Seven ways to die

1

Idaho-nez Perce reservation

The Boy was lost. But that was as it should be. It was part of the challenge. He stared out over the mountains and thought about what his father and the qiwn, the Old Man with Wisdom, had taught him.

His entire journey would rely on the lessons of qiwn; things he had been listening to, and learning from, since he was old enough to understand Nimiputimptki, the language of the Nez Perce. And the Old Man had been talking to him since he was in his mother’s arms, before the other elders had also passed on their knowledge, before his father returned from the service.

It was Old Man who had called him Hemene Ka-Wan, at a Name Giving Ceremony before he was old enough to walk. In American it meant Youngest Wolf and was the name of the first star in the handle of the Big Dipper which gave The Boy a mystical connection to the sky. And later, when one of the miyooxat, the religious leaders of the tribe, had seen four eagles circling over The Boy’s head, he had pronounced that Ka-Wan was blessed with Weyekin.

When he was six or seven, he asked Old Man what Weyekin meant.

Old Man just looked him in the eye. “Listen,” Old Man had said, pointing two fingers at his own eyes. “Always look at the creature who speaks to you.”

Once he was going to his grandma’s house with a rabbit he had killed for stew. It was dusk and he heard an owl in the trees and he stopped and listened and then saw the owl and looked at it in the eyes.

“Oo, oo, whoee,” it said and he mimicked it. He stood for several minutes repeating the sound of the owl and when he went inside he told his grandmother about the owl and the sound it made.

She cocked her head to one side and listened to him and then said, “It will rain soon. Tomorrow night.”

“All creatures talk to each other,” Old Man said. “The wolf howls one way and it means one thing, he howls another way and it means something else. So does the eagle and the coyote and all creatures.”

“Oh.”

“Just like people.”

Now he was in his thirteenth year. Now he would take the walk to manhood, a decision he alone had made. It was not a tradition practiced by young Nez Perce anymore so he had depended on Old Man to tell him how it worked; to describe the passage so he would do it properly.

He was dressed properly for the trek: Buckskin leggings and shirt made by his mother and grandma; his father’s gray hat which had a broad band and low, flat crown; new moccasins; and a blanket which his grandma had meticulously woven for him years before and which had served him well. His mother had braided his long, black hair into a tight ponytail.

He himself had made the bow and eight arrows with which he would hunt when he got hungry. His canteen had been his father’s in the army. His hunting knife was a birthday gift from Old Man when he was eight although his mother had felt he was too young for such a weapon.

But his father had over-ruled her and taught him how to skin an animal properly and how to throw the knife so it always stuck what he was aiming at and how to sharpen it.

“A dull knife’s about as good as a broken leg,” he told The Boy.

They were the good years before his father fell sick from the Orange Rain. His father followed the way of the Nimiipu and believed in the walabsat, the Seven Drum Religion, but he was also a Christian and went to the Catholic church with his mother. Sometimes it confused The Boy.

One night, after they had been in a sweat house, they were lying in the grass by a stream cooling down and The Boy was staring up at the stars.

Finally his father said, “You have a strong heart, Ka-Wan. You’re learning the way of our people. That was your choice and I’m very proud of you for taking the path.”

The Boy felt good about that.

When his father was too sick to do anything but huddle in his blanket on the back porch and stare into the mountains, The Boy would sit beside him dancing and singing songs he learned from the Seven Drummers, then saying a prayer that his father would get well.?

The plan was simple. The Boy and Old Man left on horseback at first light. The Boy could take only the essentials: Water, his blanket, weapons, some flint, and some medicines his grandma, who was a medicine woman, made from mother earth, from the black moss on trees and from herbs and roots which were to purify wounds or injuries if he got hurt. No food or maps. No matches. And he was blindfolded. Old Man led him up into the mountains and away from the trails.

