The Real People

The people are gathered in from the winter

camps. All winter stories from the beginning

of time are told and retold. All winter the stories are learned and remembered. The

story of how the earth came to be and of

he who made it. The story of Old Man travelling about making animals and birds

as he passed along. He made the mountains and the plains. So he went along putting rivers here and there. With some of the rocks he carried with him he built the Sweet Grass Hills. One day Old Man determined to make a woman and child. He moulded clay in the shape of humans and on the fourth day they rose and walked with him to the river. Old Man told them his name and it echoed across the plains. All winter the stories are told and retold. They echo across the plains.

Finally after crossing the great water

he came to a trail and he started up it.

Soon he came upon some beautiful weapons lying beside the path. These he did not touch because he thought someone else might need them. Suddenly there appeared before him

a handsome man with long shining hair. This man said, "Did you touch my weapons lying beside the path?" And the young man said

he had not because they did not belong to him. The handsome man in this way knew his visitor was good and he said, "I am Morning Star and the sun is my father. Come, I will take you to his lodge." In this lodge was Night Red Light, Morning Star's mother and she asked the young man why he had come so far from his people. Then the young man told her about the beautiful woman he wanted to marry. "She belongs to the sun and I have come to ask him for her hand." He stayed in the lodge of the sun many days.

Listen. Listen to the drums pounding

in the dawn. They echo as if forever.

During the winter now ended the child

of a good woman had become sick so she made

a vow. 'Listen, Sun. Pity me. You have seen

my life. You know I am of pure heart. Now,

therefore, I ask you to pity me. I will build you

a lodge. Let my child survive so that I may build this lodge for you.' Now in the time when

the berries ripen the people have gathered

in the camp near the Sweet Grass Hills,

a sacred place, in honour of he from whom all

blessings flow. The lodge has been built flanked on both sides by sweat lodges facing the sunrise. The young men have cut the centre post of the lodge. The sacred buffalo tongues are gathered. It is the dawn of the most sacred day. Listen. The drums echo across the plains as if forever.

'To the west is the river

called the Little Big Horn, to the east

flows Rosebud Creek. From a ridge in these

mountains you can see very far in all directions

without being seen. Suddenly, far to the east,

a camp of people came into sight, who they were we did not know. They were moving north, toward our territory, following the herds. When Nato'se rose to begin his journey

we beheld a sight so strange and terrible even

now I can scarcely believe what we saw.

The camp itself was perfectly normal,

the pack dogs laden with the belongings

of the people, moving slowly so the children and elders could keep up, followed by a group of armed men, keeping guard. But the forward

scouts ranging out across the plains nearly stopped our hearts. They had big dogs,

bigger than you have ever seen and

the souts rode on them. They rode

like the wind.'

How can this be the people wonder.

Listen to their voices echo in the dawnlight.

What strange power has been unleased upon us. In all our days and throughout all time

we have never heard of such a thing.

Our enemies riding on dogs as big as elk, riding like the wind acorss the plains. They will ride into our territory and destroy us. Who gave them such power? We must leave this place, the sacred centre of our land. For the sake of the children we must leave and soon. It is as if the old ways are gone forever. Listen to their voices. And listen to the secret thoughts of the brave young men and women. 'I will possess one of these dogs, big as elk and I too will ride

like the wind across the plains.

The old ways are gone forever.'

It is the time when the berries ripen

and the people are gathered in from

the winter camps. The people are gathered

together to sing in the manner taught them

long ago. They sing in the manner they have

learned and remembered throughout all time.

From the beginning. All time is present

in the camp where they gather. The Sweet Grass Hills Old Man built rise and grow in the light.

The people rise and sing in the dawn songs learned and remembered from the beginning

of time. The people rise singing at the centre

of the world. They are standing and looking around them. Everything is as it has always been. Everything is as it should be. The people are standing at the centre of the world

singing in the dawn.

Once upon a time there was a poor young man, very poor. He was a good looking young man except on his face he had a scar and his clothes were old and ragged. His father and mother had gone to the Sand Hills years before, he had no one. This young man loved a beautiful woman, with all his heart he loved her. Finally, on day he summoned his courage and asked her to be his wife. The young woman said, "I will marry you but first you must travel to the home of the sun to ask his permission for I belong to him."

The young man travelled many days to the west asking directions from animals he encountered.

One day some huge birds came and tried

to carry Morning Star off but the young man saved him. When the sun learned of this

he told the young man he would help him.

The sun said, "Return to your people and

tell them I watch them each day for they belong to me. Tell them if they keep the

ways I will show you now I will help them
all their days forever." As a sign of this

the sun removed the scar from the young

man's face. When the young man returned

to his people he showed them the

ceremonies he had learned from the sun.

That is why each year during the time when berires ripen the people are gathered together, to honour the sun and keep the ways he taught them. The people rise singing in the dawn in honour of the sun from whom all blessings

flow and their voices echo across the plains.

Scar Face and his friend Morning Star

glitter on the horizon.

Runners are coming. Runners are coming

to the camp on Milk River on this most sacred day. Pikunis from far south of Nitsitapi territory and Siksika from far to the north have sent runners to the camp with strange and terrible news. The crier calls the camp together. His voice echoses across the plains. 'Hear me, Nitsitapi, the Pikuni runner would speak.' 'I have been travelling many days, far south of our lands in the country claimed

by our enemies, the Snakes. Myself and some others were scouting there, looking for signs

of the great herds returning from the wintering

grounds and whether they were boing followed by anyone. Everything seemed as it has always

been, the herds were moving north to our land. Then one morning we rose from where we had camped in the Rosebud Mountains, you

all know the place.'

These truly are strange days we are living in.

Quiet now. The Siksika runner from the north will speak. 'It is not my wish to bring further alarm to the people on this most sacred day

but I will touch my lips to the pipe stem

so that you may know the words I will say

are true. Myself and some others were hunting near the hills just north of Buffalo Lake.

Quite early one morning we came upon

a small herd of blackhorns and decided to make

some meat. As we approached the animals

from a ridge downwind we saw some Cree

hunters also moving toward the herd and

we thought to watch them awhile. They have

always had storng powers and we thought

we might learn more, perhaps about the strange

arrow points they recently obtained so much stronger than ours made of stone. We watched them for a time as they prepared to hunt.

Everything seemed perfectly normal until one

of them stepped forward holding a long stick which he pointed at a fat yearling

more than a hundred paces away.'

'Suddenly the sound of thunder roared from

the stick and the buffalo, our sacred friend,

fell to the ground, dead. We all know thunder, he is everywhere. He roars in the mountains, he shouts out on the prairie. He strikes

the high rocks and they fall to pieces. He hits

a tree and it is broken to slivers. He strikes

people and they die. yes, of all he is most

powerful, he is the most strong. These Crees

have now learned to control the power of

he who brings rain and I am afraid now

for all our people.' Listen. Listen to the fearful voices in the camp. And listen to the secret

thoughts of the brave young men and women. 'We too will learn to control this thunder stick

and there will always be food in the camp.

The sound will echo across the plains.

These old ways are gone forever.'

MURDOCHBURNETT:

A LIFE MAKING POEMS