Thunder in the Wind

CHAPTER ONE

The short robe motioned the mourners to be quiet. Hours of their incessant chanting and weeping had taken their toll on his nerves. In all his experience as a preacher he had never conducted a more disrespectful wake. Then again he had never before presided over an Indian wake. He had opted to minister to the Assiniboine on the Fort Belknap reservation because he had heard from veteran missionaries how friendly the Upper Missouri tribe was. He expected to find them manageable and docile. He certainly didn’t expect to confront belligerent, rawhide-clad heathens. After all, it was 1884. The tribe had been pacified for decades.

His new assignment was proving to be anything but tranquil.

He was certain the deceased would have been appalled by the conduct of many of his mourners. For as long as he had known him, Wolf Cry had been a very meticulous Christian, an example he had hoped others the same age would emulate. Given time the preacher was sure Wolf Cry would have helped him convert many pagans to the Word. Had this been the wake of someone else, Wolf Cry certainly would have been able to induce the nonbelievers to act with civility. The short robe lamented his passing.

As expected, his upraised hand quieted the Christians among the wakers, but was taken as a challenge by the heathens. Rather than fight them, the preacher ignored them. He focused a stern expression at those who would recognize it to be the look which always preceded a thunderous sermon. However, instead of moralizing about the troublemakers, he talked about Wolf Cry’s excellent character, calling him A true servant of the Lord and proof that the power to do what God commands comes whenever you rely upon the Trinity. He finished by claiming Wolf Cry was an example everyone should follow for his own good.

As had happened before, day-school trained children caught the several mistakes the interpreter made. They heard him change servant of the Lord into the slave of the white’s god. They also knew he did not accurately translate the preacher’s last statement. He did not pass on the implied warning.

One student did not pay much attention to Runs Fast’s apparent shortcomings as an interpreter. No one in the crowded church noticed the puzzled look on Miskaw’s face. The commotion that Wolf Cry’s former comrades were making muffled Miskaw’s exasperated huff. Miskaw had known Wolf Cry before and after his friend’s baptism. He wondered if Wolf Cry should have been allowed up for air after he was dunked. For soon thereafter, all remnants of the effervescent individual who had dazzled Miskaw with stories, who had sponsored his membership into the Provision Stealers and the Horse Society, who had been like an uncle to him, ceased to exist. The moroseness Wolf Cry had sunk into after the failure of the last buffalo hunt was better than the traits he acquired upon his conversion to the short robe’s religion. He had recovered from depressions before. He never recovered from Christianity.

Miskaw knew the church wasn’t filled with people paying homage to Wolf Cry the Christian. They were there to honor Wolf Cry, the Master of the Buffalo Pound, former chief of the Canoe band, good provider, and kind generous soul.

Not since the last Sun Dance had there been a comparable representation of so many bands. Bands living at Fort Belknap such as the Northern People, Those Who Propel Boats, The Mountain Villagers, The Mountain Band, Those Who Stay Alone, and The Canoe Band were joined in paying their respects by bands like The Girl’s Band who live at Fort Peck as well as The Cree Talkers and The Cypress Hills Band who had journeyed from their Canadian home.

The subagency was alive with as many representatives of the Assiniboine Nation as usually gathered at the main agency during the annual dispensation of rations.

Most of the youths present mirrored their parents by the clothes they wore and in the way they acted. Of the exceptions, the party of young men who belonged to the Society of Foxes were the most noticeable. Wearing faded buffalo robes, porcupine quill heirlooms, and with their hair in braids, they looked as arresting as Wolf Cry’s heathen contemporaries. With irrepressibly high spirits, they also were as loud as the elders. As members of the exclusive age society of young adults, the Foxes were displaying all the character expected of them.

Miskaw didn’t know what to make of them. Although confident he would someday enter their ranks, given his father’s stature as a leading medicine man, he was certain he would act more decorously when he was in their place in a similar situation.

They were embarrassing. As far as Miskaw was concerned, wildness belonged on the chase, in combat, or around fires lit for the sole purpose of dramatizing narratives which recounted the exploits. Wildness had no place in solemn occasions.

There is a time and a place for everything, Wolf Cry once had told him before the conversion.

He was glad the short robe didn’t lock horns with either the Foxes or the old men (who even had less excuse for their conduct than the young adults). The conflict would have been totally dis-ruptive.

It was a shame but, as much as Miskaw appreciated the preacher’s wisdom, he was put off by his personal hygiene. A cacophony of coughs and sneezes made a mockery out of his attempt to sound omniscient. He unknowingly disrupted his own service. His handkerchief moved like a crank from his pocket to his mouth. He probably wasn’t aware of how often he used it. No Assiniboine that Miskaw knew coughed, sneezed, or cleared his throat so much. And that included the tribal elders who visited his father. To Miskaw, the noises were as sacrilegious as the other disruptions of the wake. They also were indicative of the amount of time the man spent indoors. The preacher seldom ventured outside. When he did, it was only to pass from one shelter to another as did almost all other whites.

No Assiniboine had spent a comparable amount of time indoors. Up to the recent annihilation of the buffalo, the tribe had spent almost all its time outdoors. Only in the worst weather or to perform functions that had to be accomplished indoors were they to be found in shelters for any length of time. Miskaw’s people longed to be outside. The whites longed to be inside and paid for it with coughs, sneezes, and phlegm in their throats.

Until recently, his people had so much to do that required they be outside they didn’t have time to be inside if they had wanted. While men had to hunt to bring in the meat, the women had to either render that meat edible or preserve it. Old women frequently were seen arduously turning hides into shelters and clothing, or with the same work-wrecked hands, performing intricate bead and quillwork. When they were away, they were foraging for berries and herbs, or digging for roots. They did not hide from life like the relatively young white women seemed to do, expecting food, shelter, and clothing to be given to them.

