The Changing Wind by Don Coldsmith Page B

change often meant rain, but he had not even begun to realize the intricate connection here, the thing his father was teaching him. This change, this time in the late summer, was a signal. At least, it seemed so.
    There was a stirring in the air now, a breathlike movement that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, and to have no direction. White Buffalo pointed to a distant line of timber to the north. The trees were writhing in the grip of the changing wind, like a great green snake, their tops twisting to show the silvery undersides of the leaves.
    “It comes,” he said softly. “The changing wind.”
    He turned back down the ridge toward the camp.
    “Come,” he said over his shoulder. “I will make the announcement.”
    Small Elk was puzzled.
    “That it will rain?”
    “No. They can tell that, and it is coming soon. I will tell them of the buffalo.”
    “But Father! We saw no buffalo!”
    “No. But things are right. All the signs. This is the season. I will dance the Buffalo Dance and bring them.”
    “But… what if they do not come?”
    “Ah!” said White Buffalo. “Sometimes they do not, and the dance does not work. Then the People will say someone broke a taboo, or the buffalo are displeased with where we camped—or maybe, even, White Buffalo is getting old, and his medicine is weak.”
    He paused a moment to catch his breath and continued. “But most of the time, Elk, they will come this way. Then, the People say, ‘Aiee! White Buffalo’s medicine is strong. He has brought the herds back again!’”
    Small Elk was astonished at this revelation.
    “Then your medicine does not really?…”
    “Ah, did I say that? Who knows, my son, why they come. When I see that everything is right, I say, ‘the herds may come.’ It would be foolish to say that when things are
not
ready. The medicine is strong, but I must help it, by knowing when to use it. Now, I am made to think, is the time to do the Buffalo Dance. Maybe they come, maybe not.”
    “But more likely than not?” Small Elk persisted.
    “Of course. If the herds were more likely
not
to come, I would not try the dance.”
    “And in the springtime?”
    “Ah, you will learn that later. That is a matter of firing the grass at the right time. You have much to learn before then. Come, we must hurry.”
    They approached the medicine man’s lodge, and he called to Dove Woman. She unrolled the bundle and shook out the white buffalo cape with horns attached, the symbol of office. White Buffalo swung it across his shoulders and tied the thongs under his chin and across the chest. He settled the horned headdress portion on his head and nodded to Dove Woman. She began a rhythmic beat on the small dance-drum as White Buffalo picked up his rattles and eagle-fan and began to dance.
    Small Elk had watched this ceremony all his life, but now he seemed to see it for the first time.
    “Watch the cadence,” Dove Woman whispered. “Next time maybe he will let you try it.”
    People were coming to watch the ceremony, and in the distance came the mutter of Rain Maker’s drum in answer to the one held by Dove Woman.

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    T he buffalo did come, and the People were loud in praise of the medicine man’s skill. Small Elk was mildly confused. He was not certain whether the skills included
causing
the herds to return or skillfully
predicting
the event.
    “Does it matter?” his father asked with a quiet smile. “They are here. Either way, it was successful. Maybe both are true.”
    On one point White Buffalo was absolutely correct. Either way, it was a successful season. After a day of rain, which freshened the prairie and brightened the green of the grasses, the sky cleared to a bright autumn blue. Days were warm, nights cool. On the third day, the scouts spotted the first of a large herd, grazing as they came and moving slowly southward. It was soon enough after the ceremony for White Buffalo to take credit for the herd’s appearance. He modestly accepted the