he thought. She was aware of the world around her, at least a little aware.
He wiped tenderly at her cheek. In the flash of lightning he had recognized her. She was not Lakota but a Sahiyela, visiting in the village with her husband. Curly didn’t remember her name.
He could see in his mind what had happened. Somehow she had gotten separated from her husband—maybe he was among the dead back at the bluff. She must have carried her dead son here, moving as fast as she could but falling behind, utterly unable to set the body of her son down,unprotected, naked to the storm and tomorrow to the birds and coyotes.
She would have slipped badly in the mud, been chilled by the rain, been terrified by the lightning. And hardly able to walk farther as her unborn child began to force his way into the world.
Curly turned the child slightly and saw that it was a boy.
She had lain here on the ridge, with the rain cutting at her, the lightning battering the earth all around her, the lightning-gives-birth-to-sound exploding in her mind. Alone. Terrified. Riven by these great forces, and the greater force that made her grow life within, she had brought forth a man-child.
The wasicu soldiers had taken one son from her. Life, its force rising within her belly, had given her another one.
Miracle.
Curly looked around at the dark earth, wet with rain and blood, scourged by lightning, and reached down without looking and touched the miracle child.
A great feeling rose, a wave cresting.
“ Mitakuye oyasin ,” he said softly but clearly to the universe. “ Mitakuye oyasin ,” he repeated. We are all related.
He went back down the ridge and hunted until he found two usable travois poles. He hauled them back up to where the Sahiyela woman lay, quiet now, as though her spirit was soothed a little.
He tied the poles onto his pony to make a drag and lashed a robe across them for a litter. When he lifted the woman onto the robe, she opened her eyes, looked into his face, and said tentatively, “The sandy-haired one.” He could not tell whether recognizing him made her more or less afraid.
He covered her and the baby with the other robes, except for one. He moved the dead boy to some rocks, wrapped him in the last robe, put him into a crevasse, and stacked rocks over the whole bundle. Now, when she was better, she could come and send his spirit on its journey in the proper way.
He led the pony on, following the trail of the people’s horses, not knowing where they would make camp. He didn’t care where. He didn’t care about the rain or the cold, or even the lightning and wakinyan . As Rider, he advanced into danger without trembling.
He was exhausted from riding all day and walking all night. But he felt useful, useful to the woman and child and to the larger forces that coursed through them and himself, useful to life.
He would deliver this woman and her son to the village. His act, his gesture, his service.
Toward dawn the rain stopped. The tracks split in many directions into the sand hill country. Curly knew the people were dividing, making it hard for the soldiers to find them all again, offering a fragmented target.
On one trail he saw big hoofprints that might be the tracks of a big American horse, maybe Spotted Tail’s favorite traveling horse. He followed these tracks.
Before long lookouts saw him. They led him to a village circle by a little lake. They took the woman and child to her family.
The hubbub of voices spoke the people’s mood—grief, wild grief. And fury, vengeful fury.
Curly headed for what they said was Spotted Tail’s lodge for a little sleep. When Curly woke, he would rise in anger too. He would fight back too. But something in him was a more private feeling, something of consequence. He would keep quiet about it but hold it and watch it: When he helped people, especially in desperate circumstances, Hawk was still, at peace.
AN ANGRY WASP
When he woke, his aunt Sweetwater Woman signaled him to
He wiped tenderly at her cheek. In the flash of lightning he had recognized her. She was not Lakota but a Sahiyela, visiting in the village with her husband. Curly didn’t remember her name.
He could see in his mind what had happened. Somehow she had gotten separated from her husband—maybe he was among the dead back at the bluff. She must have carried her dead son here, moving as fast as she could but falling behind, utterly unable to set the body of her son down,unprotected, naked to the storm and tomorrow to the birds and coyotes.
She would have slipped badly in the mud, been chilled by the rain, been terrified by the lightning. And hardly able to walk farther as her unborn child began to force his way into the world.
Curly turned the child slightly and saw that it was a boy.
She had lain here on the ridge, with the rain cutting at her, the lightning battering the earth all around her, the lightning-gives-birth-to-sound exploding in her mind. Alone. Terrified. Riven by these great forces, and the greater force that made her grow life within, she had brought forth a man-child.
The wasicu soldiers had taken one son from her. Life, its force rising within her belly, had given her another one.
Miracle.
Curly looked around at the dark earth, wet with rain and blood, scourged by lightning, and reached down without looking and touched the miracle child.
A great feeling rose, a wave cresting.
“ Mitakuye oyasin ,” he said softly but clearly to the universe. “ Mitakuye oyasin ,” he repeated. We are all related.
He went back down the ridge and hunted until he found two usable travois poles. He hauled them back up to where the Sahiyela woman lay, quiet now, as though her spirit was soothed a little.
He tied the poles onto his pony to make a drag and lashed a robe across them for a litter. When he lifted the woman onto the robe, she opened her eyes, looked into his face, and said tentatively, “The sandy-haired one.” He could not tell whether recognizing him made her more or less afraid.
He covered her and the baby with the other robes, except for one. He moved the dead boy to some rocks, wrapped him in the last robe, put him into a crevasse, and stacked rocks over the whole bundle. Now, when she was better, she could come and send his spirit on its journey in the proper way.
He led the pony on, following the trail of the people’s horses, not knowing where they would make camp. He didn’t care where. He didn’t care about the rain or the cold, or even the lightning and wakinyan . As Rider, he advanced into danger without trembling.
He was exhausted from riding all day and walking all night. But he felt useful, useful to the woman and child and to the larger forces that coursed through them and himself, useful to life.
He would deliver this woman and her son to the village. His act, his gesture, his service.
Toward dawn the rain stopped. The tracks split in many directions into the sand hill country. Curly knew the people were dividing, making it hard for the soldiers to find them all again, offering a fragmented target.
On one trail he saw big hoofprints that might be the tracks of a big American horse, maybe Spotted Tail’s favorite traveling horse. He followed these tracks.
Before long lookouts saw him. They led him to a village circle by a little lake. They took the woman and child to her family.
The hubbub of voices spoke the people’s mood—grief, wild grief. And fury, vengeful fury.
Curly headed for what they said was Spotted Tail’s lodge for a little sleep. When Curly woke, he would rise in anger too. He would fight back too. But something in him was a more private feeling, something of consequence. He would keep quiet about it but hold it and watch it: When he helped people, especially in desperate circumstances, Hawk was still, at peace.
AN ANGRY WASP
When he woke, his aunt Sweetwater Woman signaled him to
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