When Lemmi Tsinnajinni arrived back at Many Geese, he stopped his horses outside the chief's tipi. He'd report to Mazeppa before taking his gear inside. The weather had turned hot and humid, the prairie breeze slept, and the flies were making the most of it. The sides of Mazeppa's tipi were rolled waist high for ventilation. They could see saw each other through the open door, and Mazeppa beckoned Lemmi in.
"It is good to see Mazeppa Tall Man again," Lemmi said. "I have been to the Black Mountains, as you instructed."
Mazeppa gestured at another back rest, and Lemmi sat down against it. "What have you to tell me about it?" the chief asked.
"The redgrass land I passed through is beautiful, and so are the mountains and forest. I can see why the Swift Current people live there."
"Indeed," Mazeppa replied. By the standards of the buffalo peoples, he was edgy, impatient. "Did you talk with Nagani Yazzie?"
"We spoke at length."
Mazeppa grunted. "What was said?"
"He asked why you sent me. I told him you wanted an alliance with the Swift Current people. He answered that Mazeppa Tall Man consorts with witches who ride through the sky in a canoe, and that he would have nothing to do with such a person." Lemmi shrugged. "I had no answer to that.
"He then said you want the Sacred Mountains, and that the Swift Current Dinneh are not giving them to anyone. I told him it wasn't the mountains you want, but the Kingdom of Sota, east of the Great Grass.
"He asked why you trouble yourself with the Swift Current people, if you want to war eastward? I answered as you instructed: that you would like his help. That the Sotans have many men; that it will be a great fight, and when it is over, those who fight beside Mazeppa will share in the wealth of the Sotans. And the buffalo people will no longer need to fear the dirt-eaters."
Lemmi's face and voice were calm, showing no trace of apology for the answers he'd brought. "Nagani Yazzie asked what this Sotan wealth consists of. I told him the Sotans have much wood; that the Sotan forest goes on and on for days. That the Sotans have much sweet water; rivers so wide, you cannot hear a man shout on the other side. That Sotan women are famous for their beauty, and that Sotans have great gardens in which they grow food of many kinds."
Mazeppa's lips thinned. He hadn't foreseen that question, and while Lemmi's answer didn't appeal to him, he couldn't think of a better one. He had not spoken of what Jesus had said to him. His own people would have difficulty accepting that. And among them, ruling was not an important concept.
"What did he say to that?" the chief asked.
"That the Swift Current people have all the wood they want and all the water they want. That their women are better than Sotan women, and they have all the buffalo they can eat. And that his people do not fear the dirt-eaters. That it is Mazeppa, not the dirt-eaters, who wants to rule everyone. Also that he does not fear your witches; only Dinneh witches can threaten the Swift Current people. That the friendship of witches is poison; that unless you kill the witches or drive them away, they will destroy you, and afterward your chindi will poison your people for a very long time.
"He said he will not ask his warriors to die far away, that if you want to take the Sotan land, that is your business, not his. That the dirt-eaters will not thank you for bringing blood and fire to their villages. If they had no ill intentions before, they will when you do what you speak of."
Mazeppa's scowl hid vague discomfort. "Gallagher told me Nagani Yazzie is senile and difficult," he said. "Well. I will deal with him in good time. Meanwhile things have changed. I no longer need his alliance."
Even watching the chief's aura, Lemmi couldn't guess what went on in his mind. Finally Mazeppa spoke again, slowly and quietly. "Do Dinneh warriors adopt sons into their lodges?"
"Occasionally."
"So do we here." He fell briefly silent, then continued. "My loins have produced no sons, no children at all, though I have two wives." He paused again. "You are a warrior who has traveled far. Who knows the Sotans. Who shows respect. Who in victory is kind to the vanquished, and who does not fear to tell me what he thinks. And who speaks the ancient and beautiful Dkota tongue, which we must begin to teach our children."
Lemmi knew what came next. "I would like to make you my son," Mazeppa said. "My warrior son, who will be a hero in the fighting to come. I can see it in you. And you will have many sons, and they will have many sons. Mazeppa and the sons of Mazeppa will be known forever, throughout the world. What do you say to that?"
