![]() She patted my chest.īia held my face and whispered, Men do not know Woman carries a voice inside her to help her live. We Women hold our People’s language, and our language. You must hear Him differently than our Men hear. You must hear the White Man’s voice, Baide, Bia said. You decide.īia saw what Appe did not see and Appe saw what Bia did not see. She is not afraid of sharp teeth or Weta snarls. Weta growls and sniffs and digs with big claws. Your Bia is like the dog that yaps at Weta. No People live long without One-Who-Challenges. I think you ask why she does not believe me. How come Bia does not wish me to learn from White Man? I asked. Learn from Him, Appe told me when we were alone. It is you drag White Man around like pull dog. Your face is tatter-poled as an old Woman teepee carrier. ![]() You look like trouble coming, Bia said to me. Slept like a baby in a bundle cradle.īia and I gathered Tree nuts, brown grass seeds. From here now, and for many generations, far far into where I cannot see-you will be. But what we have taught will not leave you. Soon we will all be touched by Sickness we cannot heal. The Sickness they carry jickles like dry seedpods. Their anger rattles rocks along River edge. Fury spits from Debai-lit skies and breaks branches in darkened woods. Not Camehawait.Ĭan you hear Them? Appe asked. Villages of Spirits searching for what was taken.Īppe knew what others did not know. Their faces turned the color of Mountains before dark. The People died like rotten plums, split open, their skin fizzing stink. Black circles boiled up from deep in their bodies, burst, and robed them in antler velvet. We heard People of Sagebrush were struck by sudden Sickness. I opened my hands and held them over River and felt shaking in me. Hold to yourself and you will be safe, Appe said. Little by little it goes.ĭo not let Monsters know you understand. Can you feel it, Baide? River shakes tiny shakes now. I peered down into the clear River spot, but saw only Agai, their long snouts, their red fins flutter, their round round eyes. He was speaking about me, but did not wish his dream to fall over me. ![]() A strong Baide who must speak with Monsters. Water chose her to be Long Spirit who remains after all are no more. In my dream, my own Baide spoke many tongues. I had a trouble dream, my Baide, Appe told me. As long as you are near River Water, I send my spine, my string gut, my blood to protect you. I ask River keep you as safe as I do now. He waited until his breath no longer puffed.Īppe pulled me into the center of River, a still circle. He waited until a round seam of Water appeared. Currents cracked over smooth stones and shivered around us. I watched.Īppe looked down into Water and hooped his arms. I crouched beside Appe in hiss-speak of Water. Agai trembled close to our feet and held to us. We hid deep in shadowy scratch where bramble roots become one with River. He took hold of my hand and together we stepped into the strong current of Debai-lit Water. He took off his moccasins and signaled me to follow. He looked to see if White Man followed me, if Bia was near. ![]() He tossed head-sized rocks into tall grasses and grass Birds beat their wings like drums and flapped around us and away.Īppe cupped his ears. And then Appe struck River bushes with two sticks. When we netted enough to feast, Appe prayed. You must know how to speak to Water, but it is All to know how to listen. Far off you will know to fish to stay alive. I will teach you to fish, Appe said, so that you will know. Only a crazy One could survive with no covering and no food.Īppe took me to River to fish. Snow had scraped His feet to bones.Īt first, People were afraid of Him. In that black winter, His clothes were tattered, brittle-cold they fell from Him in pieces like leaves fall from Trees. He does not come with Horses, People said. Our wise One, Flatbird, asked Agai River if this was the very White Man sent from our Old Stories, but River did not answer. Young Ones said this was the only White Man they had seen. Old Ones said this Man was the craziest White Man they had seen. My Bia said He came with bad intentions like a Water Baby’s cry. He moved through trees like strikes of Sunlight. In my seventh winter, when my head only reached my Appe’s rib, a White Man came into camp. An earlier version of The Lost Journals of Sacajewea, written in verse, was produced as an artist book during the bicentennial of the Lewis and Clark expedition. She retired from the University of Montana where she was named professor emeritus in 2021. Earling has received both a National Endowment for the Arts grant and a Guggenheim Fellowship. The following is from Debra Magpie Earling's The Lost Journals of Sacajewea.
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