Flying with the Eagle, Racing the Great Bear Read online

  That was how it began, Walks Slow thought, with the new day. It seemed as if he could see the faintest glimmer of light from around the edges of the basket door. Suddenly the basket was snatched away from the door, and men came into the house. They grabbed him by the arms and feet and threw him out the door. In the early light of the new day, Walks Slow could see a few other boys outside. The men guided them from one house to another and then led them out of the village to the next settlement. By the end of the day, they had gathered boys from the camps all around. The twenty-four boys had been led through the woods. And now, as evening came, they were placed in front of the new iwl-han that had been built for this special occasion.

  Walks Slow sat close to the door of the new dance house. He had been one of the first boys taken that morning and he had eaten nothing all day, but he was not hungry. Excitement filled his stomach. He was waiting for the drum. He knew it would be coming, for a handful of days ago, he had found the place where the men were building that drum. He had smelled the smoke and followed it through the hills until he heard the singing and looked down through the bushes to the place where the men were hollowing out the log. “Helegadadie hiye, helegadadie hiye” came the drum-beat song.

  Then, from the dusk to the north of the dance house, he heard it coming. As the men carried the log, now painted the black that showed it to be a true drum, they sang that song, “Helegadadie hiye.” As they reached the entrance, they swung the end of the drum in through the wood hole and then swung it out. Again and again they swung the drum, until on the fourth sacred time they actually brought it into the dance house. Soon, Walks Slow could hear the sound of the men’s feet dancing on the drum, and he knew it was in its place over the ditch in the back of the house.

  As the drum became silent, figures came out of the darkness and picked up Walks Slow, carrying him toward the door. They swung him four times and then released him to be caught by other hands inside. He blinked his eyes as he was seated, but he could see nothing. He could sense people standing about him and knew they must be the Hulk’ilal, the Ghosts.

  Walks Slow trembled at the thought of their presence, recalling how Taikomol had put together the first Hulk’ilal-woknam. He asked his friend and helper Coyote to arrange the first ceremony, but Coyote did it wrong. Instead of having people wear costumes and play the part of the ghosts, Coyote brought in real ghosts. As a result, all of the people watching the ceremony or taking part in it died. Taikomol had to make new people. This time he arranged the ceremony himself instead of letting Coyote do it.

  Walks Slow felt people moving about him in the dark. Then everything was still. All of the boys were now in their places in the dance house. Suddenly the fire burst up in the center of the house as the drum began to sound and the singing of “Helina heluili, helina heluli, helina heluli, helina heluli” began. Soon another noise split the air—the sound of men shaking their throats with their fingers as they shouted:

  YUWWUWUWUWUW

  Walks Slow wanted to jump up and run, but he could not. The ghosts were all around him and the other boys. They looked much like certain older men he knew well. But they were painted black and white in broad horizontal stripes. Their hair was not like human hair—it was as thick and stringy as maple bark. Their heads were circled by a wreath of black oak and manzanita leaves, their faces puffed out as a man’s face would be if he stuffed his cheeks with grass. Something like a long, springy twig grew from the center of each Hulk’ilal’s face, bent from the nostrils to the lower lip.

  A human voice came from near the drum, speaking to the ghosts. “Where do you come from? Why are you here, saying nothing?”

  Then the leaders of the ghosts hopped forward, twisting their arms back and forth. “We have come to see how you do this. We were sent by the One above. We came to see this fire, this drum, and the other things you are doing. We will not be here long.”

  Food was brought out, and it was given to the boys as they sat. Some, like Walks Slow, tried to refuse the food, but an older man who Walks Slow recognized as his mother’s brother bent low and said to him, “This is the last food you will have for four days. Eat it while you can.”

  The Hulk’ilal then began to dance on the drum. One after another, each ghost leaped on the drum four times.

  “Heye,” shouted each ghost as he jumped.

  “Yoho, yoho,” the men in the dance house answered back.