"I would be honored to be the son of Mazeppa Tall Man." Lemmi's mahogany face had turned sober. Mazeppa Tall Man was honoring him. The offer was rooted in self-interest, but it could have been made to any number of others instead of himself. And he would accept that honor to betray it. For a good cause, but a betrayal nonetheless.
"Good," Mazeppa said. "Then you must prepare. You have been tainted by the words and company of Nagani Yazzie. So go now to the tipi of Pastor Morosov. Tell him you must be cleansed of the poison of Yazzie's words before the next new moon. The Dkota will hold important ceremonies then, and when they are completed, you will become my son. Meanwhile you are to live in the lodge of the penitents. Now go."
Lemmi left, thinking about the moon. That morning he'd wakened to gray dawn, with the brighter stars and Jupiter still sharp in the western sky. But in the east, the bitten moon was well up, and the new moon a few days off.
Still leading his pack horse, Lemmi rode to the pastor's tipi and told him what Mazeppa wanted. The chief had already explored the subject with the pastor, who now took Lemmi to the penitents' lodge nearby. "Move your things in," he said. "Some things are already here: waterbag, baskets and rocks for cooking, baskets for gathering buffalo chips . . . You returned at a good time. Those who have lost harmony with the Great Spirit and the People will begin their cleansing tomorrow. But this evening you will eat in my tipi."
Judging from his aura, the pastor had some other matter on his mind, something he wasn't talking about. Something to do with me, Lemmi guessed, and perhaps with Mazeppa Tall Man.
It turned out the evening meal would be his last for three days. Three days of not quite fasting; three hungry days.
Each morning the penitents would be wakened by a deacon with an eagle bone whistle. After sharing pipe smoke with the rising sun, and washing in the creek, they would run the short distance to Coot Lake, then all the way around it. It was fairly large, more than a mile across and some two miles long. There were thirteen penitents besides Lemmi, all naked, all there for spiritual cleansing. While running, they were followed at a little distance by a swarm of children and youths wearing breechclouts, who treated the run like a festival. Afterward, slick with sweat, the penitents bathed in the lake, some distance from the others, and unlike them, not sporting in the water.
After returning to the village, the penitents sat together in a prayer lodge with the pastor and five deacons. There they prayed together, Pastor Morosov leading, the others following, to the beat of a lap drum played by an old man. The prayer was in Dkotan; Pastor Morosov had coached them, and told them what the words meant.
Afterward they partook of the Sacrament, each eating a single morsel of God's Great Gift, buffalo hump, handed them by the pastor; followed by God's Sweet Gift, a dollop of honey on a fragment of sacramental corn tortilla; and finally a sort of bitter tea, served in a hollowed-out gourd; all while a singer prayed, accompanied by drum.
Following that, they danced more or less in place while the singer sang a prayer of love: first to Sun and Moon; then to Land and Water; to the four-leggeds large and small; the winged people; the many-leggeds; the standing people, both trees and grass. To the Virgin and her Son; and finally to the Great Spirit, God who dwells in all things. After that they left the prayer lodge, each to go about his day aware that he was not to eat for three more, except for the Sacrament.
Lemmi didn't know what the other penitents did. The rest of his day was spent being instructed by a deacon, in Dkota lore. He found it interesting—enlightening on Dkota attitudes and folkways.
That evening they gathered in the penitents' lodge to be led in prayers by Pastor Morosov, and again drink tea, this time a soporific. Soon they lay down on their sleeping robes, to dream until dawn.
Most of the second day was much like the first, though some of the prayers were different. Lemmi was surprised that his legs weren't sore from yesterday's run and dancing.
Evening, though, was entirely different. The penitents gathered outdoors in deep twilight, bellies complaining. The mosquitoes were out in force, their stings annoying but momentary, for their prey had developed resistance to the itching and swelling. With the penitents were singers and drummers, trained in the ceremony. Morosov had explained to Lemmi what the penitents would do here. A large crowd of onlookers waited, chatting among themselves. They would, Lemmi thought, be familiar with the ceremony, its purposes and meanings.
