The Changing Wind Read online

  STRONG MEDICINE

  A flash of motion caught Small Elk’s eye, and he turned curiously… Aiee! Here was a thing he had not foreseen. A wolf, one of the gray ghosts that follow the herds, was creeping through the short grass.

  He had suddenly become the quarry. He must do something quickly. The hunter was so close that he could see the glitter of the yellow eyes as it crept forward on its belly. Any moment now, it would make its rush.

  Then the idea came. He was pretending to be a calf… what would a calf do? There was no time to stop and consider. He raised his head toward the herd, let out a bleat of terror and began to scramble away.

  Suddenly, six or seven cows charged forward. He turned toward the wolf, who now seemed confused. The cows thundered past Elk on each side, brushing close and kicking up dirt, but avoiding injury to him.

  The wolf retreated.

  “Aiee!” greeted his father, White Buffalo, his eyes bright with excitement. “You have done well. You will be a great medicine man!”

  Books by Don Coldsmith

  TRAIL OF THE SPANISH BIT

  SONG OF THE ROCK

  BRIDE OF THE MORNING STAR

  WALKS IN THE SUN

  TRACK OF THE BEAR

  THE CHANGING WIND

  RIVERS WEST: THE SMOKY HILL

  RUNESTONE

  BEARER OF THE PIPE

  MEDICINE HAT

  TALL GRASS

  SOUTH WIND

  Introduction

  A year or two after the release of Trail of the Spanish Bit, one of my students approached me with a suggestion. Why not, she asked, write in more depth about the life and career of White Buffalo, the medicine man? This character appears only briefly in the first few books of the Spanish Bit Saga.

  I considered at some length. In many ways, this man represents a pivotal character in one of the greatest cultural changes in the human race. His life spans the entire time period of this cultural change. The Stone Age hunter of the plains and mountains evolved, in a single generation, into the finest light cavalry the world has ever seen. The factor that made the difference was the acquisition of the horse. This must have been not only a profound change, but a major threat, to one in the priestly function of White Buffalo, holy man of the People. I tried to imagine his feelings, his thoughts and fears. I wrote a few chapters and a brief outline but then became preoccupied with other projects and shelved the idea.

  In 1987, Greg Tobin, a senior editor at Bantam, suggested a spin-off novel to supplement the Spanish Bit Saga. Would it be possible, he asked, to select minor characters from the early series for an original novel, a “superedition,” connected to but not a part of the series? I mailed a proposal the following day, with the material I had outlined.

  So this is the story of one man’s lifetime. We see him at first resist, then accept, and finally take part in the cultural shift. It will alter his civilization forever as the winds of change sweep across the prairie and the People advance into the centuries that mark the Golden Age of the Horse.

  —Don Goldsmith

  1989

  Part I

  The Vision

  1

  There was little about the childhood of Small Elk that foretold his place in the story of the People. Perhaps his mother, Dove Woman, anticipated that her son was destined for greatness, but such expectations are regarded as a mother’s privilege. However, his father also suspected that here was a child with an unusual mission.

  The two older children of Dove Woman and White Buffalo had grown, married, and had their own lodges before the coming of Small Elk to the lodge of the medicine man. That alone set him apart, but there were other things that his father noticed. There was his curiosity. The child would sit for long spaces of time, watching a column of ants going in and out of their underground lodge. There were those in the tribe, White Buffalo knew, who would regard this as useless activity. And, he had to admit, for some it may have been. But not for Small Elk. There was something about the way the child watched the creatures. His father was certain that Small Elk understood the apparently aimless scurrying around the anthill. He did not say so, but there was a look of wonder on the small face, the wonder of learning. White Buffalo saw in the shining dark eyes an understanding of the spirit of the ants.

  It was, in a way, like the understanding that had been in the eyes of the infant the day of his birth. White Buffalo had seen many infants. Most were squalling in protest at the indignity of having been thrust from the warm and protective lodge which had been theirs for the past nine moons. True, it was a rude shock to enter a world that included cold and hunger. But occasionally there would be an infant whose approach to life seemed different. And this was such an infant. After the preliminary protest, and the cough to clear newly expanded lungs, this child was quiet.

  The woman who had assisted Dove Woman with the birth had lifted the lodgeflap to allow the father to enter and see his son. White Buffalo paused a moment, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the dim interior of the lodge. He smiled at his wife.

  “Our son is here,” Dove Woman said softly.

  “It is well with you?” he asked.

  “Of course. Come, look at him.”

  She lifted the corner of the robe that covered her. White Buffalo knelt and looked into the small red face. It was only then that he felt the impact of the tiny newcomer. The eyes, which in most infants are squinted tightly shut against the new experience of light and air, were wide open. They looked around the lodge and then directly into his own with a shocking intensity that startled White Buffalo.

  It must be remembered that White Buffalo was no ordinary man. His medicine was considered strong, his vision accurate. His contact with things of the spirit was an ongoing vibrant thing. Even so, it was with something of a shock that he looked into the dark eyes of this newborn child. There was knowledge there, and an interest, a curiosity, that burned brightly in those eyes. Unaccountably, White Buffalo felt for an instant that he was the one under scrutiny, not the child. This small one seemed to already possess an understanding of the nature of the world and a desire to learn more about it.

