Copyright © 2004, Aldo Vidali. All Rights Reserved.

The Moon of Making Fat was full, the grass green and good, the horses again strong, the cherries darkening when the one who came to be known as Spirit Wind was born. That late spring night only women were allowed in the small birthing lodge that Dull Knife’s band had erected for Soft Cloud who was about to become a new mother. That was the custom among the Buffalo People of the prairie.

All men know when they are strong that it is good to honor woman, for her hand helps man's weakness at the beginning and end of life. So, High Horse, the father of the coming child, rode all night outside the camp on the prairie, as far as the great river as a good father must when his wife gives birth. He was performing the ritual travel the people call Searching for Milk, praying to Wakan Tanka to send him a strong warrior son. High Horse was a respected warrior with many coups to his credit. His eyes were dark and clear and his skin like tanned leather. On his chest the scars of battle were marked next to those of the Sun Dance.

At the first light of dawn he rode up a timbered butte as far up as he could and dismounted to climb on foot to the summit where he scanned the land below. As far as the eye could see herds of buffalo pastured upon the plain. Hundreds of thousands.

It was tatanka's mating season. Bulls were raising dust, pawing the ground and fighting, and their deep-based mating calls could be heard far. High Horse would soon ride with the hunters for the chase and get all his family would need from tatanka. Skins for a new lodge, real food, and just before winter when tatanka's coat grows thick and dark he would get warm buffalo robes to make a big soft couch for Soft Cloud and the new little one if it lived through the season. As he contemplated the abundance of life on the plain, he wondered about the invading white man, the Wasichu, coming in ever greater numbers from the east. There had been promises, but would the young ones still be able to hunt and raise families on this rich land among their own people?

For one whole moon mother and child were left alone, secluded in unique closeness to allow the new baby to prove it had come to stay. Soft Cloud's wise grandmother had made a soft leather moss bag which she brought with a great bundle of fragrant sage leaves and a pack of bison chip powder to keep the baby dry. Her husband’s sisters helped finish the handsomely beaded cradle board. The young mother for the first time chanted to her own son the tribal lullabies as night fell, stretching a shining mantle of stars across the immense land.

“Sleep, little one. The prairie grass sways. Your father hunts milk for us now. The eagle flies high, waiting for your eyes to open and see. Dream, little one, as your mother offers you her breast and her love.”

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High Horse had returned to camp with an antelope across his buffalo hide saddle and walked proudly to the birthing lodge as many followed. Soft Cloud came out and watched him climb the gentle grassy slope to the lodge. When he stood before her smiling, she handed him the cradle board. High Horse held it at arm's length straight before him. The baby awoke and saw his father’s dark, deeply carved face and shining, happy eyes. High Horse raised the child toward the sun and let out a fierce war cry. The baby wailed in response, not in fear but in a rage. Two warriors meeting each other.

“Ah, ho!” exclaimed the father, pleased. He handed the child to his wife and went out to make preparation for the first gathering in honor of his son.

The old one who gave the child his first born name at the Feast of Cradling the Infant was Strong Eagle, and everyone received gifts, but the most and the best went to him. High Horse gave a spotted pony to the old medicine man for giving the child the rare first name of Eagle Plume in a sacred way. All celebrated with food, dancing, chanting, and drums beyond sundown around a bright fire until the half moon was high above the circle of lodges.

A year and a half later in the Moon of Popping Trees when the snow was piled high on the north side of the teepees, there was the First Walk Celebration. The camp was between the forest and the river. Eagle Plume stood up and followed his mother outside where she had gone to fetch more wood for the fire. He stopped, stunned by the blue sky and the blinding white world, then saw the great bird painted on the lodge down wind of him. He watched the hundred smokes rising from the many lodges beyond. What a wonderful sight! Resolutely Eagle Plume wobbled through the snow all the way to the great painted bird and made sounds to it. The honor of this first visit having fallen on Thunder Hawk, himself a father, demanded that his lodge give a great feast for all the people in the band of Dull Knife. A big fire burned throughout the day. Elk meat was roasted and much singing and dancing went on as Eagle Plume slept soundly cradled between thick buffalo robes.

Three snow seasons later was the year when Grandfather made turkey tracks and excited Little Eagle Plume cried out, “I know what those are!” as he ran off holding his bow, ready to shoot.

Grandfather said, “Are you making so much noise to warn Turkey that a dangerous hunter is coming?”

From then on the little hunter followed behind his grandfather, learning to move like a silent mountain lion, and brought back much small game.