When his people performed the Grass Dance, the Sun Dance, the Bear Dance, all kinds of dances for all kinds of purposes: to solidify membership in societies, for religious reasons, or for the pure fun of it they did so outdoors.

Up to the age of ten, Miskaw had spent his time outdoors, on the horse given him upon his induction into the Horse Society. From age seven to ten he had ridden with the Provision Stealers who, like he, belonged to the Horse Society, stealing food and causing mayhem. But from ten until twelve Miskaw had been afoot and bored, like all the other unfortunate Provision Stealers who had lost their mounts. Miskaw wished Wolf Cry hadn’t used his position as master of ceremonies at the first Horse Society dance after his baptism to repossess every youthful members’ horse.

During the last two years Miskaw spent a great deal of time under his mother’s influence. Golden Dawn had pushed him further from the Horse Society and all other manly pursuits. She had steered him into the short robe’s church and into the newly constructed day-school. Because both grandfathers and all his uncles were dead, it looked as if his mother’s dominion would continue, much to his father’s chagrin.

Since it wasn’t a father’s place to educate his son, Half Moon could only prod him a little and still stay within the limits of tradition.

Miskaw shifted his weight. The parflech on his belt swung into his hip, reminding him of its presence. Like the rawhide moccasins other cloth-clad Assiniboines wore, it was an overt sign of noncompliance to the dress code the preacher insisted upon at all functions he oversaw. Covert signs of noncompliance included discreet cosmetics advertising band affiliations.

Miskaw was glad Half Moon had slipped the parfleche on him when Golden Dawn wasn’t looking. It brought back many pleasant memories, reminding him of the wonder he had experienced when it was presented to him at the last Horse Dance. In the heavily fringed pouch were the horses’ ears an old woman had worn on her moccasins which enabled her to somehow leave hoof tracks as she walked. Also in it were the sticks which seemed to have vibrated to music made by eagle whistles and animal hide drums. Taking up the most room were medicinals which, among other properties, were said to make horses gentle. To Miskaw, the heirloom was evidence proving that adults not only possessed magical powers but also cared about their young, cared about him.

Miskaw doubted the short robe would conduct a ceremony as elaborate as a Horse Dance for the sake of the young members of his congregation.

Perhaps that is why my father insisted I wear the parfleche, to get me to compare my people’s religion to the white’s religion, he thought. The short robe would never ask his god to favor me with good health and good luck as medicine men had.

Miskaw couldn’t imagine the short robe saying to him, as Wolf Cry had, I can teach you to develop into a man then set about actually doing so, teaching him the sacred songs of the Horse Society, how to ride a horse, and other skills.

Nor could he imagine Golden Dawn again going to the trouble she had gone through to feast all the wealthy members of the society upon Miskaw’s induction. Miskaw doubted she put stock in the society anymore, or measured wealth by the number of horses a person owned. No one who values horses sells them as readily as she had sold his family’s herd to the buffalo hunters in the last days of the buffalo. Though Half Moon never told him, Miskaw could tell he’d rather have kept the herd than have reaped the small fortune she had made. Miskaw could tell it hurt his father to keep quiet when she had included in her deals the horse, bridle, saddle, and whip given Miskaw in the dance. Such a perversion was sacrilegious, yet his gifts were sold without Half Moon uttering a word of protest, and with the actual blessing of Wolf Cry, the man who had given them to him in the first place.

It was after all this had happened when Miskaw had realized that time and people were changing. Only people who had turned their backs on the past could blithely insult Only-One-Sun, the guardian deity of the Horse Society and deny Miskaw his chance to exercise the prerogatives of his membership. As probably the first member in history to have had given up his gifts before the requisite four years had elapsed, he worried about Only-One-Sun’s vengeance.

It was understandable that he should. Before his sudden personality change, Wolf Cry had devoted most of his instruction as his mentor impressing upon him the importance of following rituals. According to Wolf Cry, there was no such thing as a minor infraction of the rules. Everything was of major importance. His ghastly stories about what had happened to violators were emblazoned in Miskaw’s brain. Yet, only months after his induction; immediately after the last disastrous buffalo hunt, Wolf Cry had made such a complete reversal that he had insisted Miskaw not just loan out his gifts prematurely, but let Golden Dawn sell them for a profit.

The parfleche also reminded Miskaw of the tremendous effort Half Moon had put forth trying to cure Wolf Cry’s terminal illness. Why he had gone to so much trouble puzzled Miskaw. A medicine man can lose more than his reputation by losing a patient. He can lose his life; and to take such a risk for someone who had denounced both Half Moon and his beliefs made little sense…unless Half Moon still had a deep respect for what Wolf Cry had been in the past, when he had been Master of the Buffalo Pound and chief of the Canoe band.

My father must want to remember only what has been, not what is, thought Miskaw, as he ran his fingers across the quillwork on the parfleche.

A prayer the preacher led reinforced Miskaw’s perception of the two antagonistic beliefs present. For as soon as the Christians aired the first phrase of their prayer, the heathens drowned them out with a prayer of their own. Regardless how hard the Christians tried to rise above them, they couldn’t do it.

Why they couldn’t rise above them was under-standable once Miskaw realized that he, like all the other converts to the Cross, could only utter the sounds imprinted in his brain by constant repetition. Neither he nor the rest of the Methodist minister’s congregation knew what their words meant nearly as well as the heathens knew theirs.

The heathens spoke from the heart, the Christians from the head.

Judging from their expressions, the other boys present didn’t suffer nearly as much from the knickerbockers, corduroy pants, and stiff collars they wore than they did by having to repeat the same words they were forced by their mothers to utter each Sunday at church. Not one youthful voice rang out in rich expression. Most of the Provision Stealers disliked what they were saying and wished they were older, so they could be members of the Foxes and say what they wanted.

As the wake wore on, the tedium brought out the hidden characteristics in people. The preacher became irritable, frustrated that he couldn’t hurry things along. Whether Christian or not, every Assiniboine in attendance had more patience than he. He wanted to get the service over and get on to other matters. They wanted to pay their full respects.

