Heartsong (21 page)

I
t was still night when Charging Elk heard a light rapping sound. He had quit dreaming and had been lying on the sleeping platform, covered with a heavy quilt. After much thought, he had decided that the crazy dancers were not Oglalas, not even Lakotas. They came from somewhere else. But who were they and what were they doing in the land of the Lakotas? The White Buffalo Cow Woman, who brought them the sacred pipe and the sun dance, had promised that the Lakotas would prosper and thrive as long as they sacrificed and performed her ceremonies correctly. But had she foreseen the coming of the
wasichus?
Why didn't she warn the people so that they could prepare? If the people had done something bad, something that would anger Wakan Tanka and cause him to turn away from the people, why didn't she intercede on their behalf? Charging Elk tried to understand but he knew that the Great Mystery was beyond understanding. He could only play out his role and hope and pray that the circle would become
wakan
again and he would live to be an old man among his people. He thought again of Bird Tail's dream of the last buffalo and he thought that it must be roaming deep in the bowels of Paha Sapa, perhaps reproducing itself, perhaps learning new ceremonies from the White Buffalo Cow Woman. Perhaps one day they would emerge, leading a river of the great animals out into Lakota country. The thought made his heart jump up, just as it had that morning when Bird Tail told his dream. Through the window at the other end of the room he could just make out the white sliver of the new moon and he knew it was the Moon of Frost in the Tipi. It was the coldest of all moons—at the Stronghold only the hunters and those who had run out of wood or
buffalo chips would get up early to go out. If Charging Elk and Strikes Plenty had meat, they would huddle around the fire and drink coffee, draping their sleeping robes over their backsides. Those were the long, lonely days that were so hard to endure. Sometimes when the wind blew and the snow piled up, they would be stuck inside the lodge for five or six sleeps at a time. Five winters ago, when Charging Elk was eighteen, they were stuck for nearly all of the Moon of Frost in the Tipi. They ran out of meat and coffee and tobacco and had to boil the rawhide they used to patch their moccasins.

There were seventeen lodges out at the Stronghold that winter, around seventy people all together. Some were families, others were young men a little older than Charging Elk and Strikes Plenty. They were “bad” Indians and so they had to be careful. If they ever came in to Pine Ridge they would be arrested. The men would be sent away to Fort Randall, the women put under guard, and the children taken by the agent to a home of many children. But that winter, as they ran out of food and firewood, there were many who would have liked to come in, no matter what the punishment. But there was no way they could move. The usual two-day journey would have taken five sleeps, if they made it at all. As it was, eight of them died of starvation that winter—four children, three old ones, and a wandering Sans Arc who had been gutshot by a miner. Bird Tail had kept him alive for two moons with his medicine, but the cold and starvation had been too much for him.

Charging Elk closed his eyes against the dark. He would have gone through ten such winters just to be back home. But this time he would be with his mother and father. And then he would find a wife. By now Strikes Plenty would have found his
winy an
out at the Whirlwind Compound. He had family there. And there were many young women looking for a husband.

Charging Elk didn't feel much like a “wild” Indian anymore. He
remembered the pride he had felt when Featherman told Buffalo Bill that he was a wild Indian. He had thought then that Pahuska had appreciated the fact that he was not a reservation Indian like his compatriots. Perhaps he had. But where had it gotten Charging Elk? Most of the reservation Indians could speak the American tongue; all of them adapted to this new life of strangers better than he did; and all of them were still with the Wild West show, wherever it was—perhaps at the Pope's house.

No, Charging Elk's wildness counted for nothing now. He felt like the fire boat out on the big water, no land in sight, no end in sight. Just the vast, swelling water that played games with the suddenly small boat.

But where was Yellow Breast? Wakan Tanka had sent him with tobacco. Surely that was an offering, a sign to let Charging Elk know that the Great Mystery had not forgotten him. He had tried to smoke the cigarette in the right way, but he was no
pejuta wicada
—he had no real power in the spirit world. And it was clear that his animal helper did not have the power anymore to talk with Wakan Tanka on his behalf. So where did that leave him? Had Yellow Breast abandoned him too?

He heard the light rapping again and he became alert. He looked toward the door and saw it open a little to let in light from the long-room.

“Bonjour, Charging Elk. Est-ce que vous avez bien dormi?”

The door opened a little wider, and Charging Elk swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He was still wearing the suit and shirt he had had on yesterday, minus the collar and tie and shoes.

A head peeked around the door and he saw it was the Frenchman who lived here.

“Ah, très bien. Ça va?”

Suddenly an electric wire came on above them, making the room
look hollow and cold. Charging Elk stood and narrowed his eyes against the glare.

The short, stocky man was dressed in blue pants and a black sweater. He was carrying a heavy pitcher. He smiled at Charging Elk, but he was also looking at the rumpled suit. Then he made a gesture that seemed to excite him. All the time he was speaking the tongue of the French. He pointed to the duffel and the small valise, which had remained unopened at the foot of the bed. He asked a question, but Charging Elk could only look at him.

