Sacajawea Read online

  As soon as they were clear of the windfall, they turned in unspoken agreement and leaped from rock to rock with a strength and speed they would not previously have believed they possessed. Panting and gasping for breath, they slumped to the ground and were aware that the hideous roars had grown faint. The bears did not come through the tree.

  “She thinks we are still there,” Grass Child found breath to say. As the girls grew calm, they looked at one another.

  “It is good that the wind has stopped,” said Willow Bud seriously. “It is known that bears can smell and seek out girls during the flowing time. They attack and kill. The smell makes them crazy.”

  Rain Girl gasped. “Have you come to the time of being a woman?”

  “Ai, four suns ago for the first time,” said Willow Bud proudly.

  ‘“The she-bear was only interested in protecting her babies. She did not care that you are now a woman,” snorted Grass Child.5

  “Then it was our looks, not your smell, that made her roar,” laughed Rain Girl. They burst into gales of laughter as they walked into the security of camp. Theyoffered their baskets of asters to Old Grandmother, who was on a pallet of hides in the warm sun.

  Grass Child wove some of the purple blossoms into the thin gray-black hair of Old Grandmother.

  “You are beautiful,” said Grass Child, noticing for the first time that the old woman smelled unclean.

  Old Grandmother searched through her robes until she found a piece of licorice rootstalk, which she gave to Rain Girl to break into three pieces. She listened with half-closed eyes as the girls chewed on the root and told her of the encounter with the she-bear.

  After a fit of coughing, Old Grandmother slowly began to laugh in a high cackle. Tears ran down her wrinkled face. “That old bear will roar at you until sundown. She’ll think you are still in the tamarack windfall; she will smell you there. Oh, that dumb bear.” And she cackled again. She rummaged through her robes and found a small piece of suet near the foot of her pallet. “Come here,” she said to Grass Child. She rubbed the suet over the scratches on her legs, then motioned for each of the other girls to come to her. She coughed. When she could speak again, she said, “The brush cuts when you run through it heedlessly and fast. Suet will help the healing.” Then, slowly, Old Grandmother began telling them the healing powers of various roots she could recall. Wild geranium was good for healing stomach ulcers, skullcap for mild heart trouble, crushed violet leaves for lung infection, seeds of the morning glory and jimsonweed for serenity of thought, and peyote for relaxing the crowded mind.

  Old Grandmother knew a great deal of anatomy, as did most Indians. She once could massage movement into a stiff leg in an hour. She knew the healing power of the sweat house; and she could sew together deep skin gashes with hair from the victim’s head, and the wound would heal clean, free from infection. Now, when Old Grandmother coughed, which was frequent, she noticed specks of blood. Talking to the children tired her.

  After taking her cup of medicinal herbs that evening, Old Grandmother spoke to Chief No Retreat. “Leave me here. I am very old. I was the woman of a greatchief. I can no longer chew the skins to soften them, and sew them with sinew. I cannot cook with my shaking hands. I cannot shake out my robes. I cannot relieve myself outside the tepee; I no longer have control. This season I have done nothing to earn the meat that you cut up for me to swallow. I cough, and that makes me tired. I have been a burden on my people. Now, unless you leave me here, I will cause you to be caught by the enemy or caught in the blowing snow on your way to the winter camp. The winter white robe will be thick, and there will be little food before it is all melted off the land. I, no longer any good, will be the cause of good ones dying, good ones that I love. To leave me is all I ask. In the morning, darken my eyes so I cannot see; then I will not lie trembling and alone. That way, you will pay me for the milk I gave my babies and all else I gave.” Old Grandmother coughed, and when it subsided, she lay exhausted.

  Chief No Retreat quickly rose and turned the back of his hand over his eyes. Fragrant Herbs went to him, held him close to her warm body, then resumed her place at the head of Old Grandmother’s pallet. Chief No Retreat stayed at the foot of her sleeping couch all that night.

  Grass Child’s heart was heavy. She sat close to Old Grandmother and held her dry, withered hands. Willow Bud came in and watched the slow rhythmic breathing of the old woman and left soon.

