stay quiet and brought him some soup. The hump in the buffalo robes must be Spotted Tail. “Wounded,” whispered Sweetwater Woman. Seriously, from her manner.
Curly looked around for the other wives, the children, and his grandmother.
Sweetwater Woman’s face contorted with a spasm of grief. “Spoon, Yellow Leaf, and Willow have been captured.”
Curly’s head jerked toward her. Sweetwater Woman’s face was impassive again. Willow was his grandmother. Spoon was Spotted Tail’s sits-beside-him wife, the eldest of the four sister wives. Yellow Leaf was their seven-winters-old daughter.
Taken by the soldiers! A picture lurched into Curly’s mind, the young woman scalped between the legs. Immediately he blacked it out.
“Many captured, many dead,” Sweetwater Woman said softly.
Curly’s heart twisted like a piece of hide wrung in the hands.
He decided to visit the Sahiyela woman and her boy-child while his uncle slept.
The boy in the cradle board held Curly’s finger and tried to suck it. His eyes didn’t go beyond the finger yet. Newborn babies seemed to have trouble seeing this new world, as though their minds were still whereever they came from.
Lark hovered. Lark was the sister of Yellow Woman, the Sahiyela mother. Her husband, Stick, was off talking with the men of the Badger Society. Curly was sure the men of all the societies, Foxes, Badgers, Brave Hearts, White Badges, Crow Carriers, Silent Eaters, and Wand Carriers, were meeting. They would be badly divided in their minds. They would want to make wasicu blood run like rivers in spring flood, and they would want the women and children back. A-i-i-i , they would need some wisdom now.
Yellow Woman was sleeping. Her Sahiyela husband, Lark said, had been killed by the wagon guns at the caves on the hill.
Curly nodded. It was as he’d guessed.
Curly looked into the eyes of the infant without thinking, just opening his eyes and his heart. He felt like a gift, this newborn man-child, a solace.
When Curly was small, during one Cannanpopa Wi, the Moon of Popping Trees, he had been shivering in the robes. A terrible storm raged outside in the darkness, wind and snow, the breath of Waziya, the white giant, blowing fiercely, trying to kill all it could touch. The one who gave him birth, Rattling Blanket Woman, heated two stones in the center fire. Then she wrapped them in deerskin and gave them to Curly and his sister. “Hold this to your chest,” she said softly. Curly hugged the warm stone and slept the night through.
Sometimes in his sleep now Curly still heard Rattling Blanket Woman’s loving voice. Sometimes she would touch him gently and he would start suddenly awake, and then remember. The sadness never left him, like dark, cold water pooled at the bottom of his heart.
Last night the wakinyan had sent warning blasts at Curly. The soldiers’ big-fire guns had shot terror among the people. But in the midst of these storms had emerged a warmth, this infant, newly come to the earth. The little boy was a heated stone to wrap in hide and hold against the chest on a bitter winter night. Not a reward, for Curly felt he’d done nothing to earn a reward. Instead a gift.
Curly had picked up this gift of life and brought the boy and mother to camp. Because Curly had treasured the gift, they would live.
Lark woke Yellow Woman gently, took the child from his cradle board, and laid him at his mother’s breast.
Yellow Woman noticed Curly and covered her surprise with one hand to her mouth.
“I’m glad you’re well,” he said awkwardly. “And your son.”
She inclined her head in acceptance.
He went out of the lodge. He stood in the open air and looked around at the ragged circle of the village. Families were living under bushes or in wickiups or small travel lodges. Their real homes had been destroyeddown on the creek. It would be a hard winter now. The hoop of the people was not broken, but it was much tattered.
When times were terrible, that was
Curly looked around for the other wives, the children, and his grandmother.
Sweetwater Woman’s face contorted with a spasm of grief. “Spoon, Yellow Leaf, and Willow have been captured.”
Curly’s head jerked toward her. Sweetwater Woman’s face was impassive again. Willow was his grandmother. Spoon was Spotted Tail’s sits-beside-him wife, the eldest of the four sister wives. Yellow Leaf was their seven-winters-old daughter.
Taken by the soldiers! A picture lurched into Curly’s mind, the young woman scalped between the legs. Immediately he blacked it out.
“Many captured, many dead,” Sweetwater Woman said softly.
Curly’s heart twisted like a piece of hide wrung in the hands.
He decided to visit the Sahiyela woman and her boy-child while his uncle slept.
The boy in the cradle board held Curly’s finger and tried to suck it. His eyes didn’t go beyond the finger yet. Newborn babies seemed to have trouble seeing this new world, as though their minds were still whereever they came from.
Lark hovered. Lark was the sister of Yellow Woman, the Sahiyela mother. Her husband, Stick, was off talking with the men of the Badger Society. Curly was sure the men of all the societies, Foxes, Badgers, Brave Hearts, White Badges, Crow Carriers, Silent Eaters, and Wand Carriers, were meeting. They would be badly divided in their minds. They would want to make wasicu blood run like rivers in spring flood, and they would want the women and children back. A-i-i-i , they would need some wisdom now.
Yellow Woman was sleeping. Her Sahiyela husband, Lark said, had been killed by the wagon guns at the caves on the hill.
Curly nodded. It was as he’d guessed.
Curly looked into the eyes of the infant without thinking, just opening his eyes and his heart. He felt like a gift, this newborn man-child, a solace.
When Curly was small, during one Cannanpopa Wi, the Moon of Popping Trees, he had been shivering in the robes. A terrible storm raged outside in the darkness, wind and snow, the breath of Waziya, the white giant, blowing fiercely, trying to kill all it could touch. The one who gave him birth, Rattling Blanket Woman, heated two stones in the center fire. Then she wrapped them in deerskin and gave them to Curly and his sister. “Hold this to your chest,” she said softly. Curly hugged the warm stone and slept the night through.
Sometimes in his sleep now Curly still heard Rattling Blanket Woman’s loving voice. Sometimes she would touch him gently and he would start suddenly awake, and then remember. The sadness never left him, like dark, cold water pooled at the bottom of his heart.
Last night the wakinyan had sent warning blasts at Curly. The soldiers’ big-fire guns had shot terror among the people. But in the midst of these storms had emerged a warmth, this infant, newly come to the earth. The little boy was a heated stone to wrap in hide and hold against the chest on a bitter winter night. Not a reward, for Curly felt he’d done nothing to earn a reward. Instead a gift.
Curly had picked up this gift of life and brought the boy and mother to camp. Because Curly had treasured the gift, they would live.
Lark woke Yellow Woman gently, took the child from his cradle board, and laid him at his mother’s breast.
Yellow Woman noticed Curly and covered her surprise with one hand to her mouth.
“I’m glad you’re well,” he said awkwardly. “And your son.”
She inclined her head in acceptance.
He went out of the lodge. He stood in the open air and looked around at the ragged circle of the village. Families were living under bushes or in wickiups or small travel lodges. Their real homes had been destroyeddown on the creek. It would be a hard winter now. The hoop of the people was not broken, but it was much tattered.
When times were terrible, that was
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