Rincewind among the Redskins 9
Rincewind felt hot rivulets of sweat flowing down his back. And down his front. And down everywhere else. He felt bodies wriggling in the pitch dark and heard sighs and grunts of contented pleasure.
He shuddered. The smell inside the sweat lodge was indescribable and even made Ankh-Morpork in July seem like a rose garden in bloom. And the heat was making his head swim. Not for the first time, he wondered what people saw in this sort of thing. He'd have avoided this, were it not for One-Man-Bucket nudging him urgently and saying that an invitation to the Chief's sweat lodge was a high honour and it was seriously impolite to refuse.
Therefore Rincewind found himself jammed into a hot small space with up to eighty Indians, none of whom were in a hurry to get out. He could make a guess as to some of the conversations going on around him.
Isn't it great to have a place to go, away from the nagging squaw and the papooses?
You should hear mine, matey. Jerboa, jerboa, jerboa1.(1) All bleedin' day. Never shuts up. Should have named her Cannot-Give-It-A-Rest-Woman, or Lady Yak-Yak-Yak
Rincewind knew that back in Ankh-Morpork, there were some peculiar groups who claimed to want to reclaim their essential masculinity by running naked in the woods, or beating drums, or building sweat lodges. He wanted no part of that. He'd also been to places near the Hub, where the locals, friendly well-built blonde people, had similar set-ups that they called a sauna. Following local custom, he had been alternately baked and boiled, consternated and goggled at realising they weren't men-only, misinterpreted what a buxom friendly blonde called Meilikke had wanted to do with a bundle of birch twigs (although in his defence he hadn't really been looking at the twigs), and finally deep-frozen, in a heart-stoppingly cold plunge pool. And then he'd been expected to roll naked in the snow…
And people do that for pleasure? He thought, in the dank disgusting dark.
But finally it was all over, and Chief Bull's leaving the Lodge was the cue for the other Indians to depart. As they left, Rincewind gratefully sucking in lungfuls of cold outside air, the medicine man Dancing Weasel prodded at them with burnt twigs, for some reason, whilst chanting a toneless song.
Like some others, Rincewind ran to the nearby river for cool relief and to wash the rank sweat off. But he was now enjoying that after-sauna feeling: utter relief that it was all over, combined with a sneaking suspicion that maybe these Hublanders/Red Indians have got something right, as you've never felt so deep-down clean…
He swum in the river for a while, enjoying the quiet and calm, and then returned to retrieve his clothes. Grinning wickedly, Anana Ogg passed him a bundle of clothing. His wizarding hat was there, but a band of braided material had been sewn around the base of the cone. His trousers had had lengths of buckskin braid stitched down either outer seam. His wizarding robe did not seem to have been interfered with. He shrugged and dressed.
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Later in the day, Two-Dogs took him to see Bull.
The chief looked hazily up from his meditations with the ever-present peace pipe.
Greetings, He-Who-Washes-The-Wind. I'm pleased to be able to say we've found you a place in the next war party. Just get Anana to apply a little warpaint, then pick up your weapons and your pony, and report to Crazy Horse, would you? That medicine of yours should give the white-eyes something to think about!
Rincewind turned to run, but saw two of the largest Indians he had ever seen standing immediately behind him with folded arms. He sighed, and allowed himself to be escorted to Anana Ogg, who was busily applying battle-slap to the warriors.
"A sort of dark maroon-red goes best with my eyes," he said. "I learnt a few tricks about make-up in Fourecks. Just ask me, if you're in any doubt at all."
Remembering Letitia, Darlene and Neilette, Rincewind tried to take editorial control of his makeup job, but was given much the same horizontal striping of blue and off-white that everyone else was receiving, in much the same way that a barber who knows his job will just glance at the picture of the film star the hopeful customer wants to look like, and then deliver an identikit short-back-and-sides.
"Look, somebody who knew her stuff once said I should have a bit of a tint on the beard?" he said, hopefully, and was ignored.
Disgruntled, he noticed that even the horses were painted up, in spots and stripes of various colours. He looked down… yes, the Luggage was sporting a similar paint job. He wasn't surprised.
"Hold onto this, mr Rincewind," said Two-Dogs, passing him a short stick with a knob at one end.
Rincewind held it like a six-week-old Dibbler sausage.
"What am I meant to do with this?" he asked.
"It's a coup-stick, Mr Rincewind. The idea is, you gain status and warrior courage by riding up so close to an enemy that you can touch him with it."
Rincewind experimentally hefted it and swung the stick.
"What, you touch them very very hard over the back of the head with it?"
"No, Mr Rincewind, you just touch them. Then you ride off again."
"So Indian warfare is like playing tag?" Rincewind said, disbelievingly.
"It's apparently symbolic, mr Rincewind. It's a sort of play-warfare that stops the tribes from seriously killing each other."
Two-Dogs paused, listened to what he was saying, and looked puzzled as his words caught up with him.
