WAKAN
Of course he expected it, Ann thought sourly to her self as she allowed a tight small smile to appear on her face. He always wanted her to validate his jokes, his opinions. She pretended to be suddenly interested in some of the beadwork at the adjacent table, where a very old, extremely wrinkled woman sat, hair in long white braids.
The man seated at Carl’s left reached up and gently removed the print from Carl’s hand, placing it carefully back onto the table with the other prints. "That’d be a wolf. Not a dog," the man said. He stared at Carl without any particular facial expression, and his voice was even, polite. Still, Carl’s face grew red. The Indian was calling him stupid.
"Yeah? Well, I can tell you right now that you’re overcharging way to much for these, pal," Carl told the Indian, thrusting his head slightly forward like a bulldog, complete with jowls.
The man simply sat, with his hands on his knees. Then he shrugged almost imperceptibly. Carl glowered at him then whipped his head around to see if his wife was also witnessing this affront, but no, of course not. She was dithering over some stupid bracelet, talking to the pruny old lady who probably bought it off someone else and was passing it off as her own artwork.
Carl snorted, looking at the artist again. "Do you even sell any of this?" The man nodded.
"Yes, I do. If you are not interested, then thank you for your time. Please feel free to look at the other artists’ craft before you leave," the man said. His gaze seemed to go just past Carl, dismissing him. Carl scowled. He reached down and picked up one of the business cards from the small stack on the artist’s table. He read it perfunctorily.
"Michael Tall," Carl muttered. "Tall what? Tall Trees? Tall dude? Neck? Shoes? That’s not even a real Indian name. Oh, excuse me, Native American name."
Michael Tall’s flicked back to Carl. "You shouldn’t believe everything you see in movies," he replied, shaking his head back slightly to move his shoulder-length hair away from his face and eyes. These eyes continued to regard Carl. Carl’s face turned even more crimson. He took another glance at his wife, whom he saw now with satisfaction, was looking at him. Her face was tight with tension. She looked away, and Carl scowled. She was embarrassed by him, her husband? His lip curled up into a sneer. He flipped the card onto the table.
"Come on, Ann, forget that prune and let’s go," Carl said, sniffing deeply. He turned his back on Michael and started strutting towards the exit leading to the adjoining building, where the main entrance was.
Ann closed her eyes briefly. She started to follow Carl, but then a light touch upon her arm stopped her. She looked down at the elderly woman peering at her from a dark face made elfish by time.
"He is on a path that grows dark, and the darkness is his own," the woman said, speaking through toothless gums. Ann shook her head slightly, frowning.
"I’m sorry?" Ann inquired, glancing towards her husband’s receding form with discomfort. Carl would be even more annoyed if she tarried further, but also she didn’t like this woman making judgmental remarks about the man she’d married.
The elderly woman leaned forward. "Your man. He walks into the darkness, but he cannot walk away from it, because it is a darkness he makes. Perhaps he senses your light, keeps you close, to keep the darkness away. But lights do go out."
Annie backed slowly away from the woman, trying to make some excuse for leaving, but couldn’t find any words. She managed a quick polite yet insincere smile before she pivoted on her heels, hurrying after Carl.
She caught up with him halfway to the car. She glanced over at the gigantic, rough and unfinished Crazy Horse sculpture just before she took her husband by the elbow, a placating smile on her face. They’d decided to do over to South Dakota for the weekend, to see Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse, make a mini vacation of it. They’d gone to Rushmore first, saving Crazy Horse for the return trip.
Carl jerked his arm away in petulance. Ann exhaled, the condensation from her mouth swirling in a tense, tight mass. Much like she felt. She reached down to zip up her coat- the cold already seeping through her layered clothing. Carl continued to walk towards the car with stiff angry steps. Out of the gray sky, snowflakes began to drift, dusting Carl’s thin hair as he ran his hand through the brown strands. He began to dig into his jeans pocket for the keys to the car, grunting with the effort it took to fit his hand into the small space.