As sunset approached they stopped near a stream and Old Man removed the blindfold. They cut the poles for a good luck wistitamo and they gathered rocks and built the fire. After the sweat house, they jumped into the stream for a few moments to wash off the sweat then wrapped themselves in their blankets. They removed the canvas and poles and Old Man cooked a meal over the fire. A stew, then some venison and finally berries, each chopped in half. They drank a lot of water.

Old Man sang a prayer for his safe passage and they went to sleep.

When he awoke, the sun was peeking over the mountain top and Old Man was gone. He had left one thing for good luck, an ‘ipetes, an eagle’s feather, which Old Man fastened to the back of the crown of his hat. He had also left the pot of uneaten stew, the rest of the venison and berries, the canvas sweat house tarp.

The Boy found a strong branch to use as a walking stick. Each morning when he woke up he would cut a notch in the handle to keep track of the days.?

He found a stick and drew a straight line through the shadow. Then he stood and looked straight down the shadow. Southwest, he thought. Then he heard a sharp screech and looked up and saw a bald eagle circling him. It was talking to him, telling him to follow the line. Then it flew off straight southwest.

“Thank you, brother eagle,” he said, gathering his meager belongings, wrapping them in his blanket, and following the eagle’s trail. He was halfway down a mountainside which still had some late spring snow capping it. He trotted through the thick woods and late in the day came to a snow stream tumbling down from the peaks. He drank the cold clear water and filled his canteen and then hopped across the stream and followed it down until he came to a boulder etched out of the mountainside. It would be a safe place to sleep, there above the stream which was widening as the snow melted.

The Boy gathered handfuls of thick pine branches and made a mattress on the flat rock. Then he bunched up a small pile of leaves a few yards away and, using his flint, struck fire into the leaves and made a small temple of sticks above the meager fire and blew softly on it until the sticks started to burn. By the time the sun slipped behind the mountains he had a good fire going. He finished off the last of the food Old Man had left him, wrapped himself in his blanket and lay down on the pine mattress.

Listen. The past will become the present and the future will unfold before your eyes. Sometimes when you are alone it is okay to think about what has gone before. In your life, I mean. To understand why the past has become the present. Sometimes it is okay to think about where the trail will lead you, and why you are following it at all.

He was hungry and needed sleep to restore his energy. His food was gone.

Tomorrow he would have to go hunting.?

He was awakened before dawn by an owl. He lay huddled in his blanket and listened as owl spoke to him from the dark. His eyesight was keen, so that people said he saw in the dark. He could see the owl as clearly as he could hear it.

“Oo oo whoee. Oo oo whoee.”

It was going to rain. During the coming night.

He would have to find a decent shelter. A cave, perhaps, to keep the weather at bay. He mapped the day in his head. He would kill a rabbit for food. Easier than a deer or elk unless, of course, a deer or elk presented itself. He would pick herbs, wild vegetables and roots to add taste to the rabbit. Then he would make a fire and skin the rabbit and spit it over the fire on a slant so the juices would collect in the pot Old Man had left him. Then he would add the herbs, cut some chunks from the rabbit, and put them in the pot. So then he would have three meals: The rabbit for breakfast and dinner, the stew for lunch, perhaps find some berries for dessert.

It was a good plan, he decided, and he continued to follow the stream down the mountain. His eyes moved constantly as he trotted through the woods. About mid-day he saw tracks leading away from the creek. He knelt, brushing leaves away from them. They were paw prints. Small. Two pressed hard into the ground, three hands farther there were two not so deep, three hands farther two more deep prints and then two not so deep. In his head he could see the animal hopping.

A rabbit.

This was a good sign. He followed the tracks, walking carefully. As his father once told him, “Always walk an inch off the ground so nothing will hear you.” He understood what that meant. Occasionally he notched a tree so he could find his way back to the stream. He had gone about a mile when he stopped, squatting down behind a tree. The tracks led to a hole burrowed beneath a fallen cottonwood ten yards away.

He slipped an arrow from the quiver, fitted the notch between the feathers and the bow string and waited.

Listen. Patience is the virtue of the hunter.