  The fire was built up even more, and it grew hotter. Everyone’s body and face were beaded with sweat. All through the night the Hulk’ilal danced, and Walks Slow found himself not knowing if he was awake or asleep. It was a dance that would bring the people plenty to eat in the years to come. There would be deer and acorns and all other foods. At times more older men came into the house, and the dance-house leader greeted them, shaking his cocoon rattle. One of the old men was the father of Walks Slow’s father.

  A dance began and the boys were made to join in, and Walks Slow’s grandfather danced behind him, keeping him close to the fire as they circled it, so that he would sweat even more. The dance leader grabbed a burning log from the fire and went about the circle, blowing sparks from it onto the boys.

  “Yu’u, yu’u,” Walks Slow’s grandfather whispered in his ear.

  Some shrank back, but Walks Slow held out his arms, crying the courage sounds his grandfather had reminded him of, “Yu’u, yu’u,” even as the sparks landed on his wrists and forearms.

  So it went on through that night and into the next day. They danced and sweated and sat and listened to the words and songs inside the dance house. Soon, there was no longer any awareness of day or night, or of any world other than that inside the dance house.

  At last it was noon on the fourth day. Walks Slow and the other boys lay back as they had been told, their eyes closed, holding their breath as if they were dead. They were about to be born again. Walks Slow felt himself being lifted up, carried, and swung back and forth again and again and again. Suddenly he went flying through the air. He felt as if he were floating, as Taikomol must have floated before there was earth on which to walk. Then hands and arms caught him, and he opened his eyes. His parents and his grandfather and his aunt and uncle were holding him. They had caught him, just as the other boys were now being caught by their relatives as they were thrown out through the door of the dance house. The unfamiliar light of day made Walks Slow blink his eyes, but he laughed and his relatives laughed with him. He had been thrown out into manhood.

  The Northwest

  The stories that represent rite-of-passage experiences from the northwestern part of the American continent include tales from the buffalo-hunting peoples of the plains, the Cheyenne and Lakota, who maintained a chivalric code of honor in their lives as hunters and warriors; the people of the northern Pacific coast, where the lives and the stories of the people always focused on the sea; and the people of the northern coast of Alaska, where one of the most unforgiving climates in the world has bred a people who have learned every way to find the edge that will ensure their survival.

  There are some elements in the stories from the plains that will be familiar by now. There is the vision quest in “The Light-Haired Boy,” the true story of a strange Lakota boy who wished to help his people by gaining power through fasting. In the Cheyenne tale “Star Boy,” there is a mythic hero who has inherited power from his father, a sky-being, and uses it to kill the monsters that threaten his human relatives.

  The two stories from the far northwest and the farthest north have some different events in them. In the Tlingit tale “Salmon Boy,” the hero not only goes down to an underwater world, as the chief’s son does in the Creek story of the tie-snakes, but he is actually transformed into a salmon himself. This story teaches respect for the fish that are the source of life for his people, and it also makes clear how close the worlds of humans and nonhumans are in the eyes of the Tlingit.

  The
true story “Tommy’s Whale” was told to me seven years ago in Alaska by the man who was that boy (though his name has been changed in my telling). It may require some further introduction, especially since it is about the hunting of a great member of an endangered species. As I hope this story makes clear, the Inupiaq have great respect and even love for the whale. As the Inupiaq poet Fred Bigjim puts it, “Bowhead whale, you give us our culture.”

  At one time, the bowhead whale was almost wiped out, but it was not the Inupiaq who did that killing. They never took more than they needed to live. Now the number of bowhead has increased significantly. Thousands of whales again swim beneath the ice of the Bering Sea.

  A few years ago, it was agreed by the International Whaling Congress, in close consultation with the Inupiaq Whaling Association, that the Inupiaq could hunt the bowhead whale again, but only under the strictest of controls. Each of a few villages is allowed to strike no more than three whales each year. As my friend who allowed me to tell his story said, “Even now, though we hunt the great whale, we do so with respect. We love the whale, and in return for our love it gives itself to us.”

