Into The Wasteland - a dystopian journey

Chapter 5

I reach the river again just after noon and follow as it wends its way north, taking my time. My hip aches, but it is manageable, and I know better than to race. Time invested in healing now will pay off dividends in faster travel in only a day or two.

I soak in the beauty of the landscape – the rising grey bluffs to the east; the stretch of prairie past the river to the west. Meadowlarks dart out from a stand of birch, while pied-bill grebes paddle in a quiet corner of the river, going tail-up in search of small fish. I'm reminded that Ragnor had called this realm a wasteland. To me it is a place of stunning richness.

By late afternoon my step has slowed to a point where I consider stopping for the day. No need to push myself too hard. Perhaps just a short distance further, to seek out a quiet hollow to provide some shelter.

I come around a corner and blink in surprise.

There, ahead of me, the river takes a short jog sharply west, then makes a large loop around to come back to its course again. The eastern side of this circle is a tall bluff, with a grassy ridge along its crest. In the center of this natural island lays a neat collection of tannish-white teepees. Delicate spirals of smoke trail up from them. A small herd of appaloosa horses is tucked away to its west, safely within the curve of the river.

I go still, quite sure that their scouts have already spied me. To retreat now would seem suspicious, and I am in no shape to fend off an attack. I roll my shoulders, take in a deep breath, then start in motion again, moving slowly but steadily toward the small village.

The group gathers as I approach, and by the time I reach the mouth of the village a welcoming committee of sorts has formed. The tribe is dressed in a mixture of traditional and modern outfits, some buckskin tunics mixed in with cotton shirts and dark jeans. Men and women are wearing knives, revolvers, and bows in various combinations. To a person their hair is long, black, and plaited in two long braids. Young children hang further back, peering at me in interest.

An elderly man steps forward, his face ridged with wisdom. "Welcome to Oyate," he greets me. "Today is a special day – it is the birth day of Born-in-Battle, one of our youngest. Please, come join us."

A young boy, about four, with ink-dark eyes in a beautifully embroidered deer-skin tunic, runs past the adults to take my hand. He stares up at me. "Hawk!"

A woman with the complexion of soft sienna steps forward, a gentle smile on her lips. "Come now, Born-in-Battle. Let our guest rest a while." Her features match the youngster's so closely that it's clear she is his mother.

His gaze is insistent on me. "Hawk!"

I bring my eyes up to his mother in curiosity. "Hawk?"

Her eyes hold mine with quiet placidity. "The embroidery on your jacket," she points out.

I glance down and nod. I'd forgotten completely about that.

The child pulls on my hand with steady effort. "Come! Come!"

I smile, then allow myself to be led to the center of the village, where blankets have been spread. There are carved wooden bowls full of fragrant gruel, platters of roast pheasant, a stew of catfish, and numerous other offerings. My stomach growls loudly, and the woman smiles.

I take the indicated seat, and others return to their own locations, taking up the meal that my presence had apparently interrupted. The child is close at my side, peering at the beads on my jacket, at the guns at my hip. His look is bright and curious, and I find myself smiling at his ready enthusiasm.

The mother passes me a bowl of fried prairie turnips, and the delicious aroma sets my mouth watering. I take one and bring it to my lips. It tastes just as good as it smells.