by Sandi Rog
Anna mimicked the words of the little girl’s song. The strange sounds made her tongue stumble in her mouth, and both she and Runs With Wind laughed.
One by one, and still singing, they laid the triangular cakes out on a cloth to dry in the sun.
“They look delicious.” Anna fought the temptation to lick the remnants off her fingers.
“We store for winter,” Song Bird said.
Song Bird turned a skinned pouch over a fire. To Anna’s disgust, Song Bird had filled the pouch with blood then folded over the top and sealed it with sinew. She had spent a long time tapping the pouch with a stick and turning it over. She motioned for Anna to hand her a porcupine quill from the pile at her side. Anna handed one to her, and Song Bird used it to poke a small hole in the pouch. A tiny drop of blood dripped out, so she put it back over the fire.
“When we live on plains, we eat all parts of buffalo, blood too,” Song Bird said.
Anna nodded, trying to hold back the nausea in her stomach and focusing on the berries that she felt would make a more satisfying meal.
Later, Song Bird poked the bag again. This time no blood trickled out. When she opened it, the blood looked like gelatin. If that’s what Song Bird was serving for the evening meal, Anna would skip supper.
Chapter Nine
Several days had passed before Anna could walk around freely on her ankle. That morning after she awoke, Yellow Leaf entered the lodge. She tightened the covers around her shoulders, since she was only wearing her chemise and Song Bird was nowhere to be seen.
The old chief looked at her, walked to the back of the lodge opposite the door, turned his back to her and sat down.
“Thank you, Mr. Leaf. You’re very kind,” she said as she quickly slipped into her dress.
“Yes, daughter.”
She stopped what she was doing. He rarely spoke, and she was a bit taken back by the fact that he called her “daughter,” not to mention that he spoke English.
“Gray Feather my nâhtona. Daughter, you same.”
Anna had no idea that she stirred up memories of their daughter. Once dressed, she padded over to the old man and laid her hand on his shoulder, noticing the art book he held in his lap.
“I’m sorry.” She expected the man to start humming and possibly ignore her as Song Bird had done several days before.
“Fault of white soldiers,” he said.
This was the most, or really the only, conversation she’d ever had with Song Bird’s husband.
“May I join you?” she asked, remembering the manners of the Cheyenne. Had she already been rude by coming to stand so close? She didn’t know.
He motioned for her to sit down as he faced the fire, so she settled next to him.
“My father died when I was just a little girl.” She stared ahead at the dying flames. “It seems I don’t have a father, and you don’t have a daughter.” She cast a side-glance in Yellow Leaf’s direction.
He also looked at her then down at his book, his wrinkled face remaining emotionless.
Hesitantly, she reached out and placed her hand over his. He turned his palm up, wrapped his leathery fingers around her hand and looked at her, a smile in his almond eyes.
He turned one of the book’s pages and laid her hand over the drawing.
At the top of the page was the outline of a gray feather. Below that, a soldier on a horse aimed his rifle at a young girl. He handed her the book, and she stared in horror at the picture.
“Your daughter?”
Yellow Leaf nodded.
Tears burned her eyes. She squeezed his hand as she thought about the pain of his loss, so much like her own pain, but greater. A father never expects to lose a child. She pulled her carpetbag open and took out her photographs. She laid her father’s photo over the art book as she unwrapped its frame.
Yellow Leaf looked at the picture. She traced her father’s face with her fingers as she’d done so many times before then handed the frame to Yellow Leaf. “I came all this way to fulfill our dream.”
“Navese’e.” A small voice came from the door of the lodge. She looked up and saw Runs With Wind.
The little girl motioned for her to come.
Anna turned to Yellow Leaf. She didn’t want to go when she’d finally made such a deep connection with this intriguing man. She wanted to ask him more about his people, about the horrifying picture she saw. He didn’t look at Runs With Wind, but said something to her in Cheyenne. She then stepped away from the door’s flap.