  Rain Girl and her mother gathered two small parfleche boxes of dry grass seed and pounded it fine between two stones. “This can be extra food for Old Grandmother,” said Fragrant Herbs. Spotted Bear and Never Walks brought in some rabbits so that a small, soft robe could be made for Old Grandmother to rest her head on. The boys were unusually quiet and subdued around the tepee.

  “Daughters,” announced Fragrant Herbs, “it is time to build the winter tepee for Old Grandmother.” She could not speak further, but busied herself with unrolling hides.

  Old Grandmother’s black eyes were without luster as she stared straight ahead, watching every move Fragrant Herbs made. She did not criticize when her robesfell to the dirt floor and no one hurried to pick them up.

  A crude lean-to was made from willow branches with strong cottonwood poles at the corners. Several antelope hides were spread over the top to keep out rain, and one at the sides to keep out the wind. Grass Child helped make the sleeping couch soft with pine boughs and then laid Old Grandmother’s buffalo hide over the top. A tear slipped down her chin into the thick, curly brown fur.

  A pile of yampa, wild carrots, was left close to the couch, along with thistle taproots and balsam roots. Fragrant Herbs brought several armloads of firewood and laid them out in the center of the lean-to so that a cooking fire or one for warmth could be built. Several leather pouches of bread made from a mixture of wild grass seeds, lamb’s quarter, and serviceberries pounded together were left, with a little jerky and a buffalo bladder filled with fresh water. Enough food for perhaps one moon.

  The others of the village were beginning to leave for the winter camp. Chief No Retreat sat on his pony watching the young boys round up the horses as the camp dogs yapped at their heels. Fine horses were the greatest wealth of the People. Largely of Arabian stock, these animals had been traded for or stolen from the Spaniards in the south. Some bore Spanish brands, and a few of the Indians sported Spanish saddles and bits. The People, mindful that their horses were their point of superiority over other tribes, carefully and expertly bred them.

  Chief No Retreat had already bidden Old Grandmother farewell and darkened her eyes with a soft band of doeskin. Now, content that all was well with the horses, but heavy in his heart, he called for his family to hurry.

  Rain Girl and Grass Child clung to Old Grandmother, tears streaming down their faces. Fragrant Herbs admonished them gently, “A girl of the People does not cry about things that must be done for the good of the tribe. Come along now.”

  Grass Child saw her mother’s eyes moisten while her fingers fumbled the thin knotted thong from aroundher neck. Threaded on the leather lacing was the sky-blue, polished stone. Grass Child knew her mother cherished this recent gift from her father. Fragrant Herbs bent over Old Grandmother and placed the necklace in the cracked, parchmented hands, saying softly, “The stone is as clear as a summer sky, and to look at it will make you feel young. I leave a piece of my heart with you.” Fragrant Herbs’s eyes misted, and she turned to test the strength of the hides tied to the inner frame of the lean-to.

  Old Grandmother’s eyes crinkled into deep creases. Her tongue seemed to push her lips into a smile. Grass Child could no longer control herself. She rushed to Old Grandmother and fell beside her. “I’ll come back to see you,” she promised between sobs. “You’ll be waiting for me. I’ll bring you fresh meat to keep you through the Month of Howling Winds.”

  Old Grandmother motioned. No, no, this is the way it has always been, it must be. She could not speak for fear of betraying her own emotion and deep love f
or the child who carried her own girlhood name, because they had both loved to watch the wind make gentle waves in the grassy meadows.

  After several days of slow travel, the horses dragging travois, the chief found a place sheltered from the wind, so that the tribe could camp a few days and hunt game to add to the meager food supply for the winter.

  While the men were hunting, the women sewed and cut strips of fresh meat to dry on racks for jerky. Fragrant Herbs and her daughters beat the wild grasses and sunflowers for all the seeds they would yield and caught them in skin robes. Some of the women were inclined to laugh at the wife of their chief for her labor, but refrained because of her reputation as a fine cook. That evening, the hunters brought in several antelope and many rabbits. The women prepared a feast, and there was a dance of thanksgiving to the Great Spirit for sending his people to such a fine place with plentiful game. The old men told stories and smoked dried kinnikinnick. The boys played buffalo hunt. The child who was “it” bellowed like a bull, while the other children tried to catch him. The girls kept the pots of meat andvegetables hot so that when anyone felt hungry, he might eat.

