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Overview
Ten-year-old Little Wolf, an imaginative and courageous boy, is determined to observe this spectacle, and his quest leads not only to a miraculous vision but also to the salvation of his tribe. This Caldecott Honor picture book and National Book Award nominee was hailed by Booklist as "an eminent picture book and, incidentally, one that proves that black and white can move as forcefully as color." The New York Times praised artist Stephen Gammell for his "spectacular scenes of tumbling clouds, of earth churned by flying hoofs, of teepees in the early dawn. But most of all he conveys the hulking, surging, rampaging strength of the shaggy buffaloes as they rise out of a shadowy mist, the mist of legend or dream."
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780486839721 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Dover Publications |
| Publication date: | 04/17/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 48 |
| File size: | 21 MB |
| Note: | This product may take a few minutes to download. |
| Age Range: | 7 - 11 Years |
About the Author
Stephen Gammell has illustrated nearly sixty children's books since his first, A Nutty Business by Ida Chittum, in 1973. He has won the Caldecott Medal (for Song and Dance Man by Karen Ackerman) and has been awarded a Caldecott Honor (for Where the Buffaloes Begin by Olaf Baker). Gammell is particularly well known for the surreal, unsettling illustrations he provided for Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, a series of short horror stories by Alvin Schwartz. He and his wife, photographer Linda Gammell, live in St. Paul, Minnesota.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Over the blazing campfires, where the wind moaned eerily through the thickets of juniper and fir, they spoke of it in the Indian tongue — the strange lake to the southward whose waters never rest. And Nawa, the medicine man, who had lived such countless moons that not even the oldest member of his people could remember a time when Nawa was not old, declared that, if only you arrived at the right time, on the right night, you would see the buffaloes rise out of the middle of the lake and come crowding to the shore; for there, he said, was the sacred spot where the buffaloes began. It was not only Nawa who declared that the buffaloes had their beginnings underwater, born in the depths of the lake. The Indian legend, far older even than Nawa himself, said the same thing, and Nawa was the only voice that kept the legend walking on two feet.
And often in the winter, when the wind drove with a roar over the prairies and came thundering up the creek, making the tepees shudder and strain, Little Wolf would listen to it and think it was like the stampede of the buffaloes. And then he would snuggle warmly under the buffalo robe that was his blanket, and be thankful for the shelter of the tepee. And sometimes he would go very far down the shadow-ways of thick sleep, and would meet the buffaloes as they came up from the lake, with the water shining on their shaggy coats and their black horns gleaming in the moon. And the buffaloes would begin by being very terrible, and shaking their great heads at him as if they fully intended to make a finish of him there and then. But afterward they would come close up to him, and smell him, and change their minds, and be companionable after all.
Little Wolf was only ten years old, but he could run faster than any other Indian boy in his group, and the wildest pony was not too wild for him to catch and ride. But the great thing about him was that he had no fear. He knew that an angry bull bison would gore you to death, and that if the prairie-wolves ran you down, there would be nothing left of you but your bones. Also, he was well aware that if you fell into the hands of the terrible Assiniboin, they would kill you and take your scalp as neatly as could be. Yet none of these things terrified him. Only, being very wise for his age, he had a clear understanding that, for the present, it was better to keep out of their way.
But of all the thoughts that ran this way and that in his quick brain, the one that galloped the hardest was the thought of the great lake to the south where the buffaloes began. And as the days lengthened and the spring became something that you could smell on the warm blowing air, the thought grew bigger and bigger in Little Wolf's brain. At last it was so very big that Little Wolf couldn't bear it any longer; and so, one morning, very early, before the village was astir, he crept out of the tepee as noiselessly as his namesake, and stole along below the junipers and tall firs until he came to the spot where the ponies were hobbled.
THE DAWN WAS JUST BEGINNING TO BREAK, AND IN THE gray light the ponies looked like dark blotches along the creek, but Little Wolf's eyes were very sharp, and soon he had singled out his own pony, because it had a white forefoot, and a white patch on its left side. When he spoke, calling softly, the animal whinnied in answer, and allowed himself to be caught. Little Wolf unhobbled him, slipped on the bridle, which he had brought with him, and leaped lightly upon his back. A few minutes later, horse and rider had left the camp behind them and were out upon the prairie, going due south.
When the sun rose, they were already far upon their way. Little Wolf swept his piercing gaze around the immense horizon, in case there should be any danger, moving or in ambush, that might interrupt his journey or make him alter his course. Far off, so far as to be just on the edge of his sight, there was a dim spot on the yellowish gray of the prairie. Little Wolf reined in his pony to see if it moved. If it did, it crept so slowly as to seem absolutely still. He decided that it was a herd of antelope feeding, and that there was nothing to fear.
