Michael Blake - The Holy Road

The state of mind he had fallen into was a devastating reversal of the euphoria he had felt when he spoke to the white men from Washington. The good feeling began to fade on the morning he awoke from the nightmare of the box, and by the end of the first full day's march home, it had evaporated completely. In its place was a sickness that had seeped into his blood and taken root there.

Again and again the words he had spoken invaded his solitude, and a few times they almost drove off the cloud of despair that enveloped him.

The words were true enough, as true now as when first spoken. But time and distance had given Kicking Bird the opportunity to reflect, and when he regarded the meeting objectively, only one, inescapable conclusion could be reached. It was obvious, in Hatton's squirming and Bad Hand's deadened eyes. It was manifest in their outrageous offer of slavery for a free people.

The whites were unconcerned; they were perfectly comfortable with their position. When Kicking Bird thought hard about it, he understood that every physical movement they made, every word they uttered — even the excited ramblings of Lawrie Tatum — boasted, of their superiority. The whites behaved as if they knew something he did not, and Kicking Bird, searching the depths of his malaise, guessed correctly what it was. That the Comanche and everyone like them were doomed.

Men who were also looking to the future, men like Gray Leggings and Island, would stop by occasionally to smoke and talk, but for almost three days Kicking Bird remained in the special lodge. Finally he ventured out after White Bear had taken his Kiowas north, and the first place he went was Ten Bears' lodge.

The old man was in good spirits and was obviously feeling good physically for he climbed to his feet almost in one motion when he heard Kicking Bird announce himself.

"I have been wondering when you would come," Ten Bears cried happily as Kicking Bird came through the door. He spread his arms and embraced the traveler and walked him to the fire.

"What have you been doing?" the old man asked.

"I have been thinking."

"Ah." Ten Bears nodded, his eyes widening. "You have been back for several sleeps. This thinking must be important and strenuous. . hmm?"

"It's hard thinking. I had to stay in my lodge to do it.” Ten Bears lit his pipe.

"The village has been happy. People like to celebrate a victory. . especially against the whites. The young men need to feel good about themselves, and the women and children are happy that almost everyone came back."

Kicking Bird puffed somberly on the pipe and handed it back.

“I took a different path," Kicking Bird said.

"Yes. . tell me about it. I am eager to hear."

He started at the beginning, leaving nothing out about the journey and his meeting with the whites. Ten Bears interrupted him rarely but had to ask for details of the white offer to be repeated because it was so hard to believe. For the most part, however, he listened intently to Kicking Bird's story. The former medicine man revealed his conviction that they were all doomed, and when he was finished, Ten Bears sucked at his pipe for a long time before speaking.

"How could anyone do as the whites ask?" the old man said. He had said this to his lap, and when he raised his eyes, Kicking Bird saw the same plaintive disbelief that inhabited his own heart.

The visitor lowered his eyes, pursed his lips, and shook his head.

"How could we give up our country?" Ten Bears asked, incredulous. "How can the whites expect this? "

"I don't think your question matters to the whites," Kicking Bird said. "They want our country, and if we don't give it up they mean to take it from us."

"But they will have to kill every Comanche to do that."

Kicking Bird heaved a sigh. His eyes roamed Ten Bears' lodge as if he were taking it in for the last time. Then he settled his stare once more on the old man sitting across from him, and when he spoke, his words carried the weight and gravity of absolute truth.

"The whites have enough bullets and enough soldiers to kill every Comanche a hundred times."

Ten Bears thought hard for a moment but such a thing was difficult to grasp.

"Have you seen that many bullets and soldiers?"

“No."

"How can you know for certain they have the power to do this? "

"Their eyes told me so."

Ten Bears knew that Kicking Bird was an astute reader of the evidence behind men's eyes, and there was no doubt in his mind that he had heard truth. The old man closed his eyes and let his head tip back. In a prayer he had known since childhood he petitioned the Great Mystery.

Do not leave us, Mystery, he thought. Your Comanche children need protection. Take pity on us, Creator of All Things. Do not leave us.

When he opened his eyes, Kicking Bird was looking straight at him.

"We must council," Ten Bears declared.

“Ummph,” grunted the visitor.

Ten Bears had noticed something strange between Kicking Bird's fingers. He had never seen anything like it.

"What's that? " he asked.

Kicking Bird gazed down at the little case Lawrie Tatum had given him.

"For Ten Bears," he said, handing the case across the fire.

As Ten Bears turned the unknown object in his hands, Kicking Bird circled the fire and settled on his knees next to the puzzled headman.

"What skin is this?" Ten Bears wondered. "It's rough.” "I think cow. . look." Kicking Bird pointed to the case's seam. “It opens, Grandfather."

With a slight trembling of his fingers, Ten Bears pried open the case and peered down at the delicate blend of wire and glass inside.

"The agent, Lawrie Tatum, said you should put this thing on your face."

Suddenly startled, Ten Bears snapped his head up and cocked it at Kicking Bird.

"What for?"

"It makes old eyes new."

"What? "

"Whites with poor eyes put this on their faces."

"What whites?"

"AIl kinds. Even young ones."

Ten Bears tentatively pinched two fingers on a section of the wire and lifted the strange object in front of his eyes.

"Are they beneficial to women, too?"

Kicking Bird thought for a moment.

"I haven't seen a white woman yet."

Ten Bears had begun a close inspection of the spectacles but could find nothing familiar enough in their makeup to provide a clue as to how they might work.

"How do they function?" he asked.

"They have arms that fly out." Kicking Bird's hand instinctively reached for the glasses. "May I help you, Grandfather?” "Yes, yes."

Kicking Bird took Lawrie Tatum's present in both hands, and, with the exactness of a surgeon, slowly unfolded the device. Turning the spectacles around, he lifted them toward Ten Bears' face.

"The arms rest on the ears and the glass on —"

Ten Bears threw up a hand and Kicking Bird stopped.

"Do they cause pain? " the old man asked.

A worried expression fixed itself on Kicking Bird's face. "Not in the whites."

For a moment the two men gazed helplessly at one another. Then Ten Bears gave a little, resigned wave of his hand.

"Oh, put it on. I'm not afraid of it."

Kicking Bird bent forward once again and the spectacles landed softly on Ten Bears' face. The lodge had grown murky in the twilight, and the old man, unsure of what he might be seeing, brought one of his hands in front of his face.

"Ah!" he cried and, brushing at his face with both hands, flipped the spectacles onto Kicking Bird's legs.

"It's awful! My hand is blurry! I can always see my hand."

"They are for far-seeing," Kicking Bird explained hastily. "We should go outside. Let me help you up, Grandfather."

Ten Bears let Kicking Bird help him to his feet and tottered to the door rather sheepishly, silently scolding himself for making a fuss over some trivial white trinket. The whites possessed some useful objects, some of them quite decorative, but nothing along the lines of the miracle Kicking Bird had described.