Native American Short Stories

The Bidai Tribe (Part 3)

A few days after their ceremony and dance had come to an end, Liluye realized the need for organization as the two households combined. The couple spent an afternoon stripping and smoothing branches from a tree, securing them to the inner reinforcement beams inside their home, three hand-spans apart, and loosely tying cords braided from a combination of different grasses to the beams. Loops woven into the ends of each long braid allowed Otter Man to poke the new gourds into them so his wife would be able to display her gifts — and be able to grab the perfect one while cooking his meals.

His wife busied herself attaching various baskets of size and design to a few other strands of braided grass; unaccustomed to clutter gathering on her floor, she assigned some of the baskets to her husband.

"These," she pointed to a series of empty baskets, "can be yours. I noticed you didn't have many in your belongings, and these have been empty for so long, I don't even remember what I made them for."

He stood back, inspecting his new area for stashing personal items and hunting implements. Nodding in agreement, he commented on her workmanship and the quality of her weaving.

"Beans are the most difficult," she blurt.

Otter Man turned and cocked his head to one side, confused with her statement.

Laughing at herself, she added, "Beans are very heavy. If I store them in a basket, I have to weave very tightly and pull the work at every row; bean baskets are the most difficult to weave," she explained.

Liluye's cheeks puffed up with exasperated air for the third time while she eyeballed her work. Obviously dissatisfied with what she had woven, her fingers went to work pulling out the long strands of willow bark before the water dried and the work became a permanent fixture. The task of collecting the willow bark, stripping it into the lengths and thickness required - and then hauling the load to the creek for it to soak countless hours, dictated the work be precise and perfect; of course, perfection requires time and effort, but time happened to be a commodity the new bride possessed a lot of these days and she filled it with activities that brought her the most joy. Unfortunately, her favorite task of basket-weaving also took its toll on her hands. Glancing down at them as she continued ripping her work apart, Liluye had to grin; what Otter Man saw in her, she sometimes could not understand. There she sat, a grown woman with grown children of her own and hands so dry and withered they could probably scale a fish. That man must have seen some good in her, though; his persistence demonstrated that much.

"Woman, now what are you destroying?"

She turned her face upward to see her husband standing over her, observing her every movement with that look in his eyes.

"You know how I am," she reminded him. "I want to be proud of my work. And this," she waved a hand over the pile at her side, "is nothing to be proud of."

He shrugged; the piece looked just fine to him the first time he saw it, but what did he know?

"My belly doesn't mean to complain, so I advised it to settle down and be quiet a little earlier. Before we begin to hear it complain again, what can I help you prepare for our evening meal?"

Shaking her head, Liluye almost couldn't believe he asked that question.

"You might want to keep your words a bit lower, my husband. What if the other men in the village hear of your offer to do the woman's work? Your next gift might be a gourd," she teased, remembering the ones she'd received as gifts.

Otter Man only smiled and opened the lid on one of their ceramic jars; his eyes opened wider once he saw the contents.

"These will be a nice start," he nodded, stretching his arm toward the short container, lined with delicate textured ripples around the middle as he glanced over his shoulder just to make sure his wife saw what he was up to. "These dried tándshai kernels could come in handy for the next planting season; in the morning, I might begin dropping them into the ground."

Clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, she reached out to give him a playful slap on the arm.

"You touch those corn seeds and you may not live to see the next day," she warned. "It took me forever to get them dyed exactly right."

Running a hand over his belly, he moved his feet to the other side of their cone-shaped home, opened another jar and peeked into a couple of baskets.

"Wife, how does rabbit sound? We have a nice fire going and it would be a shame to waste it."

Nodding, Liluye agreed that it felt like a rabbit night indeed; from the corner of her eye, she noticed a basket with left over flatbread and then remembered the sweet fermented berry drink her cousin brought as a wedding gift. Suddenly she felt her own belly rumble as her basket-unraveling finally came to an end.

"Since you cannot have my dried kernels," she teased, "I will cook us some fresh tándshai while you are gone."

After gathering his rabbit-hunting supplies of a bow, three arrows and the hide sack he usually carried them home in, Otter Man placed a kiss on his wife's cheek and made his way out the door.

He hadn't gotten more than twenty steps away when she called out after him, "Would you please stop by the river and bring some water back with you?"

The couple, taking a leisurely stroll around the rim of the village, spoke quietly between themselves while children played with their toys and let occasional shrieks pierce the early-evening air here and there as older brothers ran off with trinkets and pretended not to give them back. Dogs barked their request for scraps of meat and babies attached to their mothers began to yawn.

A slight breeze caught the unbraided part of Liluye's long hair, causing some to catch in her mouth and cover her eyes; she giggled at stumbling from the moment of visual impairment, but a strong arm kept her from falling.

"This has been a good day, Wife," Otter Man declared as he tugged her a bit closer.