On he went, hour after hour, never ceasing to watch. The prairie-grouse got up almost under his pony's feet. The larks and savannah sparrows filled the air with their singing, and everywhere the wild roses were in bloom. It seemed as if nothing but peace would ever find its way among these singing birds and flowers, yet Little Wolf knew well that the Assiniboin could come creeping along the hollows of the prairie, like wolves, and that no moment is more dangerous than the time when there is no hint of danger.
All this time he had not seen a single buffalo, but he told himself that this was because the herds had taken some other way, and that he would probably not see any until he was near the lake. He lost sight of the shadowy spot he had seen so far away. If he had known that it was a party of Assiniboin warriors, he might have thought twice about continuing to the lake, and would probably have returned along his trail to give warning to his people. But his head was too full of the singing of the birds and of the breath of the roses, and, above all, of the great thought of the buffaloes, fighting below the lake.
It was late in the afternoon when, at last, he sighted the lake. It lay, like a gray sheet with a glint of silver, glimmering under the sun. He looked eagerly on all sides to see if there were any signs of buffaloes, but far and wide the prairies lay utterly deserted, very warm and still in the white shimmer of the air. As he approached nearer, however, he saw trails, many trails, all going in one direction and leading toward the lake. Antelope and coyote, wolf and buffalo; all these had left traces behind them as they went to the water and returned. But it was the buffalo trails that were most numerous and most marked, and which Little Wolf noted above all the others.
When he was quite close to the lake he dismounted, and, hobbling his pony, turned him loose to graze. Then he himself lay down behind some tussocks of prairie-grass, above the low bank at the edge of the lake, and waited. From this position he could overlook the lake, without being seen. He gazed far over its glittering expanse, very still just now under the strong beams of the sun. It was disappointingly still. Scarcely a ripple broke upon the shore. You could not possibly imagine that the buffaloes were struggling underneath. Little Wolf asked himself where were the movement and the mysterious murmur of which Nawa had spoken? But, being Indian, he was not impatient. He could afford to wait and listen for hours, if need be.
The time went on. Slowly the sun dipped westward, and the shadows of the grass grew longer. Yet still the lake kept its outward stillness, and nothing happened. At last the sun reached the horizon, lay there a few moments, a great ball of flame, and then sank out of sight. Twilight fell, and all over the vast wilderness crept a peculiar silence, like a wild creature stealing from its lair, while far in the west there lingered the strange orange light that belongs to the prairie skies alone when the sun is down, and the night winds sighed along the grass. And whether it was the sighing of the wind or not, Little Wolf could not tell, but there came to him along the margin of the lake a strange, low murmur that died away and rose again. As the night deepened, it grew clearer, and then he was certain that it was not the wind, but came from the center of the lake. For hours he lay and listened, but the mysterious murmur never ceased. Sometimes it was a little louder; sometimes a little softer; but always it was plain to hear — a wonderful and terrible thing in the silence of the night. And as Little Wolf lay watching under the stars, the words of Nawa kept singing in his head:
Do you hear the noise that never ceases? It is the Buffaloes fighting far below.
They are fighting to get out upon the prairie.
They are born below the Water, but are fighting for the Air, In the great lake in the Southland where the Buffaloes begin.
SUDDENLY, LITTLE WOLF LIFTED HIMSELF UP. HE COULDN'T tell whether he had been asleep or not, but there, in the lake, he saw a wonderful sight: the buffaloes!
There they were, hundreds and hundreds of them, rising out of the lake. He could not see the surface anymore. Instead, he saw a lake of swaying bodies, and heads that shook; and on their horns and tossing heads the water gleamed in the moonlight, as he had seen it in his dreams.
Little Wolf felt the blood run along his body. He clutched at the prairie grass, crushing it in his hot hands where his pulses throbbed. Through his staring eyes he drank in the great vision. And he did not only drink it with his eyes: he drank it also with his ears and with his nose, for his ears were filled with the trampling and snorting of the herd, and the flash of the water as they moved it with their feet; and his nose drank the sharp, moist smell of the great beasts as they crowded upon each other — the smell that the wolves know well when it comes dropping down the wind.
Little Wolf never knew what came to him, nor what spirit of the wild it was that whispered in his ear; but suddenly he leaped to his feet and let loose a ringing cry from his throat. And when he cried, he flung his arms above his head; and then he cried again.
At the first cry, a shiver like an electric thrill passed through the herd. As if they were one beast, the buffaloes threw up their heads and listened, absolutely still. They saw, in the white light of the moon, a little wild boy above the margin of the lake, making swift motions with his arms. He seemed to speak with his arms — to talk buffalo talk with the ripple of his muscles and the snatching of his fingers in the air. They had never seen such a thing before. Their little eyes fastened upon him excitedly and shot out sparks of light. And when he cried out again, there swept through the stillness of the herd a stir, a movement, a ripple that you could see. And the ripple became a wave, and the wave a billow. It was a billow of buffaloes that, beginning on the outskirts of the herd, broke along the margin of the lake in a terrifying roar.