Long periods of silence drove the man to initiate eulogies just to preserve his sanity. He came to welcome impromptu eulogies from anybody, even the heathens, anything to break the silence.

Miskaw thought less of him because of it. The prolonged length of the service did not bother Miskaw. He had been raised to regard patience and silence as an indicator of personal strength. All the important men Half Moon had invited inside his lodge had been far more patient and quiet than he had seen the preacher, or any other white, be. He had seen chiefs arrive, smoke, and not utter a word for hours. In fact, he expected an adult to be taciturn and reserved, given to boisterousness in brief, energetic outbursts only when it was acceptable to do so.

Sour Eyes, the notorious medicine man, and Tries Hard, Half Moon’s perennial apprentice, both became nervous and anxious whenever there was a lull in a conversation or no activity. Whereas their impatience was a detriment to them, the same characteristic was not a detriment to the short robe. His congregation still obeyed most of his edicts regardless what bad traits he exhibited.

The same inadequacy was what irked Miskaw about the old men. Their restlessness was unbecoming the grave circumstances of the wake. On the other hand, what they said in their calmer moments was fascinating, for rather than brag about themselves as they usually did, they bragged about Wolf Cry. They unabashedly expressed their affection for him. Because of them, Miskaw realized how honored he was that such a person should have tutored him. Wolf Cry’s contemporaries brought Wolf Cry to life and made Miskaw appreciate all that the deceased had done for him. His many coups and exploits, coupled with his general competence and leadership ability, painted a picture of a great man.

The preacher didn’t know how influential the old men were. He didn’t know Siouzn, nor did he ask Runs Fast to translate for him. It would look as if he cared what they were saying if he did. The prestige he’d lose if the wakers thought he cared what troublemakers thought would be irredeemable. So he continued to ignore them, doing his best to hide his irritation.

He let them play their hand-fashioned woodwinds, whistles, and drums. He let them eat their native foods, sing their songs, and comport themselves as they wished. Only when Miskaw was pushed from the crowd with obvious intentions to place a talisman on the corpse did the preacher register disdain.

Miskaw imploringly looked back at his father. Urged on, he shuffled forward, not daring to look twice at the short robe or his mother. One glance at them had been enough to chill him. Under his breath he cursed Half Moon for slapping the talisman in his hand and shoving him into the limelight.

His resentment about being a pawn in the conflict between Christianity and his people’s religion faded the closer he came to the coffin. His affection for the deceased suppressed personal considerations. Concentrating upon Wolf Cry, he quickly forgot he was being watched. He realized how fitting his gesture was. Wolf Cry had worn the amulet for so long, it wouldn’t be right for him to be put to rest without it.

Spotting a hole at the end of the coffin encouraged him. Knowing his old friend had spent a ghoulish amount of time on his burial preparation (going so far as to design the coffin himself), he doubted such a detail had gotten by him unnoticed, especially since the floral arrangement he had designed partially hid the hole without obstructing it. Putting holes in coffins was a subterfuge used by converts who had been unable to entirely trust the white’s god to properly take card of their souls. Adopting the insurance of making sure his souls could slip out the hole in case he wasn’t lifted off to Heaven on the Day of Judgment proved Wolf Cry was like most other Christians. He too probably had sneaked away after church to worship in the traditional way. It was only proper then that he should take with him to bliss a symbol of his other faith.

I put this on you so the Great Spirit will know you still believe in him, so he will let you walk with him, Miskaw whispered as he prepared to place the amulet on Wolf Cry’s chest.

Pausing to look at the chillingly waxy face, he thought how much better his folds of wrinkles had looked on him. I hope the Great Spirit will change you back, he purposely said aloud.

Another, louder, statement elicited a response from one of the wakers. Briefly turning around, Miskaw saw people rush to a squaw whose arm was red with blood. A second woman knifed off the tip of her own nose. A third bit into her biceps so deeply, she too drew blood. At last Miskaw found out why so many women bore ugly scars.

A swarm of Christians hastened the injured women out of the church, to apply first aid out of sight and hearing.

Miskaw was lucky the women conducted their self-immolation when they did. Otherwise, he would have been the object of derision. He would have been observed falling apart. The way the amulet made an indentation on Wolf Cry’s chest had taken him by surprise. He lost his balance and tried to regain it by applying pressure on the deceased’s chest. His hand squished through to the knotty spine. A yellow fluid oozed out the hole that the vertebrae punctured through the skin. The corpse’s eyes bulged, changing a blank expression into the very essence of horror.

Miskaw recoiled. Death stripped of its euphemisms manifested itself in Wolf Cry’s hollowed-out body and his grotesque face. All the implications inherent in embalming a body for the sake of decorum triggered a helpless rage. Instead of screaming about how people could let Wolf Cry spend eternity without a stomach, filled with a fluid to make the sight and smell of him bearable, he succumbed to a soft, reassuring touch.

He let his mother pull him from the coffin. Absentmindedly, he played with her coat sleeve. Playing with it soothed him. He was a child again, relying upon his mother to know what was best. His numbed insides immobilized him. He needed someone to think for him, buffer him from the cruelties of existence.

He snuggled up to her. No one but her had witnessed his trauma. The service resumed as if nothing amiss had taken place, leaving him dumbfounded, wondering why he should be suffering so while most appeared content, completely at ease paying their respects to a hollowed-out corpse.

Death as represented by Wolf Cry’s popped-out eyes, twisted mouth, and caved-in chest remained etched in his mind to ward off all the glowing words mentioned in his behalf. Wolf Cry was dead, gone. To Miskaw, there was nothing more to be said. Masking the fact, making him look distinguished, look asleep, and talking about him as if he was still alive only made a mockery of the occasion, driving the hurt deeper. The masochists were the only honest people present, as far as Miskaw was concerned. They knew there was nothing to be glad about. The embalming, the cosmetics and the optimistic tone of the wake didn’t fool them. They saw through it all. They were as perceptive as the old men who knew Wolf Cry had joined the short robe’s church because he had felt he had been responsible for the disappearance of the buffalo. They knew he had thought he had done something wrong, offended Old Man Buffalo, and could reconcile his guilt by becoming a Christian.

