me now. The two women dressing me notice my melancholy expression. They put their heads together and whisper to each other.
The women of the tribe burn cheétisbaailichitche and sipátsimo, to purify me and my husband-to-be, and to banish any evil spirits that surround us. The burning of the sage is to release any bad thoughts and anger, and the burning of sweetgrass is to bring out good energy. It makes me cough when children fan us with the smoke to bring us luck. Sweetgrass and sage, I fear, may not work for Running Wolf. His demeanour leaves me cold.
The marriage ceremony lasts only a few minutes. Running Wolf does not look at me while his father, who is chief of the Blackfoot, speaks. With shoulders back, Running Wolf, dressed in a war shirt fringed and decorated with porcupine quills, stares stony-eyed straight ahead, at his father.
My suspicion that my new husband is hard of heart serves me true. That night, he pulls me inside the tepee that I will share with him, and I am afraid. I have attended and helped my grandmother at many birthings, so I understand what he expects of me this night.
My husband is rough. When he grabs my arm, his fingers dig into my flesh. ‘Aaah!’ I cry. My initial reaction is shock. I had seen it in his eyes, but I had never expected it would be so frightening. So brutal. While I try not to cry out, Running Wolf throws me around the tepee like a wounded bird. My heart hurts more than the physical pain, such is my shame. What will others think of me? They will have heard the noise.
My husband regards my pitiful cowering with a conceitedness I have never before seen. He glares at me, arms hanging loosely by his side, like the threatening stance of a buffalo breathing heavily through its nostrils, as if deciding what to do next.
‘Please don’t hurt me,’ I say in a small voice. This seems to infuriate him. Running Wolf pushes me onto the bed of furs and consummates the marriage. The pain as he forces himself into me is unbearable, and I cry out. This adds to his fury. My maidenhood is torn apart, and my body is left bruised and aching.
The next morning, I do not rise to farewell my father as I know I have a black eye; it is tender to touch. He will see the damage that Running Wolf has dealt upon me, and this may cause a new war. Instead, I curl myself into a ball and weep.
Now that I am married, I am expected to prepare food and sew robes for my husband. My marriage I cannot leave, even if I wish to find a better husband. The Blackfoot will cut off my nose. Or they will kill me. Yet Running Wolf has no responsibility to live up to. He will hunt and steal horses, and has the freedom to take other women of the tribe if he chooses.
I force myself to step out of the tepee. Women of the tribe look at me with dull, noticeable stares. I brush past them and make my way to the watering hole, where I wash myself with delicate hands.
This is my life now.
◊.◊.◊
Many months pass and my husband’s brutal treatment does not let up. The women of this new tribe do not talk to me, and I feel as though they think I have brought this trouble upon myself, because I displease my husband. Some nights Running Wolf does not share the furs with me, and I realise that he might have a love interest elsewhere.
Tonight, I will spy on him. Taking care not to disturb me, Running Wolf slips from the warmth of our bed, and into the night. I follow him. Wrapped in a buffalo skin I took from the bed, I stand in the shadows and watch him enter the tepee of Spotted Deer. Part of me is relieved. Part of me is sad. Sad because I carry his child.
No wonder the other women look at me strangely. They must know what goes on between my husband and the youngest, prettiest, unmarried woman of the tribe. I stare at the tepee in which they are taking pleasure in each other’s company. I am mindful that they may have been lovers before Running Wolf and I married. Perhaps it is she he would have preferred to marry had his father, the Blackfoot chief, and my father not made the alliance. How I wish Aksaawacheé had not used me as a peace offering. I turn away from their lovemaking sounds, and under a dark sky pressing down on me, I walk solemnly back to our tepee. I slide under the furs. Comforted by the warmth of our marriage bed, I lovingly stroke my swollen belly, hoping that the small human forming inside me will sense the deep love I carry for it. But I do not know if my unborn will survive; I fear for its safety since I am battered so often. Why is it not Spotted Deer, and not me, who puts up with this treatment?
As soon as I think this, I am ashamed. I do not wish such treatment upon anyone, much less a spirited young woman of the tribe. Perhaps she saw she would have been in my position if she and Running Wolf had wed, and was clever enough to prevent it from happening.
I sing softly to my unborn baby, and tell her I will protect her as much as is humanly possible. I tell her that I will lay my life down for her if that is what it takes for her to survive. I do not know why, what has just become clear to me, hurts me so, as I do not love my husband. It should not cause me grief. Instead, it should ease my mind, knowing his concerns are not solely fixated on me. But it does not ease my mind, and I cannot help the hurt and the tears that flow. Thinking about my heartache and my future as the wife of Running Wolf and mother of his child brings on a sorrow that I have never felt before, and I weep so hard my heart physically hurts. After hours of crying, just before sunup, Running Wolf throws back the flap of our tepee and sees the state I am in.
