he was comfortable. “ I will bring you something to eat when I return. ”
“ Will you tell me your name before you go? ” Michael asked.
“ I am called Winter Song, ” she replied with a shy smile.
“ I am called Wolf. ”
Michael spent a quiet hour sitting in the shade, somewhat bemused by what he saw. Nearby, an aged warrior was making arrows. Any warrior worth the name could make an arrow, but this man was a true artisan. He used red willow branches for the shafts, making sure they were the proper length, the correct weight. Michael had learned from Yellow Spotted Wolf that an arrow too light in the shaft would not fly straight; one that was too heavy would not carry far enough to be of much use. The old warrior used the feathers of a red-tailed hawk for fletching. Three feathers, Michael noted, never more, never less.
Across the way he saw a woman scraping the flesh from a deer hide, using the leg bone of a buffalo to remove the last bits of meat and skin. It was hard work to turn a green hide into a piece of soft, workable cloth. Stripping the meat away was only the first step. Next, a mixture of brains, liver, and melted fat would be worked into the hide. When that was done, the skin would be soaked in water for several days, then the excess liquid would be stripped out with a long stone blade and the hide would be stretched to dry. Lastly, the hide would be pounded with a rock until it was soft and pliable.
Gazing into the distance, Michael saw two young boys racing their ponies along the river-bank. Nearby a handful of warriors were gambling. Across the way two young girls were taking turns brushing each other ’ s hair. In the next lodge a woman was making a cradleboard.
Michael let out a long sigh. Everything was just as Yellow Spotted Wolf had said it had been in the shining times before the white man came. It was incredible. It was impossible. But it was true. He had prayed for a vision, had begged the Great Spirit for understanding, and he had been sent back in time to discover the past for himself.
And so, he mused, I’m here. But for how long? A week? A month? A year? The rest of my life?
He glanced around the village and thought of what it would be like to give up all the creature comforts he had so taken for granted, the expensive suits and luxury automobiles, the nights on the town, the beautiful, sweet-smelling women he had dated. It might be fun to stay here for a week or two, but what if he was here to stay? Could he adapt to the kind of life his great-grandfather had known? Living in a hide lodge, wearing a clout and moccasins, eating rough food…such things were all right for a lark, but forever?
He closed his eyes and thought of home. His apartment was large, comfortable, totally masculine. Every girl he had ever taken there had hinted that it needed a woman ’ s touch, but he liked it as it was, a blending of earth tones, predominantly greens and browns.
He thought of the things he had taken for granted, radio, television, a daily newspaper to keep him informed on world events, running water, flush toilets, air-conditioning in the summer and heat in the winter, fast cars, cold beer, fine wine, a good steak.
And his job. He liked what he did for a living, perhaps because he was damn good at it. His job…he ’ d told his secretary he ’ d be gone a couple of days, and now he ’ d been gone over a week. What would she think when he didn ’ t call in and no one answered at his place? What would his boss think? No doubt Walsh would be angry at first, and then he ’ d begin to worry.
And what about Melinda? What would she think when he didn ’ t call? They weren ’ t engaged, or even going steady, but he dated her more often than anyone else, and he knew Melinda expected him to propose within the year.
Melinda. He liked the sound of her name, the way she always looked up at him as if he were a cross between Valentino and Gary Grant. She was a tall, willowy girl, with
“ Will you tell me your name before you go? ” Michael asked.
“ I am called Winter Song, ” she replied with a shy smile.
“ I am called Wolf. ”
Michael spent a quiet hour sitting in the shade, somewhat bemused by what he saw. Nearby, an aged warrior was making arrows. Any warrior worth the name could make an arrow, but this man was a true artisan. He used red willow branches for the shafts, making sure they were the proper length, the correct weight. Michael had learned from Yellow Spotted Wolf that an arrow too light in the shaft would not fly straight; one that was too heavy would not carry far enough to be of much use. The old warrior used the feathers of a red-tailed hawk for fletching. Three feathers, Michael noted, never more, never less.
Across the way he saw a woman scraping the flesh from a deer hide, using the leg bone of a buffalo to remove the last bits of meat and skin. It was hard work to turn a green hide into a piece of soft, workable cloth. Stripping the meat away was only the first step. Next, a mixture of brains, liver, and melted fat would be worked into the hide. When that was done, the skin would be soaked in water for several days, then the excess liquid would be stripped out with a long stone blade and the hide would be stretched to dry. Lastly, the hide would be pounded with a rock until it was soft and pliable.
Gazing into the distance, Michael saw two young boys racing their ponies along the river-bank. Nearby a handful of warriors were gambling. Across the way two young girls were taking turns brushing each other ’ s hair. In the next lodge a woman was making a cradleboard.
Michael let out a long sigh. Everything was just as Yellow Spotted Wolf had said it had been in the shining times before the white man came. It was incredible. It was impossible. But it was true. He had prayed for a vision, had begged the Great Spirit for understanding, and he had been sent back in time to discover the past for himself.
And so, he mused, I’m here. But for how long? A week? A month? A year? The rest of my life?
He glanced around the village and thought of what it would be like to give up all the creature comforts he had so taken for granted, the expensive suits and luxury automobiles, the nights on the town, the beautiful, sweet-smelling women he had dated. It might be fun to stay here for a week or two, but what if he was here to stay? Could he adapt to the kind of life his great-grandfather had known? Living in a hide lodge, wearing a clout and moccasins, eating rough food…such things were all right for a lark, but forever?
He closed his eyes and thought of home. His apartment was large, comfortable, totally masculine. Every girl he had ever taken there had hinted that it needed a woman ’ s touch, but he liked it as it was, a blending of earth tones, predominantly greens and browns.
He thought of the things he had taken for granted, radio, television, a daily newspaper to keep him informed on world events, running water, flush toilets, air-conditioning in the summer and heat in the winter, fast cars, cold beer, fine wine, a good steak.
And his job. He liked what he did for a living, perhaps because he was damn good at it. His job…he ’ d told his secretary he ’ d be gone a couple of days, and now he ’ d been gone over a week. What would she think when he didn ’ t call in and no one answered at his place? What would his boss think? No doubt Walsh would be angry at first, and then he ’ d begin to worry.
And what about Melinda? What would she think when he didn ’ t call? They weren ’ t engaged, or even going steady, but he dated her more often than anyone else, and he knew Melinda expected him to propose within the year.
Melinda. He liked the sound of her name, the way she always looked up at him as if he were a cross between Valentino and Gary Grant. She was a tall, willowy girl, with
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