The penitents stood six to eight feet apart in a circle, surrounding a tipi-shaped pyre of split bur oak. The pastor stood beside it. A single large drum began to beat softly, rhythmically. The crowd stilled at once. Then the drum stopped, and Morosov began to pray in Dkotan, pausing after every phrase to repeat it in Merkan. The prayer was not long. It asked the Great Spirit to be active within each of them, not only the penitents but the onlookers, bringing them all into harmony with His Wisdom, and thereby with each other, the Earth, the Waters, the Air, and everything living on and in them.
When he'd finished, the Great Drum began a heart-like beat: thump-thump! Thump-thump! A deacon entered the circle to hand the pastor a tightly woven basket, with the handle of a small metal dipper showing. Morosov took it, and presented each penitent with a dipperful of whatever was in the basket. The penitent drank it down without a pause. Thump-thump! spoke the drum, thump-thump! Lemmi was the last to be offered the tea. It seemed to him every eye in the crowd was on him—every eye that could find him. The brew was warm, verging on hot, and again bitter, but not the same as the tea of that morning.
Again the drum stopped, and Morosov prayed in Merkan to the Great Spirit, asking forgiveness for any imperfections in himself, the ceremony, the penitents and the onlookers, and to help them reach harmony. When he'd finished, another deacon entered, to hand the pastor a torch. He thrust it into the pyre, which Lemmi realized had been primed with fat, probably buffalo fat. It flared into flame, and Morosov left the circle.
Several drums began a strong synchronized beat, and the penitents began to dance, right, then left on the circumference, treading firmly without stamping. The onlookers began to sing. Lemmi quickly found himself at one with the other dancers and the crowd. Partly it's the tea, he thought. Partly.
The drumming speeded, and so did the dancers, sweating copiously from the exertion and the burning pyre. They gleamed in the firelight. At intervals signalled by changes in the drum beat, their back and forth circling paused, and they danced in place, jumping high. At certain points, deacons entered the circle to lay more wood on the fire, reverently despite the intense heat. Lemmi's last conscious thought was, there was meaning in this, and validity.
Despite two days of fasting, the dancers continued for nearly two hours—longer than seemed possible. Several had slowed to a shuffle, while one by one, others ceased jumping but continued to dance. A few of the younger, immersed deeply in group consciousness and the tea, continued to jump, visiting their limits. Lemmi was one of them, his awareness of time and specifics vague. Finally the dancers began to collapse on the moccasin-packed earth. When several lay gasping, Morosov shouted a single loud cry. The drums crescendoed, crashed, stopped. The chanting crowd stopped with them. They'd been more than mere onlookers; they'd been co-celebrants.
Again Lemmi awoke to an eagle-bone whistle, knowing exactly what day it was. The new moon would rise in another half hour or so, rise unseen, with the sun or very nearly. Meanwhile, gray dawn shone through the open door-flap of the penitents' lodge. Lemmi recalled being given more tea after the dance, and drinking deeply. Of being bathed with water and trade soap, rinsed off, then wiped dry by hands. Of drinking again, and later, vaguely, going to the latrine.
For one final morning, the penitents ran the path around Coot Lake, bathed, and took the Sacrament together. It seemed to Lemmi he should be immobilized by soreness, but he scarcely hurt at all; a little in the calves.
Afterward, followed by the entire village, or all who could travel, the penitents walked to a hill known as the Hill of Saint Gustav. A three-hour walk, more for the older people, who'd started early. There they found Dkota from camps so far away, they'd traveled several days to get there, bringing their own penitents, and had set up camp a little distance off.
Saint Gustav had been the holy man who'd "discovered" what the hill was: the site where First Man and First Woman had met Jesus—Jesus riding on Pony, accompanied by Buffalo, Elk, Bear, Wolf, Mouse, Eagle, Raven, Goose, Snake and Spider; Cottonwood, Pine, Cattail, Bitterroot and Camas, representing all living things. Now all were there again, their spirits in the costumed members of their totem lodges, reenacting the Great Pow-wow in which, under Jesus's guidance, First Man and First Woman were taught to live in harmony with all the others, including each other.