‘Quiet!’ he shouts. My frayed appearance annoys him, and he sends me to the watering hole to wash under the darkness of a hidden moon.
Frightened by his tone and what his mood may turn into, and without stopping to put on my moccasins, I hurry out of the tepee. On bare feet, I run towards the river. Unable to see where I am going, I stand on something sharp.
‘Aaaee!’ The pain cripples me, and I fall hard on my side. Warm blood gushes from my badly cut foot. I feel faint. I realise that I have run into an old corn patch. The ears were picked a month ago, and I have just stood on the hard and dry stump of a stalk.
Salmon Swimming Fast would know what to do. Oh, how I wish she was here with me. With enormous effort and discomfort, I reach the waterhole. Stripping quickly, I inch in until the water is up to my neck. The freezing water numbs the pain. Perhaps it is my mother’s spirit that causes Grandmother Moon to come out from behind silhouetted clouds, and soon I can see what I am doing. I look up at the murky morning sky and give thanks.
Later that morning, I ask one of the women to collect herbs and plants for me. Thankfully, I remember everything my grandmother taught me about herbs and plant medicines, and will make use of my skills when I am able to find the right plants to make a salve for my wound. The wife of Running Wolf’s brother is wary of me, but agrees to send her daughter out to pick the plants I need. I make a salve by mixing bark and leaves from the sticker plant with buffalo lard, and apply it to my foot, which is now sore and swollen. I boil the roots of the sticker plant and drink the tea to help cleanse my blood.
My wounded foot makes it difficult to carry on with my daily tasks. Running Wolf offers no help. Far from showing sympathy, he seems angered by my condition. There is only one person in the entire Blackfoot tribe who shows me kindness — my mother-in-law.
‘Mother-in-law,’ I greet her warmly when I see her by my side. Older than my mother would have been had she still been alive, my husband’s mother owns a face that has experienced heartache — softly lined and pale, with tiny lines that fan out from her grey-brown eyes. Even though I feel she carries sadness, her face breaks into a broad smile whenever she sees me. It is comforting and lightens my mood.
Running Wolf’s mother kneels down beside me and speaks to me in the language of the Blackfoot. ‘Do you want me to help you?’ I do not easily understand her words, but I do understand her manner. Touched by her gentleness, I burst into tears. Being with child is turning me into a crybaby.
My mother-in-law pats my back, giving me an apologetic smile. ‘Be brave. Running Wolf is a crazy one.’
‘Your baby,’ she says, pointing to my belly. I grasp that she is reminding me to look after myself for the sake of the baby.
‘Yes. Baby. Take care of,’ I say in rudimentary Blackfoot tongue. There is no doubt she has a fixed interest in her grandchild, her isbaapíte. I am convinced that my future as the wife of Running Wolf will be cheerless and exhausting, but my mind is eased seeing that my mother-in-law has my interest at heart. She may be the only one who can stop her son from hurting our baby.
‘Ihka,’ she says, indicating she wants me to pass the small pot to her. With care, she bathes and dresses my foot with the salve. And because of her kindness, I begin to heal.
◊.◊.◊
Call it fate. After days of moving on from our old settlement grounds, we find a new location that happens to be close to the Crow’s new settlement grounds. Since both tribes depend on the buffalo for their survival, they follow the buffalo wherever they roam.
I see it as a sign from the gods, because the Blackfoot chief and my father have today agreed to come together in ceremony. This is good. Because of the sacrifice I made in agreeing to wed Running Wolf, the two tribes made an alliance. This is what my father wished to happen. I was his peace offering to stop the warring. But Aksaawacheé does not know how dearly I have paid for his peace offering. Nevertheless, now that my old tribe and my new tribe have set up their camps close to each other, I might have a chance to see my dear friends and family. My heart leaps at this thought. It is a thought that I set my mind on and I pray that it happens.
The day’s rituals begin with a cleansing ceremony. Led by elders, the powwow begins by the passing around of the ceremonial pipe. It is a sacred ceremony of the Crow, but today, chiefs, elders and warrior braves from both tribes sit together inside a hut that tribal members have built from green branches and animal skins, purely for the ceremony. A fire is lit at the opening of the hut. A medicine man will use a prayer stick to make offerings to the spirit world, and to call forth the most powerful spirits for the cleansing, blessing and healing of the people of the tribes. All day the men sit inside the hut and pray and sweat. It is a practice that has been carried out for many moons.
