September/October 2011

“Look, son. See the way the land is in shadow, even though there is nothing to cast it?” The boy stood, facing the early morning. He let the gentle breeze caress his dark skin and play with his hair as he stared thoughtfully off into the distance. Today was the day of his first buffalo hunt. Today he had a chance to become a man. Ten years old, he had been waiting many months for the time to be right. He had been practicing his aim with his bow and arrows and had been working with his pony as well. He was determined that all would go well and he would be given a name by the end of the day. For the young Sioux warrior did not have a name. He would not be given one until he had proven himself in some way worthy of one. All he had was his nickname, Arrow. His friends had named him such because of his keen eyes and sharp hand. He rarely missed his targets. A nickname such as his was better than none, however. His friend, Wet Grasses, was named for the first time he was sent to gather grasses for the fire. He was not supervised, and gathered and dumped armful after armful of wet grass on the fire, causing the entire camp to be encased in smoke for the better part of the night. At the soft step of his father he turned. His father smiled reassuringly at him and moved to stand beside him. His voice was husky in the early morning. “Look, son. See the way the land is in shadow, even though there is nothing to cast it? That is the buffalo, waiting for us.” He looked down at his son and the boy smiled, letting his excitement show. “I am ready.” The sun seemed to burst up from the horizon at the same time as the camp awakened, men and boys appearing out of tipis with the women and girls not far behind. The happy chatter filled the air as the women sharpened their knives for the skinning of the buffalo. The men painted their ponies with their family’s design and made sure that their quivers were full of arrows and their bows were flexible. Arrow smiled up at his father and ran off to bring his pony to the paint. His father watched him go, a proud smile playing about his lips, for he had taught the boy and was confident in his abilities. Arrow reappeared, leading his pony to the paint. Carefully, he selected the same black and yellow paint as his father. Dipping his hand into the wet, chalky substance, he bit his lip in concentration as he smeared the animal’s haunches in the spots and lines of his family. He glanced to the side of him to see Wet Grasses doing the same thing. Arrow could tell from the sparkle in Wet Grasses’ eyes that he, too, was filled with anticipation for the hunt. Breathing deeply, Arrow dabbed his own face with paint as well, before swinging himself up on top of his pony. He looked over the camp and laughed aloud at the cheerful busyness. He could see his mother and sisters preparing for the buffalo, and he waved to them. Most of the men were not yet finished with painting their horses, and Arrow watched them eagerly. He had been watching them for years now, waiting impatiently for when he would be old enough to join them. It was different, watching from the middle of the action instead of the outskirts. He shielded his eyes against the sun and looked for the younger boys that were watching. He waited until he found them and had to suppress a feeling of pride that this time he was the one they were looking up to. At a cry from the leader the rest of the men mounted their horses, yelling and cheering as the horses gradually moved out of the camp to the open plains. Arrow felt a clamor of joy well up in him as his pony’s muscles bunched beneath him, moving into a comfortable canter. Arrow sat tall on the warm back of his pony and whooped. Wet Grasses was riding beside him, and he too yelled out. They were riding in the middle of the pack, real men helping to feed the women and children. They nearly pulled their horses up short, though, when they saw the buffalo. Arrow drew in his breath at the sight of them. Never in his life had he seen a live buffalo before. He had only ever seen the dead ones that the women skinned after the hunt. A surge of energy filled him and he grinned as he urged his pony on. They were downwind, so the buffalo had not seen them yet. He wanted to be right at the front, where he would be one of the ones to actually startle the buffalo into fleeing. He felt for the bow slung across his back. It was still there, in a position where it would be easy for him to reach when he needed it. His arrows, too, were hanging in a tube from his waist. He fingered the feathered tips, longing to pull one out and shoot—but the time was not right. The buffalo were beginning to sense them now. They lifted their heads in uneasiness, then, as they caught sight of the horses, they broke into a run. Like a stream of water they cascaded down the gentle slope. Arrow leaned down over his pony’s neck, forcing him into a gallop. He could sense the other men doing the same. With Wet Grasses beside him, his father somewhere behind him, he surged into the center of the herd. The thundering of hooves was in his ears, and he looked around himself. The completeness of the buffalo was all around him. He was alone. Not truly alone, for