Lily's Story by Don Gutteridge Read Free Book Online Page A

Lil dozed against a
shoulder. She was dreaming. Her fingers detached themselves from
her hands, and without her consent began to tap upon her belly,
filling it with distant music.
    She opened her eyes, squinting through the
smoke-haze. The air quivered. There were tom-toms singing out of
the dark spots – not the steady war-dance of the daylight hours but
the wild, a-rhythmic, celebratory beat of the all-conquering. This
time everyone was dancing, it seemed, whenever the moment called
for it. Lil caught the frayed outlines of men, women, children
twisted into grotesque forms by the uncertain flames, made
insubstantial by the sculpturing smoke, lifted to momentary frenzy
by the intoxicant drum.
    Lil rose, drawn into the melee, and felt her
feet take off, seeking out the cadence, finding it with astonished
ease, letting her body sail over them, swing free, the heart
launched like a swallow at dawn.
    Dizzy, coughing, and exhausted from the
physical effort of the past two days, Lil groped her way to one of
the wigwams. She crept to the rear of it and retched into the
ragweed. Chills ran up and down the length of her body, though she
could still feel the sweat pouring off her chin. A few feet away
she heard a sort of mellow grunt. As her eyes grew used to the
dark, she saw, in the weeds, the outlines of what could have been
several bodies – unclothed, fastened together, it seemed, like a
pair of earthworms after a sudden rain, sweat like a mucous bonding
them to some mutual appetite. Lil took little notice. She felt the
night-air cooling her. She was glad she had danced. She had never
felt anything so wonderful. Not even the sound of her River.
    She crawled back into the firelight. Papa
was nowhere to be seen. Nor Acorn. Sounder had gone into one of the
wigwams right after their arrival. She was alone, and very tired.
She would find a blanket and sleep – anywhere. Out there, the
dancing was diminishing as the participants retired, mostly in
twos, to a wigwam or to some sheltered place behind the circle
out-of-earshot.
    A strange feeling came over Lil. Her eyes
came wide open. All fatigue magically drained from her.
    A huge shadow passed between her and the
nearest fire. Someone was beside her, still and silent. No words
were exchanged. After a while a small group of Pottawatomies came
out of the next wigwam. From their laughter Lil guessed they had
been drinking some of the whiskey brought in by two or three of the
Chippewas from the town. They appeared to be members of a single
family – a somewhat pudgy mother and father, some grown sons and a
slender girl on the brink of puberty. As they gathered near the
central fire, the news spread and several dozen others stopped to
watch what was about to happen. Two of the girl’s brothers or
cousins stood, one on either side of her, gently lowering her to
her knees. The girl showed no sign of fear; her face was, if
anything, radiant with sweat and reflected flame, her eyes alert to
every movement around her. The tom-tom had stopped. At a signal
from the girl’s father it started up again, subdued and throbbing.
Stepping towards the kneeling girl, he placed a garland of some
sort on her head. She looked up and out – straight at Lil. Her eyes
had devoured last night’s moon.
    The father, responding to the increased
tempo of the drum, began a long incantatory song in Pottawatomie.
Lil could catch none of the words, but she knew it was a joyous
chant, full of affection and hope.
    “ She has changed her name,
little dancer.” It was the voice of Southener, the Shawnee, seated
beside her. “Her name was White Blossom. Tonight she’s no longer
White Blossom. She is Seed-of-the-Snow-Apple. It has been
proclaimed before all of the tribe. Now she must strive to live up
to the name bestowed upon her.”
    Not once did Southener look over at her. He
said nothing else, as the ceremony ended and the fires grew smoky
and fickle. But Lil knew all she had to do was let her head droop
onto a