of iron and glass. It looked different from the stone buildings, light and open like the cages for birds he had seen in some markets. It stood apart from the others on the quai, almost at the water’s edge, and it smelled of sea creatures. It too was dark but he could just make out long rows of tables which seemed to be covered with shiny metal, and he wondered if this was where the women washed their clothes. Everything smells of the fish, he thought, and he felt queasy as he walked on the edge of a basin filled with small wooden boats. Each one had a single skinned tree and was open to the weather. Some were filled with small wooden cages; others had piles of knotted string beneath a piece of canvas that hung like a tent from a wooden pole attached sideways to the skinned tree. Charging Elk knew that these were devices to catch the fish and the hard-crusted creatures he had seen in markets. The Lakotas were surprised and disgusted with the things these people ate. Especially the slimy many-legged thing that seemed to melt into itself. Featherman had said something obscene about it and everybody laughed. Still, they were horrified.
By now Charging Elk found himself standing on the edge of a cobblestone square surrounded by three- and four-story buildings. At one end was a large holy house with two towers. A bell was ringing in one of the towers, and he realized that he had been hearing it for some time. But it was the din of hundreds of people in the square that muted the bell and caused him to shrink into a doorway. Some of them carried torches which gave off warm golden flames. In the center, several men carried a woman dressed in blue and white silken cloth. A golden circle hovered above her head and she was seated on a golden chair, and at first, Charging Elk thought it was a real woman, but she didn’t move. Her hands were clasped, palms and fingers pressed together, and he knew she was one of the holy statues that he had seen in the small street those few sleeps ago. These French worshiped her and were taking her up the steps to the holy house. He looked around for the man in brown robes, the kicking baby, and the men with shiny cloth wound around their heads. Perhaps they came from Persia; perhaps Broncho Billy was right; perhaps this town was where the Perdían Monarch came from. For just an instant, he thought he might be in Persia. But this town was only a train ride from Paris and these people were dressed like all the other French. No shiny clothes, no big cloths on their heads. And no monarch with his many women.
Charging Elk watched the procession make its way slowly up the wide steps of the holy house, and he realized that the voices of the people were not loud, just constant. They seemed to chant the same things at the same time, all the while crowding around the statue and a man in a red gown carrying a gold cross with red fire glistening at its center. As the procession ascended the stairs, Charging Elk could see that the leaders were holy, with their golden robes and tall stiff hats. One of them held a long coupstick which swayed slowly above the crowd. Two of them were swinging iron boxes that made smoke and caused the watching people to bob up and down and move their right hands over their bodies, just as they did that day in the dark cave of the holy house in Paris.
The people followed the golden men into the big house and then the doors closed. The bell had quit ringing and suddenly it was as quiet as it had been that afternoon and evening. The golden torches were gone too; only the lights on posts cast their cold white circles on the wet cobblestones.
Charging Elk wondered what kind of ceremony this was that the white people held during this Moon of the Popping Trees. He knew it was holy; perhaps as holy as the wiwanyag wachipi. But the Dance Looking at the Sun was held during the Moon of Red Cherries, when it was warm and Sun looked down on his people for the longest time of his yearly journey.
Now the people were forbidden to hold the Sun Dance, just as they were forbidden to speak Lakota. But many of the people from Pine Ridge came out to the Stronghold to participate in the Sun Dance. The whites never bothered with the Indians out there and so they were free to perform their holiest ceremony in the old way.
Charging Elk had sacrificed his flesh before the wagachun when he was seventeen winters, one winter after his visit from badger, who gave him much medicine. The pain of the thongs in his breast as he danced before the sacred tree was unbearable and he was certain he would disgrace himself, but just as he was about to cry out, the pain ended and he was in another world. It was as though he could see himself dancing and blowing the eagle-bone whistle and, at the same time, entering the Great Mystery, where he saw the ancestors and the great herds of buffaloes under the wind and sun and moon. He saw many sacred beings in this world and he knew it was the real world. He heard the beat of the drum and he knew it was the heartbeat of the can gleska, where all becomes one. As he danced, he heard the pounding rhythm in his feet, the shrill arrow of his whistle, and he felt the darkness take him. Later, in the pejuta wicasa’s sweat lodge, he had vowed to always live in the old way, to participate only in Lakota ceremonies, to avoid and ignore the holy ceremonies of the wasichus. And he had fulfilled that vow as best he could.
But now he had witnessed one of the white mens ceremonies and he found himself wishing he could go into their sacred house and see some more. He wanted to be with these people, inside where it was warm and holy. But he knew that as soon as he entered, the people would stare at him, or maybe they would throw him out because he wasn’t one of them. Or worse, they might think he was an enemy.
Charging Elk was sunk inside of himself, thinking of his loneliness in the cold dark while the wasichiu were in the sacred room with their holy woman and the golden leaders, and he didn’t notice the slow, measured steps which clumped dully on the wet cobblestones. If he had heard the steps, he could have just stepped farther into the shadows or walked deliberately around the corner and toward the harbor. He had observed that people who walked deliberately in these big towns were seldom seen.
But he was caught unawares and he jumped when he heard the voice behind him. “Pardon, monsieur.” The voice was calling for his attention, and so he turned.
The man wore a shiny dark cape that fell down past his knees and a small flat cap with a visor and a curtain that covered his neck and ears. He said something else, something that seemed to be a question. Charging Elk looked down at the man’s silver buttons, which were attached to a tunic beneath the cape. He shrugged uselessly and he saw that the man carried a long stick. He knew that the man was an akecita, for he had seen many of them patrolling the streets of Paris, and even Marseille. He had avoided them these past sleeps and now he was disappointed that he had been surprised by one. Again he shrugged, and again he avoided looking into the policeman’s face. But he had sized him up and saw that the policeman was taller than the people of this town, but still half a head shorter than Charging Elk. He was also slighter and the knuckles that gripped the baton were sharp and white. Charging Elk thought he could take him with a quick move that would allow him to spin the man and get a grip that would break his neck or his windpipe. One of the older men at the Stronghold, one who had fought many times with enemies, had shown him and Strikes Plenty how he had used this move when an enemy thought he had him cornered.
But Charging Elk stood, still looking at the buttons, while the akecita continued talking. The voice was becoming louder and faster, slightly more threatening, and Charging Elk felt his body go tense with anticipation of the policeman’s first move.
He had been in three or four fights in his life, only one with a white man, a miner who had caught him stealing food from his shack. He had knocked the miner down and hit him on the head with a half-full coffeepot. Then he had run away. He and Strikes Plenty had laughed about the incident, but afterward Charging Elk had wished he had lifted the miner’s hair. But the thought had not occurred to him then as he sought only to escape. Anyway, there was no glory in scalping enemies anymore. There were no real enemies anymore. The old days when one rode into camp with an enemy’s scalp and the people sang an honoring song were gone. Now the reservation people would be angry and frightened of reprisal.
Charging Elk felt the rush of anticipation leave his body. He knew he was just as powerless in this country beyond the big water as the people were on their own land. He knew that his badger medicine would not help him here. All he had left was his death song and now was not the
