by Kim Roberts
© 2000
The beat of the drum is the heartbeat of the Earth . . . calling to her children . . . calling her children home.
Buck laid awake for hours on the dirt floor of the cave the night before attempting to what the spirits had shown him. His vision had been exhilarating and terrifying, beautiful and hideous at the same time. As was all of life, he supposed - storm and rainbow, laughter and tears, birth and death. Life could be spent fearing its inevitable end or savoring the journey. Why the spirits chose to reveal such a vision was a mystery to him, but perhaps not all the perplexities of life were to be revealed in one sojourn to the high country.
When Buck finally surrendered to sleep it was a deep and welcome rest punctuated by memories of a happier time - an innocent time when the world was still a fascinating place to be explored and the word "half-breed" was not part of his vocabulary. He dreamed of a warm afternoon, an endless ocean of waving grass and a cornflower blue sky. As a very small boy, he sat astride Red Bear's horse, his legs jutting out straight - too short to wrap around the animal's back. His adored older brother's strong arms wrapped protectively around his small frame, Running Buck's peals of unbridled laughter floated on the breeze as together they raced the wind across the prairie - and won. It was one of his favorite memories. Buck would have liked to stay there a little longer, perhaps challenge the wind again, but a gnawing reminder in his stomach urged him to awaken. Fumbling in the darkness, he pulled on his only remaining piece of clothing, strapped his knife around his leg and bid the cave goodbye.
The autumn morning that greeted him was crisp and precise. Emerging from the dark recesses of the cavern, it seemed to Buck that even the muted colors of dried grasses and fallen leaves were more vivid than before. Maybe everything looked different when you'd been in the darkness for a long time.
Buck's pace down the slope slowed a bit catching sight of his white-blazed, sorrel mare and Red Bear's black gelding hobbled near the stand of aspen. He didn't expect Red Bear to be waiting for him and he wasn't quite ready to talk to his brother. Actually, he'd hoped to compose a proper apology during his trek back through the hills. But as Red Bear's long strides quickly covered the ground between them and Buck melted into his brother's warm embrace he decided that well-thought-out words really weren't important. He had been wrong. All he had to do was say so.
"How did you know I was here?" Buck asked pulling away from the larger man's bear hug.
Red Bear smirked and arched his eyebrows accentuating his amusement. "Are you forgetting who taught you to track, little brother?"
"No, Red Bear," Buck answered, a sheepish grin and a flush of embarrassment spreading across his face. "I have not forgotten."
"The trail of a single horse . . . a 'shod' horse," Red Bear added, voicing his continued disapproval of the mare's metal shoes, "is not difficult to follow, Running Buck."
"Only one horse?" Buck asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"Yes," Red Bear answered, a bit puzzled. "Only your horse. I found her in a small enclosure not far from the pass leading here." Turning serious he added, "brother, we argued and I know you were angry, but I should have come with you. The quest for guidance is a grave matter. You did not need to venture into such an experience alone."
"But I wasn't . . ." Buck began, then stopped leaving his explanation dangling. His hand wandering to the medicine bundle hanging around his neck, he gently fingered the small pouch containing the gift of the spider. "Two Rains is dead isn't he?" he asked, although it wasn't really a question. He already knew the answer.
Red Bear nodded slowly wondering why his brother would ask about the old prophet. "I found his body near the horses the morning after you left. It is very odd. Two Rains never ventured into the night alone. He was too weak to walk very far yet I found him resting against a tree as if he was waiting for someone. I believe he died in his sleep. No one knows why he was there."
Buck was thoughtful for a moment and a sad smile crept over his face. He knew why.
"Did you receive a vision, Running Buck?" Red Bear asked hopefully, rousing Buck from his pensive thoughts.
"Yes," the younger man answered, nodding.
"And is its meaning clear to you?"
Buck nodded again.
"Then speak of it to no one," Red Bear advised firmly. "The knowledge you have received is yours and yours alone. You have been blessed, brother."