When the cleansing ceremony is over, the elders invite the women and children to join them. Prayers are led by elders who know both the language of the Crow and the Blackfoot. They give thanks to Father Sky, to Grandmother Earth, and to the creator of the four directions. They give thanks to Báakkaammaaschiile, the Maker of All Things. We sing songs passed down by the ancestors of our elders. The songs tell stories of the long-ago past, and of legends of the tribes.
Come sundown, the Blackfoot warriors, with faces painted yellow, blue and black in a design believed to hold magic powers, take the lead in the rituals. Their muscled frames are impressive, and I try to look away, but I cannot. They start by rejoicing in the Baaichkíisapiliolissuua and form a big circle and perform the round dance, holding shields and dance sticks, symbolising their warrior status. Their ceremonial dress is full of colour. The Blackfoot warriors wear roaches made from eagle feathers and porcupine hair, neck chokers, tasselled buckskin tunics and breeches, and beaded-black moccasins. Bustles made from eagle feathers fan from their backs and bounce in time to the stomping of their feet. A warrior who dances against the flow around the edge of the circle shakes a decorated rattle. Bands of drummers, naked from the waist up, sit in a circle with their drums between their knees, inside the circle of warriors. One beats a hollow drum then the others follow. Their hands move so fast keeping in time with the kummé it is impossible to see their fingers. The drumming causes a funny pounding inside my throat. I like the beating and the rhythm; it makes me want to dance. But they do not allow women to dance. More importantly, a woman with child should not show any form of merriment.
Chiefs, elders, and medicine men of the Blackfoot tribe make offerings to the spirit world before warriors from both tribes join each other in dance. We have fasted from sunup, and because of the baby, I feel sick.
The chiefs pray and dance to Iihtsipáítapiiyo’pa for heavenly powers, and much sweating takes place. Thankfully, the women and children are allowed to go back to their tepees, but we are to carry on praying in support of the dancers. The fasting lasts for five days, and I nearly die from hunger and exhaustion.
Since only my father, elders and warrior braves can enter the grounds of the Blackfoot tribe, I have not yet seen my grandmother. I yearn to visit her. It is also my secret longing to see Black Bear. It is a dangerous longing; one that brings a high cost to me if I am caught. But I am brave, and I am set on seeing him.
After the ceremonies end, I have time to sneak away. Black Bear is nowhere to be seen, so I make my way to my grandmother’s tepee. Familiar surroundings prick my heart when I look around the old tepee I once shared with my grandmother. She doesn’t notice me enter. I greet her in a cheerful, singsong voice. ‘Kahée Basahkáalee!’
‘What a surprise,’ she says, hugging me. Grandmother’s eyes and nose are crinkled in a big smile. She has missed me.
‘How are you?’
‘Eyesight not as good. Hearing not as good,’ she replies, but I know she is pleased to see me, and delighted to see I am with child.
Basahkáalee asks after my health and happiness, and I cannot tell her the truth. I cannot tell her how I suffer so, for fear of what my father will do. I am a káalisbaapite, a child raised by its grandmother, so my relationship with my grandmother is close. She is only one of two people in my life who I dearly love and trust.
Basahkáalee senses I am not happy and pats my hand. ‘Have confidence in yourself.’ She places her hands gently around my belly. ‘You must look after yourself now that you will soon have a baby to care for.’
‘Yes, Basahkáalee, I will.’ How can I tell her the truth?
The next time I am able to sneak away, I hope and pray Black Bear will be there. I spot him among the warriors who are getting ready to go hunting. He turns and sees me, drops his spear and runs to me.
‘Sings From Trees!’
‘Kaheé,’ I greet him with a forced smile, then burst into tears. Black Bear hugs me warmly and I cry harder. He leads me into his tepee. My dearest lifelong friend can read the pain on my face. Self-conscious, I wrap my arms around myself. Black Bear sees it as a sign I am hiding something. He gently parts my arms and turns me around. He lifts my tunic and sees my back covered in bruises and scars. Black Bear comforts me and I take him into my confidence and tell him about my husband’s cruelty. My suffering and misery sadden him and he wants me to speak to my father. He wants Aksaawacheé to have me taken away from this cruel man. I tell him it is not so simple. I tell him I know if I speak to my father that another war could break out because of my treatment, and it will break the peace agreement. This angers Black Bear, and I tell him we both need to forgive my husband.
As our two tribes stay living near each other during the summer months, I meet up with Black Bear many times in secret. Our closeness grows more loving. My now rounded belly does not put off my brave and handsome young warrior. It is during one of our secret meetings that we become lovers.
