RUN-ALL-DAY VISITS WHISPERING GRASS
The first winter of Run-all-day’s chieftainship passed quietly in the
wooded valley on Wind Lake. No magicians came to the little village,
and the magic feathers remained safe in Red Willow’s care. Between the
night of the chief’s great journey and the freezing of the lake, many
caribou were killed. Later, bear, and wolf, fox, marten, and wild-cat
fell to the spoil of the hunters. The women and larger children, and
the old men, worked at dressing the skins for robes and clothing, at
making arrows and bows and snow-shoes.
Run-all-day’s youngest child grew steadily, in the shelter of the
big lodge. In fine weather, Singing Bird often carried him about the
clearing and even out on the frozen lake. Old Blowing Fog made him a
coat of fox-skins to wear out-of-doors.
When spring came, and the snow melted on the barrens and dwindled in
the woods, and swollen waters and soft winds gnawed the floor of ice
that hid the lake, the baby in the chief’s lodge began to fret and
lose weight. Red Willow and Blowing Fog were good nurses and knew
something of the use of medicinal herbs; but, day by day, the little
warrior weakened.
Run-all-day hung about the lodge, anxious and helpless. On the morning
of the third day of the baby’s illness old Green Bow caught him by the
sleeve.
“Whispering Grass is a good doctor,” he said. “She lives on the Highest
Hill, beyond this lake and Great Devil’s Lake, westward and southward.
For a warm cloak of marten skins she would give you medicine to cure
the little warrior. Three winters ago, when I was hunting in those
lands, she saved me from a fever that was eating my blood.”
“Three winters ago,” exclaimed the chief. “How do you know that she is
still there?”
“She will live nowhere else.”
“But she may be dead.”
“You will know, when you arrive at her lodge.”
“But it is a long journey, and the baby is very ill,” cried Run-all-day.
“You made a longer journey to bring me my knife,” replied Green Bow.
Run-all-day turned from him and entered the lodge. Hope and resolve
shone in his eyes.
“Give me the feathers,” he whispered to Red Willow. “I must make a long
journey, for medicine for the littlest warrior; and I may not wait for
the darkness to conceal my flight.”
In a few seconds the red feathers were inside his moccasins, against
the soles of his feet. He bent above the sick child, where it lay in
the arms of Blowing Fog, and touched the colourless lips with his
fingers.
“Keep a brave heart, little warrior. The gift of the good magician will
fight for you,” he said.
He was about to step from the lodge when Red Willow detained him with a
gesture of the hand.
“Should Bright Robe, or any friend of his, see you, he must not know
who it is that runs on the wind,” she said, quietly lifting a long
garment of mink skins, almost black in colour, to his shoulders.
“Belt it about you,” she said, “and draw the hood close around your
face.”
Run-all-day obeyed her swiftly, then stepped from the lodge to the
outer brightness.
“I go now in search of Whispering Grass,” he said to Green Bow, who
stood without.
“May good fortune attend you,” replied the old man, staring with an
expression of awe at the chief’s feet.
Without more ado, Run-all-day faced west and south and sprang into the
air. Now the gleaming, sunlit wilderness lay soft and familiar under
his wide vision, and there was no fear in his heart save for the sick
child. With all his strength, he set his feet to the air and sped away
on his journey. The mottled expanse of Wind Lake was passed in a few
seconds. Rushing above the barrens beyond, he overtook and passed a
flying crow. He saw a wooded hollow, a few lodges in a little clearing,
and a boy gazing up at him, with astonished eyes, and it was as if he
had but looked down, for a moment, at a painted picture. He passed over
hills, his speeding feet almost brushing the crowded tree-tops. He saw
caribou, in vast herds, feeding and moving. They seemed no more than
toys made by an old woman.
Soon, Run-all-day saw Great Devil’s Lake in front of him. It was long
and narrow, and split for more than half its length by a slim, wooded
island. In some places the water already shone in dark pools among the
rotting ice. Beyond, stood a range of hills, from which one cone rose
higher than any mountain-top in sight. He did not doubt that this was
the hill of the medicine-woman; but his heart shook at the thought that
he might find there only a deserted lodge. As he approached the hill he
ascended into higher and rarer altitudes of air, eager to read the fate
of his journey in one sweeping glance.
