Michael Blake - The Holy Road

The little lodge was up in a matter of minutes and the stranger's gear was unloaded and brought inside. Food and water were given him. Kicking Bird and Touch The Clouds sat across from the little man, watching him eat and drink. Lawrie Tatum commented on the tastiness of his meal and the sweetness of the water, but otherwise the three sat in a fragile silence that was constantly broken by intrusions.

The chatter of villagers continued unabated all afternoon as they milled about the new lodge and its novel resident. Gangs of children clambered on and off the white man's wagon, prompting Touch The Clouds to step out and snap at them to go away and be quiet. He was forced to do this several times, but they did not retreat for long. The moment he sat down again, their presence outside could be heard once more, hushed murmurings that grew inevitably into unbridled shouts and laughter. Touch The Clouds would listen distractedly to the truncated attempts at communication between Kicking Bird and Lawrie Tatum before rising angrily to his feet for another short-lived scattering of the children.

Even the few minutes of peace from the children Touch The Clouds' chiding bought did not free the lodge from invasion. Heads were constantly appearing at the hems of the lodge's covering which had necessarily been rolled up on account of the heat of the day. Curious eyes constantly appeared; prominent warriors dropped by in a steady stream, offering some pretext of other business in order to get some idea of what was going on inside. Shadows of eavesdroppers pressed against the hide-covered walls of the tent, and on several occasions, the whole tent sagged as an unseen interloper lost balance and fell against it.

At last the exasperated hosts and their guest went for a walk but were stymied by a throng of followers who paraded behind them, growing in number until it seemed they had the whole village in tow.

Recognizing the futility of their efforts, the men returned once more to the lodge, and it was only with the coming of twilight, which impelled all but the most inquisitive to return to their homes, that the two Indians and the white man were able to converse with some semblance of peace.

Touch The Clouds lit his pipe again and, though reluctant, Lawrie Tatum was prevailed upon to smoke, his pale complexion turning paler with each pass.

Finally able to concentrate, Kicking Bird's mind kept returning to a single question, one that had nagged at him since he first heard the Cheyenne story of the white man's "holy road." Not knowing enough of the white man's language to frame the question properly, he began with the word he knew, hoping it might lead him to construct what he really wanted to ask.

"Train?" he asked, looking intently at Lawrie Tatum.

"Train?"

"Uhh." Kicking Bird nodded.

"Well, yes," Lawrie Tatum sputtered in his high voice, "what about it. . train?"

Kicking Bird searched for words that kept flying away. "White man train," he said at last.

"Uh. ." The white man's hand stroked the hair on his face.

"You. .," he started, pointing at Kicking Bird, "like train?. . no like train? You. . go on train?"

Kicking Bird shook his head. He did not understand the words but their gist told him he was not moving toward the point. He gathered himself again.

"Train road?" he said.

"Yes, I understand. . train road," came the reply.

"Holee?"

"Holee?"

"Holee?"

Recognition flashed on Lawrie Tatum's face. "Holy? Is that what you mean?" he asked, glancing heavenward.

"Holy. Train road holy?"

Lawrie Tatum winced. "I'm not sure what you're asking," he said pleadingly.

"All white man road. .” Kicking Bird said and made a circling motion with both arms. "All white man road holy?"

"Is the white man's road holy?"

"Hmmm," nodded Kicking Bird.

Lawrie Tatum thought to himself a few moments, and the more he thought the more he realized how profound Kicking Bird's question was. The Comanche was asking if what the white man had to offer was righteous, and in the Quaker's mind there could only be one answer.

"Yes," he answered firmly, "I believe it is. The white man's road is holy."

"Hmmm," Kicking Bird grunted. The exact outlines of the question and its answer were something he had yet to grasp fully, but he was quite satisfied with the exchange.

Lawrie Tatum had questions, too. He wanted to know where Kicking Bird lived, how many people were in his village, if he was married, if he had children. When Kicking Bird told him he was married to three women, Friend Tatum's eyes grew big and he held up three fingers to make sure he understood. Kicking Bird nodded and a look of concern passed over the Quaker's face.

"Wives bad?" Kicking Bird asked.

"No," Lawrie Tatum replied. "White man have one. . one wife. . no more.”

Kicking Bird nodded that he understood but was perplexed at the idea. How any race could prosper under such a harsh restriction he could not understand.

The line of questioning ended there as did many others. Given the limit of words and signs there was no way to delve deeper and the remainder of the talk was a battle of simple questions.

Lawrie Tatum was by nature more aggressive and animated, and though Kicking Bird burned to ask about many important things, like the buffalo and the soldier fort and how it might be that Comanche or Kiowas could follow the white man's holy road, his deliberations were often cut short by the little white man's persistent questions.

He wanted to know if Kicking Bird and Touch The Clouds were for peace between Indian and white. Kicking Bird translated this for Touch The Clouds, who laughed and said, "If we were not this man's body would already be turning black out there in the grass." Both men laughed as Lawrie Tatum gazed at them blankly.

The Quaker wanted to know if they were chiefs and Kicking Bird explained that Touch The Clouds was a headman but that he was not. A man named Ten Bears, an old, wise man with bad eyes, was the leader of his band.

But the more Kicking Bird and Lawrie Tatum questioned each other the more aware they became of their inadequacies, and what had begun as a conversation quickly devolved into the more practical pursuit of vocabulary building. For another hour the names of everyday items found about the lodge and on their persons were translated back and forth in Comanche, Kiowa, and English.

All three were eager to learn and the lessons might have continued all night were it not for the arrival of several Indian wives, whose insistent voices demanded that their husbands break off the meeting and see to the children, who were asking for them.

Kicking Bird and Touch The Clouds made Lawrie Tatum to understand that he was safe. Then they each took the white man's hand and bid him good night.

The Comanche listened as his wives related the events of the day. He played games, visited with each of his children, and generally tried to discharge his duties as husband and father. But his heart wasn't in it that night. His head was too ripe with thoughts that pulled him, from recurring impressions of the white man Lawrie Tatum to the new English words that begged to be remembered to the crowded world of possibility that had flowered in his consciousness. When he slipped under the covers he was still too excited to sleep, and once the other bodies in the lodge were hard asleep he snuck outside to give free rein to his galloping mind.

The moon had risen full and Kicking Bird sat in the inky shadow of his lodge, wondering at the incalculable mystery hidden in the white man's lodge only a few steps from where he sat.

To his surprise there was a sudden movement of the little lodge's flap, and an instant later Lawrie Tatum was stepping into the bright, blue light of the moon. He wore no coat and the sleeves of his tight-fitting shirt were rolled past his elbows. The glass discs no longer fronted his eyes and there were no shoes on his feet. He looked around warily and, satisfied that he was alone, lifted one of his hands which was holding what looked like a small stick several inches long. In the other hand he held what looked like a canteen. He tilted the canteen over the object in the other hand and a little stream of water dribbled over the strange stick.