The implication was that this had happened long long before Armageddon. But the pre-Armageddon recordings—print or audio—had no such myth, not for the Dakotah or any other buffalo people. It was from the post-Shuffling surveys that Lemmi knew the story. In the enactment, Coyote had been there too, and tried to play tricks on Jesus, but nothing worked for him. The crowd laughed with delight at his clumsy failures. Still, First Man had been distracted by Coyote's shenanigans, and had not learned all he was intended to know.
Lemmi had hypno-learned the basic story before leaving the Academy, but it was far more meaningful in the enactment. When it was over, those from the nearer villages started home. There was no feast; on this day all the Dkota fasted till sundown.
At Mazeppa's village, late that afternoon, two sweat lodges were prepared to complete the cleansing of the penitents. Meanwhile each confessed himself privately to the pastor or a deacon, before time to sweat. Lemmi's confession, of course, was less than frank. After sundown, each drank copiously of still another tea, then relieved and washed himself. When it was nearly dark, the naked penitents crawled on hands and knees into the sweat lodge, followed by Pastor Morosov and a deacon. The physical experience was not new to Lemmi; the Sancroy Dinneh used the sweat lodge as well, though the ceremony was different.
When they were all inside and the entrance closed, the only light was from the bed of red-glowing rocks near the middle. The heat was intense, but at first not oppressive. Pastor Morosov threw pinches of tobacco and sweet grass onto the rocks, their fragrance flavoring the air.
Only after the pastor's opening prayer did the deacon cast a dipper of hot water exploding onto the rocks. The result was instant humidity. Then one by one the penitents prayed—for harmony with the land, the waters, the air, all living things in and on them, and with Jesus and the Great Spirit. Each in his own way, his own words, from the viewpoint of his own experience. After every prayer, another dipper of water was splashed onto the rocks. The penitents were slick with sweat, trickling down their naked bodies till the ground they sat on was mud.
Again, as someone new to the Dkota, Lemmi was the last to pray. He did not fake it; but he was selective.
Once, using pitchforks obtained from traders, acolytes added new rocks, glowing from a fire outside, and the heat and humidity became almost intolerable. More tobacco and sweetgrass were thrown on the rocks. Then, in the darkness, the pastor handed out fragrant bundles of soft cedar twigs, gotten from Sotans by trade. With these they switched themselves till their bodies tingled. Then a deacon opened the door, and one by one they crept out into the night. Acolytes met them with more tea, all they could drink. Other acolytes added still more glowing rocks atop those from before. Then the penitents and their two leaders crawled back inside.
This stay was shorter. They scrubbed themselves and each other with trade soap and large wads of sphagnum moss, to emerge clean and glowing. This time the acolytes held baskets of lake water. The penitents were so overheated, having baskets of cool water poured on them was no shock at all.
In the penitent's lodge, a feast had been spread: God's Great Gift and God's Sweet Gift, along with camas cakes, corn cakes, and other delectables.
Then they all went home, Lemmi to Mazeppa's tipi. He was too spent to seek the privacy needed for a report to Luis and the others. They'd have to wait another day.
The next day, Mazeppa sent Lemmi to Pastor Morosov again, this time to be instructed in the things a man of another tribe should know before marrying into the Dkota. Things he hadn't already been taught. For Mazeppa had chosen a wife for him, and had asked the pastor to be his new son's hunka uncle. Morosov led the young man out of the village to the top of a knoll.
It was there they talked, the pastor doing most of it. Lemmi was free to ask questions throughout the two lessons, but one question he saved till the last. He wanted it to be on Morosov's mind when they parted.
"Pastor," he said, "there is one matter that troubles me. The Dkota, your people and now mine, put great emphasis on harmony. On balance. Yet the principal chief of the Dkota now rules the Ulster as well. If my mission to the Swift Current Dinneh had been successful, he would have commanded them, too. And he wishes to rule Sota. Now he wants me to father many sons, so that Mazeppa and the sons of Mazeppa will be known forever, throughout the world. Where is the balance in this?"
