Grass Dance

April, 2008
Light the Lodge Powwow
Storr, Connecticut

Trey stared critically into the mirror. He frowned at the set of the porcupine roach on his barely restrained hair, suspecting that the straps from the leather spreader were still too loose to hold it on properly. A brief retightening seemed to do the job to his satisfaction, after shaking his head to check the fit. Other dancers around him were also checking their regalia, fastening cuffs or applying facepaint, but he paid little attention to them, wrapped up in his own preparations. He pulled at the chains around his neck. They weren't what he'd prefer to wear, but as the mysterious links were bonded wthout seam, there wasn't much he could do. He let them drop.

It had been almost twenty-five years since the last time he'd danced in a powwow, and he was suffering from an uncharacteristic attack of nerves. Trey had been practicing on his own for almost a year now, carefully watching streaming video online of talented grass dancers like Wambli Charging Eagle, Randy Paskemin, and Julius Not Afraid, trying to adapt their moves to his own style. His practice dances had gone well, but this time, he'd be in front of judges, and peers.

Huffing a few short breaths, he bounced on the balls of his feet, watching the sway of the leather motorcycle and flat yarn fringe on the bottom of the apron. He shook out his shoulders, spinning a half circle to the left, then to the right, loosening himself up. The fringe on the green and silver-white regalia swayed agreeably, and he nodded to himself, banishing his nervousness. *Hell, this isn't as bad as karaoke in drag. Pull yourself together....*

He glanced up as the locker room door creaked open. A young man in a tie-dye Gathering of Nations t-shirt, wearing a headset and gesturing with a clipboard, announced to the room, "Time to line up for the Grand Entry. Make sure your numbers are visible on the left waist of your regalia. I'll direct you to the appropriate section of the dance line one or two at a time. Dance with honor, gents." The man waved, and the dancers began to file out the door, doing their final checks on the way.

With another few short, deep breaths, Trey followed, waiting his turn to be pointed to where the grass dancers would be in the grand entry procession. While he waited, he scanned the crowd, checking out the colorful dance outfits of the Southern fancy and fancy shawl dancers nearby. There were several powwow volunteers directing the other dancers into the Grand Entry line. He quirked a faint grin, seeing one of the other locker room doors open to reveal a young woman in faded jeans lead out a group of jingle dress dancers.

*I wonder....* Trey looked over the group, seeing if he could spot a dress he remembered, sky-blue with chevrons of silver jingle cones, and a single silver thimble. None of the dresses looked quite like the one the girl wore long ago, though. There was a faint twinge of disappointment as he was shepherded into his place in line.

In moments, the American flag and eagle staff were lifted, and the head man and lady dancers started the procession into the dance arena. The column of dancers moved slowly, curving around the floor. Trey resisted the urge to look up at the bleachers as he danced out with the others, with only moderate success. He'd invited quite a few of his acquaintances to come watch him dance, but he couldn't spot any of them in his brief glances. Longer looks would have broken his concentration, and he didn't want to miss any beats.

It was much easier to take stock of the dancers around him, studying their moves and regalia. He admired the feathered whip sticks the Northern and Southern fancy dancers used, though the Southern variety were a little too brightly colored for his tastes. Still, he wasn't ready to trade in his flat fan just yet. The traditional buckskin and cloth dancers passed by in a stately, dignified manner, followed by more jingle dresses, this time teens.

It was an almost subliminal glance, but it was enough for Trey to almost lose step. He looked again. One of the teen girls was wearing what looked like an exact replica of the dress he saw so many years ago, except for the beaded, flared-wing eagle design hugging the girl's throat.

With a momentary flare of anger at himself for losing concentration, he got back into step, but promised himself he'd at least look into the identity of the dancer later.

* * * * * * *

After the Grand Entry, the column broke, dancers going their separate ways to either take a break, or ready themselves for the next dance. Trey checked his regalia again briefly, then went to seek the girl in the sky-blue dress.

It was over half an hour before he found her, talking with a teen boy in a chicken dance outfit near a booth selling blankets. Trey waited for a break in the chatter, and cleared his throat. The pair turned, immediately regarding him with the suspicion teens usually have for adults. "'Scuse me, miss," he began politely. "Great jingle dress. You make that yourself?"

Her eyes rolled, but she answered him. "Just the beading. It's my Mom's old dress." An indistinct, older female voice came from some distance away, and the girl responded. "Right here, Mom. There's an -old- guy here asking about your dress." Her tone suggested she thought Trey was 'skeevy' and possibly a perv.

Trey frowned, unoffended by the tone, but touched the corner of one of his eyes, where nascent crow's-feet nestled. *I don't look -that- old...* he thought indignantly to himself, vanity lightly bruised. He shook it off, though, when the owner of the older female voice came into view.