And so he waited while above him storm clouds were gathering. Owl was right. The Boy could smell rain in the air. And it was getting dark. But his stomach was growling.

Far off, there was a rumble of thunder. He watched the hole. Perhaps the rabbit had left his house. Perhaps he was wasting his time. Then he heard a sound and the rabbit peered over the edge of the hole. It looked around, stuck his head up a little farther.

Ka-Wan very slowly pulled the string back until the arrowhead was almost touching the bow. He sighted down the arrow, could see the rabbit’s head now clearly above the hole. He waited. A minute, two minutes passed. Then the rabbit rose up a little farther and he could see the white fur on its chest.

Now!

He moved his fingers half-an-inch off the bow string. The arrow whirred towards its target. The rabbit heard the sound, turned his head sharply, but he was too late. The arrow had found its mark and pierced the rabbit’s throat, pinning him to the ground at the edge of the hole.

Now he had to find shelter.

He made his way back to the stream and trotted down the mountainside. Ahead of him he could hear a waterfall and then through the trees he saw a band of treetops and the waterfall grew louder. He moved faster and finally came to the rim of a small cliff where the stream dropped into a pool before it continued down the mountain. He climbed down the small ravine.

The Boy was in luck. On the far side of the pool close to the waterfall he saw an opening under an overhang. It was small but large enough to crawl through so he took off his moccasins and hopped through the frigid water to the other side of the pool. He crawled to the cave and looked in, sniffing the stagnant air.

There was a feral odor inside but it was too dark to see anything. He sniffed the air again. Was it fur? A wolf perhaps, or a fox? Maybe an otter? Was he intruding on its domain?

He quickly gathered the makings and struck a fire close to the cave opening and beneath the overhang to protect it from the coming rain. He found a sturdy tree limb about three feet long, set the end afire, and crawled through the opening, following the torch light.

He lay there with his legs still outside, the torch held high, and studied the arched interior. It was four or five feet high, the sides and ceiling formed by sturdy rocks as it coursed back into the mountain and narrowed into darkness. The sandy floor was dry. It was perfect although the smell of the torch obliterated all other odors.

He decided to take a chance. He wedged his torch between some rocks, pulled his blanket and meager belongings inside and carried the pot and rabbit and the wild vegetables and berries he had gathered back outside.

He was unaware that he was being watched.

Inside the cave, a pair of narrow, black eyes followed The Boy’s every move, watched through the cave opening as he skinned the nice, plump rabbit and prepared his dinner, watched and waited as darkness fell and lightning streaked the sky and rain began to pelt the earth, watched and waited as The Boy finished his meal and extinguished his fire.

The eyes narrowed to mere slits in the flickering shadows as he returned.

The Boy crawled a little deeper into the cave, away from the acrid smell of the torch. He stretched his blanket out on the dry floor of the cave and made a bundle of the canvas tarp against the wall for a pillow.

As he settled down, pulling the blanket over him, a bolt of lightning startled him and cast a blue glow through the cave opening.

He did not see or hear the creature as it coiled on the sand, its head rising above a rock two feet away, its tongue licking the air, its eyes widening.

The Boy, his ears still ringing from the crack of lightning, was unaware of danger.

Unaware until he heard the dreadful, dry, terrifying rattle. By then it was too late.

His mouth dried up and his eyes bulged as the snake streaked out almost to its full length. Its fangs snapped like a trap, puncturing the blanket and The Boy’s leggings and piercing the inside of his left leg an inch above his ankle. It felt like he had been hit with a hammer.

He screamed, broke into a sweat, pulled his legs up against his chest, and watched terrified as the predator slithered out of the cave.

His fear was replaced almost immediately by action. He remembered the words of Old Man.

Do not panic or you will die. Be calm but do not hesitate. Move slow like the possum. But do not waver. Do what you must do before the sleep comes.

