Stone Song Read Online Free Page B

his life. He looked at it, over and over, feeling its textures and nuances, getting to know it.
    He noticed Hawk in his heart. For once she was not aquiver, not restless, but at ease. But now he knew: Hawk did not have a song. Hawk was a predator, a creature wild and rapacious. Her cry was not music, but a war shriek.
    It reminded him of once when they were going without food and water for a day. His hunka Buffalo Hump wet a stone in the creek and gave it to Curly to suck on. It was a smooth, flat rock, red as pipestone. Curly held it in his mouth and felt it with his tongue, sucked at its small shapes and curves and nuances. Later, when he took it out and looked atit, he realized that he knew much more about the stone than his eye could tell him. His tongue knew. And did not know about the stone. Knew the stone.
    Buffalo Hump smiled at Curly, holding the stone in his fingers, and said it would make his mouth feel wet long after it had lost the film of moisture that came with it.
    Remembering, Curly felt warm toward his hunka . That’s what an older brother by choice did, guide his younger hunka toward becoming a man.
    It was a grand way of being related, this custom of relative by choice, brother, uncle, aunt, father, son, daughter, any kind of relative.
    Curly stretched, the feeling of his body and of the earth coming back to him.
    Curly wanted to tell Buffalo Hump his vision; he wanted to share everything with his hunka .
    He didn’t know whether he should.
    Again he blamed himself. If he hadn’t gone onto the mountain without guidance, he would know what to do.
    Now the feeling of clarity altered subtly. He had another feeling, shame. It was seeping into him like muddy water onto a fallen leaf.
    He had come crying without preparation, without understanding. For three days he had been punished—the world and the powers that move it had turned their backs on him utterly. Then, abruptly, a vision had been thrown at his feet like rotten meat to a dog.
    It was a difficult vision. He didn’t know what it might mean. But he knew it was a curse, a well-deserved curse.
    For the first time since his vision he stirred a little. It was as though his spirit was beginning to inhabit his body again. He shifted, wiggled, half-turned. Hawk was more or less calm on her perch in his heart.
    “ E-i-i-i ,” he said to himself, a murmur of regretful acceptance.
    He recognized himself even in his curse. This was his way, to go alone, to do things his own way, which was often the wrong way.
    A rueful smile glinted in his eyes.
RETURNING TO THE WORLD
    The clappety-clap of horses’ feet. Two horses, walking. Not far from the camp, not sneaking. Friends.
    Curly saw no reason to rise. He felt, somehow, that if he didn’t get his body all the way up, Hawk would sit easier. He wanted to feel tranquil a while yet. He wanted this freedom a little while longer.
    Tasunke Witko looked down at his older son. The boy lay there limp, his body oddly loose and pliant, his eyes on his father, with a faraway look. The boy so often had a faraway look.
    The father’s first impulse was to vault off the pony and touch his son and make sure he was whole, still breathing, not bleeding. But he wasn’t the boy’s mother. Also, his older son kept his distance, wary, blaming.
    He sat his pony and looked down. Buffalo Hump, his son’s hunka , sat on the mount next to him. He didn’t look into Buffalo Hump’s face.
    Tasunke Witko shuddered. “We’ve been looking for you for two days,” he said. It sounded gruff even to him. He thought of adding that for two days his throat had clutched tight with fear. “There are Psatoka war parties everywhere.” The Psatoka, Crows, their bitter enemies. He couldn’t help making it sound like an accusation. No, they hadn’t worried the first night Curly didn’t come home. A youth might do that. But when he didn’t show up the next day, they rode all over the countryside, looking not for the boy but for his body.
    “I