The Name

Companion piece to "The Grandaughter" great liberty taken with NA culture.

The Name

 

From the cool shade of the porch the old man watched his granddaughter’s rosebush slowly whither under the August sun.  

“Now, grandfather?”

“Yes, tell us a story now. Tell us about the bear that killed your horse.”

“No, no.  Don’t listen to Phillip, grandfather.  Tell us a new one.”

He looked around at his grandsons, or were they great-grandsons? He was confused for a moment. Was he there to keep an eye on them, or had his granddaughter set them upon him like small watchdogs? 

It didn’t matter.

“In a while, a little while.  First draw a bucket of water and pour it on that weed your mother planted.  He looks thirsty.  Bring me a dipperful too.  Then we can begin.”

He rocked as he waited.  Constant motion was comfort to his bones; better than sitting still, easier than walking.  He liked the rocking chair more than he admitted.   He could hear them at the well squabbling about who was to turn the windlass to draw the bucket, who would carry it, who was the strongest, the fastest; the chatter of idle boys trying to fill summer.

Soon they would be back in the mission school under the wings of the crows, those strange women who dressed always in black.  This was no way to raise boys.  Boys should be raised by men, not the silly women and that one man-crow at the mission.  The man-crow gave all the children meaningless names from the black book he always carried, but he was white and white men did not have much sense.

But now, he considered, what story do I have which they have not heard?  What can I tell them to keep them close?

 

*

The lodge of the Sun Dance was hot from the heat of the sun outside and from the bodies of the men inside.  It was noon and a shaft of daylight came straight down from the vent at the top.  Dust and smoke inside made the light appear to be a solid column that joined itself with the thick pole sunk deeply into the ground at the center of the tipi.

In the gloom at the edge of the circle of light, men were sitting with their backs to the skin of the lodge.  They were serious, but not somber, having the easy camaraderie of shared experience.  They talked among themselves and shared pipes while some of the older men maintained a monotonous rhythm on small skin drums and gourd rattles.  All kept their eyes on the center, where the dancers shuffled around the pole.

The dancers were each bound to the pole, and thus to the Earth, by a long leather thong.  But the thongs were not tied to the dancers.  Each thong divided at its end into two leads that were attached to sharpened pieces of bone.  These bone anchors were imbedded in the pectoral muscles of the dancers.  Blood from their wounds dripped into the Earth that held their tethers.  The dancers leaned away from the pole as they shuffled, keeping the thongs taunt.  They strained to break the flesh that held them to the Earth.  The dance was in the second day.

One of the dancers, a youth of about sixteen years, no longer saw the men around him or heard the drums.  He no longer felt the pain in his chest or the fatigue and thirst.  The Great Spirit of All Things- who is also called God- had pitied him and accepted his flesh offering.  The heart of the dancer had left the tipi and followed the Great Spirit.

The young men who danced the Sun Dance all hoped for a spirit-vision that would lead them into manhood.  The spirit most wished for among these young men was one of courage, strength, or prowess, the manly virtues.  When this came it was usually in the form of an animal like a bear or an eagle; some strong beast from whom these gifts could be drawn.  But gifts like these come from the Great Spirit, and no man may tell God what to bestow.

The heart of the young dancer who followed the Great Spirit knew no difference between waking and sleeping.  There was no boundary now for him between the real world of the pole and thong and the spirit world of dreams and visions.

He stood in the flat vastness of the prairie; a circle of green grass limited by a hazy gray line where the green circle joined the horizon, then climbed into an astonishingly blue sky.  A spring of water shone in sunlight, a fountain that bubbled and rose like the steaming springs that lived in the Valley of the Yellowstone.  But this water was cold and sweet.  He drank, knowing the water to be a gift.  His spirit-animal was waiting in the spring.  The spirit-animal was a beaver and it browsed without haste on an aspen branch until the youth finished drinking.

“Do you know what I am?” The beaver asked.

“You are the beaver-the spirit of wisdom,” the youth answered.

“Look at my feet.  See that I am crippled by a trap, but I am alive and I am still a beaver.”

“What does this mean?”  The youth asked.