A male voice lugubriously repeated a tired aphorism in Miskaw’s ear. The words grated on him.

Why doesn’t the nice boy listen to our Lord’s harmonies? asked the preacher in reference to the psalms that were being chanted. His psalms answer all needs.

Do they say how to give Wolf Cry his stomach back? Miskaw asked, using his limited school training to comprehend and to respond to what the man said. Do they tell how to give him his face back, make him alive? Make people see the truth? he shouted, insensitive to the volume of his voice, the tightening of his mother’s hug.

The nice boy knows too much about Scripture to really believe what he is saying, the cleric intoned. Show everyone what a wise, fine boy you are and join the rest in thanksgiving."

Not everyone is giving thanks. The women who cut themselves are not giving thanks. They knew. They are honest, he bitterly replied.

Blessed are the true believers, for Heaven’s gold is eternally theirs. Our Lord made it so for those who had given themselves unto Him in life. Emulate Wolf Cry’s piety, follow the teachings in Matthew and in Leviticus like he did. Obey God’s law and thank our Lord for our being blessed with Wolf Cry’s presence.

Wolf Cry is gone!

By proving God’s glory through his devotion, Wolf Cry earned his place in Heaven. His name is in the Book of Life. Be happy. Wolf Cry is now happy. He had passed his test.

Miskaw sensed people wanted him to be quiet to preserve the sanctity of the service. He felt too alone and misunderstood to continue to be contrary.

An intimidating adult world paused to let him repent.

Above him towered the smug minister, ready to assail him with more sayings should he rechallenge his authority. From each side and from behind him other adults glowered at him, equally ready to silence him should he continue arguing.

Arms which moments ago were alive with expression hung flaccidly down his sides. Miskaw’s slumped shoulders stayed slumped as the preacher patted his head and his mother swayed him in time with an elegy the Christians began singing.

The mellifluous words were so lilting he could mouth them without thinking, conform without having to force himself. He swayed as his mother swayed, said what his mother said and as he did, the congregation thought he had given up his rebellion.

While words which had no meaning left his mouth, new words entered his ears. A hymn his mother was whispering consumed him; its rhythms moved him as he had never had been moved before, causing him to once again lose touch with himself. But this time the reason for it came from without, not within, and was good, not bad.

It mingled his emotions. It was melancholy and optimistic, depressing, yet elevating. It didn’t matter that, separately, the words were unintelligible. Coupled with the melody, they fashioned a language of their own, a language which was incomprehensible to someone as young as he, one which would take time and experience to understand.

It didn’t matter that the precise meaning was beyond him. The precise meaning could wait. It was enough for Miskaw to know that something so sublime existed, something so wondrous and fascinating. That it originated from his mother made it all the more memorable.

Unlike with his rage, he did not despair that no one shared his feelings. Bloated with emotion, he did not have room to despair. His perception of the world had changed too drastically to let what bothered him before his mother’s serenade affect him.

A fog settled in his brain, smothering his anger, stifling his antagonism toward the preacher. Outwardly, he could renew his mindless mouthings of liturgies, while inwardly pray Wolf Cry would meet the Blue Horse, the animal the Great Spirit had bequeathed to each deceased member of the Horse Society, so they could be prosperous for eternity.

The actions of two youths pierced the fog in his brain. Black Hair, the unconventional girl who could out-run, out-ride, and out-hunt any boy, who was more disruptive in day-school than the Foxes, irritated Miskaw by nodding her approval of the scene he had made. On the other hand, after she turned away, Flying Arrow complimented him for controlling himself.

Because of him, Miskaw beamed. A compliment from Flying Arrow was something to be proud about. For rather than being a freak like Black Hair, he was a pantheon, a hero young braves admired. Only twenty-years-old, he, nevertheless was a member of the Society of Police, the most prestigious society of them all, the society which had historically policed the tribe through famine, drought, defeat, and disease and had kept it intact. With superiority in all the manly arts a prerequisite for induction and an unimpeachable character a standard for continued membership, Flying Arrow was indeed special. To have been recruited at such a young age made him all the more special.

His approval was tantamount to a spiritual blessing, and rendered the act of composing himself nobler than the act of rebellion.

If not for an uncalled for push from behind, Miskaw would have remained elated. Knowing whom it was, he did not confront his attacker. He knew it was the bully, Little Man, the chief of the Foxes, making his life as unpleasant as possible as usual. As had happened before, by not joining the issue he was not bothered any further.

CHAPTER TWO

Get up, get out of your robes. You want to sleep all day? Want to be left behind by war parties? Hunting parties? What if an enemy attacks us? Will you sleep through it? Half Moon yelled as he squirted his son with water from a rawhide paunch. Miskaw squirmed away. I paid Wolf Cry a ransom to name you. I bought your way into the Provision Stealers and the Horse Society so you can go to the white’s school to learn to sleep all day?

Miskaw crept close to Golden Dawn. She sheltered him from his father’s wrath. When Half Moon cooled off Miskaw hurried back to his drenched robes, feeling ashamed of himself for seeking his mother’s aid. He knew his father’s complaints about his laziness smacked of the truth.

A pungent odor wafted into Miskaw’s nose, and into his brain. The musty smell made him conscious of the different odors he had smelled when he was in buildings occupied by whites. The smell of lumber and iron permeated structures occupied by whites. They were furnished by shellacked hardwood, polished metal fixtures, and ceramic knickknacks, all kept scrupulously clean. It was no mystery why they smelled different.

