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The Gourd Dancer
Mammedaty, 1880-1932
I. The Omen
Another season centers on this place.
Like memory the blood congeals in it;
And like memory, too, the sun recedes
Into the hazy, southern distances.
A vagrant heat hangs on the dark river,
And shadows turn like smoke. An owl ascends
Among the branches, clattering, remote
Within its motion, intricate with age.
II. The Dream
Mammedaty saw to the building of this house.
Just there, by the arbor, he made a camp in the
old way. And in the evening when the hammers had
fallen silent and there were frogs and crickets
in the black grass-and a low, hectic wind upon
the pale, slanting plane of the moon's light-
he settled deep down in his mind to dream. He
dreamed of dreaming, and of the summer breaking
upon his spirit, as drums break upon the intervals
of the dance, and of the gleaming gourds.
III. The Dance
Dancing,
He dreams, he dreams-
The long wind glances, moves
Forever as a music to the mind;
The gourds are flashes of the sun.
He takes the inward, mincing steps
Describing old processions and refrains.
Dancing,
His moccasins,
His sash and bandolier
Contain him in insignia;
His fan is powerful, concise
According to his agile hand,
And catches on the sacramental air.
IV. The Give-away
Someone spoke his name, Mammedaty, in which
his essence was and is. It was a serious matter
that his name should be spoken there in the circle,
among the many people, and he was thoughtful,
full of wonder, and aware of himself and of his name.
he walked slowly to the summons, looking into the
eyes of the man who summoned him. For a moment
they held each other in close regard, and all about
them there was excitement and suspense.
Then a boy came suddenly into the circle, leading
a black horse. The boy ran, and the horse after him.
He brought the horse up short in front of Mammedaty,
and the horse wheeled and threw its head and cut
its eyes in the wild way. And it blew hard and
quivered in its hide so that light ran, rippling,
upon its shoulders and its flanks-and then it
stood still and was calm. Its mane and tail were
fixed in braids and feathers, and a bright red chief's
blanket was draped in a roll over its withers. The
boy placed the reins in Mammedaty's hands. And all
of this was for Mammedaty, in his honor, as even now
it is in the telling, and will be, as long as there
are those who imagine him in his name.
N. Scott Momaday