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Authors: Hal Borland
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when there was a whine at the doorway. He stopped his talk. He said, “Come in, Brother. We have one of the grandfathers with us. Come in and sit with us.”
The bear cub came inside, sniffing warily. It came to where they sat. It nosed Blue Elk, who sat quietly and let it know his smell. It bristled and turned to the boy. The boy said, “Now you know. Come, lie beside me. I shall tell this grandfather about you.” The cub went to him and lay down between the boy and Blue Elk.
The boy told about the she-bear and her cubs, about the man who came with the burro, about how this man killed the she-bear and one cub. He told how the man went away, afraid the she-bear he had killed was killing him. He sang the song for a dead bear, and Blue Elk remembered a part of that song and sang with him.
They sat in silence after that. Then the boy told about his mother again, how they went on the hunt, how she sickened and died. He told about his father, how he died in the snow-slide and they found him and gave him burial.
He told these things, and Blue Elk heard them. Blue Elk was a boy again as he heard. This was the story of his own people.
By then the boy had told what he had to tell. He got up and moved about the lodge, touching the bow that had been his father’s, touching the knife his mother had used. He walked about the lodge, and Blue Elk stretched his legs. He was cramped from sitting so long. His joints were old. He watched the boy, and his eyes were full of years. He moved his toes in the boots he wore, and his toes tingled with thorns in them. His legs were asleep.
The light in the sky above the smoke hole was dimming. The day had passed while the boy talked.
The boy left the lodge, and the bear cub followed him. Blue Elk got to his feet. He could scarcely walk, his legs were so cramped. He made his way to the door and stood there until his feet would move again. Then he went outside.
The boy stood in the open, his face lifted to the sun, which was down near the peaks. He was singing a song softly to himself. Blue Elk knew it was the song to the setting sun, to the coming night. He had not sung that song for so long that not even his tongue remembered the words, but he stood silently until the boy had finished. Then he went to the boy, and together they went down to the stream. They drank, and they washed themselves, and Blue Elk went to where his pony was grazing and took off the saddle and the bridle and hobbled the pony for the night. Then they returned to the lodge and they ate.
The boy built up the fire, so there was light in the lodge. He turned the meat on the rack, so that it would cure another side in the warm smoke. Blue Elk said, “The winter is coming.”
The boy said, “That is the way it is.”
Blue Elk said, “The old days are gone.”
“The short white days come,” the boy said firmly.
“That is true. I have seen many short white days. Our people have known the white days—” and he made the sign for no end, forever—“Your mother told you this. I tell you the old days are gone. There is an end to the old days.”
The boy shook his head. “How can there be an end?” he asked. “There is the roundness.” He made the gesture for the circle, the no-end.
Blue Elk said, “There is the roundness. But today is gone. The day before today is gone.”
The boy made the no-end sign again. “It is like the sun, and the darkness. It is like the trunk of the aspen. It is like the basket,” and his finger made the circle, the coil of the basket.
Blue Elk stared at the fire. Finally he said, “We know these things. You know. I know.” He glanced at the boy, whose face was intent. “Some of our people do not know. They have forgotten.”
The boy made no answer.
Blue Elk said, “There is a song for remembering. Do you know that song?”
“I know that song.” The boy began to sing it. His voice was young, but the song was old, old as his people. He sang it, and it was a part of him.
He
The bear cub came inside, sniffing warily. It came to where they sat. It nosed Blue Elk, who sat quietly and let it know his smell. It bristled and turned to the boy. The boy said, “Now you know. Come, lie beside me. I shall tell this grandfather about you.” The cub went to him and lay down between the boy and Blue Elk.
The boy told about the she-bear and her cubs, about the man who came with the burro, about how this man killed the she-bear and one cub. He told how the man went away, afraid the she-bear he had killed was killing him. He sang the song for a dead bear, and Blue Elk remembered a part of that song and sang with him.
They sat in silence after that. Then the boy told about his mother again, how they went on the hunt, how she sickened and died. He told about his father, how he died in the snow-slide and they found him and gave him burial.
He told these things, and Blue Elk heard them. Blue Elk was a boy again as he heard. This was the story of his own people.
By then the boy had told what he had to tell. He got up and moved about the lodge, touching the bow that had been his father’s, touching the knife his mother had used. He walked about the lodge, and Blue Elk stretched his legs. He was cramped from sitting so long. His joints were old. He watched the boy, and his eyes were full of years. He moved his toes in the boots he wore, and his toes tingled with thorns in them. His legs were asleep.
The light in the sky above the smoke hole was dimming. The day had passed while the boy talked.
The boy left the lodge, and the bear cub followed him. Blue Elk got to his feet. He could scarcely walk, his legs were so cramped. He made his way to the door and stood there until his feet would move again. Then he went outside.
The boy stood in the open, his face lifted to the sun, which was down near the peaks. He was singing a song softly to himself. Blue Elk knew it was the song to the setting sun, to the coming night. He had not sung that song for so long that not even his tongue remembered the words, but he stood silently until the boy had finished. Then he went to the boy, and together they went down to the stream. They drank, and they washed themselves, and Blue Elk went to where his pony was grazing and took off the saddle and the bridle and hobbled the pony for the night. Then they returned to the lodge and they ate.
The boy built up the fire, so there was light in the lodge. He turned the meat on the rack, so that it would cure another side in the warm smoke. Blue Elk said, “The winter is coming.”
The boy said, “That is the way it is.”
Blue Elk said, “The old days are gone.”
“The short white days come,” the boy said firmly.
“That is true. I have seen many short white days. Our people have known the white days—” and he made the sign for no end, forever—“Your mother told you this. I tell you the old days are gone. There is an end to the old days.”
The boy shook his head. “How can there be an end?” he asked. “There is the roundness.” He made the gesture for the circle, the no-end.
Blue Elk said, “There is the roundness. But today is gone. The day before today is gone.”
The boy made the no-end sign again. “It is like the sun, and the darkness. It is like the trunk of the aspen. It is like the basket,” and his finger made the circle, the coil of the basket.
Blue Elk stared at the fire. Finally he said, “We know these things. You know. I know.” He glanced at the boy, whose face was intent. “Some of our people do not know. They have forgotten.”
The boy made no answer.
Blue Elk said, “There is a song for remembering. Do you know that song?”
“I know that song.” The boy began to sing it. His voice was young, but the song was old, old as his people. He sang it, and it was a part of him.
He
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