“You come far for dream.” Yellow Leaf handed her the photo. “Learn our people. Go with child. She teach you.”
Anna looked toward the door and saw Runs With Wind’s shadow. She held the art book up to Yellow Leaf. “May I?” One way to learn more about his people would be to learn more about their past.
He nodded.
“I’ll be careful with it.” She stood and pressed the book to her chest, leaving Yellow Leaf to hold her father’s photo.
She ducked under the flap and met Runs With Wind who wore a dress with fringes at the seams of the arms and skirt. Her two raven braids draped over her shoulders, and Anna couldn’t help but wonder how much Gray Feather might have dressed like Runs With Wind.
Children ran by, squealing. This would be Anna’s first adventure away from Song Bird and Yellow Leaf’s lodge, so despite her troubled thoughts, she’d try to make the day special.
They walked past more lodges as she looked through the book belonging to Yellow Leaf. Scenes depicted Indians chasing down herds of buffalo. Not one arrow was seen flying toward the buffalo as they fell to their death off a cliff. Fascinating, yet her thoughts kept traveling back to that one horrifying picture.
In other scenes arrows flew through the air like hornets towards enemy Indian tribes. Some of the fighters wore buffalo horns on their heads. One warrior carried a blanket or a robe over his arm during battle, while in another scene, a warrior wore a yellow shirt, standing out from his tribe members. In other pictures, braves had on war bonnets with feathers dangling down their backs. Every picture told its own story of a particular battle, of success and failure.
They walked near a baby bound to a board in a cloth sack. The board was perched up against the edge of a lodge. His mother busied herself crushing berries into a small bowl. The mother cast Anna a suspicious eye as Anna stopped to examine the baby. Anna smiled, but the woman didn’t smile back and continued with her work.
Curiosity got the best of Anna as she looked over the baby. He didn’t seem to be uncomfortable. In fact, he sat in what was almost like a bag that had been attached to two strong wooden poles. Green and red geometrical designs covering the white sack sparkled in the sunlight. Beautiful glass and brass beads were sewn in and around the outside. The baby cooed, and Anna let him grasp her finger. He shot her a toothless grin.
“Aren’t you precious?” she said, but a horrible thought jolted through her mind when she wondered how many innocent babies like this one had been killed that day of the massacre. Another baby cried in the distance. She recalled Song Bird’s words and imagined a little one just like this baby being snatched from his mother.
Someone tugged on her arm. Anna straightened to see the baby’s mother. The woman’s eyes narrowed, and as she spoke, she motioned for Anna to leave.
A child whizzed by, shouting and laughing, and brushed against Anna’s skirt. Boys aimed tree branch rifles at one another. One boy ran back to her, quickly touched her hair, then ran away, hooting and hollering. The other boys praised him.
Runs With Wind grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the baby and his protective mother. “Eevo’soo’e,” she said, motioning toward the boy. She then gestured toward others in the village as they went about their morning tasks, chattering to Anna as she walked.
Suddenly, Runs With Wind stopped. She grinned, and her eyes widened. “Nenaasêstse!” she said, tugging on Anna’s arm to follow.
They came to a lodge with a white bird painted above the door
flap. Runs With Wind pointed at the bird then pointed at Anna and smiled.
Anna then realized that the white bird represented White Eagle. This was his lodge. Runs With Wind kissed her own hand and held it up toward the white eagle. “Namehoto,” she said, then covered her mouth and giggled.
“Namehoto?” Anna said, curious to know what the word meant, sensing its significance to the little girl in relation to White Eagle. She would ask Song Bird later. “Namehoto,” she repeated to make sure she would remember the word.
Runs With Wind grabbed her hand again and pulled her to sit down. They sat not far from White Eagle’s lodge, and Anna opened the book on her lap.
It’d been several days since she’d seen White Eagle, and she hoped he’d be in his lodge, but there didn’t seem to be any movement or sounds coming from inside. Beth had managed to find Anna on their second day there, but she was busy taking care of her own chores for Running Cloud’s family. Anna hoped to see her soon.