Charging Elk watched the man and he guessed that he had lived about thirty-five winters. His slick hair was thin and combed back over a patch of skin at the back of his dome. Charging Elk had noticed the day before that the man's hands were surprisingly big for his size. They looked red and nicked in the pale light. But Charging Elk was most interested in the mans face. It had no mustache or beard. Even the sideburns were cut short, barely reaching the lobes of the ears. For some reason Charging Elk didn't mind looking into this
wasichus
face. Although the nose was flat and two of the man's lower front teeth were missing, there was something in the eyes that the Oglala recognized—the kind of sad wisdom that some of the older people possessed. Their eyes expressed a kindness, a forgiveness of mankind's trangressions, that comes from a hard life, from understanding what human beings go through to become better—or sometimes, even worse. The eyes of these old people did not condemn. And now Charging Elk was seeing it in the eyes of this small man, who was talking and gesturing almost nonstop.

Charging Elk stood aside as the man carried the pitcher over to a little stand that had a large bowl on top and a cloth hanging from a peg on the side. The man looked around, exclaimed, then pulled the duffel over to a box of drawers. He opened up the drawers, each time gesturing and saying
“Et voilà!”
Then he dumped the contents of the duffel into the drawers and muttered to himself as he
pawed over the clothes. Finally he held up a long gray shirt without a collar or buttons and handed it to Charging Elk. He found a pair of new blue pants much like his own. Then a white-and-blue-striped sweater. As if by magic, he produced a pair of big, rough shoes from the duffel. And a rolled-up wool jacket. He opened the top drawer and found a pair of gray stockings tucked together. He looked at Charging Elk with a satisfied grin. He pointed to the clothes, then to the tall Indian. He poured some of the warm water into the bowl and made signs of washing his face. “I will wait just outside,” he said. Then he spied the valise. “Let us see.”

The valise held a comb and brush, a razor and strop, and a toothbrush, among other things.
“Très bien, très bien, très bien,”
said the small man, as he held each item up to the light before placing it on the box of drawers. Then he drew out a hand mirror. He held it up to Charging Elk's face and laughed.
“C'est un bel homme, nedt-ce pas?
I will wait just outside.”

Charging Elk was glad to get out of the suit. It was warm but it made his legs itch. He put on the new clothes, and although the pants were stiff, they didn't make him itch. He put on the stockings and the rough shoes, tying the knot just as Brown Suit had instructed him. He was relieved that these new shoes were bigger than the ones he had worn the day before. The toes were wider and he wriggled his foot gratefully.

He washed his face with soap and water; then he dipped the toothbrush into the soapy water and brushed his teeth. It felt good to clean his teeth, even with the bitter water. Then, looking down into the hand mirror on the box of drawers, he lifted the brush to his hair, then stopped, shocked to see that his hair had been cut off to just around his ears. Of course, he had touched the short hair in disbelief many times since yesterday morning, but to see it now filled him with fear. How would Wakan Tanka know him? Charging Elk suddenly felt ashamed of himself. He had gone from
being a wild Indian to this creature in the mirror. He glanced down at his new clothes, his new rough shoes. What had happened to him? Just a few sleeps ago, he had possessed his father's hairpipe breastplate, his own badger-claw necklace, his skin clothing—above all, the long hair that had never been cut. Even when he put on the
wasichus
blouses and pants, he wore brass armbands, earrings, and the two eagle feathers in his hair. He wore moccasins and wrapped his braids in ermine and red yarn. Now, this creature that looked back at him in the mirror didn't look like the Oglala from the Stronghold. The face had grown thin, the eyes seemed unsure, and the mouth looked weak. How would Wakan Tanka know that it was Charging Elk? How would Charging Elk again become the man he once was? Would he always look like this—like a weak, frightened coward?

Charging Elk turned the mirror over on the box. He walked to the window. It was still pitch-black and the horse that had circled the pen earlier had stopped. All the horses stood under the arc of the gaslight, heads down, indistinct, indistinguishable one from the other, sleeping. Above them, the beginning sliver of the Moon of Frost in the Tipi hung over the big town like the curved awl his mother used to sew moccasins. Charging Elk made a morning prayer even as he wondered if she was looking at the same moon. He had lost track of time but he sensed that this moon was still to come in his homeland far to the west. Perhaps his mother and father would know that he had seen this moon and they would make prayers for him. Perhaps they would ask Wakan Tanka to send a dream that would show him the way home.

R
ené Soulas watched Charging Elk stir five lumps of sugar into his café au lait and thought, He is a beautiful human being. Even in the clothes of the workingman, he is above the humble station of the
prolétaire
. The way he moved, the way he held his head, the long fingers—he was like a prince, a very dark prince. René had noticed Charging Elk in the Wild West show because he was so much darker than the other Peaux-Rouges. He was almost as dark as a
nègre
. And he was the one who took the most chances—who rode among the stampeding bison as though they were his pets.

Réne had been stunned when Charging Elk had walked into the captain s office at the Préfecture. Here was the one
indien
that he recognized out of the whole lot—except for the great chief, Rocky Bear—and he was coming to live with them! But then, he thought sadly, it is only for a short time. Monsieur Bell, the American, could come at any time—today, tomorrow, next week—to take this magnificent creature from us. It is sad that in such a short time, we will not learn to communicate. He could tell Mathias and Chloé so much about the wild west. According to Buffalo Bill, the wild west was not even in Les États-Unis, but in some vast land beyond. Perhaps someday Mathias would go there to see Charging Elk in his
habitation
and learn the skills of survival. It was not out of the question. Mathias had a nose for adventure.