  “This is a strong spirit,” he told his wife.

  “Of course”—Dove Woman smiled. “He is ours, yours and mine.”

  White Buffalo nodded, still entranced by the strange feeling of communication he had had for a moment. The moment had passed now.

  “Let us call him Small Elk,” Dove Woman suggested.

  White Buffalo knew that this was because of their experience the evening before. It was exceptionally fine weather, early in the Moon of Roses, and they had walked a little way from the lodges to be alone and enjoy the setting of the sun. Dove Woman had grown large and was impatient to bring forth her child. It was pleasant to walk with her husband and to admire the lavish colors of the western sky.

  “Sun Boy chooses his paints well this evening,” she observed.

  “Yes,” her husband agreed.

  After all their years together, there was little need for talk. They communicated without it, each understanding what the other felt. This evening they were comfortable with each other and with the world. It was a time of waiting, of wondering about the new life in Dove Woman’s belly.

  “Oh, look,” she exclaimed suddenly, pointing to an area near the stream.

  A cow elk had come down to the water to drink. She raised her head and sniffed the breeze, catching the scent of the couple who watched. They were near enough to see the droplets of water that dribbled down the animal’s lower lip. The cow fidgeted, uneasy but undecided.

  It was unusual for elk to approach the village this closely. The cow was in no danger at this time, but she could hardly know that. The People had hunted well, with the greening o
f the prairie. White Buffalo had selected the time for the annual burning of the prairie to remove the winter’s dead grass. The buffalo had appeared as expected, in the Moon of Greening. The spring hunt had been successful enough to add prestige to White Buffalo’s reputation and respect for the power of his medicine, successful enough that there would be no interest in killing a thin cow elk during the calving season.

  The cow turned nervously, sensing something wrong, and finally sprang away, clattering across the white gravel of the riffle toward the other bank. Only then, as she turned and made a quiet lowing sound over her shoulder, did they see the calf. It came scrambling up out of the tall grass beside the stream, a confused scramble of long legs, knobby knees, and floppy ears.

  The mother paused to wait while the calf stumbled after her through the shallows. They quickly disappeared in the willows across the creek, and Dove Woman laughed softly.

  “It is a sign, my husband.”

  “Your time is near?”

  “Maybe so.”

  She smiled and leaned against him.

  Looking into the face of his son the following day, White Buffalo realized that the incident by the stream had been significant. Dove Woman had felt it too and had chosen his name. He nodded in agreement.

  “‘Small Elk.’ It is good.”

  As the child grew, White Buffalo wondered sometimes if he had been mistaken. Small Elk seemed much like other children, no better or worse, no more or less mischievous. He participated in the games, dances, and instruction of the Rabbit Society with the other children. But no, there was that other quality, the desire of this child to be alone sometimes, to watch ants or silvery minnows in the stream, or the red-tailed hawk’s lazy circles in the summer sky.

  When Small Elk was in his fourth summer, he came to his father one afternoon with a small object in his closed hand, his face shining with excitement. White Buffalo was reclining on his willow backrest, enjoying a smoke during a moment of leisure.

  “What do you have there, little one?”

  “It is a stone,” the child confided in hushed excitement. “Its spirit is good.”

  White Buffalo became more attentive. This was not the usual play of a three-year-old.

  “May I hold it?”

  Small Elk proudly placed the stone in his father’s palm. It was white and rounded, polished by many lifetimes of tumbling in the rolling waters of the stream. White Buffalo closed his fingers around the smooth sphere, thinking as he did that it was much like an egg. The egg, perhaps, of one of the small ducks that sometimes nested in the reeds along the stream. It was warm, and the feeling was good.

  “Yes,” he told the child, “its spirit is good.”

  “Father, do all things have a spirit?”

  “Yes. Some are stronger spirits than others.”

  “But this is a good spirit?”

  White Buffalo felt the smooth surface in his palm, the warm, comforting sensation that was unmistakable.

  “Yes,” he said seriously, “this is good.”

  “I will keep it,” Small Elk announced happily.

  White Buffalo was still a little surprised that he was carrying on this conversation with a child of three. However, his expertise with things of the spirit told him not to ignore it. Small Elk was showing signs of spiritual awakening quite early. It might be that this child would be offered the power of a strong medicine when he was ready—if, of course, he chose to accept the responsibility of such a gift. The idea pleased the holy man, that a son of his might follow in his steps. But for now…

  “Come,” he said to Small Elk, “let us make for you a medicine bag. Your stone will be its first spirit.”

  It would not do to try to influence the boy. However, it would do no harm to make the means available to him if and when he was offered the gift. After all, he could still refuse the responsibility if he wished.

  2

  Small Elk sat on the grassy slope with the other children of the Rabbit Society. One of the women was demonstrating the use of the throwing-stick. She was holding a stick not quite as long as her arm, the thickness of her wrist. A few steps away, slender willow twigs had been stuck in the mud to form a miniature fence as a target.