Runs With Wind stroked Anna’s cheek and traced her jaw line, her chin, and then her nose. Anna giggled. She did the same to Runs With Wind, and they both laughed. Runs With Wind then took Anna’s hand and held it against her own dark one. She tapped Anna’s skin then her own. She realized the little girl must have been interested in her pale color, so she rolled up her sleeve, allowing her to see more. She noticed how pale her arm looked against her hand and cringed, imagining freckles covering her face.
Placing their arms together, Anna brushed the girl’s soft skin. Gold would show its true color and glow in contrast to Runs With Wind’s brown tint, while against her own white skin, gold would become so pale. She found the child’s color far more beautiful than her own.
“So different,” Anna said. She intertwined their fingers, her long ones folding over Runs With Wind’s small ones. “And yet, the same.” What an imagination God had to have invented so many different types of people.
As Runs With Wind studied her white skin, Anna’s gaze fell on the drawings in the book. She turned the page and saw drawings of a fallen village, likely that of Sand Creek. Beneath an American flag and a white one lay dead children, old men, and women. White soldiers were drawn, retreating in the background, carrying scalps and shooting guns and rifles in the air.
She turned the page. A child, no more than two, stood on the bank crying, while three soldiers aimed their rifles at him. Her fingers trembled as she traced the drawing. That poor baby. He must have been terrified. On the next page, the child lay dead.
Anna turned away from the book.
The cries of a child caught her attention. A toddler wearing nothing more than a breechcloth clung to his mother. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and his fingers were in his mouth as he choked on sobs. The mother scooped the baby up and soothed him.
Anna’s gaze dropped back to the book. She ran her finger along the body of the dead child. That poor baby on the Sand Creek banks had no one. No mother to pick him up and kiss him, no one to hold him and comfort him and tell him everything would be all right.
Reminders of that terrible day seemed to be everywhere. Song Bird and Yellow Leaf’s daughter had died that day, as did White Eagle’s mother. How many others in this village had lost loved ones?
Runs With Wind tugged on her sleeve.
She glanced at the little girl and forced a smile, but tears blurred her vision. How could these people not want to kill her when her own people had been so cruel? No wonder that woman didn’t want her near her baby.
Runs With Wind put her hands over the horrifying picture. The little girl said something. She then stood and scurried away, leaving Anna alone with the book.
A moment later, out of the corner of her eye, Anna noticed someone coming toward her. She stood and swiped away her tears. It was Runs With Wind, pulling a man along by the arm.
The man hurried to Anna and cupped her face in his hands. She jumped from his familiar touch, but when she saw the blue-green of his eyes, she realized it was White Eagle without his war paint. She was right in thinking his features would be handsome.
“What happened?” His thumbs moved over her cheeks. “Why are you crying? Did someone hurt you?”
She shook her head. It was dreadful to be seen crying in front of him. Her gaze darted to the picture in the book, seeing the baby lying dead on the bank. She couldn’t speak, so she just pointed at the art.
White Eagle looked at the picture. His eyes darkened.
“Forgive me. It’s just so awful.” With trembling fingers she covered her lips. “And you were there.” She stepped back. “You saw these horrible things with your own eyes. Song Bird told me.” She wiped her nose. “She told me about how your mother saved Runs With Wind. No wonder the child loves you so much. You’re her savior.”
“I didn’t save anyone.” He straightened.
Why was his tone defensive?
“But she wouldn’t be alive if you hadn’t found her. So, both you and your mother saved her. You’re her hero.”
Staring at her, he opened his mouth as though he might speak, but he didn’t say anything. He then glanced at his hand, as though it disgusted him. She noticed his fingers tremble, but he shook them out.
“Forgive me.” She waved, feeling foolish for carrying on like a child. “I’m so sorry for all the pain your people suffered.”
“You’re not to blame.”