“It is not the way of the world that an animal should escape the hunter, or that one who has been lamed should survive, but I live and prosper.  My children live in this spring, and when they hear the slap of my tail they dive beneath the water and are safe.  If you are to be a lame beaver you must become wise enough to overcome the will of the world.”

“I want to be a warrior,” the youth said.

“If you are to overcome the will of the world you will fight many battles.  You will learn all the ways of the world and you will, in time, learn the last lesson of the wise warrior.”

“What is this lesson?”

“Look out on the prairie and tell me what you see,” the spirit demanded.

“There is a great cloud on the horizon; a storm is coming this way, with wind and lightning.  The grass is beaten down before it.”

“How would a warrior vanquish such a storm?” the spirit-animal asked.

“No man may vanquish the wind,” Lame Beaver answered.

“Remember that you have said this,” the spirit instructed. “Remember what you have learned about the lame beaver.  Now, go back into the world and be what you have become.”

Lame Beaver no longer saw the shining spring, the clear fountain.  He saw the light coming through the vent of the tipi.  He saw the pole and the dangling bloody thong that no longer bound him.

The men at the edge of the circle saw that he had returned and they celebrated.  They gave him water from a gourd cup, and when his throat had opened enough to speak he told them about the spirit-animal and his new name.  They respected this vision and forgot his childhood name.  He was a man among them now.

Lame Beaver did not tell them about the storm.  This was something a young man could not know all at once.

 

*

 

“Grandfather!  I’m spilling your water.”

“Yes Phillip let me drink and I will tell you the story of the White Buffalo Calf of the Lakota, then maybe we can get your mother to make us all some supper.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

            .

 

 

 

Author's Note

Any comments on any aspect welcome and respected.

Reviews

[TL Boehm]

fascinating. I loved the shift from late summer to the tribal story and then back again seamlessly and that reference to a coming storm - there was a chill to this write, not horror - but that touch of something outside ourselves which I found wonderful.
Stellar write. It works as a short story but could lend itself to more of a novel - just my opinion.

[Delmar Cooper]

At one time I had thoughts of a series of inter-related stories like "Winesburg" sorta kinda.

[Taylor]

Delmar, I am returning your kindness in reviewing for me. In this case, the pleasure is all mine. I love your the wonderful dialogue that sets up this story, telling so much about the restless grandsons, the aging grandfather showing the initial signs of dementia as well as his compassion for the wilting rose bush. A small thing, but the repetition of the word "sun" in the first sentence of the SunDance Lodge story caught me, just a second to give an unintended snag. Maybe "midday heat" would work? I like the picture you paint so eloquently in that section's first paragraph. The second paragraph on the other hand feels a little drawn out--maybe bec the detail seems more vague. The men sitting with their backs to the skin of the lodge doesn't tell me a lot -- they were in a circle, with the dancers in the center; perhaps the point could be made that their backs were rubbing against the skin in order to make space for the dancers. I also stopped momentarily to figure out what the skin of the lodge was -- oh, yes, I said, it's the sides of the tipi, but again another momentary pause. Great dramatic description of the dancers tethered to the pole. I could see the scene and feel the pain of those bone anchors. Yikes! The allegory flows beautifully. I found the ending to be a little abrupt. I assume (and perhaps I have missed the point entirely) but that White Buffalo Calf of the Lakota" is the youthful name of Lame Beaver? I think I would feel more satisfied if I had a better sense of that. You have captured the enigmatic spirit of at least what I know of Native American lore. Congratulations on yet another remarkable story.

[Delmar Cooper]

Very constructive information and yes there is a job of work remaining before this story could be called polished. The repetition point is well taken, but your other points are more serious. took great liberty with the "lodge" and the Sun Dance neither is accurately portrayed. I excuse myself to some degree because I am writing fiction. A scholar of Plains Indian life can take me to task on my facts. The story is written to conform to the notions of a white reader raised on western fiction. One of the first stories I ever wrote dealt with the Cherokee and was panned as unbelievable, that it was factually accurate was no excuse for violating the preconceptions of the reader is no excuse. Thus I no longer consider myself the bridegroom of truth, mea culpa.

