The red feathers

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.”