"But, hold on, aren't we up against white men who are actually trying to kill you, and who aren't constrained by a ritual system of almost-warfare, evolved over the centuries to resolve disagreements between tribes by actively preventing un-necessary bloodshed that would catastrophically weaken the tribal and social structures? I mean, this is for real, right, and not symbolic."
"There's a bit of a flaw there, I'll admit, Mr Rincewind. I'll have a word with Crazy Horse. He's in charge."
Rincewind sighed and looked over the ponies. A dun spotted palamino – or it might have been a roan, or even a mustang – looked back at him with very intelligent yellow eyes. One eye winked at him.
"G'day, Rinso. Remember Fourecks?"
"Oh, you again." Rincewind said, repressing a shudder at the memory of the horse-ride Scrappy had provided for him in Fourecks.
The horse trotted forward.
"Hop aboard, Rinso. I'll get you through this in one piece, no worries. Trust me!"
Rincewind sighed, and mounted up. Around him, the war party readied itself.
Crazy Horse turned out to be an Indian who lived up to his name, a perpetually twitching, thin, individual with the sort of far-away eyes that focused on a spot somewhere just beyond your left ear. Rincewind wasn't surprised to see his warpaint incorporated a red star painted on his brow. He'd seen that before, a long time ago. And they make this man a leader? he thought. Then again, look at the sort of people we choose - or who choose themselves – to lead our armies. Lord Rust, for instance. He's a different sort of red-star-on-forehead, left-ear-staring person, living in his own reality. One that touches everybody else's now and again, but only coincidentally.
Crazy Horse simply blanked Rincewind when he raised his worry about the counting-coup business, muttering something the wizard couldn't catch., and riding off. Just like bloody Rust, he thought.
The Indian who was second-in-command, with less feathers in his bonnet, seemed to have a better grasp of things. But then, seconds-in-command generally did. He nodded apologetically at Rincewind, and introduced himself as Spinning Wheel.
He'll learn, He-Who-Washes-The-Wind. Even if it takes a lot of blood, sweat and tears. All we can do is ride these painted ponies and hope he gets the idea quick. Talk about our troubles, eh?
It's a crying sin, I agree!
Just ride our painted ponies and let the Gods spin the wheel!2(2)
And so the war party rode off. The Luggage tried gamely to keep up, but was soon outpaced. It shrugged its lid, and returned to the camp to Anana Ogg's tepee.
Rincewind was pleasantly surprised that he wasn't falling off and that Scrappy/Coyote/Hoki wasn't trying to be anything other than a normally functioning pony, albeit one with a vested interest in not throwing its rider. He felt nicely anonymous in the middle of a war-party of just over a hundred braves, and relaxed to enjoy the ride.
And then the whooping and war-crying around him rose to a new pitch as they sighted the cavalry patrol, of perhaps thirty or so bluecoats.
At sight of the Indians, the bluecoats spurred themselves into a gallop, guidon flying, and officer pointing them in a direction that took them away from a convergence course with the Indians.
However, Spinning Wheel had peeled off with half the warband, and the lighter, faster, Indians were not only gaining but looked likely to outpace the white cavalrymen. Rincewind, despite his bowels knotting in a way that would have done credit to a Boy Scout, found himself caught up in the thundering exhilaration of the chase.
After fifteen minutes of exhilarating chase, the cavalrymen were cornered. Their horses, which carried a heavier load, were blown and panting after the desperate gallop, while the smaller, far lighter, Indian ponies still had speed and stamina. A bugle call sounded, and the horse soldiers formed a desperate circle, slowing to a trot, unslinging horse-bows. The Indian riders whooped and circled them.
Poor bastards haven't got a hope, thought Rincewind. Soften them up with arrows, then one swift charge…
Then, to his surprise and horror, Crazy Horse sat up in the saddle and called
"Ride forward, brothers! One at a time! Count coup! For your glory as warriors and the Great Spirit of our people!"
It was patently bloody obvious the white men had never heard of the custom of counting coup, as the first Indian to try was shot out of the saddle as soon as he was within crossbow range. The second got near enough, while the troopers were reloading, to actually touch one of the troopers, who flinched, caught while desperately trying to reload, expecting death. Instead, he got a light tap on the shoulder, from an Indian who whooped in triumph - and then turned to ride off. A crossbow bolt caught him in the back some seconds later.
Rincewind winced and turned his head, seeing two more riders nearby. For some reason, the Indians had made a nice big empty space for them, although he doubted they were consciously aware of this.
"Bloody sickening, isn't it, Rincething?" boomed War. "If they don't buck their ideas up sharpish, this is going to be worse than anything that bloody idiot Rust could ever manage! Never known a fella for pullin' inglorious defeat out of the jaws of victory. Until now, that is. Wonder if this Crazy Horse chap could be related?"