He moved resolutely but in slow motion, got his knife, cut two, short strips from the canvas tarp, pulled up his pants leg and saw the two scarlet fang marks, already beginning to swell. He leaned over, sliced an inch-long slit through the wound, pulled his leg up and bit hard over the cut and sucked the poison from it. He could taste the venom as he spat it out. He tied one strip of canvas an inch or two above the wound, tightened and knotted it, did the same below the swelling. He bit again, sucking the toxic blood into his mouth and spitting it out. He took a deep swig of water, swished it around in his mouth, spat it out. He got his grandma’s reddish ointment from his small bag of possessions and slowly smeared it into the wound. His teeth began to chatter. Pain overwhelmed him.

Then he lay back and pulled the blanket around him. He was beginning to shake and the pain began to numb his nerves so he began a Nimiipuutimpt chant to himself, slowing the chant, lowering it deep in his throat. He lay still as a sleeping cat and stared at the flickering shadows on the ceiling of the chamber and kept chanting to slow his heartbeat as the room began to tilt and spin and envelope him.

And he slipped eagerly into the void.?

Visions swept through the swirling mist of his fevered mind like the colored shards tumbling in a kaleidoscope, each fragment becoming fleeting instants from the past, nightmares he had forgotten or tried to forget colliding with moments of pure joy:

Picking huckleberries with his mother under a clear azure sky and waiting at the table while she mixed them with honey, his mouth wet with anticipation.

Ka-Wan seeing his father, Charley Wildpony, for the first time. How powerful and handsome he was in his Marine uniform, stepping off the bus as he returned from faraway battlefields, a mighty warrior with colored ribbons on his chest, each a testament to his bravery.

The stink of the hospital in Denver.

Being swept up and held high and hearing his father’s proud laughter and his deep voice full of pride crying out, “Look at you! Boy, how I’ve waited for this time, young fella.”

The three of them together hugging each other.

A shaft of blue sunlight.

Pa teaching him to catch salmon on the big river.

Watching him rounding up and breaking wild horses on the plains of Montana’s Big Open.

Pa vomiting in the bathroom while his Ma tried to comfort him.

Old Man talking wisdom as they climbed through a canyon in the Bitterroots, all the while pointing out the flowers, the purple buds of shooting stars and the deep scarlet flowers of fairy slippers mingling in the rocks, while a crescent yellow, green and red rainbow arced the sky above them.

Pa and Old Man talking history around a campfire with their friends from the Crow tribe while a coyote wailed in the distance and the wild horses snorted restlessly in the makeshift corral.

Another shaft of blue sunlight.

Pa, his voice sounding old and worn out, telling his tribesmen and their families of battles he had fought while the Orange Death rained down on him and his comrades, killing cactus and scorpions and eventually all living things.

Virgil Red Cloud, his father’s best friend and the leading wise man of the tribe, speaking Charley Wildpony’s eulogy: “Remember the words of our great Chief Joseph. The earth was created by the assistance of the sun and should be left as it is. We and the earth are of one mind. The land is not ours to destroy and do with as we choose. The one who has the right to dispose of it is the one who created it.”

Later, sweating in the wistitamo with his father beside him clutching his hand in his own wasted fist, listening to him fighting for one final breath.

Another shaft of blue sunlight. And darkness.?

The Boy awoke. He stared at the roof of the cave. He was soaked to the skin with sweat. He held his hand in front of his face and the swelling was gone. He touched his forehead and it was cool. No fever.

Then he felt something against his leg and he looked down and his heart jumped.

He was staring into the eyes of a white wolf. The animal was settled on his haunches beside Ka-Wan’s leg, his rough tongue slowly licking the ointment off the rattlesnake wound. The wolf had torn the tourniquets off his ankle and the bleeding had stopped.

Ka-Wan felt no fear. He looked straight into the wolf’s golden eyes and stared at him and the wolf stared back and kept licking.

“Are you a gift from The Creator, Brother Wolf?” he asked. The wolf kept licking.

The Boy’s mouth was parched. He reached for the canteen, took slow sips, swished the water around and spat it out, then took a deep drink.

