Death Rattle

With supper done and everyone licking the grease from their fingers and lips, the coffee was ready to pour. At their father’s signal, Magpie and Flea began passing out the shiny, new tin cups Titus had traded off Lucas Murray at Bents Fort.

“The cup my children give each one of you now belongs to you,” Bass explained. “It is just the beginning of the gifts from my family to you—in return for honoring us with your presence while we announce the Grandfather’s name for our new son.”

With grunts and murmurs of agreeable good humor, the guests held out their new cups as Titus and Waits each transcribed half the circle with their steamy coffeepots. Many of the men clinked their empty cups together merrily, holding their gifts aloft to salute respect for their generous host.

When he finally filled his own cup and set the pot down at the edge of the fire pit, Scratch retook his spot beside the oldest among them and said, “Real Bird, will you honor us with a prayer over your pipe before we begin this ceremony?”

From his beautiful blanket pouch, this ancient warrior and mentor to Rotten Belly and many chiefs took his pipe stem, the bowl, and a large tobacco pouch made from the scrotum of an elk bull. Though many, many winters had turned his hair completely silver, Real Bird nonetheless still possessed a strong “elk medicine” unlike anything his people had ever known. He was a physician and healer, as well as being a diviner who could see into the days ahead and know what would come to pass.

With his pipe loaded, Real Bird held it before him and offered his prayer, face gazing upward through the wide, black hole where fire smoke rose in twisting spirals into the dark, winter sky. When the old one put the stem to his lips, Scratch picked up a small coal with a pair of iron tongs and placed it atop the tamped tobacco. After the diviner’s prayer, the pipe came next to the child’s father, Titus Bass, then continued on to the left until it reached the doorway, where it was passed back to the second row of guests so that its path continued back to Real Bird. Next it went hand-to-hand along the right side of the lodge, as each visitor offered his own extended prayer of blessing before drawing in his own six puffs of smoke that sent the prayer to the four cardinal directions, and to mother earth and father sky.

Once the pipe was back in Real Bird’s hands, the old shaman emptied the black dollop and separated bowl from stem. Then he called the mother forward with the infant.

“Give the child to its father,” Real Bird instructed.

Titus took the boy into his arms as Waits turned away and took her seat behind the second row of chiefs and headmen, near her two children who were watching in rapt attention from the shadows that leaped and danced upon the dew liner and lodge cover.

“Take the dressings from him,” the old shaman said.

Resting the bundle in his lap, Scratch pulled the blanket aside, then loosened the knots tied in the calico that was wrapped around the boy’s genitals to contain his elimination. Titus carefully wiped the child’s bottom with dried moss, then held the infant aloft upon his two hands. Hoisted upward there in the fire’s light, the youngster lay higher than any of them, suspended between the oldest of the band and the Grandfather Above.

“Father of this child—what is the name the Creator has chosen for the boy?” asked Real Bird in a reedy voice.

Tears glistened in his eyes and Bass found his throat clogged when he first tried to speak. “I-I have learned his name is Iische.”

“Jackrabbit?” Real Bird repeated as Waits-by-the-Water silently put her hand over her mouth, her eyes welling up.

“Yes.”

Around them many of the guests grunted or nodded to one another to signify their approval.

Turns Plenty announced, “It is a good name for a boy-child.”

“His legs are always busy,” Titus explained, “as if he wants to be let down from our arms so he can jump around.”

“Soon enough he will be,” Real Bird prophesied, then chuckled some as he raised his arm and placed his wrinkled, withered hand on the boy’s chest where Bass held the child aloft. “Iische … I name you by all that is holy to our people. You are loved not only by your father and mother, but your sister and brother. And you will always know the love of all your people.”

Several of the others openly and loudly offered their praise.

Then Real Bird continued, “You come from the finest of blood, Iische. In your veins flows the blood of your mother—and through her comes the blood of warrior chiefs: Arapooesh, Whistler … and Strikes In Camp.”

By now Titus was starting to tremble, not from holding the tiny infant aloft, but from the emotion threatening to overwhelm him as he considered Real Bird’s wise and moving words.

“And in your veins too flows the blood of your father,” the wrinkled shaman continued. “A man who was not born a warrior, nor born a friend of the Crow … but a man of honor who has become a warrior and many times proved himself a protector of our people. Iische, with your sister and brother you have a great honor to uphold. Your mother has proved she is the bravest of the brave, and your father is our unquestioned friend.”

Many in the lodge muttered all the louder now in their approval of the old shaman’s words.

“Our enemies are your father’s enemies,” Real Bird continued. “Our friends are his friends. And his children … are our children. If ever death should claim your father, children—then know that there are a half a hundred of us who will step forward to raise you as he would himself do.”

Tears were streaming unchecked down Scratch’s face and dampening his beard as he peered across the lodge to find Waits-by-the-Water’s eyes glistening as she repeatedly swiped fingers across her own wet cheeks.

“lische—may you grow as strong and true and every bit as straight as the Creator intended for you when he sent you to these parents He alone chose to give you, parents who would teach you, protect you, love you,” Real Bird prayed. “Jackrabbit—little Crow warrior!”

With those special words, the entire lodge roared with one concerted response, “Heya!” Bass folded the naked child back against him once more, so overwhelmed with a gush of emotion. “Come over here, children,” he called and gestured to Magpie and Flea.

They squeezed behind the second row of warriors to reach a small place made for them now right behind their father.

“It is time for the gifts now,” he instructed as they sat, his voice still unsteady, clogged with sentiment. “Do you remember those stacks of blankets we dragged up just outside the door this afternoon?”

“Yes, Popo,” Flea answered with an eager nod.

“As our guests leave our home, give them each a blanket as a token of our love, our esteem for them honoring us with their presence here tonight.”

As the first of the leaders and headmen began to stand in the crowded lodge and pulled on their fur coats or blanket capotes, Magpie and Flea threaded their way through the guests to dive outside to make ready their final part in the ceremonies. And when the crowd had thinned enough, Waits-by-the-Water got to her feet and moved over to sit beside her husband near Real Bird.

By now Titus was struggling with the last knot to retie the calico wrap around the squirming infant—all arms and legs in constant motion.

“Here, woman of my heart,” Scratch said, his face beaming with pride and love as he pulled the small blanket back over his son and handed the child to her.

“Iische” she repeated. “It is a very good name for him!”

“You see these strong legs of his? How they kick when he wants to go find you.” Titus cried with joy. “Your little jackrabbit—I think he is very hungry again!”

26

That winter the cottonwoods boomed with the bone-jarring cold … but the worst was yet to come.