Buck raised his eyes to meet the taller man's strong gaze. Did Red Bear have visions? Had he seen such puzzling things? Did the earth speak to him as it did to the old man? He didn't know. There was so much he didn't know or had simply taken for granted.
"Red Bear, I never realized that I had made your life difficult. I'm sor. . ."
The chief held up his hand to squelch his brother's apology. "You have brought me more joys than difficulties, Running Buck. I have missed you these years you have been gone. You are my family and I do not wish to lose you again, but if you feel you must leave, I will pray for your safe journey."
Before Buck could answer Red Bear's eyes opened wide. Astonished, he raised a tender hand to the sickly colored bruise and untended gash on Buck's temple as if he'd never seen a wound before. "Who did this to you?" he demanded, gently pushing Buck's blood crusted hair aside to better inspect the injury. "Tell me and I will make certain they are punished."
Dumbfounded by Red Bear's pledge, a feather would have knocked Buck over - a gust of wind would have sent him sprawling on the ground. Deep inside him, the pleas of a child that had gone unanswered for so long quieted at Red Bear's simple words.
"I don't know who it was. It was dark," Buck answered. "It doesn't matter, Red Bear." Red Bear's eyes narrowed, questioning his brother's unexpectedly calm response. There was no bitterness in his voice, no malice.
Who had inflicted the injury and whether they were punished didn't matter to Buck - not this time. All that mattered was that Red Bear saw it. For the first time he saw it. Buck knew there was no more tolerance in the Kiowa village nestled in the valley below than there had been four days earlier. White men held no greater regard for the Indians either. A man's worth was still appraised by the color of his skin. The world hadn't changed. But he and Red Bear both had, and maybe that was enough.
It was nearly dark when the children gathered around the old storyteller for their lesson. Buck leaned back against the stump of a juniper - comfortable in the almost drowsy contentment of a full belly and the warmth of borrowed clothing - and remembered.
He remembered Ike's hand on his shoulder as he hid his face on his cot in the musty, overcrowded dormitory. He covered his face to hide hot, humiliated tears - painful tears that lingered long after the sting of his whipping had passed.
Life, the nun insisted, began in a place called "Eden" and all human beings had been created by a kind and loving white God who lived in a place called "Heaven". But Buck knew differently. The nun was wrong and he had told her so. Unwavering, he argued the point until the iron-handed messenger of the kind and loving white God decided the only way to rid the heathen child of his pagan beliefs was to beat them out of him. The enormous black-robed sister jerked him from his seat by the scruff of his neck and stood him in the middle of the classroom. Adding insult to injury, she demanded that he drop his trousers, bend over and grab hold of his ankles. Reluctantly Buck did as he was told - what choice did a thirteen year old orphan have? The sister wielded the wooden paddle like the rod of God, certain that every bite of the paddle would bring the savage child one step closer to salvation. Surrounded by the belly laughs of his jeering classmates, Buck was thankful he was bent over - they couldn't see the hot shame on his face.
In still limited sign language, Ike tried to tell him that it would be alright. That all he had to do was pretend to believe what the Bible said. He didn't really have to change what he felt in his heart. Suffering through one more such incident, Buck finally agreed with his new friend. The young Indian's charade saved his bottom from another blistering, but Buck couldn't escape the feeling that he had betrayed his people. He was angry with himself for a long time after that. Giving in - even pretending to - proved that he was weak. A true Kiowa warrior would have died first.
Buck hoped no one ever tried to tell these Kiowa children their beliefs were stupid or that they were ignorant savages because of them. A people's beliefs were their identity and without an identity you were nothing more than drifting smoke. You might as well be dead. It was the same thing.
The children in this open-air classroom were eager to learn. There were no uncomfortably small desks, no stiffly starched uniforms, no dunce caps. The only textbook ever needed was the memory of an old man.
The storyteller's voice settled into a steady cadence drawing the children into the lesson. Buck had heard the legend of the beginning of the Kiowa many times before, but this time was different. This time he found his own story in the tale.