  The Light-Haired Boy

  Lakota

  It was the year 1841 and the time of the Moon of Falling Leaves. There, in the heart of the Paha Sapa, the sacred Black Hills, a boy was born. His father was Tashunka Witco, a holy man of the Oglala, one of the bands of the Lakota Nation. His mother was a member of the Brule Nation. Because this boy’s hair was sandy brown, lighter, thinner, and curlier than any other Lakota boy’s, he was soon given the nickname Curly.

  As the seasons passed, the light-haired boy named Curly grew, but he did not grow as quickly as the other boys his age. He was strong and wiry, but he would never be tall. His hair and skin remained lighter than those of the other boys. They were so light that some of the Wasichu, those pale new people who liked to take the best of everything, sometimes thought he was one of them, a white boy who had been taken captive and adopted.

  By the time Curly reached his thirteenth year, no one questioned that he was a real Lakota. He had killed a buffalo from horseback with his bow and arrows. He had been the first to ride a wild horse caught by his father. In fact, since he had ridden and been given that horse, his father and his father’s best friend, a warrior named High Backbone, had a different name for the boy. They called him His Horse on Sight. But Curly was still the name spoken most often in camp.

  Around the time Curly first learned to ride the wild horse, a meeting was held that would change the lives of many Lakota forever. It was August of 1854, in the Moon of Wild Plums. There was trouble between the Wasichu and the Lakota. A cow belonging to a settler had wandered into a Lakota camp circle. When it ran into his teepee, a man named High Forehead shot that cow. Then he butchered it and shared it with the people. After all, the promised government food rations were long overdue. It was only fair they should eat a cow that had volunteered itself in this way.

  The matter should have been easy to solve, for though they joked about it, the Lakota were ready to pay for the cow. But that was not enough for the young warrior chief at the fort. He demanded of the Minneconjou band that Conquering Bear, one of the twenty-four chiefs of the Lakota Nation, meet with the white soldiers who were coming to the chief’s village. And Conquering Bear must have High Forehead ready—to be handed over for punishment.

  Conquering Bear agreed to the meeting. When the soldiers arrived at the Minneconjou village, not far from the Oglala camp where Curly lived, they were heavily armed. They were led by Lieutenant John H. Gratton. “Give me a handful of men and three cannons,” Gratton had once said, “and I’ll defeat the whole Sioux nation.” Seeing this man at the head of the soldiers worried Conquering Bear even more, for they had brought the big guns carried in wagons. He had asked that no wagon guns be brought. Without wagon guns, they might be able to parley peacefully. Gratton, however, was spoiling for a fight. He ordered his thirty troopers to aim their carbines and the cannons at the lodge of Conquering Bear, where the chief stood with his other chiefs about him.

  To make matters even worse, the Wasichu’s interpreter, Wyuse, was known to be a man who spoke the truth only when it would benefit him.

  “Minneconjou,” Wyuse said, “you are dogs. You are cowards, men afraid to fight.”

  Then Lieutenant Gratton began to speak. His words were angry. It was possible that Wyuse interpreted them truthfully to Conquering Bear. But Conquering Bear’s words were twisted like aspen leaves in the wind.

  “We will give you five good horses for that one cow,” Conquering Bear said in Lakota.

  “The chief will not give you anything,” Wyuse said in English.

  “We do not wish to fight. We only want peace,” Conquering Bear pleaded in Lakota.

  “The chief says you are all afraid to shoot,” Wyuse said in English, sneering.

  As Wyuse spoke those words, Gratton barked an order. The thirty troopers fired a salvo. The men must have been nervous, for most of them failed to hit anything. But Conquering Bear’s brother, who stood beside the chief, was struck in the chest by a bullet. Blood came from his mouth, and he fell to the ground.

  Some of the Lakota began to run. Conquering Bear stood his ground and held up his empty hands.

  “Do not fight,” he shouted to his people. “Now that the Wasichu have shot a good man, they will go away.”

