Heartsong (20 page)

Funny, Bell thought, how the Seneca was completely integrated into America—he spoke the language, dressed properly, and attended chapel every morning—but this Sioux, Charging Elk, was a babe in the woods. Bell had even had to show him how to knot his shoelaces this morning! My God, what about tomorrow morning? How long would it take for this Indian to learn how to tie his own shoes? Would Monsieur Soulas assume that responsibility? And what about brushing his teeth? You'd think after all those days of being in the hospital, of wandering the streets of Marseille, of being in the jail, he would have been only too happy to brush his teeth. But he hadn't seemed very interested in this simple act of hygiene.

Bell was suddenly filled with misgivings. The Soulases were nice people, but Charging Elk was his responsibility. What if the Indian decided to run away? What if he ended up in jail again? Or met with some unfortunate accident? Or—the unthinkable—decided to visit violence on a French citizen, on one of the Soulases? It would all end up back in his lap. And of course, it would go on his record, which was, up to now, spotless, if undistinguished. Bell knew how easily he could be buried in some small Latin or South American country—or worse yet, North Africa, which was always dangerous.

Bell was leaning forward on the seat, his back stiff and his hands clenched over his knees. All it takes is a small series of mistakes or one big fiasco and you're exiled, he thought. Or drummed out of the corps. Now Bell realized that his big mistake was not involving the consul general more. If he had just kept Atkinson apprised
of the situation, perhaps any repercussions of the Indian's behavior, if it was unacceptable, could be deflected. It would be the old man's fault as much as his.

Bell sat back, glumly watching the pedestrians along La Cane-bière. He saw a young couple step into a shop that had a big eye painted on the glass. Several candles burned in the window, and behind them, tired red velvet drapes hid the rest of the shop. The man wore jodhpurs and tall brown boots and a turban, the young woman such a large, gaudy bustle she could scarcely fit through the door. Bell was used to such odd sights in the strange seaport, but now he wondered what these extravagant creatures were seeking from the fortune-teller. He had never been to a fortune-teller but he made a note of the location of the shop. He could use some help with his love life.

As the carriage turned onto Boulevard Peytral and slowed to a stop before the consulate, Bell made a mental note to look in on the Soulases the next day and every day after that, schedule permitting. Bell knew that the red tape would be maddening, but he was optimistic that the Charging Elk matter would be resolved in a week or two. Meanwhile, he would baby-sit the Indian at every opportunity.

“Voilà
, Monsieur Bell.”

Bell looked up. He had been studying his brown hightop shoes. They needed polishing.

“Le consulat, monsieur.”

Bell smiled. After two years he didn't need to be told where he was. But he must have been sitting there awhile.
“Merci
, Robert.” He stepped down and the carriage moved away, the white horse with the red pompom seeming to move faster as it thought of the stable. Or perhaps Robert was in a hurry to end his day.

But it was a fine winter day, and Franklin Bell took one last look at the sharp blue sky and smelled the heady brine of the Old Port
before he hurried in to his meeting with the lavender processors from the Vaucluse. As he pulled open the heavy wooden door, he thought once again of the small, shapely French girl and decided that she wasn't very pretty after all. Something of a pleasant illusion, not unlike the powderpuff boulevardiers of Marseille. Goddamn, he envied them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIX

C
harging Elk stood at the window of his small room and looked down
at the stable and the horses. It was night and the horses looked dark and indistinct beneath a single gas lamp. All of the other flats around the inner square were shuttered and dark. One of the horses walked around the pen, circling it again and again, while the others stood sleeping in the middle. Charging Elk thought the horse must be new to the pen, still spooked by the unfamiliar surroundings. Perhaps it was from the country. There was plenty of country between here and Paris. All of the Indian performers were fascinated by the country they passed through, even at night when they might see a gentle hill marked by rows of grapevines rolling away from the iron road, or a big stone building surrounded by smaller buildings, all the slate roofs glinting like ice in the moonlight, all the windows dark. And when they passed through a town, they watched for people and horses with quiet curiosity.

The train stopped often to take on water. Broncho Billy said it was the water that made the smoke, and the smoke made the train go. During these stops the Indians and the other performers were allowed to get off the train and walk the stiffness from their legs. Charging Elk never walked very far from the train, and when the whistle sounded, he was among the first to get back on.

Sometimes Charging Elk would see Buffalo Bill standing at the far end of the stone platform, usually accompanied by three or four other men in fine clothes, all of them smoking cigars. Once in a while, if the stop was long, he would come to stand with the Indians. Rocky Bear would also come from his carriage to interpret, even though Broncho Billy, who was married to a Lakota woman and spoke the language quite well, was always with the Indians. Once Buffalo Bill had talked with Charging Elk.

“How'd you learn to ride like that, young man?”

When Rocky Bear had interpreted the question, Featherman said, “He is a wild Indian from the badlands. He never surrendered.”

“But how is this? This young man came in with Crazy Horse, hell's bells, twelve years ago. All the Oglalas came in.”

“There were some who could not accept the ways of the
wasichus
,” said Sees Twice. “This young man had never seen the inside of a church until we went to Notre Dame in Paris.” Sees Twice had said this in English, so Rocky Bear interpreted for Charging Elk.