  It was a glowing time of red and yellow falling leaves. On the third day, Never Walks and Spotted Bear went on the hunt with the men. Rain Girl and Fragrant Herbs went from their temporary grass shelter to beat more tiny seeds into the old hide. Grass Child visited with Willow Bud and her family.

  On the pretext of getting some sewing, she slipped away and took two skinned rabbits from her mother’s supply under a pile of fresh leaves and stones. She wrapped them in an old buckskin. She took a small bag to collect fall berries and quickly started on her way back to the abandoned summer camp on the Little Big Horn, the lean-to of Old Grandmother. She was no papoose, she told herself, and could come and go as she pleased. It was easy to find the way because the travois marks were still plain and the horse tracks were everywhere. Nights she curled herself up in a warm pile of leaves like a bird in a nest.

  When Grass Child came in sight of Old Grandmother’s lean-to, the small bag was full of huckleberries, large and dusky blue. Her hands, face, and tongue were stained blue. She was not hungry. She was content and happy to be close to her beloved Old Grandmother. She had not thought of being afraid. The outdoors was her home, and most of the animals were friendly. The squirrels chattered at her, and the blue jays scolded as she walked past. If she met a moose or bear, she could quickly climb a tree.

  The child was not prepared for the sight in front of her. Fresh blood was on the ground. Old Grandmother’s body lay still, slashed to death, partially devoured by wolves. Grass Child tried to let out a high shriek, but her throat was so constricted that no sound came. She sat on the sleeping couch where the top robe had been pulled off and left lying in the doorway. The rabbitskin pillow was shredded and flung against the back of the lean-to. The pouches of bread had been gnawed open and the contents spilled. She stared at the hideous mess for a long time, suddenly aware of the putrefying stench. Then she noticed her teeth were clenched so tightly her jaws ached.

  Finally she rose, picked up the buffalo robe, and spread it on some clean grass. She dragged her grandmother’s mangled body outside and dropped it on the hide, then roiled the hide around the torn fresh quickly and tightly. She wiped her hands on the grass to rid them of the foul smell.

  She looked at the round bundle and visualized her grandmother peacefully sleeping. “I was too late!” Grass Child cried. “Why didn’t I come sooner?”

  From the far side of the hill came a growling. “Why couldn’t she just have fallen asleep forever? Why did the wolf have to interfere?” Grass Child tore at her tunic in anguish.

  She thought of the circle of stones on the top of the mountain not far away. It had offered no protection. And she wondered why she had left too late to save this beloved person. Why was the sun hiding? Could it not look upon this terrible Mother Earth? Where was the Great Spirit when this happened? Deep in the forest, the child stood over the body of her grandmother and wondered. She felt only the absence of the Great Spirit, and the need for something to fill the emptiness.

  Instinct told her that the wolf would be back again this night to finish what he had started. She searched the lean-to, found her grandmother’s firestones, and rubbed them together over a few dry leaves. The sparks caught quickly; she added a few small twigs. When they caught, she added some larger ones, and finally she pushed some dry, dead windfall into the fire. Then she added all the tanned skins from the lean-to. She kicked up the dirt over the dark paths of dried blood, and pushed the food supply, including the two fresh rabbits and bag of huckleberries, into the fire. The skins made a great smoke and stench.

  She looked around for something to cut off her long black hair, but her mind began to function, telling her it was dark and she’d better not move too far from the fire. She sat with her back against a tree, facing out into the dark forest. She thought she heard coyotes call in the distance. She pushed the dry sticks further into the fire. Sparks flew up around her. Soon there was the point of fire and vague outlines moving beyond, swimming in its flicker, and close about her the wall of dark-ness. Grass Child pushed back against the tree and put her head on her arms. She heard the cracking of the fire, heard the wind high in the trees, heard an owl hoot. The earth swung with her.

  Grass Child awakened shivering with cold in the first flush of the morning. She sat up slowly. The fire was a gray ash. The breeze brought a tuft of wolf fur across it. She tasted her mouth and made a face and brought her finger to her eyes to rub the film away. She looked around. The buffalo robe was still on the ground in a large, round ball. A rotten stench enveloped her. She began breathing through her mouth so as to block off the smell. Her head ached, and her eyelids felt like crusty sand. A slow restoration of nerve and duty came. And she knew she had an obligation to honor her grandmother’s memory by following the Shoshoni custom of cutting off the first joint of a finger. This ancient custom of her people accompanied the mourning of a loved one seen in death.