Half Moon’s aging rawhide and softwood belongings gave the lodge its musty smell. Cords once used as bridles, a leather saddle, a paunch for water, horns for spoons, wooden bowls, along with the likes of prominently displayed knobberry lances, wooden war clubs, axes, tomahawks, stone mallets, bows, and arrows contributed to the smell. So did the quilted moose-leather jacket, the cumbersome bullboat, and the items hanging from the walls: the worn buffalo robes which stopped winds which tried to sneak through cracks in the wall and the same buffalo head Wolf Cry used to smoke to as part of this supplication to Old Man Buffalo. Everything Half Moon had on display was old and musty.

Most everything owned by Golden Dawn was new, manufactured by the whites. None of them could neutralize the musty smell because they were not large or on display, exposed to air currents. Large manufactured goods need permanent homes. Stoves and beds and the like were too big, too heavy. They would have been contrary to the impermanence Half Moon, as the family’s head, sought. He needed to feel free to roam.

Impermanence was manifested everywhere in the lodge: the dirt floor, the easily transportable willow backrests, and the absence of shelves, of anything large and overly cumbersome including the usual travois and dogs. The family was tied to the past, when criers called for mass movement on a moment’s notice.

They had not moved from their present location for six years.

A predisposition for wandering also was evident by how long Half Moon wore the same clothes. Like most his age, he changed clothes only for specific events, making sure he cut his finest figure in public. Only his family saw him in soiled clothing.

Regular contacts with the whites, whether at the Methodist church or at day-school, had forced the rest of the family to learn the rudiments of personal hygiene.

The family was changing its habits. The dried grass arrows Miskaw once used to shoot mice may have been stored next to Half Moon’s magical Fool’s Dance mask, but so were two writing tablets he was supposed to practice on for school. Also conspicuous were Miskaw’s extra set of pantaloons, shirts, hats, and Com boots, as well as his sister’s gingham and cotton wearing apparel. On the sinew suspended from the roof were Miskaw’s and White Dove’s baby bags, Half Moon’s gourd rattle, and Golden Dawn’s pots, pans, and her iron griddle.

One habit that wouldn’t change was that of constructing their habitats and arranging their possessions in a circle. Repeated exposure to the way whites construct and decorate made Miskaw aware of how differently they think.

Whites arrange their furnishings so that the eye is compelled to some commanding structure: a dais at school, a podium at church, something which separates a figure of authority from people not in authority. Whites organize things like the soldiers Miskaw had heard about: in chains of command, with superiors dressed, housed, and positioned at gatherings in such a way to promote servility from their underlings.

His people did not build shelters to funnel attention to a position reserved for leaders. The shelters his people built were circular, with all components equal. No fixture, not even Half Moon’s partitioned-off altar attracted attention in Miskaw’s lodge. The circular building symbolized the equality inherent in Assiniboine society. Miskaw knew that the present chief: The Male, was no more, and could never be more, than a titular head, regardless what the white’s thought. His voice was not listened to more than anyone else’s whenever the Indian Council was in session. And should he exhibit unbecoming traits, someone else would sit in his place around the council fires.

The circle represented the unbroken unity and cohesion of the Assiniboine nation. It represented the nation’s strength. A circle also resembled the number zero, which, unhappily for Miskaw, represented the amount of respect Half Moon displayed toward him once he began talking again.

Not one member of the Provision Stealers or the Horse Society is worth of receiving my medicine bundle, he groused. "They are lazy, and are disrespectful toward the grey hairs, those whose advice and whose blessings they should seek.

Grey hairs have learned the secret how to get their personal gods to watch out for them. They have learned how to talk with the gods. Yet, who among the two societies cares? You know why there are no more buffalo? No one knows how to call for Old Man Buffalo now that Wolf Cry is gone. You could have learned, I am sure; but you didn’t. You didn’t even show interest to learn. I only hope Little Man learned when he was sponsored by Wolf Cry. Little Man is our only hope. He is the only young brave who listens to the grey hairs. He knew how lucky he was to have Wolf Cry as a sponsor when he was very young. Someday buffalo will come out of the cave in the West because Little Man will have called them.

Once again Half Moon lapsed into a silence Miskaw knew better than to interrupt.

As before, Golden Dawn did not interject her opinion. She seldom made her presence known during her husband’s tirades. Although willing to comfort Miskaw when he sought aid against him, she seldom offered help. Instead, by quietly performing a typical domestic task, she provided a stabilizing influence that softened the brittle silence.

She continued braiding the nettle fibers of a willow into the rope she had been working on since before the wake. Two large piles of woody parts she previously had separated from the fibers testified to her industry. Her example soon turned Half Moon’s attention from Miskaw to his own pet project: fashioning arrows the old fashioned way, using two grooved stones to smooth the shafts.

Old-time customs still predominated despite the family’s more frequent contact with the whites. They would continue to do so until that influence increased. Someday Golden Dawn will have been taught to knit and Half Moon will feel comfortable letting her.

As it was, modern implements were used to facilitate ancient arts. Animal fat and brains may still have been used to turn rawhide into leather, but they came to a boil inside a big iron pot, not in an animal paunch. Until good boots were available, the rawhide suspended above the pot would continue to be tanned by smoke into the soles of moccasins. It was hard for Miskaw to imagine the deteriorating adzes, beaming tools, horn hoes, and awls that his family owned being put to use now that trade goods performed their functions better. Half Moon’s grooved stones would go once he possessed a carpenter’s plane, and when it also became available, hemp would replace nettle fibers and the resulting ropes would be much more durable.

With eyes exposed to the influence of white customs and institutions, Miskaw scrutinized his parents, their living condition, and their habits far more closely than they gave him credit. He noticed how well Half Moon fitted into his surroundings, how his dirty, but still regal, decorated buckskins matched the decorated skins along the wall. His father belonged in the lodge as much as the implements and artifacts of his mysterious trade.

