The Changing Wind (6 page)

B
ull Roarer quickly became proficient in the skills being taught to him by Stone Breaker. At first, his arrowheads were rough and imperfect, though usable. His work was slow, painfully slow, and his right hand had become sore from the unaccustomed pressure of the flaking tool.

“Let it rest a few days,” Stone Breaker advised. “Your hands will become hardened like mine, but slowly.”

He showed the young man his own hands, strong and callused from many seasons of such work. Bull Roarer impatiently waited until his blisters had partially healed and the tenderness was receding. Then he resumed the practice of patiently chipping the flints. He could tell that his work was improving and was frustrated again when his hand became sore.

“Aiee
, you still work too long at a sitting!” Stone Breaker reprimanded gently. “Now you will have to rest again.”

“But my fingers will never be as skilled as yours, Uncle!” Bull Roarer protested.

“They will, my son, but you are too impatient. Someday, when you have worked the stone as long as I have, you will be even more skillful.”

Bull Roarer, not convinced, sat depressed and frustrated, watching the work of his tutor.

“You could pick out some stones and examine them,” Stone Breaker suggested. “Decide what you will do with them.”

He pointed to a rawhide storage bag against the inside wall of the lodge. Bull Roarer dumped the contents on a level spot outside and spent an afternoon sorting stones while the old artisan worked nearby.

“Will this make a spear head, Uncle?”

“Yes,” Stone Breaker decided, after examining the large
shard of flint, “but not a good one. See, the thin vein of another color? It will be a weak spot, and the spear will break easily. It would make two very good arrowpoints.”

“Should I break it now?”

“If you wish. But if you leave it in one piece, it is easier to hold. You can rough out both ends, and then break it in the middle before you start the fine work.”

The Moon of Ripening was at hand, and the hunters were pushing to harvest meat for the winter. This increased the demand for the skills of Stone Breaker, and his supply of flints was growing low.

“We need more stone,” he told his apprentice one morning. “We will visit the quarry.”

Bull Roarer knew that Stone Breaker occasionally went out into the prairie to obtain more material, but he had never wondered where.

“How far is it, Uncle?”

“Half a day’s travel, maybe. We will sleep there. It is good that this summer camp is close.”

“Are there other quarries?”

“Of course, but this is the best. See, this smooth blue-gray stone comes from there.”

He held up the piece he was working. Stone Breaker seemed to have a preference for this type of material, though maybe it was just more available, Bull Roarer thought.

They set out the next day, traveling slowly because of Stone Breaker’s age and his companion’s disability. Bull Roarer carried his bow; Stone Breaker, no weapons except a knife. His dog, a massively built wolfish creature, pulled a pole-drag on which Stone Breaker tied their sleeping robes, a few supplies, and empty rawhide storage bags.

“We will carry our robes on the way back,” he explained. “We can bring more stones that way.”

The Blue Stone Quarry was very unimpressive to Bull Roarer. Stone Breaker led the way along a game trail into the upper end of a small canyon. A clear spring came bubbling out from under a limestone ledge, and Stone Breaker knelt to drink.

“The quarry is just above,” he said, pointing as he rose and wiped water from his lips. “There, behind that bush.”

Bull Roarer saw nothing but knelt to drink, then followed the older man. Only a few steps away, Stone
Breaker stopped and pointed again to the shelf of stone opposite the spring.

“There,” he said simply.

Bull Roarer looked. It looked exactly like a hundred other rocky ledges in the Tallgrass Hills. Many of them possessed a layer of blue-gray flint, and this one seemed no different at first. There was the horizontal blue stripe, but this one appeared darker and more uniform. It took a few more moments to realize that there was a marked indentation here in the rocky wall. Bull Roarer stepped forward for a closer look. Yes, this little cleft had certainly been formed by many generations of people who had come to obtain the finest of stone. Now he realized that around and below him on the slope lay discarded or useless fragments of stone. He was walking on shards of flint which had been rejected by centuries of workmen.

