by Vella Munn
Even with the wind raging around her, she remembered how she and her uncle had laughed together, the sound forever erasing the difference in their ages. After that, girl and warrior spoke frequently about the newcomers' foolishness.
"Captain Jack," he'd told her once, shaking his head in exasperation. "That is what the whites call me. Am I an army captain? No. But they say I look like a man named Jack who is a captain and they cannot pronounce my rightful name. That is how it is for all of us, it seems. Some accept their new names, embrace them even. I do what I must, but still I wish I had never heard anything except Kientpoos."
Reluctant to expose herself to wind and snow, she pulled her blanket tight against her throat and forced her legs under her. Still, she felt her long, straight hair being yanked away from her scalp and thrown into the air. As she stood staring at the fog now rolling toward her like a slow-moving bear, she fought the desire to spread her arms and wait to be lifted over the Earth.
For a moment, tears blinded her vision. She didn't know if it was caused by the cutting wind or her thoughts; she didn't care. She was so cold that it hurt to walk and yet if she stayed where she was, she would freeze and the fog would swallow her. She and her uncle Chief Kientpoos—not Captain Jack—would never again laugh together.
The thought that he was inside his warm wickiup maybe eating dried trout mixed with parsley roots put strength in her legs. If she had the courage to approach him, would he open his home to her, protect her from her father? She wiggled her toes inside her woven tule footwear, but couldn't feel them. Keeping her eyes half closed against the storm, Teina managed to make out the ancient deer path and started to follow it. After no more than three steps, she stopped. Between her legs, at her private place, she felt wetness. But she had no need to seek the bushes; it couldn't be that.
Wetness.
Bleeding.
Disbelieving, she tried to make herself start walking again, but her legs no longer wanted to obey her. Before she could put her thoughts to how different her life would be from now on, the puberty ceremony, womanhood, what her father might force her to do, something pulled her attention back toward the lake. The fog hadn't come any closer. It waited near the bank, so dark and lush she couldn't see the ice. Being swallowed by fog, freezing to death, anything was better than having to return to her father and tell him that she had left childhood.
It was now snowing with enough energy that the line between mist and snow no longer existed. The wind pushed at her and forced her to spread her legs and lock her knees so she wouldn't lose her balance. She was a fool for coming here. Even if the wild creatures lived in her heart and mind, she wasn't an eagle or a deer or a fox. Only, her anger at her father had been as powerful as a winter blizzard.
Not a woman! Not yet! I am not ready. Please, Kumookumts, help me!
A movement, the same as and yet different from the storm. Although her teeth chattered so that her head ached, Teina couldn't leave until she'd discovered the movement's source. It might be a soldier, but she didn't think so.
The mist seemed to sway and buckle, to move closer, then slide away. It covered the lake, blanket-like, sheltering, almost a part of it. Maybe Kumookumts had sent it here to protect the fish. If that was so, maybe the great, weightless mass would shelter her as well. She waited, shivering, curious, awed. The storm continued to attack. When she covered her chin and mouth with her blanket, her nose felt like a small chunk of ice. Her uncle would have to throw much wood on his fire before she thawed.
When what she'd been waiting for separated itself from the gray, cold cocoon of mist and started toward her, Teina's mind was so numb that at first she saw but didn't comprehend.
An eagle had been born of the mist, not simply emerged, but born. His hunter's body looked so heavy that he shouldn't have been able to rise above the earth and yet with his great wings outspread, he seemed as graceful as an antelope racing across the plains. Unable to breathe, she craned her head upward so she wouldn't lose sight of him. Even when she nearly lost her balance, she kept on staring. Snow slashed at her lids and lashes.
An eagle—Eagle—coming her way.
As the elegant bird soared and dipped, in love with the wind's current, she knew he had spotted her. More than that, he sought her.
She was longer aware of the cold and yet she continued to shiver. The eagle was huge and his wingspan far greater than her height. His talons and beak were made for ripping at flesh. "Eagle?" she managed to whisper. "Eagle? Do you hear me? What..."