Half Moon personified the culture the lodge represented, Golden Dawn was a parody of it. Miskaw was uncomfortable looking at her. Used to cotton and cloth, she cringed inside the stiff robe she obviously had put on to please her husband. Her ruse was transparent. Miskaw could see she was ill at ease sitting on her calves, like an Indian wife should. She wanted the chairs and tables, fine clothes, fine linen, the things the white women at the agency possessed.

As if to prove his point, Golden Dawn winced at the rainbow colors reflected off spots of grease and looked perturbed when Half Moon began talking about the past. The smile which sprung up on her face in response to a glance by her husband fooled Half Moon, not Miskaw.

Miskaw wondered why she conducted such a charade. In the past she freely had advised Half Moon. Whether he had agreed with her or not he still had respected her opinion, and had made a point to weigh it seriously. Miskaw had liked her honesty. Her present behavior troubled him.

It also bothered his sister; White Dove, although not to the degree it troubled Miskaw. She wasn’t old enough to remember how thoroughly Indian her mother once had been, how completely honest. She knew her mother once had spent a good deal of time performing her duties as a prominent medicine man’s wife, entertaining visitors and sitting beside her husband at all public functions. But Miskaw recalled more. Whereas White Dove remembered the roles she had performed, Miskaw knew her before she just had gone through the motions, when she had taken a terrific delight in her duties. Her glee whenever Half Moon cured a very sick patient or prophesied correctly was very endearing. She used to embarrass her husband by all the bragging she did on his behalf.

Recollections of the feasts Miskaw’s parents had put on were bathed in fondness in no small measure to the energy Golden Dawn had invested in them. She was quite different then, when her husband was adding to his autobiographical picture book at many times the pace he was presently adding to it and she was still engraving symbols on her tools, indicating every teepee and garment she produced.

The longer they had remained on the reservation, the more conniving she became. The disappearance of the buffalo and the starvation at Wolf Point had hurried her personality change along. Although Half Moon’s picture book was still on prominent display, the tools touting her accomplishments were out of sight.

Yet, regardless how inscrutable she may have been, Miskaw looked to her for guidance. He had to, since the relatives who would have guided him at this stage in his life were said to have died during the smallpox epidemic.

She was his only tutor. Since her expertise was domestic in nature, Miskaw’s feminine skills flourished at the expense of manly skills. He could cook better than he could ride, and knew more about working with hides than about hunting or tracking. He did not chafe at his misfortune, however. The memory of the years he had spent on horseback was still fresh in his mind.

Certain that his present circumstance was only temporary, he took pride in what he did, maintained an optimistic frame of mind.

It was his job to fix supper. Adding green coffee, baking powder, salt, and beans to a side of antelope Half moon had received as payment for his services to the turnips, roseberries, and buffalo berries Golden Dawn had picked, he came up with a tasty and nutritious dish. He handled the scarce provender and firewood with tremendous care. Much of the available wood had gone into the construction of buildings: government buildings, churches, and prototype cabins for the Indians. Peoples Creek was almost denuded of trees. Beaver Creek and the Milk River weren’t, but they were dozens of miles away. Therefore, to let a faggot become ash without putting all its heat to use was criminal. Miskaw was like a bitch protecting her puppies when it came to protecting the fires he built. He took pride in shouldering responsibility.

Mother, please. Let me do it, Miskaw whined as she grasped the thong suspending the clothing pot from the tripod.

Hold on to its legs, was her response.

Miskaw kept an exaggerated wince on his face as he complied. He exaggerated his body movements and tightly gripped the wood. His mother didn’t pay attention.

Keep holding on to the legs, she barked as she lifted the eye of the thong off the hook on the apex of the tripod. I don’t need help, she scolded when he made movements to help her lower the pot to the ground.

She, however, lent an unwelcome hand as he lifted the food pot in place. A misstep taken to avoid her caused him to kick dirt on to the fire. It sputtered. Golden Dawn ordered him to rescue it. As if he wouldn’t have done so on his own.

Do not touch the fire, growled Half Moon. It is Golden Dawn’s worry.

Golden Dawn hesitated. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

I do not want Miskaw making fires, making meals. They are woman’s work, not a brave’s work. Miskaw will become like the berdeche of the Crow. The young are all becoming like the berdeches of the Crow. So saying, he quieted down, and by all appearances felt satisfied he had made his point.

Quiescence soon returned. Golden Dawn motioned Miskaw to take care of the fire.

Pitching in with a frenzy, his hands now moving this way, now that way, blurring exactly how he rescued the endangered flames, he acted as if by hurrying Half Moon would not notice. Miskaw made sure that once the fire reached a certain intensity, it remained that way throughout the entire preparation of the meal.

Golden Dawn only helped Miskaw bake biscuits. From scraping off the mold from the can of pork and beans to frying the meat, he did everything else. He even apportioned out the cod-liver-oil that helped the meal go down.

His pace didn’t slacken after the meal. Protected from his father’s wrath by his mother, he quickly buried the cinders and used what was still burnable for the clothing pot Golden Dawn helped him reposition. A second outburst by Half Moon came as a complete surprise.

"Only cooking a brave should do is over fire holes dug in prairie during hunts. Other than that a brave isn’t a brave if he cooks. He is a woman.

A brave is a woman if the meat his family eats does not come from his own hands. A brave is worse than a woman if he is given the food his family eats. Dogs wait to be given whatever is decided they eat. We no better than dogs. We are dogs.

His anger was not going to explode into violence. Half Moon was not violent. No hitting stick was ever to be found in his shelters. Golden Dawn had never suffered the ignominy of bruises other women had borne in profusion since the removal of the tribe to the reservation. Golden Dawn was above the nagging which brought on such abuse. She knew how to keep domestic tranquillity. She knew how to handle her husband, and once again proved just that by coyly pampering his ego, saying things which reminded him of her unending admiration of him.

He cooled down. Miskaw and White Dove diligently applied themselves to cleaning up, doing chores they could do only when Half Moon was in a good mood. Cleaning up was a bitter reminder of his sedentary lifestyle.