"Jesus Christ," Carl muttered, "now I gotta drive through this, and it’s almost dark. Fantastic." Procuring the keys, he unlocked the car and sat down heavily in the seat, slamming the door. He made a gesture with his hand, staring pointedly at Ann through the windshield. Let’s go. Ann took a last look at Crazy Horse. The day had started off well enough, and she’d enjoyed the trip to this cultural center, with the exhibits and the Indian vendors and their art, the cats wandering the premises, the decent food at the café. She sighed again and got into the car. It was going to be a long drive home.
Sure enough, Carl immediately launched into a tirade against artists without jobs, Indians with attitude problems, inconvenient snow, and non-supportive wives. Ann merely stared ahead at the road with hands folded in her lap. She studied the road, thinking how much the view resembled the old television set she and Carl had bought secondhand when they first moved in together. The screen had static, but not a full screen of buzzing grey insects. It’d been like the swirling snowflakes, white motes dancing across the images, almost reacting to the movements of the people and camera angles. Then, just like the TV whenever she turned it off, the view faded into grey then black, as Ann fell asleep.
Carl glared at his wife for a moment before returning his attention to the road. Did Ann really find his viewpoint that boring? He lifted his lip in a sneer, squinting through the thick darkness. The open road, crossing into Montana, in Indian territory, through the Crow Agency was normally a boring stretch to drive through. Now, though, as the evening aged into deepest night, and the snow became a heavy curtain of icy whiteness, Carl gripped the wheel firmly. His jaw began to ache as he ground his teeth slowly. His head began to ache from the tension in his jaw and shoulders. Why didn’t they put lights in by the road in this area? Beyond the snow filling his headlight beams, there was nothing but black, black, black. There weren’t even any other cars to allow him glimpses of the road ahead via their headlights.
Ann awoke with her own scream as Carl smashed his foot down on the brake, yelling hoarsely. The car slewed across the road, across the center lines, from his lane to the other and back. Finally, the car came to a rest, halfway into the shoulder.
"Carl, what happened?" Ann asked, her voice high with panic. Her eyes darted in all directions, while she tried to peer through the windows. Carl lifted one hand up in a gesture of confusion, shaking his head. He kept his eyes on the bleached kaleidoscope.
"I saw something! An animal, something brown and kinda big." Ann stared at her husband.
"Was it a dog?" she asked her husband. Carl licked his lips and then wiped his face with his hand, rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger.
"No, it was too big for that- moved differently . . . more like-" Carl stopped, head cocked. Ann looked around again, trying to see or hear whatever Carl was giving his attention. She started to speak again, but Carl made a chopping motion with his hand. Ann looked away, at her own reflection in the side window. She had difficulty scrutinizing her face, since the snow was causing her reflection to waver and wriggle.
Then she realized it wasn’t the snow, as the vibrations grew stronger. Carl and Ann turned their heads to stare at each other, eyes wide in wonderment as the vibrations turned into sound. The sound of hoofbeats.
The snow made mystery of sound and distance, so both Carl and his wife were taken completely by surprise when the stampeding herd of bison burst into view not ten feet away from the front of the car. The car bounced and shook with the thunder of the beasts as they ran past.
A tear welled up in Ann’s eye and fell upon the dashboard as she leaned closer to the windshield to watch the awe-inspiring, slightly frightening scene. Carl just sat with his hands upon the wheel, grinding his teeth.
Then they stopped. The stampede just came to a halt. The bison ceased running, and stood with sides heaving. Their nostrils flared, causing snow to ripple out from around their heads. The silence was disorienting, coming so suddenly. Carl grimaced, having visions of sitting in the car all night while the damn things just stood around being obstacles. He started to lift his hand to lay it on the horn, but froze, his skin suddenly crawling. His breathing turned shallow while he stared at the buffaloes.
The bison were all turning to face him, their eyes glittering in the beams of light. They continued to exhale fogtrails that mingled with the bodyheat mist rising from their bodies. Then a ripple coursed through the herd. The beasts began to shuffle to the sides of the road. Carl thought perhaps they were making way for his car, but the size of the aisle opening up was still too narrow. Carl squinted into the blackness beyond the buffalo, but could not make out anything. Carl closed his eyes, teeth grinding slowly.
