CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ishtaboli

Hundreds of Choctaw moved through the forest toward a broad field—about fifteen acres of flat meadow, the grass cropped short by the horses. Two tall poles several yards apart served as goalposts at each end of the field. Men were beginning to gather for the game.

Nashoba stopped and took off his shirt and his pants. All he had on was a cloth between his legs and a belt around his waist to hold it up. Something about the way he stood—knees slightly bent, weight on the balls of his feet, ready to move—reminded Zeb of a wild animal. His head was still, but his eyes were moving, taking in the other players. Nashoba handed Hannah a hank of horse tail which she hooked into the back of his belt.

A young Choctaw brave handed two strange-looking sticks to Nashoba. Hannah said they were called kapuchas. They looked like long wooden spoons. They were about three feet long, made of white oak and split on the end. The split piece was bent back and lashed to the main part of the stick, forming a pocket the size of a cupped hand. A leather thong was strung across the back of the pocket.

Nashoba’s teammate tossed him a heavy, leather-covered ball the size of an apple, which Nashoba caught in the pocket of one of the sticks. He tossed the ball back and forth between the two sticks and then threw it hard to his teammate. The other player caught it and tossed it on the ground in front of Nashoba. Nashoba ran to the ball, scooped it up in a stick, and threw it back to his teammate.

Someone beat a drum, and another person blew into a cane flute. The two teams, about thirty men each, ran to the center of the field. Hannah told Zeb that the night before, the team members and some of the women had danced the Ball Play Dance. In the dance the players rattle their kapuchas together violently and sing loudly to the Great Spirit. The women dance between them chanting.

“Today,” she said, “after this ritual game and the horse racing they will probably dance the Eagle Dance.” She cocked her head and looked up at him out of the corners of her eyes. “Maybe they’ll invite you to participate.”

Four of the Alikchis sat on one side, smoking long pipes, blowing smoke slowly into the air. Hannah said that they were the judges of the play and were sending smoke to the Great Spirit asking for guidance.

An old man walked to the center of the field. He raised his hand. The group was suddenly quiet. After a moment, he threw the ball into the air.

Most of the men crushed together in the middle, trying to find the ball and whacking each other with the sticks. They screamed at each other. Suddenly, someone erupted from the group, running with the ball. It was Nashoba! As he ran toward one of the goalposts, he held the stick up the air, twisting it back and forth to keep the ball juggling in the pocket, ready to be thrown. At least ten men closed in on him. They swung their sticks at him as hard as they could. Zeb was convinced that if they ever connected with him, they would kill him.

Suddenly Nashoba stopped, and in one motion he wheeled and threw the ball to a teammate across the field. Most of the men chased after the teammate. A few, however, seemed to be content to stay with Nashoba, trying to club him with their sticks. Fortunately, most of the blows fell on the shafts of the sticks.

The players were trying to throw the ball between the goalposts of the opponents. Whenever they were successful, the two teams assembled again in the middle to fight over the ball again.

Several players had to be helped off the field. Most of them had bloody noses. Hannah told him that in the big games between two villages bones were sometimes broken.

A cloud of dust rose over the field. Zeb could smell the sweet aroma of dried manure. They must use this field for the horse racing as well, he thought. The dust was so thick that it was now impossible to pick out Nashoba from among the players. He wondered how they could see the ball.

On one side, a long line of women sat on the ground with little piles of goods in front of them: baskets, sleeping mats, deerskins, beaded belts, piles of fruits and sweet potatoes. Zeb pointed to them. “Are they going to sell those things after the game?” he asked.

Hannah sighed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice,” she said. “Those women are betting on which team will win. They bet the crafts they have made or the food they have gathered or grown. They take these games very seriously.”

Most of the men crushed together in the middle, tryng to find the ball and whacking each other with the sticks.

Suddenly a shout of victory came from one of the teams. The players all piled their kapuchas behind the goal they had defended and then gathered in a large circle in the center of the field. Hannah put her hand on Zeb’s arm. “Brave Horse,” she said, “if you are going to enter the horse races, you better go out to the field. But please don’t make any wagers.”

“Is that why you didn’t want me to notice?”

“This isn’t like any horse race you have ever seen.”

Zeb doubted that there could be a horse race unlike any he had ever seen before.

He was sure that there was no horse race he couldn’t win.