Water thrown upon the fire snaked down rivulets which already had been scoured into the hardpan floor. They eventually disappeared into the more porous ground outside. Burned firewood wound up in the shallow holes dug to hide crushed cans and miscellaneous garbage. The energy Miskaw applied to tidying up spoke eloquently about how well his indoctrination to the white’s way of thinking was progressing. He could not stand living in a trash pile. Half Moon’s ability to do so cast doubt upon all he said and did. It pointed to the fact he was very different from Miskaw. Strange people do odd things. Miskaw reflected. Maybe he was making up stories about the former abundance of game. Because he was so respected by his people they too might be strange. Maybe all adults were strange, what they said was unsound. Perhaps the giant herds of buffalo he had seen hunters ride off after never existed. Maybe the hunters had exchanged arrows and bullets for some other kind of meat from a trader and did not kill anything at all. Miskaw did not know. Having never seen a buffalo up close how could he know the meat they returned with was buffalo meat; the hides, buffalo hides?

Miskaw didn’t know who or what to believe. If he couldn’t bring himself to unequivocally accept the stories about the giant herds then how could he believe in the more exotic occurrences he had been told about? How could he believe in the era when buffaloes impounded themselves in surrounds, when game sought out hunters, the mole had good eyesight, the crow was white, and the seasons were different, when there were no seasons? Could all Wolf Cry told him about his people have been a lie? Should he instead believe Moses parted the Red Sea like the short robe had said? Were Assiniboines and their strange beliefs right? Or were the whites with their equally strange beliefs right?

The longer he remained in close proximity with his parents, the less respect he had for them. How could people who smelled bad and puttered with trifles, Golden Dawn with her rope and porcupine quill designs and Half Moon with his arrows and the arcana of his profession, be taken seriously? They did not read. They could not read. And the drawings in Half Moon’s picture book were infantile. He even extended a line from a picture of a half moon to a childish likeness of himself whenever he referred to himself on paper.

Whites may cough and sneeze, but they always dressed well and were clean. They could read, write, do arithmetic…all the skills Miskaw was recently introduced to and had elevated above the skills possessed by his people. Everyone he knew could ride, hunt, trap, fish, and live off the land. The sheer number of people who could do these things dimmed their luster. Of course, Miskaw assumed all the whites who were facile with words and numbers, who could paint reasonable likeness of persons, build sturdy two-level buildings, and who had invented photographs had long since mastered everything people who think spirits inhabited cameras could possibly have.

Also, Miskaw was too close to his parents to place them on the pedestal he placed whites. That night, he stayed up listening to his parents snore. The next day he heard them arise making noises as irritating as their lip smacking proved to be during their morning meal. Their puffy faces and bad breath added to his unfavorable opinion of them. He never had seen whites except at their best.

And his parents were probably the most influential couple in the entire nation!

Miskaw did not air his complaints. Doing so would only irritate his father to a point where Golden Dawn might not be able to settle him down. She barely was able to contain the several tirades he did fly into.

But with Wolf Cry’s funeral, the annual migration to the agency for rations, and the reopening of day-school all imminent, Miskaw figured he could survive a short time dealing with Half Moon without it hurting too much.

Miskaw knew from experience that as long as he had something to look forward to, he could survive the most unbearable circumstances, like the terrible starvation several winters ago. Granted, as the son of a well-paid medicine man, he hadn’t suffered as most. But if not for the fair promised his people once supplies finally made it up the Missouri, he would have gone mad. Anticipation of the fairs each Christian denomination put on, the Sun Dances, lesser dances, and the annual dispensation of rations provided the diversions which made life bearable.

Dwelling on the future, Miskaw was not paying much attention when, toward evening, after a day filled with bickering and ill feelings, Half Moon erupted one more time.

White Dove will not wear at the agency what she wore at the wake. She leaves everything gingham, cotton, and calico home. She will wear only what her grandmother wore to tribal functions, he declared.

She is going to have to get used to such fabrics from now on," rejoined Golden Dawn, in an exasperated, but firm voice.

If she does get used to them, she might put on something with smallpox on it. I don’t want her to get used to clothes the whites wear. We lost many to smallpox because they put on clothes whites gave them. I do not want to lose my daughter.

Whites have no reason to purposely do that again, if they did that in the first place, Golden Dawn replied.

That is because they have us as they want us. They don’t need to put smallpox on clothes now. All they need to do now is make people like White Dove into someone I do not know, send her to school far away so she can change into someone different. First she becomes used to wearing different clothes then she becomes used to thinking differently and becomes someone I don’t know.

She goes to boarding school to become someone who will prosper. One does not fight swarms of insects; one appeases gods who cause the insects to swarm. Whatever the gods then say to do you do.

Like work-dogs hitched to travois.

Not like work-dogs hitched to travois. Dogs are always dogs. We will not always be as we are now. Our gods will someday recover, when they figure how to outsmart the white’s god. But until then, we must do what the whites want us to do."

"So when she returns from boarding school, White Dove marries a white who will live like other squaw-men: better than we can. And who will go through wives like a warrior goes through horses. Squaw men get reservation land and spotted buffalo to put on it. They hire Indians to work for them. We lose our daughter, gain no son, and have no way to pass on family possessions.

"White Dove never will learn the skills a woman needs. She might never learn where to pitch teepees, or how to make them. She might never learn to work animal hides. Maybe she can cook a simple meal, but when will she learn to stretch one meal into many meals so that no one she cooks for loses his strength? Miskaw probably can cook better than she.

If all young women do as she, who will know how to butcher the buffalo when they return to the plains, make use of the animal, head to tail? What will happen to us if all young women go to boarding schools and marry squaw men? Braves pick berries? Warriors grow food? Cook? Build lodges? Make clothes? Braves become squaws and squaws become white women, become like the Major’s wife. Only Crows make worse noises than that woman does. Whites turn young women into crows and make it so warriors have to do the cooking.