Ann’s gasp caused Carl’s eyelids to fly open. He looked at his wife, who was staring straight ahead. He followed her gaze and saw her. She walked slowly, her bare feet leaving tracks overlaying the hoofprints in the new snowfall. She was a young Indian dressed in white, her braids long and straight. She was beautiful. Beyond beautiful. Her eyes were as black as the darkness behind her, surrounding the buffalo, the car.
"What the hell?" Carl yelped. The woman stopped, tilting her head. One side of her mouth turned up. Carl blinked. Had she actually heard him? Her eyes grew large. They went from dark marbles to big, shiny black orbs the size of billiard balls. She bent over, her hair unraveling and turning white. Her hands touched the pavement and fused together. Her spine bowed, and her girth expanded. She became a buffalo. A bison with all white hair. This pale beast began to move forward, approaching the car.
Carl put his hand on the gearshift lever, thinking he could put the car into reverse and back up far enough to turn the car around, but a quick look into the rearview mirror informed Carl that the buffalo were just as densely gathered behind the car. The white buffalo continued to approach, and began speaking.
It didn’t speak with a human voice, but with thought. Carl and Ann could hear her words in their minds, and it was undeniably her voice they heard.
I am White Buffalo Woman. I am here to speak with you, Carl Gunnison. Ann gripped Carl’s hand in her own. Carl let her take it, his mouth open in disbelief.
The white bison drew nearer. It lifted one hoof, and placed it atop the fender.
You walk a path of darkness. You take others who have light, like your wife, and cover them with darkness. This- The bison brought its leg down, snapping the fender off. Ann jumped at the crack.
-is not a good thing. You think that your path is one you need to follow, but I say this to you now. White Buffalo Woman took another step. Her hoof punched through the hood into the engine. Metal tore and screeched, but the bison kept walking, crushing the front of the car.
I say to you, Carl, to choose a different path. Follow someone who has light. Like your wife. Walk with her. The entire engine portion of the car was now crushed flat underneath the white buffalo. It took another step, and its nose touched the windshield.
If you do not, the darkness will take you. I am White Buffalo Woman. I have spoken. The buffalo lurched forward, breaking the glass. Carl could feel the hot breath of the beast upon his face. It snorted and Carl clutched his arm, grasping at the pain radiating up to his shoulder, towards his heart. He slumped forward, oblivious to his wife’s cries of concern. The last thing Carl saw was the eyes of the great white bison staring at him. Then all was darkness.
Carl blinked, shuddering. He grabbed at his chest, but the pain was gone. So was his car. And the buffalo herd. He glanced around, confused. Everything was bright, colorful. He realized he was still at the Crazy Horse cultural center. The Indian artist guy, what was his name, Michael, sat with his arms folded across his chest, regarding Carl with mild interest.
Carl whipped his head around, seeking Ann. An unpleasant jolt ran up his spine as he recognized the elderly woman speaking to Ann. Carl strode over to his wife, and took her by the arm, glaring at the older Indian woman.
"C’mon, Ann. Time to go. I wanna leave before it gets dark. It’s a long way to Billings," he muttered. Ignoring Ann’s spluttered reply, he began to head for the exit, half-pulling his wife along. His hip bumped into Michael Tall’s table, and a print fell to the floor. Reflexively, Carl bent over with a grunt of effort to pick up the print. Before he hooked his fingers under the matte frame, Carl let out a startled cry.
The print was of a painting which depicted a white buffalo at the forefront of a herd of bison. Mumbling a half-hearted apology, Carl straightened up without touching the print and continued to pull his wife outside.
"You could at least have picked up tha-"his wife began, but Carl gave her arm a sharp jerk.
"Shut up," he snarled. Ann was shocked into sullen silence by her husband’s rudeness. Once they were outside, Carl released her arm, and began to dig into his pocket for the keys to their car. Ann looked over at the hillside half-transformed into the profile of Crazy Horse mounted on horseback and sighed as she zipped up her coat. The day had started so well.
Carl sat inside the car, gesturing to his wife to hurry up and get into the car. It was a ways to Billings, and the last thing Carl wanted was to drive through pitch black darkness all night.
As soon as Carl started the engine, it began to snow.
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