  “Now, see!”

  Bluebird suddenly whirled her arm and released the stick in a hard overhand throw. The missile whirled, end-over-end, at the willow target, knocking one of the slim twigs flat as it bounced beyond. The children laughed happily. One of the boys ran to retrieve her stick.

  “Now, see again!” she called as she readied the stick for another throw.

  This time the throw was a sidearm swing. The clublike stick spun horizontally, whirring toward the row of twigs. When it struck, the damage was apparent. Because of the flat spin, not one but several of the willow twigs were broken or knocked flat, in a path two handspans wide.

  “So,” Bluebird announced, “you will kill more rabbits with a sidethrow. Now, try it. Don’t hit each other!”

  “When can we try the bow?” asked Red Fox.

  “Later. Soon, maybe, if you have one. But it is good to know the throwing-sticks.”

  “But I would rather eat buffalo than rabbit,” one of the girls protested.

  “So would everyone,” Bluebird agreed. “But when meat is scarce, in the Moon of Hunger, it is good to know how to hunt with the stick. Or, when the hunters are unsuccessful. Then what?”

  The children took their small throwing-sticks and began to play at hunting rabbits. Bluebird walked over to speak to her friend Dove Woman, who sat watching.

  “I will stand clear now,” she laughed. “They are reckless sometimes.”

  Dove Woman smiled.

  “At least, the dance is not so dangerous.”

  Hers was the teaching of the first dance-steps to the smaller children of the Rabbit Society. From others they would learn the skills of hunting and the use of weapons, and compete in running, wrestling, and swimming. Both boys and girls learned all of these skills. It was not until later that their diversity of interests would sharpen the fine skills of the hunter-warriors and the domestic skills of the young women planning for their own lodges.

  There was a yelp from one of the dogs, hit by an accidental bounce of a thrown stick.

  “Be careful there!” called Bluebird.

  Then she spoke aside to Dove Woman.

  “Better a dog than each other. Now they will be more careful.”

  “Yes. There is no way to keep dogs away from throwing-sticks, I think.”

  “Your Small Elk seems good with the sticks.”

  “Thank you. Your daughter, also.”

  Dove Woman was pleased. These two children, Small Elk and Crow, were nearly the same age. Their mothers were friends and usually chose to set up their lodges near each other.

  “They play well together,” Bluebird observed.

  “Yes, for children of five summers, they quarrel very little.”

  Both women laughed.

  “Will your Small Elk become a medicine man?” Bluebird asked seriously.

  “Who knows?” Dove Woman shrugged. “White Buffalo says he may. We will see if he has the gift.”

  The children were becoming tired of playing with the sticks now and were straying off to other pursuits. Small Elk and Crow were near the stream, sitting on a level rock. Between them were a number of miniature green lodges, made by rolling cottonwood leaves into cones and pinning the edges together with a grass stem.

  “Let us make a whole village!” Crow suggested.

  “Why? We need only one lodge, you and I.”

  Then they both giggled.

  “Elk, do you know how to make a moccasin from a cottonwood leaf?”

  “No. I have seen them. It is harder than making the little lodges.”

  “You could ask your father. He knows all things.”

  “Yes, but…”

  Small Elk was a little uncertain whether a holy man’s area of skills included the making of toy cottonwood-leaf moccasins.


  “I will ask, sometime,” he agreed cautiously.

  The conversation was interrupted by the approach of one of the other boys.

  “Want to go swimming?” asked Bull Roarer.

  He stood there, whirling a noisemaker on a thong around and around his head in a wide circle. With each revolution, the flutter of the flattened stick at the thong’s end made a deep whirring noise, like the distant bellow of a buffalo bull. It was a common toy, but this boy’s affinity for the pastime had led to his being called by the name of the device, “bull roarer.”

  “Who is going?” Crow asked.

  Bull Roarer continued to swing his noise maker.

  “We three, Fox, Otter, Cattail, my sister Redwing.”

  “We will ask,” Crow announced.

  She jumped up and ran to her mother with the explanation and request. Bull Roarer’s sister was a few summers older, a reliable supervisor, and both Bluebird and Dove Woman quickly agreed.

  Most children of the People were strong swimmers. The bands must always camp near a water supply, and summer camp was frequently selected with an eye to its recreational possibilities. Of course, this went hand in hand with the more serious purpose of the selection, availability of game. Grass and water, essential to the buffalo, also make a campsite esthetically pleasing. In turn, the presence of a clear, cool stream in the heat of a prairie summer invites swimmers.

  The summer camp this season was in a favorite area of the People. Sycamore River, trickling over white gravel bars and long level shelves of gray slate, was a favorite stream. Its deep pools were spaced at intervals along its course like beads on a thong.

  The pool the children preferred was perhaps two long bowshots below the camp. It was ringed with willows on the near side, except for a level strip of white gravelly sand, a perfect place to lie in the sun to dry after a swim. Across the pool, a stone’s throw away, cattails formed a backdrop for the scene, as well as a site where ducks and smaller water-dwelling birds might build their lodges.