The Buffalo Calf story was meant to be a substitute for the naming tale, one more established in the story vocabulary of the boys and less troubling to the narrator, Lame Beaver. I need to work on that and establish a relationship between the reason for the substitution with the children and the past reluctance of Lame Beaver to disclose the spirit animal's prophesy to his elders. There may have been a word limit on this thing in the distant past, but there is not one now so I have no excuse.

[Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere]

Beautiful story. I see it before my eyes: grandfather on the porch rocking in his chair with his grandchildren. A beautiful scenery. Followed by the tribal story, harsh but as it probably was. And continuing with the grandfather who wish to tell them a whole other story. Also a bit mysterious with the storm and the dream. Liked it.

[Delmar Cooper]

Thank you for reading and your comment.

[Farm Donkey]

Very accomplished! I really like your narrative device which suggests two stories are being told here. This is also quite dark which appeals to me, I would be interested to read more.

[Delmar Cooper]

Thank you for reading and for your gracious comment. I hope you will be posting more stories soon. When you do please let me know. I enjoyed reading the two stories I saw posted.

[Farm Donkey]

Kind words, thank you. I put another chapter up a couple of hours ago.

[Lyn Anderson]

I love your stories of Native culture, and I think contain enough aspects that ring true without suffering through minutia to make them work. Your characters are very alive and real and interesting. I see you corrected the minor errors previously cited. I did not see any others.

[h d e rushin]

I wrote three short stories this week, then fell asleep with none of the three ending. And that is
my dilemma, does an ending (of any sorts) have to acknowledge the text (of any expression)?
I loved this story but did I cheat by knowing that you are also an accomplished poet? In other
words, am I trying to sort out the poetry from the prose to satisfy the constant promise
I make to myself; that somehow the expression is both the bounty and the reward?

I love tribal stories since we are all from a certain tribe and I truly love speaking spirits since
we speak from our spirits rather than thru them....well done my friend.

[Delmar Cooper]

I'm certainly glad you read it and doubly glad it was entertaining.

" And that is my dilemma, does an ending (of any sorts) have to acknowledge the text (of any expression)?" I guess the answer is:" It depends." My sort of reader wants all words in a short story to be necessary and if all are the ending is ergo a product of all text. I like poetry that is rather vague and rambling, or better said, I tolerate non linear thinking in poetry that I would not in a short story. I'm really old school in my reading and writing, expecting things to be written for a reason. Doesn't have to be rational mind you, but I do look for conclusions based on data written or implied by the writer.

[h d e rushin]

your my hero..

[W.k.kortas]

It's a wonderful story-within-a-story, admirably paced and showing an excellent feel for dialogue, which is a mournfully hard thing to do, especially with spirit-beavers. I suppose you could grumble that the ending is a bit abrupt, but I don't think that you could lengthen it without having some heavy-handed moral-of-the-story grafted-on feel to it. It's an awfully fine piece.

[Delmar Cooper]

Thanks for reading. I added the frame tale with the boys in this version, originally it was just the young Indian, but I'm with you on post mortem moral statements.

[Einstein Noodle]

i thoroughly enjoyed your story .. these kinds of things are just my cup of tea! .. love the ancestral ties you brought out ... the wisdom of Lame Beaver .. and the respect for him in his twilight years .. so glad he remembers the stories ... one very small editing note: "...sold column" should be solid .. :)) and historically did the Sun Dance occur in a sweat lodge? .. i have a hard time picturing one large enough for the Sun Dance to happen inside it ..
the two boys are very clear in my mind .. you give just enough for me to see them jostling for places at the well and at Grandfather's knee .. very glad i stopped to read! makes me want more
E.

[Delmar Cooper]

Very constructive review. " Sold " column must be the product of a merchantile society upbringing. I never saw that. Yes, so far as I know the Sun Dance was outdoors, in the sun, but this is a literary dance not a literal one and I took outrageous liberties with someone else's culture and perhaps religion; I'm turning into a regular Custer or Chivington, or Jackson , or VanBuren - what the hell, just another white man. This Indian is my self indulgence, he is my world building fantasy, he is fun. I've killed him, married him off and named him.

[Einstein Noodle]

big smile! thanks for the insights into your story building .. again ..really enjoyed the read
E.