  She could not find a sharp stone, so she rubbed a stick on a flat rock until it was fairly sharp across the end. She kicked the ashes at the edge of the fire, found the firestones, rubbed them together over a handful of dry leaves, and added dry brush when they caught fire. The blood seemed to drain away from her head, and she felt faint. She sucked in great gulps of air, bent with her head low, and laid her left hand on the flat rock, palm down. Cold sweat ran down her back. She pushed with all her strength on the knifelike stick against the first joint of the little finger of her left hand. The rock was smooth, cold, and hard. The flesh tore open, and blood oozed out. The rock was warm and wet. Tlie pain was great. The earth tilted and fell back and tilted again, and she bent closer over her hand on the rock. She pounded the stick into the joint, trying to snap it off. The rock became red; the stick and her tunic became red with her blood. The cartilage was elastic and stubborn. With a final thrust, the end of her little finger lay on the rock, alone. It was no longer a part of her. It was gone forever. Her grandmother was gone from her forever. Grass Child’s eyes stared at the flow of blood from the stump. Her brain seared with the pain.

  She forced herself to move slowly to the small fire and to bend over it.

  She became aware of the heat on her hand, and still Grass Child could not nerve herself for the final ritual. She turned her face toward the sky. She heard a sound from there, a sound that she knew. The glossy black carrion crows were flying around and around, watching her every move. She moved further over the fire, and with her right hand she pushed her little finger against a glowing stick to stanch the flow of blood. The fire became a small pinpoint of orange, and the darkness fell around her. The cawing of the crows ceased.

  When Grass Child awoke, the fire was cold. She got up too quickly, put her hands to her head, and closed her eyes to steady herself. She went to the water hole and lay down and drank, feeling the cool touch of the water at the pit of her stomach. She got up slowly, keeping her
uneasy balance with Mother Earth, and suddenly her stomach tightened like a squeezed water bladder. Holding to a sapling, she hung over it and vomited. Her eyes watered, and she rubbed the tears out. Then she saw a glint of blue in the dry grass. She pulled the familiar smooth stone from the tangled growth. The attached thong swung beneath her throbbing hand. At the edge of the dead fire lay her small leather bag. She wiped at the huckleberry stain inside the bag with the bottom fringe on her tunic. She dropped the sky-blue stone into the bag, picked off the yellow spears of grass entangled with the thin thong, and when it was clean, she stuffed it into the little bag. She tied the drawstring of the bag to the drawstring at the neck of her tunic. She pushed the bag inside the tunic for safekeeping. She could feel the pouch press against her skin. Tears flowed over her face. She took a deep breath and looked to the tops of the mountains that hid the morning sun. It seemed to Grass Child that the tops of the mountains pressed back the fingers of the sun. She shivered. While her face was damp she rubbed cold ashes on her cheeks to indicate that she was in mourning. She looked at her left hand. The small stump was not swollen but the end was black and beginning to scab over with a thick yellow ooze. She picked at a smallblister on a balsam pine, and when the pitch ran out, she gently put the stump in it. She stripped off some alder leaves and pressed them around the wound. It throbbed. For a moment she sat with her eyes shut. Then, gradually, her mind began to clear, and she realized there was still work unfinished.

  She pulled at the loose, thick leather thongs that held the lean-to together. Then she pulled at the corner cottonwood poles. Dragging them from the sagging shelter, she pushed one up across a tree branch barely within her reach. She had a vague picture in mind of a wooden platform on which to place the body of her grandmother, out of reach of the wolves. A decent burial place for one so beloved. She climbed the tree, heedless of scratches, and pulled the pole over to a branch of a neighboring tree of about the same height. Without resting, she did the same with another pole. She used the long thong to tie the robe around her grandmother’s body into a secure bundle. It was awkward work for the girl; she could not count on her left hand. When, finally, she was done, she threw the free end of the thong up into the branches. It took several tries, but finally it rested above the poles. She scrambled up the tree again and pulled the thong down further over the branch. Carefully, slowly, she pulled the bundle off the ground.