“Well, you saw yourself one hell of a church, Charging Elk. That's the greatest church on the face of the earth, next to the Pope's house. You'll see what I mean when we get to the land of the Eye-talians.”

Just then, the whistle sounded and Buffalo Bill clapped Charging Elk on the shoulder. “You're going to see a lot of things on this trip, son, things that will make your head spin round and
round. Enjoy it all—but just remember, when you re in that arena you're a wild Indian from hell's fire.”

Charging Elk had watched him stroll back to his carriage. He was dressed in a heavy wool suit and he wore a gray hat with a narrower brim than the one he used in the show. Except for his mustache and the little puff of hair on his chin, one wouldn't have recognized him as the great warrior who thrilled the audiences with his buckskin suit, beaded gauntlets, and shiny black boots that came halfway up his thighs.

It had always puzzled Charging Elk that, in the daily reenactment. Buffalo Bill was the first
wasichu
to find the dead longknives on the Greasy Grass; yet none of the Indian performers, even those who had fought there, could remember any of the Lakotas talking about him then. Surely, such a big man would have been talked about. But Broncho Billy swore up and down that Pahuska had been a buffalo hunter and a scout for the longknives. Even now he was a big chief with the army of Nebraska.

Charging Elk watched the restless horse continue its path around the pen. There was something about the horse, as indistinct as it was, that reminded him of High Runner. It was taller than the other horses and it held its head up, as though it smelled open country and longed to be there.

It seemed like only a couple of moons ago that Charging Elk had handed the reins to his father and said, “High Runner is yours now. He will make you look like the shirtwearer you are.” Scrub's own two horses were poor in color, with broad bowed backs and hooves as big as buffalo chips. They were meant to pull a wagon, not to ride with dignity. Charging Elk now regretted that he had not seen his father on High Runner, but when the iron horse shuddered and slowly began to grind away from the station, the reins were tied to a wagon wheel and Scrub stood on the platform, singing a brave-heart song with the others.

Charging Elk looked above the rooftops with their many dark chimneys silhouetted against the dark sky. They reminded him of the stumps in Paha Sapa that the
wcuLchud
left when they took the trees to make their houses and hold up their mineholes. Once he and Strikes Plenty had ventured a long way into a dark hole in search of the precious gold, but all they found was wet rocks, a broken pickax, and the squared-off wooden braces. Later, when they rode back to the Stronghold, they became afraid because they had entered one of the
wasichu's
wounds in
maka ina's
breast. They went directly to Bird Tail, the old
pejuta wicasa
, and told him what they had done. The holy man had simply looked off toward the strange shapes and colors of the badlands—although his eyes were frosted over and he had to be led around by his wife—and told the boys to fast, to think about what they had done, and to return the next day. Neither Charging Elk nor Strikes Plenty got much sleep that night. But the next morning, Bird Tail told them that he had had a dream in which a buffalo wandered through the forests of Paha Sapa and came upon a cave carved into a scarred rockface. The buffalo turned around four times, as a dog does before it lies down, each time looking back at the world. It seemed to be looking at everything. as though it wanted to remember all that was there. It looked for a long time, through the many winters of its ancestors, over the plains and rivers and mountains that they had crossed; it looked at times of good grass and times of hunger; it looked at times of trouble and times of peace. Finally, it looked up into the sky at the sun and its eyes turned as white and hard as polished stone. Then it whirled and entered the cave.

Bird Tail had picked up his pipe then and lit it with a match he struck across a piece of rough stone. After a couple of thoughtful puffs, he said, “I want to thank you two boys for going into the
wasichu's
wound in grandmother s breast. You didn't know it at the time, but you were sent there for a reason. Wakan Tanka knew that
you would tell me and that I would dream about the buffalo with the stone eyes. The Great Mystery works that way. All things have a reason, but he chooses to let his children figure them out.

“You see, the dream I had was of the future. All this time, we have mourned the passing of the buffalo. We have thought the sacred hoop was broken when the
wasicuns
came into our country and our people lost their way. But now I have seen that the buffalo are not gone forever; they have only returned to their home deep in the heart of Paha Sapa. There they will remain until the hoop is
wakan
again.”

“And how will they know when that time comes?” Strikes Plenty spoke in a voice that was at once excited and skeptical.

The old man smiled as he knocked the tobacco ashes from his pipe into the smoldering fire. “They will know, young man. They will tell us.” He put the pipe into its beaded pouch, then opened an ancient parfleche that was painted with faded vermilion-and-green designs. He helped himself to a braid of sweetgrass, a twist of tobacco, and a buffalo-tail flyswatter. “Now you boys help me up. Well go have a sweat and ask
maka ina
to forgive you for entering the
wasichu's
wound in her flesh.”

T
hat night Charging Elk dreamed of returning to the Stronghold. He rode High Runner and the tall bay danced through the badlands, in a hurry, as always, to return to the good grasses and the cunning mares. As they ascended the high butte, Charging Elk could see many people, on horses, in wagons, some walking, all going toward the Stronghold. And when he got on top, he saw many lodges and he saw many people dancing in a circle. He didn't recognize the dance. It was not rhythmic and graceful like the old-time dances; rather, the people hopped and twirled in place, men shouting and wailing, women ululating and crying out. The drum group
pushed the people even faster, until some of the dancers fell to the ground, where some lay motionless while others twitched and rolled around as though they were struggling to leave their bodies.