  Even as Conquering Bear spoke, Gratton ordered another volley. The soldiers fired again, and three bullets struck Conquering Bear. He fell beside his brother. It seemed as if the Wasichu soldiers meant to wipe out the whole village. High Forehead grabbed a rifle and fired. His bullet hit and killed Lieutenant Gratton. Then the Lakota began to fight in earnest. Spotted Tail, another Lakota chief and the brother of Curly’s mother, had been waiting with a group of his own men in a nearby ravine, in case of trouble. At the sound of the shots, they came running. Arrows rained down on the thirty soldiers. When it was over, all of the Wasichu were wiped out. So, too, was Wyuse, whose crooked words had made the trouble worse. His Lakota brother-in-law pierced the interpreter’s ears with a lance. “Now,” he said, “your ears are open. Next time they will not be closed when we speak to you.”

  That day, Curly was in the Minneconjou camp. From the other side, where he and a group of boys had been told to wait, he heard the shots and came running. The battle was over by the time he arrived. He helped other Lakota men and boys to overturn the wagon guns, pile brush over them, and set them on fire. Then he helped the Minneconjou break camp, and rode back to his own Oglala camp to help his own people do the same. They would move far away from the fort, for more trouble would surely follow this. Curly had learned a lesson that day. Never again would he trust the Wasichu soldiers. How could anyone trust people who would come into a peaceful camp and shoot a man in front of his own lodge?

  For a few days it seemed as if the Lakota would have to go to war, but people on both sides spoke for peace. Among them was Conquering Bear, gravely wounded but not dead. The talk of war began to die down, and the soldiers at the fort did not retaliate. Gratton’s actions had been provocative and war with the Lakota at this time was something no one wanted. The Oglala and Minneconjou moved even deeper into the Black Hills, away from the Laramie River and the fort. There, in the heart of the Paha Sapa, wrapped in his robes, Conquering Bear waited for his death.

  High Backbone was one of Conquering Bear’s most devoted warriors and kept vigil at the side of his dying chief. Because of High Backbone, Curly was allowed into the lodge of Conquering Bear. The sight of that gentle old man’s drawn yellow face deeply affected the boy. He took his horse and rode away from the camp, knowing what he had to do. He rode along the bluffs above the river till he came to an eagle-catching pit dug into the soft earth. It was in such holes, concealed by branches placed on top with a freshly killed rabbit laid out for bait, that a man would wait for an eagle to land. The
n he would grab the bird by its legs so that he could take some of its powerful feathers.

  Curly tied his hobbling rope between the legs of his pinto so it would not wander far as it grazed at the bottom of the hill. The horse was close to a stream and could drink. He climbed the hill, stripped off all his clothes except for a breechclout, and stepped down into the uncovered pit. He sat back on the cold gravel, looked up at the sky, and prayed for a vision.

  The first day passed and the night came. Curly did not leave the eagle-catching pit. He continued to pray for a vision, for strength to help his people in this hard time. The seasons to come would be even harder for the Lakota. He needed a vision to help them. But the second day passed, and the second night, and no vision came. Without food or water, Curly continued to cry for a vision.

  “Wakan Tanka,” he called, “Great Mystery, I am small and pitiful. I want to help my people.”

  It was a strange thing that the boy was doing on that hilltop. To fast and pray for a vision was not strange in itself. But hanblecheyapi, “crying for a vision,” was one of the seven sacred rites of the Lakota people, and it was always supposed to be done in the right way. He had not done a purifying sweat to prepare himself. His elders had not prepared him for his vigil. His father had not taken him to the hilltop and showed him where to wait. But Curly continued with his strange vision quest, even after the dawn of the third day brought nothing to his eyes or ears. No spirit, no bird or animal, not even an insect came to him. All that he saw was the sky above and the earth and stones of the eagle-catching pit.

  At last, late in the afternoon of that third day, Curly climbed out of the eagle-catching pit. After going so long without food or drink, he was barely able to stand. It seemed no vision would ever come to him, and he wondered if he was not worthy. He felt weak and sick as he made his way slowly down the hill to the place where his pinto grazed near a cottonwood tree. When he reached that tree, he could stand no longer. He slumped down against the tree and leaned his back against it.