Starfish_ A Novel - James Crowley [3]
She dug into her pocket and pulled out a small tobacco pouch made from the soft underbelly of a buffalo calf that their grandfather had found frozen one late-spring morning. He had given Beatrice the pouch on her ninth birthday, and she still practiced what he had taught her, despite the Brothers’ and soldiers’ rules.
Beatrice opened the smooth leather pouch and removed a small plug of tobacco. She worked the dark leaves in her hands and then raised them, holding the tobacco out in front of her. She held it above her head, offering it to a jagged mountain peak that was the easternmost tip of what the army referred to as the Rocky Mountains.
The army and Brothers from the school called the broken section of the mountain “Chief Mountain.” They said that movement from within the earth had caused its eastern wall to separate, and now it lay in jumbled piles of rubble among the small foothills.
Their grandmother had once told them that the mountain fell because the Blackfeet no longer had their sacred Beaver woman as a spiritual leader. She said that because of this, they had lost their way and had been forced to settle down as opposed to continuing their nomadic life following the great herds of buffalo across the northern plains. She said that this forced the buffalo to leave, although they were waiting for the Blackfeet somewhere. Lionel often wondered where.
Beatrice let some of the tobacco slip through her fingers and then watched as it floated off toward the north. She turned west, holding the tobacco as an offering, then south, her eyes passing over Cut Bank Ridge and eventually stopping as she faced Heart Butte. She held the tobacco out toward Heart Butte, then turned east to the endless expanse of snow-covered grass before her. Lionel could see Beatrice’s lips move as she sang a song quietly to herself. He felt a slight breeze from the north as if somebody or something were actually listening.
He lowered his head and thought of the day that they were told their grandmother had also gone on to join their parents. Then Lionel turned with the wind, crossed the corral, and climbed out the other side. He stood above the water trough, looking down at the thick layer of ice that had formed overnight. He scuffed his feet through the snow at the trough’s base, searching for the rock that he stored there for the specific chore of breaking the ice.
As he shuffled along, Lionel looked over his shoulder. The schoolhouse and chapel loomed some fifty paces away on the hill above him. He hoped that no one was watching what Beatrice was up to, as it would surely end with her getting in trouble. Lionel did not understand Beatrice’s fascination with the older traditions, and he definitely did not understand how they could possibly be worth the troubles they caused. He turned to warn her again, but was interrupted on his way by a soft nuzzle from Ulysses.
“Good morning, Ulysses,” he said softly to the horse, not taking his eyes off his sister. “Look at her, will you? Sometimes I think Beatrice tries to get us in trouble.”
Lionel wrapped his arms around the horse’s thick neck and entangled his hands in his long mane for warmth. Ulysses, who normally would stand still for hours with this kind of attention, rocked his head and shifted his weight from hoof to hoof.
“What is it, boy? You hungry? Thirsty?” Lionel asked. He thought it must be the feed. Ulysses often grew hungrier over the long snowy nights.
“Okay, okay, I’ve got to find my rock.” Lionel dug through the snow. “I’ll get you started with some water.”
Ulysses continued to shift uncomfortably, making short guttural noises that Lionel thought resembled a hog more than a Great war Horse.
“What’s with you this morning?” Lionel followed the horse’s gaze and discovered the source of his discomfort. There was a man kneeling, almost in a pile, at the far end of the corral. Ulysses trotted the length of the corral, and stopped, as if waiting for Lionel to follow.
“Hello?” Lionel