And then the grandfather talked to Father Spirit and asked "Won't You be sad when the last Nez Perce closes his eyes on the world?" 

 

     Father Spirit answered "I am never sad, but the trees will be lonely when they no longer listen to the lilting voices of the Nez Perce.  The crags will fall silent and no longer echo the singing of the Nez Perce souls and there is only the cacophony of the blind ones ringing in the rocks.  

 

     The wind will sob and murmur and go mad as it searches the forest and crags looking for its little Nez Perce children." 

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     It was the hour of the wolf, the sun gone in the west with a dying rose glow. The belt of Venus shimmering at the horizon. The stars coming up in the darkening blue east, winking through the firmament, the shadow of the earth on the atmosphere humping up and gobbling up the light. Giving tiny creatures a glimpse of the earth’s spin, making them dizzy and melancholy. Yearning for who or what, they did not know.

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     Little Bird looked up at Shadow, his mysterious anthracite eyes glittered in the dark. She felt an essence within him, young yet ancient, fierce but calm, deep and majestic, implacable. She shivered as he extended his arm over her shoulder directing her to look at Capella, guardian star of the Chariot, the shepherd and the horse trainer, brilliant and sparkling, changing colors like the facets of a jewel, spinning fast beyond belief, sixth largest star in the sky, rising over the dark looming mountain range. Shadow lifted the flap of their tepee and guided her inside.

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     A flute played for them nearby. Full and then plaintive, a prelude to quiet, slow lovemaking, fulfillment and peace.

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          The camp life went on, fires before morning light, men off to hunting, checking and moving the herds. There were a few milk cows that the women cared for. Camas root from winter storage was used. Dried berries, mushrooms, roots and dried meat was eaten. Pots simmered with bone broth and herbs. They cured and prepared hides, furs and blankets and worked beautiful bead designs on the clothes they fashioned for their loved ones. They were a colorful people, the men tall and beautifully formed, the women small, slender with round childlike faces. Their feather headdresses, their showy beaded clothes, their fast and flashy horses, they were God’s glorious red children.

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     Shadow came in from hunting, pleased to present his kills for his wife’s family, his heart warmed as he heard the soft melodic voices of the women as he drew near to camp. He listened to the women cooing at the babies. He marveled that he could one day be a father. Now he understood why he was a warrior.

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     The days deepened into a silent winter. The tribe was quiet. The snow dampened all sound. They did not sing or dance or use the drums and rattles in winter. They did not want to trouble or awaken the hibernating creatures.  The humans slept more, snuggling down in their soft fur beds.

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     Rumors came, ominous clouds, news on swift horses but no one woke up. There on the bend of the singing Clearwater River where the aspen leaves danced and rattled in the breezes, it was a lovely dream for the Dreamers, the red children of the Seven Drums.