How long had he been in the trance? He thought about the visions conjured by the rattlesnake. Were the blue flashes passages of time? Days? No. He was weak but not that weak.

Brother wolf finished his licking. He stood up, stretched his legs and shook himself. He loped across the cavern floor, sat near the opening, and looked back at Ka-Wan. Then he put his head back and howled, a single, sustained, note. A few seconds passed and, off in the distance, his song was answered with the same call.

Talking, Ka-Wan thought. What is Brother Wolf telling me? Was the weyekin working? The wolf hunched down and went outside.

Follow me, he thought. Brother Wolf is telling me to follow him.

He struggled to his knees, gathered up his meager belongings and his walking stick and crawled outside the cave.

Thankfully, a warm day. The sun was high in the sky. Noon or thereabouts. The leaves and trees were still dripping from the rain. Perhaps the snake bite was only a superficial wound. Perhaps his vision had only lasted twelve hours or so. But it had left him weak.

He rummaged through the blanket and tarp, checked the pot, and found some chunks of rabbit, berries and roots. Still fresh. He devoured them, felt some strength coming back in his legs.

The wolf stood a dozen yards away, looking back at him. It turned, walked a few steps and looked back. The Boy bundled his belongings in the blanket and draped it over his shoulder. Using his walking stick, he pulled himself to his feet. His legs were trembling from the effort so he waited a minute or two, leaning against the ravine wall, gathering all the strength he could muster before trying a step or two.

He walked to the pool, took off his shirt, and held his head and shoulders under the ice cold waterfall, kneading his fingers through his hair, letting the shower douse his face.

There, that helped.

Brother Wolf sat and watched, bemused. He looked up at the sun, then back at The Boy and growled. Not a threatening growl, but stern.

Follow me.

And The Boy did. He quickly dried off using the tarp and, leaning on the stick, limped along behind. They went down a slope, followed a ridge for awhile, turned south into the forest again. Brother Wolf stopped, howled the same lovely note. This time the answer was closer. Ka-Wan held his hat so the shadow from the sun fell across his face and looked up.

Southwest, he figured. The eagle was right. Brother Wolf was leading him out of the wilderness, waiting when he had to stop to give his legs a rest-but not for long — before moving on, forcing him to follow.

The Boy was growing weaker. Each step was harder than the one before it. Finally he sat down on a fallen tree, his breath coming hard. The wolf growled at him.

“I’m tired,” he snapped back. The wolf’s ears perked up for a moment, then he turned and kept walking.

“Well, darn,” Ka-Wan said. Then he remembered one of the many lessons Old Man had taught him.

Never give up hope. Hope is a test. When you think all is lost, an answer will come to you.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” he yelled to the wolf and struggled back on his feet.

Occasionally the animal would call again and be answered. Each time, the answer was closer.

Then they broke out of the trees and he saw the wolf’s brother, sitting on a cliff. They yowled and barked playfully at each other. Brother Wolf turned back to The Boy and then looked across the treetops and the youth felt his breath catch in his throat. He saw a landmark: Three mountain tops close together to the north; three mountains called the Three Sisters.

He shielded his eyes and peered intently to the south and saw a few wisps of smoke rising lazily out of the trees. He was two, maybe three miles from the reservation.

“Yeah!” He cried, raising the walking stick and shaking it at the sky. “Thank you, Brother Wolf!”

But when he turned back his white friend was gone. He thought he saw a white streak, a ghost running through the trees, but he wasn’t sure.

“I hope we meet again,” he yelled but his words echoed balefully back at him and he felt a moment of deep sadness. He knew in his heart he would never see Brother Wolf again but he also knew they were bound together in their hearts forever.

Soon he would be leaving this place which he loved and which held such bittersweet memories. Soon he would start another life in another place. But now he was a man. Ka-Wan had made his journey.

Now Micah Cody was ready to face whatever map the future sketched for him.

The wind shouldered him down the mountainside toward home.