tapai , that it not dry him out fast.
A simple thought rose in him: Rest during the day. Drag yourself at night. He thanked Duma Apa for the thought.
He dragged himself sideways into the shade of a big boulder. He lay back and let his body feel the cool of the shade. He turned his head and touched his lips to the cool rock, and imagined the cool was wet.
Now he would sleep until twilight. Then drag himself through the night. He knew he didn’t have the will, within himself alone, to drag himself to the seep. So he would ask Duma Apa for the will. He would ask aloud sometimes. At other times, when he rested or slept, he would make every breath a prayer. Tonight when he dragged himself, he would make two rhythmical efforts, alternating. He would exert his body to gain a few inches upward. Then he would ask the powers for the will to exert again, and again.
The thought of asking, the thought of giving his life into the hands of the powers, gave him sweet solace.
Sweetness. Thought of drink. Of putting his lips to the seep. A sweet fantasy.
After he drank, he would sink into the little death, or the big one—it did not seem to matter, they were the gifts of Owl—and he would dream.
Time came apart, loose fragments in his hands, like strands of a willow basket falling apart.
Night, day, dawn, sunset, noon, midnight, Web couldn’t tell one from another. Sometimes he dragged himself. Sometimes he slept. From time to time he would remember to ask for power. Then he would lie still and speak his prayer aloud, and then breathe it with every draft of air.
He dragged himself perhaps half of the first night, half the second day. After that he could not guess. Periods of light and dark passed at random, not in the magisterial half-day intervals dictated by Duma Apa, Our Father, but arbitrarily, nonsensically, in great shards and in tiny splinters.
He dragged himself. He prayed. He breathed.
His existence was nothing but this, his consciousness nothing but this. Glancingly, once in a while, he thought it odd that he suffered no thirst, no hunger. He hardly noticed.
He would have guessed it was on the sixth or seventh day, but it was in fact on the fourth, that Owl came to him.
Owl did not appear mysteriously, obliquely, glimmeringly. He flew up in a matter-of-fact way, perched on a rock close to Web’s ear, and spoke like a friend. “I will help you,” he said.
Web broke into sweet tears.
“You must heal. You must begin to walk again. Prepare yourself in the proper way. Then build a trap and bait it. Wait beneath the trap four nights without eating or drinking, or especially falling asleep. An owl will come to eat. Catch it by the feet with your bare hands. While you hold it, here is the song you must sing.”
Now Web was frightened. No Shoshone would touch an owl, a taboo bird that tells of death. If he must touch an owl, maybe he must never again be a Shoshone.
But an Owl went on. “First you will call in the animals of the four winds.
Hiyo koma wey, Hiyo koma wey
Hiyo koma wey sheni yo
Hiyotsoavitch, Hiyo tsaovitch
Hiyo tsoavitch sheni yo.
Then sing to the owl:
Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,
Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,
Coming to me through pieces of light and dark.
Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,
Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,
Coming to me through pieces of light and dark.
As Owl sang the song, he did a little dance on the ground, darting back and forth, fluttering his wings, hopping, weaving forward, circling, repeating the series of motions.
Web’s eyes were opened, his ears alert. Owl’s notes clanged like gongs, and his movements burst on the eyes like sun rays.
Web understood the challenge being given. He saw the danger if he lost the owl, even in pain from the pecking and jerking and beating. He saw the poha , animal-spirit power, being offered. He wept with gratitude.
“When you have sung and danced,” Owl went on, “you will wring its neck with your bare hands. You will cut its heart open and hold it
A simple thought rose in him: Rest during the day. Drag yourself at night. He thanked Duma Apa for the thought.
He dragged himself sideways into the shade of a big boulder. He lay back and let his body feel the cool of the shade. He turned his head and touched his lips to the cool rock, and imagined the cool was wet.
Now he would sleep until twilight. Then drag himself through the night. He knew he didn’t have the will, within himself alone, to drag himself to the seep. So he would ask Duma Apa for the will. He would ask aloud sometimes. At other times, when he rested or slept, he would make every breath a prayer. Tonight when he dragged himself, he would make two rhythmical efforts, alternating. He would exert his body to gain a few inches upward. Then he would ask the powers for the will to exert again, and again.
The thought of asking, the thought of giving his life into the hands of the powers, gave him sweet solace.
Sweetness. Thought of drink. Of putting his lips to the seep. A sweet fantasy.
After he drank, he would sink into the little death, or the big one—it did not seem to matter, they were the gifts of Owl—and he would dream.
Time came apart, loose fragments in his hands, like strands of a willow basket falling apart.
Night, day, dawn, sunset, noon, midnight, Web couldn’t tell one from another. Sometimes he dragged himself. Sometimes he slept. From time to time he would remember to ask for power. Then he would lie still and speak his prayer aloud, and then breathe it with every draft of air.
He dragged himself perhaps half of the first night, half the second day. After that he could not guess. Periods of light and dark passed at random, not in the magisterial half-day intervals dictated by Duma Apa, Our Father, but arbitrarily, nonsensically, in great shards and in tiny splinters.
He dragged himself. He prayed. He breathed.
His existence was nothing but this, his consciousness nothing but this. Glancingly, once in a while, he thought it odd that he suffered no thirst, no hunger. He hardly noticed.
He would have guessed it was on the sixth or seventh day, but it was in fact on the fourth, that Owl came to him.
Owl did not appear mysteriously, obliquely, glimmeringly. He flew up in a matter-of-fact way, perched on a rock close to Web’s ear, and spoke like a friend. “I will help you,” he said.
Web broke into sweet tears.
“You must heal. You must begin to walk again. Prepare yourself in the proper way. Then build a trap and bait it. Wait beneath the trap four nights without eating or drinking, or especially falling asleep. An owl will come to eat. Catch it by the feet with your bare hands. While you hold it, here is the song you must sing.”
Now Web was frightened. No Shoshone would touch an owl, a taboo bird that tells of death. If he must touch an owl, maybe he must never again be a Shoshone.
But an Owl went on. “First you will call in the animals of the four winds.
Hiyo koma wey, Hiyo koma wey
Hiyo koma wey sheni yo
Hiyotsoavitch, Hiyo tsaovitch
Hiyo tsoavitch sheni yo.
Then sing to the owl:
Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,
Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,
Coming to me through pieces of light and dark.
Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,
Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,
Coming to me through pieces of light and dark.
As Owl sang the song, he did a little dance on the ground, darting back and forth, fluttering his wings, hopping, weaving forward, circling, repeating the series of motions.
Web’s eyes were opened, his ears alert. Owl’s notes clanged like gongs, and his movements burst on the eyes like sun rays.
Web understood the challenge being given. He saw the danger if he lost the owl, even in pain from the pecking and jerking and beating. He saw the poha , animal-spirit power, being offered. He wept with gratitude.
“When you have sung and danced,” Owl went on, “you will wring its neck with your bare hands. You will cut its heart open and hold it
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