Although the storm tugged at its feathers, the eagle continued to fly with lazily outstretched wings as if he was certain that his strength far outstripped any blizzard. He seemed intrigued by each new gust of wind, riding it out, conquering winter. His beak was slightly opened. Teina imagined that Eagle was smiling, and the last of her fear fluttered and died.
"Eagle."
As he soared overhead, the huge bird dipped his magnificent snow white head. She saw—a momentary glimpse—that a thin, dark streak ran back from his beak to where his feathers turned dark at the shoulder. His small, red eyes locked with hers. A silent scream tore through her, not a sound of terror but one of awe. She struggled to remain standing, felt the push of air along the side of her head as Eagle's wings came within inches of her.
The bird turned immediately, as mobile as a tiny songbird, and again swept over her. This time his right wing dipped even lower, brushed her temple and seared her flesh from forehead to the top of her head. Heat flowed through her as if she'd been touched by a great fire.
Eagle.
She wanted to lift her arms in reverence, to see if the eagle had injured her or simply left its mark, but she knew if she did, she'd lose hold of her blanket and expose herself to the ice and sleet. Weeping, she waited for the eagle to make another pass and wondered at his incredible grace and power. When he was again so close that she could see the center of his eye, he all but stopped in midair. Hovering, wings barely moving, the winged predator blanketed her. Although he hadn't touched her, Eagle now completely shielded her from the storm. Her legs nearly gave out, but she forced strength back into them.
Eagle.
After beats of time that slid off into the mist, the great bird again tilted its body and brushed his wing along her shoulder. This touch left no molten imprint. Eagle's talons were so close that Teina could have touched them. They were like knives sharpened for war, hard and dark and deadly, yet she didn't fear them.
Eagle had touched her, run his feathers over her, warmed her. Seared her from forehead to temple.
With a cry that set her nerves to shaking, the great bird soared upward and she understood that even this magical creature needed to seek currents of air or it would fall. She watched it head for the heavens and wondered if her heart would break.
Eagle again descended. His beak was still open, still laughing. His eyes seemed less red now, more like one of the dark caves that dotted the Land Of Burned Out Fires. He didn't come quite as close this time. Still, the tip of his right wing touched her cheek like a mother's caress. Then he flew in a tight circle around her, pushing away the storm, making Teina wish she could climb on his back and be lifted to the heavens. At his nearest, she could again see the strange and mystical dark mark flowing along its white head.
Then Eagle was leaving, nearly gone. She stared as he reentered the mist as silently as he had come. For a long time she stood and shook and cried. Had it been a dream, a product of her storm-frozen mind?
No.
Eagle was much more than a winged predator. She believed that, never doubted the legends told in poetry and song. The first Eagle, even before the first Modoc, had lived on the Sprague River. From its perch on the mountains, he could see clear to the salt chuck that the whites called the Pacific Ocean. Eagle, created by Kumookumts, had given all other animals their names and in gratitude those animals even now freely gave their flesh to him.
Eagle kept the Modocs safe.
One eagle, a magnificent lo
ner, had blessed her.
And she was, heart and soul, a Modoc.
. Sobbing, she stumbled closer to the mist that had swallowed her spirit. "Tell me of what will be—of what my children will know—of..."
But Eagle had gone back to the mist where he belonged. She was left with nothing except the feel of his wing on her cheek and shoulder and the still-burning heat on the top of her head.
And a feather.
The large black and white feather rested on the fur that covered her shoulder. He had placed it there for her, a gift. A message? Maybe a blessing. Awed, she closed her frozen fingers around it and tucked it against her budding breasts.
She was no longer a child, no longer Teina. Unlike those who traveled as far as Mount Mazama during their spirit quests, she'd only had to open her wild heart to find peace. To be touched by Eagle.
When she looked again, she saw that the mist no longer clung to the lake's boundaries. A low, rolling mound was now so close that it lapped at her feet, teasing/beckoning, comforting.
