Michael Blake - The Holy Road

But he and Stands With A Fist had argued the previous day, creating a tension between them that carried to the moment he had swung onto his pony and ridden off, the sour feeling of estrangement sticking in his craw.

The argument had begun over the children, Snake In Hands and Always Walking wanted to go out again with their father. He and his wife had both been reluctant to grant permission, but the brother and sister were adamant, finally challenging their parents to cite a good reason for them to stay home.

Dances With Wolves had responded to the challenge with silence. In his heart there was no good reason, but he hadn't wanted to undercut his wife and remained quiet.

Stands With A Fist had understood his silence as a betrayal. If he had wanted to support her he would have spoken up. At the least he could have asserted his authority as a father and told them both that the decision to keep them in camp was final. Instead, he had shifted the weight of deciding to her, a weight that, when added to all the recent talk of white soldiers and war and reservations, she was incapable of shouldering.

She barked rather icily at the children, "Go with your father if that's what you want to do!” and busied herself stoking the fire. Snake In Hands and Always Walking ran happily out of the lodge, leaving Dances With Wolves to confront his unhappy wife.

“Come with us," he said.

She flicked a cold glance in his direction but said nothing.

"Come with us," he repeated. “I'm tired of being away from my wife.” He thought this last remark might make amends, but it didn't.

"I can't do that," she said, as if a gauntlet had struck her face. "Every man in camp is gone. There's more work when men are gone. Children need to be watched, people need to be helped. Women have to double their work. It's not easy."

"No. . women's work is not easy. Come with us," he asked again.

"I can't. I won't. Stays Quiet and I will stay at home. Go out as long as you want."

They took little bites at each other all that evening, and the division between them was still there the following morning. The tug-of-war left no space for affection or understanding and each performed the preparations for his leaving in the edgy atmosphere that drives men and women away from one another. They avoided touching and shared only a few curt words when speech could not be avoided.

When the horses were loaded with provisions and the children were on the backs of their ponies, Stands With A Fist hugged each of them and wished her husband good hunting with the briefest of looks. Then she took Stays Quiet by the hand and disappeared into the lodge.

Dances With Wolves rode onto the plain with a heart so unsettled that even the comical sight of Owl Prophet did little to relieve it. The prophet's family was marching into the prairie on foot, the women and children carrying containers which they probably hoped to fill with sweet plums or berries. The great man himself was trailing along behind, a utility bag on his shoulder and a look of mortification on his face. At any other time the image of Owl Prophet's wives prevailing on him to join the ignominious trek might have made Dances With Wolves laugh out loud, but today it did no more than remind him of his own unhappy circumstances, and he rode on without giving the plight of the prophet a second thought.

Alone in her lodge, Stands With A Fist brooded, wondering if she might have been too hard on her husband. No conclusion could be reached. Her every thought was riddled with emotion and it took all her mental strength to keep from giving in to the temptation of tears. Tears seemed to be the best way to wash everything clean. But she couldn't let herself go.

When she noticed the pony her husband had left tied outside, she briefly thought how easy it would be to jump on with Stays Quiet and catch up with the rest of her family. But she couldn't do that, either.

Everything was pulling her in different directions, and for the moment something so small as putting one foot in front of the other seemed to take more energy than she could command. Stands With A Fist could look forward to the afternoon of that particular day only because she knew that night and the careless release of sleep would follow.

Ten Bears knew nothing of the squabbling between the unhappy couple who lived in the set-apart lodge, yet he felt something of the same torpor that Stands With A Fist was experiencing. He had seen Dances With Wolves ride out with the hunters late that morning, and when they were clear of camp a strange, inexplicable silence had fallen over the village. It was as if the whole community had been emptied. Only a handful of men remained behind, and most of them were, like himself, old

and infirm. There were many women and children, of course, but their presence seemed suddenly invisible.

No one was carrying water or gathering wood. No one seemed to be working outside. Day had turned to night. Everyone had melted into their homes.

Ten Bears went back into his lodge and lit his pipe and thought about what could be wrong. It wasn't that all the men were gone, he decided. It was the way they went, drawn out in different directions, for different reasons. The splintering of his people was becoming visible, and the more he thought about it the more Ten Bears felt his dread confirmed. The threat of the whites, still so far away, was dividing the people already. And there was nothing he could do about it.

These thoughts were so disturbing to Ten Bears that he had to get up and out. He loved his routine, especially the daily arrival of Hunting For Something, but he decided to deviate. He needed distance and fresh air and sunlight and solitude. Without these things he could imagine himself starting a slow turn to dust.

Shaking with desperation, the old man struggled to his feet, grabbed hold of his stick, and started out of camp, his eyes stuck on the horizon, determined to walk out as far as his withered legs would carry him.

When Hunting For Something came around in early afternoon with her bowl of pemmican and found her grandfather not a home, she too decided to make a change. All morning she had felt uneasy. The village didn't seem like home to her. No one wanted to talk. No one wanted to do anything, not even work. Everyone was going through the motions of living. It made her feel sticky, like she needed to bathe.

She had counted on seeing her grandfather. Standing alone in the deadness of his uninhabited lodge, the girl was seized with a rash impulse. She couldn't say why but she had to do something she had never done before. She had to look for him. She had to find him.

She located him at mid-afternoon. He was reclining against the exposed roots of an ancient sycamore, his legs spread out on the flat, sandy bank of a slow-running stream.

His eyes fluttered when he heard her whisper, "Grandfather!" and

before he could make a move she was curled against his side, pressing urgently against his bony chest.

“What is it?"

"I had to find you, Grandfather. I thought I might die if I didn't.”

"Why, girl, what's wrong?"

"I got frightened. I don't know why. I wanted to be with you.”

Ten Bears pulled her close and stroked her soothingly.

"You're not going to die.”

"Not if I'm with you. Can I stay with you?”

Ten Bears smiled at the thought of her needing him. It made him feel good all over.

“You stay with Ten Bears," he said. “Stay as long as you want. No one will bother us."

The old man and the girl, so widely separated by age and experience, achieved the peace that had seemed so out of reach in the simple act of clutching one another on the banks of the unspoiled stream. Ten Bears released his own restlessness, and Hunting For Something felt her sudden bout of anxiety take flight.