“So many horrible things have happened to you.” She dried her cheeks. “Back in New York, all we read about are the raids and attacks that the Indians have made on settlers, but we don’t hear enough about what the white people do to you. Now I understand why the Indians would want to attack us. We’ve brought you so much grief. So much sadness and pain is drawn everywhere in these pages.”
“The massacre at Big Sandy is the worst thing that’s ever happened to my people. It’s a day we’ll never forget.” He sighed. “We put down in drawings our history as we remember it.” He nodded toward the book. “Let me see.”
She held it open for him, and he turned the page. “That’s what the whites call ‘The Battle of Beecher Island.’ The Cheyenne, Sioux, and Arapahoe braves almost won. It’s where we lost Roman Nose,” he mumbled. “For nine days we trapped about fifty troops on the Island in the Arikaree River . . . .” He shook his head. “The soldiers were so desperate for food they ate their horses.”
“How dreadful.”
He flipped the page to another illustration of a battle and grunted. “That was at Summit Springs just last year. Lost that one too. Tall Bull died there, the last of the great Cheyenne war chiefs.”
He closed the book and handed it to her. “Come,” he said as he led her to the flap of his lodge.
“Wait here.” He disappeared inside, and when he returned, he held another book in his hands. He stood next to her and opened its pages.
“This is my mother when she saved Runs With Wind.” The drawing depicted her as a spirit hovering over the child with wings of protection. It made her think of an angel, but what would an Indian know of angels? His large callused hand swept over each page as he showed drawings of victorious battles, the blessings of the rain and of the sun.
He then pointed to a drawing representing their departure from the plains into the mountains. The mountains opened up to them like arms, welcoming them to come and take shelter in their wilderness.
White Eagle showed her the small depictions of life, and of love. Her gaze fell on his dark hands, the thickness of his artistic fingers and their hard angles. “Did you draw these pictures yourself?” she asked. They were different than the drawings in Yellow Leaf’s book. These lines were smooth and curved, and each picture displayed a certain realism, while those of Yellow Leaf’s had sharper, straighter lines.
He nodded. “I’m surprised Yellow Leaf let you have this.” He motioned toward the book she hugged to her chest. “Only a few men keep a ledger. It’s valued by the whole tribe. It tells our history.”
“Oh, my.” She handed him Yellow Leaf’s ledg
er, fearing she might be rebuked.
He tucked it under his arm. “How’d you get something so sacred?”
“It must have been a misunderstanding.” Perhaps he hadn’t realized she’d intended to leave with it?
“Look here,” he said, holding his ledger out to her. It was a couple holding hands. His finger followed the scene to a newborn child held in the arms of his proud father then to a child, older and standing next to his father. White Eagle traced over other depictions of family life: a woman carrying a child on her back as Anna had already seen done here at the village, and a father teaching his son to shoot an arrow and to hunt the buffalo.
She thought of the loss of his father, wondering in which battle he’d died, and then the loss of his mother and how tragic that must have been. Was he lonely, especially since he spent so much time drawing other families and their lives together? To her knowledge he had no brothers or sisters, or any other family left in this world.
“I hope one day you’ll have a family of your own,” she said as she looked up at him.
He stopped and gazed down at her, studying her with those intense, blue-green eyes of his.
She swallowed hard. Perhaps she should have kept her mouth shut. Unspoken words passed between them, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know their meaning.
Runs With Wind tugged on her skirt. Anna dragged her eyes away from White Eagle to the little girl. Runs With Wind motioned for her to come.
Anna turned to follow, but looked back and saw that White Eagle remained behind. He stood there, legs braced apart in his buckskin leggings, still holding the open ledger.
Their eyes met again, and a warm wind kissed her cheek, deepening the spell between them.
Runs With Wind tugged on her arm.
Anna followed but kept glancing over her shoulder at him.
~*~
A child ran by and bumped into White Eagle, causing him to tighten his grip on the ledger. But nothing at that moment could have diverted his gaze as he stared after Walks Alone, her words having stunned him into silence.