It was a wonderful sound, that roar of the buffaloes on the edge of a stampede. It rolled far out upon the prairie in the hollow silence of the night. Wandering wolves caught it, threw their long noses to the moon, and howled an answering cry.
IT WAS THE HOUR WHEN, ON THE LONELY PRAIRIE LANDS, the feet of the wild folk pad softly, and sound carries an immense distance. But the ears it might have warned — the quick ears of Assiniboin warriors — did not catch it, being too far off upon the northern trail.
On moccasins, noiseless as the padded feet of the wolves, as watchful, and almost more cruel, these painted warriors were stealthily approaching the camp of Little Wolf's people, determined to wipe them out before the Dog Star faded in the dawn.
But now the buffaloes had received the strange message that the Indian boy waved to them from the margin of the lake. He himself did not understand it. He cried out to the buffaloes because he could not help it — because he loved them as the creatures of his dreams. But when he saw and heard their answer, when they came surging out of the lake like a mighty flood, bellowing and stamping and tossing their heads, a wild excitement possessed him, and, for the first time in his life, he knew the meaning of fear.
Swift as a wolf, his namesake, he darted toward his pony. To unhobble it and leap upon its back took but a moment. Then he was off, riding for his life!
Behind him came the terrible sound of the buffaloes as they swept out of the lake. He threw a quick glance behind to see which way they took. He saw a dark surging mass throw itself out upon the prairie and come at a gallop, heading due north.
Little Wolf turned his pony's head slightly westward to escape the middle rush of the herd. If the buffaloes surrounded him on all sides, he did not know what might happen. If his pony had been fresh, he could have easily outstripped the buffaloes, but after a long day the animal was tired and was going at half his usual speed. Little Wolf threw a quick glance over his shoulder. The buffaloes were gaining! He cried to his pony, little, short cries that made a wild note in the night.
Soon, as they swept along, the leaders of the left flank of the herd drew so close that he could hear the snorting sound of their breath. Then they were abreast of him, and the pony and the buffaloes were galloping side by side. Yet they did nothing to him. They did not seem to have any other desire but to gallop on into the night.
Soon Little Wolf was completely surrounded by the buffaloes. In front, behind, on both sides, he saw a heaving mass of buffaloes that billowed like the sea. Again, as when he had cried out beside the lake, a wild feeling of excitement seized him, and he felt the blood stir along his scalp. And once again he cried aloud, flinging his arms above his head, a long, ringing cry. And the buffaloes replied, bellowing a wild answer that rolled like thunder far along the plains.
North the great gallop swept. Down the hollows, over the swells of the prairie, below the lonely ridges with piles of stones where Indians leave their dead; crashing through the alder thickets beside the creeks; and through the shallow creeks themselves, churning the water into a muddy foam, the mighty herd rolled on its way, and the thunder of its coming spread terror far and wide in the hearts of all lesser prairie folk. The antelopes were off like the wind; the badgers and coyotes slunk into their holes. Even the wolves took warning, vanishing shadowlike along the hollows east and west, so as to be well out of the way.
Little Wolf was beside himself with excitement and joy. It seemed as if he, too, were a member of the herd, as if the buffaloes had adopted him and made him their own.
Suddenly he saw something ahead. He could not see very clearly because of the buffaloes in front of him; but it looked like a band of Indians. They were not mounted, but were running swiftly on foot, as if to regain their ponies. At first, Little Wolf thought they were his own people, as he knew, by the outline of the country, that the camp could not be far off. But then he saw that the men were not running toward the camp, but away from it. And then very swiftly, the idea flashed upon him. They were Assiniboin, the deadly enemies of his people, and they must have left their ponies some distance off in order to approach the camp unseen through the long grass and attack Little Wolf's people in their sleep!
Little Wolf knew well that unless the Assiniboin reached their ponies in time, the buffaloes would cut off their retreat. Once that great herd hurled itself upon them, nothing could save them from being trampled to death. He saw the Indians making desperate efforts to escape. He cried shrilly, hoping that it would excite the buffaloes even more. The buffaloes seemed to answer his cries. They bore down upon the fleeing men at a terrible gallop, and, in spite of the long distance they had come, never slackened their speed. One by one the Assiniboin were overtaken, knocked down, and trampled underfoot. The herd passed over them.
Suddenly, Little Wolf's pony went down. He leaped clear as the animal fell. Fortunately, by this time, they were on the outskirts of the herd, and before Little Wolf could get to his fallen pony, the last buffalo had passed.
Over the blazing campfires, when the wind rises and moans eerily through the thickets of juniper and fir, they still speak of the great lake to the south where the buffaloes begin, but now they always add the name of Little Wolf to the legend — the boy who led the buffaloes, and saved his people.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Where The Buffaloes Begin"
by .
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