EXCUSE ME A MOMENT, said Death, and he and Binky winked out of sight for a second. Then they were back. I'M AFRAID I'LL BE DOING THIS A LOT FOR THE NEXT TEN OR FIFTEEN MINUTES OR SO. BY THE WAY, HELLO, RINCEWIND.
"I see the two of you managed to meet up, then." Rincewind said, weakly.
AT A TIME LIKE THIS, IT IS MANDATORY. EXCUSE ME AGAIN.
Another Indian fell from the saddle. Rincewind rode forward.
"Look, you're being cheesed!" he bellowed at Crazy Horse. "Isn't it obvious what you should do? Let 'em get a good volley off, discharge all their crossbows at once, then hit them with weight of numbers? While you've still GOT weight of numbers?"
Crazy Horse continued to ignore him.
War shouted, in a carrying voice
"Hoki, you useless bastard! DO somethin'! You're the only God round here, you sorry idle bloody article!"
Scrappy rolled a yellow eye.
"Strike a bleedin' light. Everyone's a critic. Hold on tight, Rinso!"
The yellow-eyed horse went from a canter to a gallop and then to whatever the next speed would be for horses, were there one.
Rincewind was pulled forward with a despairing Dopplering cry of "OhshitohshitohshitI'm going to die!" as the cavalry line drew nearer and nearer. He thrust out the arm with the coup-stick to try and maintain balance as crossbow bolts zinged past him.
Rincewind felt the coup-stick bounce off first one soldier, then another, then another, in a series of bone-jarring impacts. Then as he passed through the thin blue line and could just glimpse the surprised-looking young officer trying to direct the battle, Scrappy/Coyote pulled up to a dead halt and sent the wizard flying forward over his mane.
"What the…"
"Time for you to meet some new people, Rinso! Make new friends! Trust me, I know what I'm doing!"
Then Coyote galloped off and disappeared.
Rincewind heard, in the distance, the Indians adopting a new war cry of
Ohshitohshitohshit!" as they charged. Then a massive trooper leapt for him, a knife clasped in his right hand and a villainous look on his face. Rincewind, terrified, grabbed the knife wrist and he and the trooper rolled about in a struggle that put the wizard underneath. Rincewind wriggled to his left as the knife came down into the earth on his right side.
"Stop! Don't kill me! I'm a white man!"
He wriggled to the right as he knife came down to his left side and stuck in the earth.
"Ek is 'n blanke! nie vermoor my! ...! " he screamed, remembering the nationality of the opposing army and praying he hadn't mangled the Kerrigian too much. "I'm white! I'm a white man!"
The mounted officer looked down and did a double-take.
"Er… trooper Els? He's white. Just tie his hands, would you, for now?"
The ugly looking cavalryman nodded, and sheathed his knife.
The officer added, with an unfriendly scowl:
"Dead men can't answer questions. I want to know what he was doing, riding with the redskins."
Ah, thought Rincewind. Back to normal, then. Threats and tied hands. I know where I am with those.
Incredibly, the attack was slackening off, although gaps had been torn in the cavalry line.
"They almost had us," the officer mused. "But they seem to have lost heart. I wonder why?"
The Indians regrouped and rode away.
They aren't even trying to rescue me! Ungrateful sods!
Rincewind sighed, and reconciled himself to being a captive again. This time, hands and feet bound, he found himself thrown over the saddle of an otherwise riderless horse as the remnants of an extremely mauled cavalry patrol returned to their laager.
Beside him, the cavalryman called Els rode, stroking his knife, and making threatening remarks in heavily accented Morporkian about what he'd really like to do to white turncoats who threw their lot in with those verdammte red keffirs. Men, you ere worrrse then the blecks! Rincewind believed him: he knew old-time Boors were a bunch with some pretty odd ideas about racial purity. Besides, he could see the long greasy increasingly fly-blown hanks of mainly-hair hanging off Els' saddle-bow. He'd seen the massacre in Anana Ogg's scrying glass, and grasped that the men responsible were not the sort of rough friendly soldiery you could enjoy a social drink with.
Rincewind used the time to prepare his cover story. He thought he'd need a good one.
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Meanwhile, Chief Bull and Anana Ogg received the report back form the war party. The Chief smiled. The God Coyote had been pretty definite about his wish, that the unlucky and foully-starred white medicine man be delivered to the camp of the enemy whites, where, trust me, he will speak with forked tongue and persuade their chief to ride out too far and destroy himself. Coyote had revealed it to Anana in a Vision, and she had nodded and said "Then it must be".
The chief sighed. He'd liked the white medicine man, in a funny sort of way, but sometimes a Chief had to be devious. Wasn't there some white man's game where to prosper later, you had to sacrifice the smallest and least playing pieces now? He just hoped he'd sacrificed the right pawn in the right way. And anyway, he'd left his medicine box here, a treasure to be explored later.
1 (1) Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit. Refer to London comedians Chas And Dave, who wrote the definitive song about it.
2 (2) I know. Another convoluted reference to old song lyrics.