Eagle had left behind something of himself in the mist, in Luash.
Luash. Mist.
It hurt to smile, but she gave the gesture freedom. When she laughed, the storm instantly swallowed the sound. She didn't care.
On this bleak and yet wonderful winter morning, the child known as Teina had ceased to exist.
In her place was Luash, a woman blessed by Eagle.
Chapter 2
December 21,1866
Near Fort Phil Kearny, Wyoming Territory
Four days 'til Christmas.
"On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me..." True love? Christmas? Hell in a cold, Godforsaken, tree-choked land. It hurt to be this scared, hurt the top of Jed Britton's head and the back of his neck clear down to the base of his spine, chewed at his gut the way the curs around the fort attacked the deer bones the cooks threw their way.
"On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me two turtle doves in..." Hell.
Jed's horse wheezed and stretched its neck in an attempt to pull more air into its lungs. Although he was barely seventeen, Jed knew the old gelding was nearing the end of its wind, but word had just come down the hard-riding line that Crazy Horse had been spotted, running like the dog he was from the well-armed cavalry and infantrymen hot on his tail. Nothing else mattered.
Jed leaned low over the gelding's neck, taking a nugget of courage from the animal's muscle and sweat. His ears rang from the violent clamor of hooves, squeaking leather, cursing men. When he stared beyond the mass of horses and soldiers, he saw nothing except winter grayed pines and brooding hills. Felt trapped by them. His throat and nose and lips were raw, scraped by the frozen air. He tried to look ahead, to where the others had pointed, for a glimpse of the Sioux war chief, but he rode in the middle, surrounded.
Next to him a soldier a few years older than himself clung to both his horse's mane and his too-slack reins. If the animal stumbled, the rider would be thrown and maybe trampled. Jed thought to yell a piece of advice, but now wasn't the time. Once they were back safe at the fort, he would take the soldier aside and show him how to ride.
Jed had all but been born on horseback; there'd been close to twenty head on his father's plantation. If the army hadn't issued him this broken down nag, he would be galloping beside Captain William J. Fetterman, chasing the small war party that had attacked a party of woodcutters earlier in the day. Instead, he was hampered by—
By himself. After all, he hadn't told a soul about the awards he'd won showing his father's fine Tennessee Walkers.
Because he was so damnable scared. Because it hurt too much to think of everything he'd lost.
The gelding wheezed again, the air around its muzzle clouding white. The sound came from deep in its thick chest, and Jed knew what that meant. His mount was blowing itself out. How much more the animal had inside him, Jed couldn't tell, but he knew it was not enough.
Someone shouted, a rebel yell. For maybe a half second he lost his fear, and in its place sprang a boy's memories of righteous southern men.
"Jed? Jed!"
He swiveled, still listening to his horse's breathing. Up behind him came Charles Grant, who always informed folks in no uncertain terms that he held no kinship with the president who shared the same last name. Charles was, by both their reckoning, no more than fifteen years older than Jed. Still, whenever Jed thought of him, Charles and his dead father nearly became one in his mind.
"What?"
"They're not putting up much of a fight."
"'Cause they're stinkin' cowards!" Jed yelled back, full of uneasy courage.
"Maybe." Charles's breath billowed white, mixing with the spent air of eighty horses and men. "And maybe that's what Crazy Horse wants us to believe."
"What do you mean?" Careful not to get too close to the mount directly ahead of him, Jed ran his hand low on his horse's neck as if his warmth and youth and health might help keep the beast going.
"Maybe nothing. And maybe—" Charles stood in his stirrups and strained to see ahead. "Just don't close your eyes for one second, you hear? Those Injins start shooting and you find yourself a tree to hunker down behind."
"I can't do that. Captain Fetterman says we're—"
"The captain's a damnable fool!" Charles shouted, unmindful of those around him. "He thinks he can run through the Sioux single-handed. If they was that easy to kill, don't you think the army woulda done it by now?"