Here was one, he thought as he picked it up from beneath his feet. A fine flake of flint, clean and blue, just the size for a large arrowhead or small scraper. He turned it over and began to understand. The other side of the flat stone was white—the soft limestone unsuitable for their purpose. He tossed it aside, wondering even as he did so how many through the years had picked it up as he had, only to reject it as he had, and for the same reason.

“Do not bother with those,” Stone Breaker was saying. “If they were usable, someone would have taken them before this.”

Bull Roarer saw other flakes that had been partially worked and then discarded because of a hidden flaw or accidental fracture.

Stone Breaker was kneeling in the narrow cleft, his skilled fingers examining the face of the flint vein. He grunted to himself and finally spoke.

“Yes, others have been here since I was. Bull Roarer, bring one of the poles from the drag.”

For the rest of the day, until it became too dark to see, they worked. The old man would select a protruding bulge of flint. By prying with the pole and striking with a heavy boulder, they would break loose a block of the fine blue stone. It would be set aside and a new chunk selected.

“That will be enough,” Stone Breaker announced as the last pumpkin-sized chunk fell away. “We cannot carry more.”

Bull Roarer was exhausted from the hard physical labor and fell asleep quickly. Stone Breaker smiled knowingly as he finished his pipe, knocked out the dottle, and rolled in his own sleeping robe. Yes, the boy would be good at this, he thought to himself. He had seen how Bull Roarer’s hands touched the stone, with reverence for its spirit. He was glad for this opportunity for his apprentice to experience the spirit of the quarry. It was always an uplifting thing, to sleep here and commune with those who had come to this canyon for the same purpose, maybe since the time of creation. He thought his apprentice felt it too.

Stone Breaker’s heart was full of satisfaction as he drifted off to sleep.

Though Bull Roarer was now showing more interest in life, the same influences were driving the three childhood friends apart. Crow continued to spend time with Bull Roarer, and he continued to tolerate her presence. It was, after all, pleasant to be able to share each small success with someone. Crow, in turn, was increasingly shut out by Small Elk. He had not been the same since the day she stayed behind while he went on the hunt. Crow’s heart was heavy for this, but she did not know what to do. If she tried to rekindle her friendship with Elk, Bull Roarer might become depressed again. He was still a bit moody sometimes, especially when his fingers were sore.

It was some time before Crow, with her feminine instincts coming strongly to the fore, realized that it had become a matter of jealousy between the two young men. Bull Roarer had begun to call her Crow Woman, teasing at first, after Stone Breaker used the flattering term. Now, not only he but most of the band were using the name, and it had begun to fit her. Fit her, in fact, as well as her new buckskin dress, with the chest cut somewhat roomier to accommodate the changes in her body. It would have been an exciting time, a time of pride in her newfound maturity. It was unfortunate that it was happening at the same time as the rift between her two friends. It made things so much more complicated.
Alee
, she thought,
things were so much simpler when we were children
.

As for Small Elk, he felt completely alone, abandoned by his friends. Bull Roarer resented his ability to run, walk,
and hunt. Crow, now calling herself Crow Woman, had also abandoned him, preferring the company of Bull Roarer. It made his heart heavy, though he understood. Bull Roarer, people said, was rapidly becoming skilled in the craft he was learning from Stone Breaker. How could he, Small Elk, compete with such success? Of course, any woman would prefer the security that such a skilled artisan could provide. Why
should
Crow choose him, a young hunter with no special skill?

His heart was very heavy.

A
S Bull Roarer’s prestige increased in the band and even as widely as the other bands of the People, the schism widened. Small Elk seemed intent on proving his worth as a hunter and doggedly pursued that elusive goal. Maybe he tried too hard, but ill fortune surely followed his efforts. Stubbornly, he continued.

Crow Woman, irked at his stubborn narrow-mindedness, spent more and more time with Bull Roarer, which seemed to push Small Elk more firmly into his self-defeating pattern.