Pausing in his flight, so high above the wilderness that the forests
looked like moss, he beheld a tiny wigwam half-way up the southern
slope of the hill, with a feather of smoke at its roof. Then, in great
circles ever descending, he swooped to the little clearing. Throwing
aside his robe of mink skins, he hastened to the door of the lodge and
peered within. He could only see the glow of a little fire, for his
eyes had narrowed against the vasts of sunlight.
“Enter, chief,” said an aged voice.
But Run-all-day stepped back a pace, still with his eyes on the black
interior of the lodge.
“I seek Whispering Grass, the great doctor,” he said.
“I am Whispering Grass,” replied the voice. “Enter, chief, and tell
your errand.”
By this time Run-all-day could make out the form of the old woman,
crouched above a pot near the fire. Assuring himself that no other
human being lurked in the shadows of the lodge he obeyed her summons. A
strange, bitter-sweet odour filled the wigwam, and all around, from the
sloping sides of bark, hung wisps of herbs and leaves.
Run-all-day told his name to the old woman, and that he had heard
of her from Green Bow. Then he asked for medicine for his baby, and
described the infant’s sickness as best he could.
“And what will you pay, chief?” she asked.
The question reminded him that he had forgotten to bring a gift of
furs, as Green Bow had suggested; but he bethought himself of the great
robe of mink skins which he had worn in the flight.
“Get the medicine ready,” he said, “and I will fetch the gift. I left
it at the edge of the clearing.”
“And what is it?” she asked, fixing her bright eyes on his face.
“It is a great robe, made of fifty mink skins,” he replied.
“Good,” she cried. “Bring it quickly, so that the virtue of my
gratitude may enter into the medicine.”
Run-all-day crossed the clearing in one step, having forgotten the
feathers in his moccasins. He returned more cautiously, with the robe
in his arms.
Whispering Grass was delighted with the gift. She spread it wide on the
ground and felt every inch of the fur with her wrinkled hands, crooning
all the while.
“I am in a hurry,” the chief reminded her. “The child is near death.”
At that the old woman set to work. She placed a small vessel of clay
near the fire, filled it with the liquor from the pot and added a few
crimson berries, some thread-like golden roots and a pinch of white
powder. She stirred the mixture with a stick. Her movements were very
deliberate.
“Hurry! Hurry!” exclaimed Run-all-day.
Whispering Grass did not so much as turn her head.
“You should have the medicines already prepared,” cried the brave.
At that, the old woman snorted defiantly, but continued stirring the
brew as slowly as ever. At last she set the vessel away from the fire.
“Nobody but old Whispering Grass can make such fine medicine as that,”
she mumbled. “It is worth a hundred robes of mink skins.”
“If it cures the little warrior of his illness, then shall I give you a
hundred more robes like this,” said Run-all-day.
“Nay, chief,” she replied. “One will more than outlast my remaining
season of life. It is a rich gift. I have steeped my precious herbs,
before now, for no more than a few dried fish.”
“Is the medicine ready?” inquired the chief.
“Yes, but how will you carry it on so long a journey?” asked the woman.
“As it is,” he replied, lifting the vessel of clay from the ground
and striding from the lodge. A hundred yards or so from the clearing,
he placed the precious medicine on a rock from which the snow had
melted. Then he tore a quantity of small, well-feathered branches from
the spruce trees within reach and fastened them about his body, for a
disguise. He bound them tightly with his leather belt. The branches
hung along his legs and stood above his shoulders.
“Should any one see me on the homeward flight,” he said, “he will think
I am the father of all the eagles.”
None of the precious liquor was spilled on the trip from the Highest
Hill to Wind Lake; in fact, it was scarcely yet cool when Run-all-day
stepped into his lodge.
“Here is the great medicine,” he said, and gave the clay vessel into
Blowing Fog’s hands. Red Willow was holding the baby, who was lying
very still in her arms. The old woman seemed to know the medicine for,
after tasting it, she grunted with satisfaction. She dipped out some
of the liquid in a mussel shell and poured it between the infant’s
colourless lips.
“My mother often made this same medicine,” she mumbled. “Had I but the
proper roots and herbs, I could brew it myself.”
It pleased her, poor old soul, to treat every blessing as if it were
not quite as good as she was accustomed to. But her words fell on
heedless ears. Everyone was intent on the littlest warrior.
Close on the time of sunset, Run-all-day joined his people about the
fires. “The colour has come back to his face,” he said.
“She is a good doctor, that old woman,” said Green Bow, nodding. “I am
glad you found her alive, chief.”