Morosov's face was thoughtful, and for a while he simply gazed at the horizon. "Mazeppa Tall Man was born to rule," he said at last. "And he does it well. People tend naturally to do what he asks, especially the young men. If the elders object—if I object—the young men will follow him, not us. Also, his wisdom as a ruler is great, especially for one so young—thirty-one winters."
"But why rule so much?" Lemmi asked. "Many warriors of the Dkota and Ulster will die in the war, and many Sotans. Why is he not content just to rule the Dkota?"
The pastor's aura was considerably troubled now, and his lag was even longer than before. "Do your people know the story of how things were before Armageddon?"
"I will know when you've told me what story that is."
"Before Armageddon—a long time before—the buffalo people lived as we do, hunting the buffalo. And east of the Great Grass, the dirt-eaters lived as they do today. But they were numerous, and increasing, and decided they wanted the land of the buffalo people."
Lemmi nodded. That was history. Morosov wasn't looking at him, though, and didn't see him nod.
"So the dirt-eaters made many agreements and promises. If the buffalo people would agree to let dirt-eaters live on part of the Great Grass, other parts would remain theirs forever. But the dirt-eaters did not keep their promises. They took the land they'd said the buffalo peoples could keep, and when the buffalo people tried to drive them out"—Morosov's expression was desolate—"when they tried to drive them out, the dirt-eaters killed all the buffalo and left them rotting. With no more buffalo, the buffalo people became weak, and were required to do all that the dirt-eaters ordered. Finally the dirt-eaters fought each other, and when most were dead, God in his mercy renewed the world, and the buffalo, and the other living kinds, in their proper numbers and places. And the people who were left he shuffled together, and those whom he put on the buffalo land, and their sons and daughters, became the new buffalo people."
Lemmi saw where this was leading, but asked anyway. "What has this to do with attacking Sota?"
"The dirt-eaters are talking again about conquering the buffalo people, and making the land their own."
It was Lemmi's turn to lag. Then—"How does Mazeppa know this? If it is true, why didn't I hear of it in Sota? In Iwa and Ilanoy? Surely they'd know of it there."
Lemmi's questions startled Morosov. They hadn't occurred to him. He thought then of the sky people; he himself had never heard of the dirt-eaters' plan till after the first visit of the sky canoe. But it couldn't have been Sky Chief. Mazeppa had talked about attacking Sota almost as soon as he'd defeated the Ulster, before Sky Chief arrived.
"I do not know, Lemmi. Perhaps only a few chiefs know, in those places. Chiefs in those lands do what they wish, and do not discuss it until they are ready."
Lemmi looked thoughtful. "What do the Dkota think about this?"
"Many elders spoke against making war on the Ulsters, even after the Ulsters raided the Standing Rock Dkota. They said we should just raid the camp the raiders came from. That's the way such things are done. But Mazeppa said we needed to teach the entire tribe a lesson they would not forget, and most of the young men thought it was a good idea.
"Later, when Mazeppa began to talk about attacking Sota, more of us disagreed. But he answered that if we do not attack them—defeat them so badly they will never want to fight us again, and drive them far away from the Great Grass—if we do not do that, they will come in all their numbers, and possess the land of the buffalo. Just as they did before Armageddon.
"And the young men agreed with Mazeppa, and many who are no longer young. I agree with him! The old are not expected to fight, and anyone is welcome to stay home. But almost all the young will go. It is to defend the buffalo, a great purpose, a great honor. No one argued. And when the young men ride against the Sotans, there will be men of fifty winters who ride with them."
Lemmi nodded. "I understand, Pastor," he said. It was time to cover his rear now. "I will be there too."
They parted then, Pastor Morosov walking back to camp. Lemmi, on the other hand, stayed on the knoll, to meditate and pray, he said.
After watching the pastor leave, he took his belt com and thumbed it on. It seemed to him he had the missing piece now, and what the Helverti's role was in this.