She turned the corner of the booth, carefully maneuvering her crutches around the table. A thick white cast, colorfully scribbled in various shades of marker, wrapped her left foot, peeking out from under a fringed white buckskin dress. She was heavier-set, more matronly than she was twenty years ago... but she had the same face.

Trey froze, shocked. He'd dealt with a lot of surprising coincidences since he'd taken on the mantle of Seven, the Chariot, but this one took the cake. Finally, he realized the woman was staring at him curiously, with a growing hint of suspicion. "Er... sorry. Just... heh. Would you believe this? There was this girl, twenty years ago, and...." He took a deep breath, and sighed, losing the garrulousness. "You wouldn't happen to have gone to the Ann Arbor Powwow around then, and kissed a boy who smelled like frybread?"

The woman stared at Trey a moment uncertainly, then a hint of recognition showed. "No -way-!" the girl exclaimed, turning and bouncing away, calling, "Daaaaaaaad!"

She followed her daughter with her eyes, evidently amused, then looked back at Trey. "You... were him, right?"

He leaned against the wall, thinking back. "Er... black t-shirt, really short hair?"

Nodding, she continued, "And you did this little shuffle in the intertribal...." She trailed off, looking at her foot. "Well, I can't do it -now-."

He laughed. "Don't suppose you can. I'm Trevor Mercer. Trey works, too." It took effort for him to leave off the 'or Seven, or the Chariot' part he was so accustomed to adding.

"Marva Bent Oak," she smiled, "and that little hellion that just ran off was my oldest, Dana. She has the same amount of respect for her elders as most her age do, but she'll grow out of that lack. I did." She tilted her head toward one of the tables nearby, surrounded by chairs. "Do you mind if we sit?"

"Hm? Oh, right. We should do that." Trey pulled one of the chairs out for Marva, and she seated herself, arranging her crutches to be out of the way. "How'd you do that?" he asked.

"Basketball practice with my boy. Old women like me should not be trying to slam dunk," she chuckled. "So, you're the frybread boy."

"Looks that way, eh?" Trey quirked a grin. "Never forgot about that... and never really stopped beating myself up for forgetting to ask your name."

"I could have asked too, you know. I still don't know whether I willfully forgot to, or not."

He nodded. "I just plain forgot. Why did you kiss me, anyway?"

Marva picked at the long fringe on her sleeves thoughtfully for a few moments, then shrugged. "You were cute. And I'd never kissed anyone before. I wondered what it would be like."

"It surprised the He... eck out of me," he corrected himself, noting the number of small children milling about. "So, you're married now?"

"Seventeen years," she nodded in confirmation. "Three kids. How about you?"

Trey shook his head. "No. I was pretty much married to the Job for a while."

"What did you do?"

"Motor patrol... cop," he answered. "For about ten years."

"I run a print shop. Banners, programs, things like that. My husband teaches math. So, you're not a cop any more?" she asked, shifting in her chair to bring her broken foot in further, away from the youngsters dashing around the room.

"On the job accident," Trey replied, hoping he didn't sound as evasive as he was being. "Had to leave the force after that. I do a bit of security guard work now, for a free clinic. Money isn't bad, and the hours are pretty flexible. Enough time for me to practice dancing, anyway."

"Let me know when you're dancing, and we'll watch." Marva paused as a hand rested on her shoulder. She glanced up and back, then smiled wider. "I see Dana found you. Will, this is Trey Mercer. Trey, this is my husband."

The man extended a hand, and Trey accepted. His hair was sandy, but the rest of him looked Native. He grinned in a friendly manner, shaking hands firmly. "William Bent Oak, Cherokee. Osiyo."

"Hi there, nice to meet you. Shawnee, though unaffiliated." Trey looked around the room. "Nice powwow, here."

William looked pleased. "We've been coming here a few years."

"Will, remember me telling you about my first kiss? Well, this is him." Marva chuckled. "After all these years."

Will didn't seem insecure. "No kidding?" He pulled out a seat next to his wife. "Mind if I hear it from your side?"

The three of them talked for some time, Marva sending Dana to fetch coffee at one point. After an hour, though, Trey looked at the clock above a beading booth. "About time for me to dance, eh? It was nice meeting you all."

"Good to meet you, too, Trey," Will returned. "Will you be going to the 49 tonight?" Marva added.

"We'll see if I survive this, first. Haven't danced at a powwow since I was ten." He quirked a grin, arranging his fringe as he stood up. "Paselo, eh?"

Marva waved, as Will helped her up. "Donadagohvi."

Trey turned, striding toward the dance arena.