White Dove slunk to her brother’s side, and cuddled as close as she had when she first found out she was going to boarding school. Placing a reassuring arm on her shoulder, Miskaw pulled her towards him and whispered in her ear: I will run to wherever you are and whenever you need help. I will make sure you are happy always. Do not worry.

I will not worry. I am lucky to have you as my brother.

White Dove will prosper as long as Miskaw is alive.

A calm reply by Golden Dawn to Half Moon snapped their attention back to their parents’ quarrel.

"You are right my husband. You have protected, fed, and brought many honors to our people. The wisdom of your counsel and the wonders of your magic have been borne out by events time after time. The gods smiled on me the day you piled your belongings outside my parents’ lodge. Your Antelope Society bundle means more to me than my White Buffalo Cow bundle because the god who told you how to be worthy of the bundle, told you to select me as your wife. You admirably use the great powers of perception given you. You see deeper into things than we ordinary people can. Therefore, it is not your fault you overlook facts we unremarkable beings can see.

What girls will learn by associating with the whites can only help us. The same is true with the boys. Before a raid you learn all you can about your enemies. What held true against the Crow, Blackfeet, Piegan, Sioux, Cheyenne, and Gros Ventres holds equally true against the whites. Do not despair. Notice how our gods have seen to it that the whites among us are unarmed. There hasn’t been a soldier near us for many winters.

After saying all this, Golden Dawn completely relaxed. Her placidity ensured Half Moon she wasn’t about to attack his response, whatever it may be. He could again complain boys would lose their genitals if they learned feminine skills, or that his people’s identity was being endangered by the disrespect young people were taught to have toward their elders and she’d let it pass. She wouldn’t press him about anything he said, whether rational or irrational. He could take until morning to say it if he so desired.

Aware of his pride, she averted her eyes as he fumbled for a retort, and opened them big with admiration when he did puff-up to have another say.

A whir of motion cut him short. Inside the lodge stepped two prominent elders. From the designs on their buckskins, they belonged to the Girl’s Band at Fort Peck. From the ermine and weasel fringes on their sleeves; coyote tails on their moccasins; and trimmed coup feathers attached to their headbands, they were hunters and warriors of note.

Knowing adults of any repute regard themselves so highly that introductions were insulting, Miskaw stiffened with tension. He wished all visitors practiced the etiquette of whites. It would have been so much simpler if they did. No egos would be jeopardized. His father would have been treated to the same respect he eventually received when the duo finally spoke up if they had greeted him with hearty salutations and firm handshakes.

The praise the visitors lavished upon Half Moon once they did humble themselves was embarrassing. Miskaw had never seen whites fawn over one another. He could not imagine them doing so, and was certain they had more decorous method of showing respect.

He doubted a white of status comparable to the keeper of the most important medicine bundle in the tribe ever was subjected to the flattery Half Moon experienced. Nor could he believe a white leader could be as credulous as Half Moon, believing that his visitors’ respect was for him, not for his medicine.

The two adults mimicked all other visitors who had gone before them. Not that Miskaw saw all that went on. He had to surmise a lot. His father always erected partitions whenever he used his altar. Even Golden Dawn was not allowed to see what took place on the other side. Yet what transpired was no mystery. The words spoken and the noises made were very audible and predictable. Half Moon importuned the same gods the same way, with the same excitement, regardless whether he was curing the sick, interpreting dreams, divining where lost articles were, predicting the future, or blessing an expedition. The entire family understood why, when the visitors were led away, that their eyes were glassy and their skin pallid, and despite having paid for the service with a handful of coins, left assured they had gotten a bargain. Half Moon was an excellent medicine man.

As usual, the visit elevated Half Moon’s spirits above what had been troubling him before he was interrupted. The glow that came over him as he fingered the coins illuminated the room.

You are magnificent, my husband, said Golden Dawn. Your name and your personal gods will live forever among our people. The sons and daughters of the warriors who worship here will spread their fathers’ respect for you deep into the white’s country when they go to boarding school. Whites you will never see will eventually carry the word about you to the ends of the world. The more children who go to boarding schools, the faster the knowledge about you will spread.

It is right that knowledge of my gods should travel afar.

Then it would be wise to let White Dove go away.

I will go to Prayer Mountain when we travel to the agency for rations.

End of discussion.

Later, reflecting upon the conversations, Miskaw could not believe his father was so easy to manipulate. Miskaw could see through his mother’s ruse whereas his father could not. Suspecting his father was addled, he again wondered if all the adults who came to see him weren’t quite right either.

Miskaw could not see why he should respect such people. Their being distinguished only cast doubt upon their titles. They did not seem to deserve the etiquette he had to practice toward them. He could not see why he shouldn’t talk back if the situation warranted, walk in front of them if it was convenient to do so, initiate conversations, greet them…in general, comport himself as an equal to them. The awe he had held for them, now that he had been influenced by the whites, was tarnished. They represented a past which no longer existed.

Their conduct and beliefs seemed as quaint to him as did the taboos and beliefs he had held as writ when he was a child. All the phantasmagoria of crazy dogs; giants who stuff bad children into bags; witches and ghosts; now that he had thought about them, had been created to trick him into being good. If he still needed them to be good, something would be wrong with him. He no longer needed his bed smeared with grease and charcoal or filled with phoebe nests to prevent sleepwalking or bedwetting. Drawings of evil spirits did not hold the terror they once did.

He had grown up. He had changed. And as he did, so had the circumstances of his people. Yet, it seemed only he and his mother were aware of the change. They saw how the old fashioned customs of adulthood were as obsolete as the ancient customs of childhood.

Miskaw could not take his father’s injunctions about the grey hairs seriously. He could not blindly obey people whose ignorance and backwardness was obvious.

He welcomed the reopening of day-school. His insatiable curiosity about the whites could be satisfied there. He also wanted an end to the boredom. The day-school