Nearby, someone laughed. Still, Jed wished Charles wouldn't talk that way about their commander. Charles had been busted at least four times because he wouldn't keep his opinions to himself. "It don't worry me none," he'd told Jed. "Long as the army keeps clothes on my back and food in my belly, I don't care what rank they slap on me."
Jed didn't either, but since he'd been seventeen for less than a month, it wasn't likely anyone was going to make him a general.
Besides, he had other things to worry about. His horse was dying. Maybe it already knew that; maybe it was still trying so hard to keep up with the others that it hadn't realized its heart was breaking.
Jed could tell the gelding what that sounded like. It came on the tail of a mother's sobs, a father's helpless curses, a boy's terror and despair and, then, bone-deep-loneliness.
"On the third day of Christmas my..."
Lodge Trail Ridge was behind them. The relative flat of the wagon road beyond the fort had made it easy for the cavalry to gain on Crazy Horse and his few thieving followers. Now they were approaching the fork of Pano Creel where—
Indians!
Everywhere!
Jed stared in disbelief, his ears nearly shutting down under the assault of hundreds of war cries. He yanked on the reins so hard that his gelding shuddered, then stumbled, tossing its head.
Men yelled as they frantically reined in and struggled to aim their rifles. Jed followed suit, not that killing one Sioux would make any difference, but he was being swept along by the frenzied action all around him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Charles, who suddenly looked old and vulnerable. When Jed fired, the unwieldy rifle kicked his shoulder; he couldn't tell whether he'd hit anything.
Sioux warriors, mounted and armed, their faces deadly with hate and war paint, kept shouting. The sound came from hell. Jed's head rang so, he thought it would split, and he desperately tried to remember his childhood prayers. He wanted to clap his hands over his ears and scream so he couldn't hear anything except his own voice and know he was still alive.
The ground rumbled under the assault of more than a thousand unshod hooves as the Sioux charged from where they'd been hiding. Near him, a man cried out and without looking, Jed knew he'd been hit.
Hit! Killed! Now I lay myself down to sleep. If I should die—
Fear lashed at Jed's belly. Already some of the calvary had dropped rank and were running hard out toward any and all cover. Mindless of his wrecked horse, Jed spurred it, even though he had no idea where he was going.
A second ago it seemed the Sioux had been sweeping toward them like a fast-moving hurricane. Now the savages were in the middle of the disorganized and frantic calvary, swinging clubs and shooting arrows. A warrior, his cheek painted with a jagged streak of lightning, was so close that Jed could see a gap where a tooth should be. The warrior was intent on a soldier frantically trying to reload. As Jed watched, the warrior lifted a spear over his head. Jed focused on a dark, unbelievably muscular forearm, heard a cougar-like snarl. Even before the spear was released, he knew it had been thrown with enough force to send the weapon through a man's chest.
A scream, a cry, an oath.
Helplessness and, not soon enough, death. I pray my soul to keep!
Jed's heart bucked frantically, as if trying to escape his chest. His arms had become so heavy he didn't think he could lift them. He needed to retch.
Charles! Charles would—
Sweat ran down his sides and back. If the icy wind cooled it, he didn't notice. His horse was moving without direction, lurching sideways as much as forward.
An army was supposed to be organized and proud. This one wasn't. When he saw a man jump from his wounded horse and start running, Jed could tell the man had lost control of his kidneys.
"God in heaven!"
"Run! Someone—the fort! Get help!"
As his horse's legs went out from under him, Jed felt a hot poker stab into his side. He stared disbelieving at an arrow that had somehow become caught in his uniform. When he tried to yank it away, he realized that his flesh, not the fabric, held the arrow in place. Bile rose inside him. His face flushed. He wanted to scream. Maybe he did, and just couldn't hear the sound for all the other screams.
His horse was on its knees now, head stretched forward, body shuddering. Jed stumbled off it, somehow holding onto both his side and his spent rifle. Every damn one of the Sioux was on horseback. Only a few had rifles, but it didn't matter because there were hundreds of them and the ambushed and terrified white men might as well have been unarmed.