It is now unthinkable that I carry on living without Black Bear. We meet in secret as often as we can. Running Wolf continues to leave our marriage bed and enter the tepee of Spotted Deer, returning just before sunup. Because of my husband’s regular visits to his lover, I am able to frequently visit mine.
Tonight, I toss my black moccasins that my mother-in-law gave to me to one side. The moccasins were cut from the blackened skin of an old tepee, skin that had turned black over time from the smoke. It is customary for the people of the Blackfoot tribe to wear black moccasins. Proud to be Blackfoot, the wearing of the moccasins sets them apart from other tribes. But I do not regard myself as Blackfoot, and I stubbornly cling to the beliefs and customs of my Crow Indian tribe.
I pull out my old moccasins, hidden inside my father’s old tobacco bag, slip them on my feet, and run into the night. Black Bear and I express our deep love to each other. Our bodies move in natural rhythm as we become one. Our love is absolute and whole and powerful. We cannot be any closer. After our lovemaking, in the soft-warm air, we lie wrapped in each other’s arms, breathing in each other’s breath, enjoying the glow. The starry night sky is magical; an arc of heavenly jewels created by the Great Spirit, Báakkaammaaschiile.
We hear the faraway howl of a búattee. We talk about the seven bulls that went to live in the sky to watch over us and became the seven stars. We talk about Grandmother Moon. She is one of the first three spirits placed by the Great Spirit to watch over the children of Mother Earth.
Alone at the water hole some nights later, I gaze at a yellow crescent moon. I am grateful for such a magical evening, wondering if Black Bear is also gazing at the night sky. Something stirs within me that urges me to give thanks. When I do, a strange emotion sweeps through me. I close my eyes, breathing in deeply the fresh night air, and on my out-breath something astonishing happens. Everything in my body softens, and when I next breathe in, I feel like I am being lifted into the heavens. I feel lighter than an eagle’s feather. I do not know what it is, but I trust it wholeheartedly. Then I sense what it is: a love spell. The love spell bathes me in a bright light and lifts me higher and higher. I realise it is the love of Báakkaammaaschiile, and I laugh. I laugh because my heart is joyous with His love spirit. Alone in the dark, beside the water hole, I am delirious with joy. The Great Spirit has bathed me in his sacred heavenly light.
Nothing can hurt me now. Running Wolf cannot ever hurt me again. He is just a man with darkness in his heart.
Far from harbouring hate and anger towards my uncaring husband, I feel only his sorrow. It is a fear that he carries deep within him which he cannot let go. I pray for the cleansing of his soul, that the evil that surrounds him be washed away by the great spirit of Báakkaammaaschiile.
I go about my daily tasks. As his wife, I see to it that my husband is fed, watered, and clothed. My point of view regarding Running Wolf has changed. He is my husband and I am his wife, but there is no love shared between us, and I focus only on my marital duties. I think only of my love for Black Bear and my unborn child.
I am alone again with my sweetheart and having a childish conversation about the Awakkulé, when Black Bear stops talking. With hand movements, he signals he has heard a noise in the bush. Someone is watching us. I pray to Báakkaammaaschiile that it is not anyone from my new tribe. We do not move. We listen for sounds for many more minutes. Soon we agree that I should go back to my martial tepee.
In three nights, I meet up again with Black Bear, and this time he wants me to go back to his camp, because the Crow are moving on shortly.
I am surprised. ‘Oh no, are they?’
‘Yes.’ Black Bear tells me they will trek a great distance to the north, to the fishing grounds of the salmon, from where my grandmother’s ancestors came.
Basahkáalee used to tell me stories when I was a girl, of how, when she was my age, she would go hunting with her father. Together, they would trap the salmon that swam into channels they made from river stones. Basahkáalee and her father used baskets to catch the salmon when the fish tried to swim out of the channels. My grandmother loved to catch salmon, and because of this, her father renamed her Salmon Swimming Fast.
I tell Black Bear I will come with him. It was an easy decision.
Black Bear wants me to tell my father about my husband’s brutal treatment. ‘Tell about what happened.’
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘The Great Spirit has given me the strength to do so, but it will not be a straightforward task. I fear that my father will blame me.’ I tell Black Bear I wish to put it off for a while longer.
‘Once you tell your father I am sure he will arrange a war party, and I will join the war party. I will hunt down your cruel husband and kill him with my own bare hands.’
I know how important this is for him. ‘Go ahead, I don’t care.’ But as soon as I speak those words, I am ashamed. Running Wolf is a poor husband, but I do not wish his death.