"Long ago," the old one began, "the Kiowa lived deep within the Earth Mother. But it came time for the Kiowa to leave their mother and go into the world. Saynday, a mystical being, called forth the Kiowa by tapping on a hollow cottonwood log. With each tap on the log another Kiowa emerged and so it went until a woman big with child became stuck in the log and no more Kiowa could enter the world. That is why the Kiowa are not large in number. Saynday, being mischievous, brought the Kiowa into a dark place - a cold northern land where the sun's course across the sky was short and the Kiowa could not grow. They were stunted. It was the wrong place. So the Kiowa left the place of their birth and wandered, learning the ways of other men. The Kiowa were content for a time - but they were still not who they were destined to be. Their Earth Mother called to them and led the Kiowa to the plains - to a flat land where the sun traveled a longer path and great rivers of buffalo flowed without end. The Kiowa looked upon their new home, felt Pahy's warm rays on their faces and knew it was good. They knew who they were and where they belonged. Standing tall and proud the Kiowa claimed the land as their own. Only then did the restless soul of the Kiowa grow quiet."**
Pride in their history and their identity filled the children's young faces as they scampered away, their lesson learned. But Buck still listened long after the old man grew still.
The full moon had been returned to them. It spilled across the dark canvas of night sky over the village like a puddle of yellow paint. The nuns at the mission taught that the moon never really got smaller. It had "phases" and only appeared to look different. Fearing another whipping, Buck didn't tell them they were wrong about that, too. That was the problem with a white education. There was no magic, nothing marvelous in the white man's teachings. Small wonder the classrooms were full of disinterested children. He knew the truth, though, and kept it his secret so no one could try to take his belief from him.
Buck knew there was a thief in the darkness, a thief who coveted the beauty of the moon and stole bits and pieces of the glowing ball away each night. Only the prayers of a devout people could convince the robber to give the moon back. And so it had been from the beginning - the thief stealing the moon away and the Kiowa praying until the robber gave it back. The safe return of the moon was a joyous event and cause for celebration.
The voices of the rattle and drum carried across the night in a powerful song calling the Kiowa to gather. The hoop dancers came first. Lithe young bodies stepping in and out of willow hoops, flipping them into the air, then skimming the hoops over their head and shoulders, down to dancing feet. At times the hoops appeared to be connected, but then the dancer would throw the hoops into the air and they would separate again. It was a flashy dance - almost magic.
Buck sat at the outside edge of the circle watching the display. He had felt the eyes of the village on him as he and Red Bear rode into camp that afternoon, just as he felt them now. Hard, angry eyes . . . cold, indifferent eyes. Let them stare. It didn't matter. They had driven him away once, but he would not give in now or ever again. He would die first.
Buck had danced before, but as a child on the fringe, dancing a child's dance. To dance as an adult was different. It was important - sacred. The air quivered excitedly as the resonating rumble of the big drum bounced off the valley walls and echoed into the night sky. It called the men of the village to gather to celebrate the moon's safe return and boast of their success. "WE ARE KIOWA!" they cried, announcing their identity to the thief in the darkness. "WE ARE STRONGER THAN YOU!" The moon thief hung its head knowing it had been beaten once more in this ancient game. Triumphant whoops and battle yells filled the darkness chasing the robber away and the drum grew louder claiming victory. The fire whirled in unison to the warriors' spinning steps casting shadows, haunting and ominous, as stomping feet danced praises to the Earth Mother. Answering her children, the ground shook with her favorable reply.
The deep, thundering voice of the drum called him by name and answering something primal, something too old to be questioned or explained, Buck joined the dance. His movements were tentative at first, careful and cautious. But it felt good - it felt right. It felt as if something sleeping inside him woke up. Buck dropped his guard and let the rhythm have him. His moccasined feet pounded the earth's floor - swooping, twisting, stomping, arms open wide as an eagle in flight, dancing his praises. This was were he belonged. He had been gone a long time but he was home now. Standing tall and proud Running Buck claimed his place. His cry "I AM KIOWA!" echoed across the night and pulsed through his veins, pounding in his heart to the beat of the drum.
**The Legend of the Kiowa is described in "The Way to Rainy Mountain" by N. Scott Momaday
