Sacajawea by Anna Lee Waldo
By Anna Lee Waldo
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Women are never painters of stones. They paint only clothing and their faces,” laughed her father. “I could do that, though. ” Chief No Retreat was deep with his own wondering. Were the people who built the smaller circle in the north and then this larger one of the same nation? He wondered how long ago these people had gone away from here. Who were their enemies? As he gazed at the large circle of stones, Grass Child pointed to the center cairn, about as high as the chiefs waist. ” “You ask more than a girl-child should,” he admonished his inquisitive offspring.
This can be extra food for Old Grandmother,” said Fragrant Herbs. Spotted Bear and Never Walks brought in some rabbits so that a small, soft robe could be made for Old Grandmother to rest her head on. The boys were unusually quiet and subdued around the tepee. ” She could not speak further, but busied herself with unrolling hides. Old Grandmother’s black eyes were without luster as she stared straight ahead, watching every move Fragrant Herbs made. She did not criticize when her robesfell to the dirt floor and no one hurried to pick them up.
The rock became red; the stick and her tunic became red with her blood. The cartilage was elastic and stubborn. With a final thrust, the end of her little finger lay on the rock, alone. It was no longer a part of her. It was gone forever. Her grandmother was gone from her forever. Grass Child’s eyes stared at the flow of blood from the stump. Her brain seared with the pain. She forced herself to move slowly to the small fire and to bend over it. She became aware of the heat on her hand, and still Grass Child could not nerve herself for the final ritual.