By the time of their seventeenth summer, some were seeking the flintpoints of Bull Roarer, even in preference to those of Stone Breaker. There was much talk at the Sun Dance that year. Young Bull Roarer was surely destined for greatness as a weaponsmaker. People told one another this as the various bands gathered for the annual religious ceremonies in celebration of the return of Sun Boy, the grass, and the buffalo. Such skill was rarely found in one so young. Flintpoints and tools made by Bull Roarer were traded as objects of great value. It was no wonder that there were young men in all the bands who envied his success.

Yet another reason for envy was the beauty of his almost constant companion, Crow Woman. How fortunate can one man be? men asked each other, with much envious clucking of tongues.

All this did not go unnoticed by their former friend, Small Elk. As he became more embittered, his skills deteriorated. Before he realized what was happening, their roles had reversed. Bull Roarer, once avoided because of his handicap, now carried himself proudly, admired by others, while the embittered Small Elk sought solitude. His heart
became heavy over the loss of the girl who had been the best friend of his childhood, the girl who had never really been his at all.

It was an evening late that summer when the southern band was beginning the fall hunt, that Stone Breaker called his apprentice to him. Bull Roarer crossed the open space from his parents’ lodge, wondering what the older man might want at this time of day.

Stone Breaker watched him and the odd rolling gait that had resulted from the old injury as a child. It had prevented the youngster from participating in normal activities but was no handicap now. Stone Breaker was pleased that he had chosen to help the boy. There was no way that he could have foreseen the rapid progress his apprentice had made, and he was pleased to take some of the credit for Bull Roarer’s success.

And how the boy had changed! The swing to his rolling stride, which had once appeared labored and difficult, now looked proud as the young man approached. Stone Breaker sat leaning on his backrest, smoking comfortably. He had come to an important decision.

“Ah-koh
, Uncle,” Bull Roarer said in greeting.

The old man nodded to acknowledge the greeting and pointed for him to sit. Bull Roarer settled himself on the ground before his tutor. After a suitable pause to satisfy custom, Stone Breaker began to speak. It was apparent from his tone that this was a matter of some importance.

“My son,” he began, a dreamy look of nostalgia in his expression, “do you remember the day, there by the river, when you first watched me work flint?”

“Of course, Uncle.” Bull Roarer smiled. “That seems long ago.”

The old man nodded, and took a puff on his pipe.

“Yes. I hoped you would find an interest in such work. You have.”

“Your instruction, Uncle,” the young man began, “it has—”

Stone Breaker waved a hand to silence him.

“Hear me, Bull Roarer. I told you once that you would be as skillful as I.”

“No, Uncle, I—”

“Be still,” Stone Breaker admonished gently. “You are as
skilled as I am now. Maybe better. You will gain skill, while I will lose mine.”

“No, you are still the best,” Bull Roarer insisted.

“My eyes are failing,” stated the old man. “You have not seen that I do not try the smaller, finer pieces that I once loved?”

“I… I had not noticed, Uncle.”

“Yes, it is true. I can still get by, feeling the edges on the larger things. Spear points, scrapers, but…”

He spread his palms in frustration, then continued.

“Well, I have many winters. I will continue to work, but I have something to give you.”

“Give me?” Bull Roarer was puzzled.

“Yes. I will give you my name. I will announce it at the next council.”

Now the young man’s head whirled. He had not expected such an honor, perhaps the greatest that could be given to a young person.

Since it was forbidden among the People to speak the name of the dead, it had become common to
give
away one’s name. Usually it was passed to a grandson or other close relative. There had once been a problem over this, it was said. A popular young subchief had been killed, gored by a wounded buffalo. Since he was young and had never given his name, it could not be spoken. It was an unusual name, worn by no one else, but contained common words, that, now forbidden, were lost to the language. The People had devised new words to replace the old, and in a generation, the original words were forgotten.