◊.◊.◊
Two nights later, I arrive at our arranged meeting place. I have seen my husband go to the tepee of his lover. Time passes and Black Bear does not show up. I walk around the corner to where the river passes through, where hanging from a branch, I see a body. Fear strikes me numb. It is my worst fear that the man hanging in the tree is Black Bear. It is. I gape in horror at his empurpled face; his tongue bloated and bulging from his open mouth. I crumple at my lover’s feet and wail. Heavy with Running Wolf’s child, I cannot get the body down on my own. I run as fast as my legs can take my burdensome weight, to the neighbouring camp of my father’s people. I rush into Aksaawacheé’s tepee.
He is in a meeting with the elders. ‘It is an emergency! They have killed Black Bear.’ As soon as I say the words, I go to pieces.
One of the braves brings down my beloved from the tree, and lies his lifeless body gently on the ground. I try to shake him alive. I weep and wail and cry out to the Great Spirit.
I stand and face my father. Through my tear-streaked face, bravely, I tell him the truth. At this moment, I do not care if Aksaawacheé thinks I have dishonoured the tribe. I do not care if he sends me back to the Blackfoot tribe to face my punishment. I do not care if he tells me he never wants to see me again.
‘I am certain my husband killed him as he found out about our secret meetings.’ Then I show my father my body covered in fresh wounds, bruises and old scars. ‘My husband has been harming my body and my feelings since the day I became his wife.’
Aksaawacheé wraps his arms around my head and pulls me into his warm chest. I feel his body slump. He is quiet for a moment, then holds me by my shoulders at arm’s length.
My father’s face is full of sorrow. ‘I am sorry that you did not tell me sooner. I would have taken you away from the chief’s son and broken the alliance, even if it meant war.’
Sobbing and shaking, I feel overwhelming love for my father. He has already forgiven me for breaking the sacrament of marriage — and while I am with child. ‘I do not want the tribes to go to war again, but I feel responsible for Black Bear’s death,’ I say, my voice weak.
‘You will come home. I will rouse the warriors in the middle of the night and take the Blackfoot by surprise. We will take the young and able-bodied as slaves and kill the rest.’
‘Please do not harm my mother-in-law.’
‘We will not. We will return with her. I will welcome her into the Crow tribe, as an elder-woman, and grandmother of your child.’
I do not wish the deaths of the warrior braves of the Blackfoot tribe, who have kept their respectful distance from me. They have done nothing wrong. But Aksaawacheé has his mind set.
As good as his word, my father has his warriors storm the Backfoot camp while the moon is high and the tribe is sleeping. The Crow war party kills a good many people and takes the able-bodied as captives. Aksaawacheé kills Running Wolf in his sleep. That is his revenge for me.
◊.◊.◊
Time passes and I still grieve for Black Bear. The only thing I look forward to is meeting my infant child. Although I have been touched by the Great Spirit, I am again weakened in strength. Every night I weep for Black Bear, crying myself to sleep. Ours was a secret love that existed at the deepest level of our souls.
◊.◊.◊
Birthing time is upon me. With the much-needed help of Basahkáalee, I go into labour. The day comes to a close while I am still in labour, and Grandmother and Mother-in-law tend to me with loving, expert hands.
After months of dry weather, it begins to rain. The inside rain cover keeps me dry and the fire keeps me warm. After many hours of pain and suffering, and feeling as if my body is going to break in two, the Great Spirit blesses me with a little girl. Basahkáalee bites the birth cord and with gentle hands, washes my baby. She wraps her in soft furs and passes her to me. My daughter is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. Her full head of jet-black hair sticks straight up from her head like a mohawk. When I cradle her in my arms, exquisite love floods my body. I hold her close and kiss her puckered brow, and breath in deeply her delicious newborn scent. My daughter peers at me with solemn black eyes that are shaped like almonds and graced with a soft upwards slant at the outer corners, just like mine. Her skin is a dusky red colour, that will, as did mine, become a reddish brown as she grows older.
◊.◊.◊
Although I did not love the husband who put this child in me, I love this daughter with all of my heart. I will not allow her to be a pawn in anyone’s wars.
◊.◊.◊
Many moons pass before I take another lover. By then, Aamaya is a girl of fifteen. Her name means ‘night rain’; so named because she made her arrival during the night when the rains came, and also named for the endless tears I have cried for Black Bear. My daughter’s smile is similar to that of my mother-in-law’s smile, broad and welcoming, a smile that may have been the image of her father’s had he smiled at all.
◊.◊.◊
Even though I have a fondness for my new companion, a warrior brave with a kind heart, a part of my heart will always be with Black Bear, and I pray to the Great Spirit that we shall meet again one day.
Báakkaammaaschiile bathes me in His heavenly light and love, promising me that one day we will.
