White Dusk

by Susan Edwards

  Each mound sat distinctly apart, yet all were joined at their base by smaller rocks and hardened earth. They were fascinating. Until arriving in this strange land, Small Bird had known only gently rolling prairie and the dark, thick forests of the Paha Sapa.

  Swift Foot’s world was different. It was filled with such bare mounds of earth as these, along with deep, dry gullies and flat-topped mountains. Yet the starkness of his world drew her. Its beauty lay in the changing landscape and contrasting colors of green, pale brown, white and gray. Already she loved this harsh land she would soon call her own. She always would.

  Two young warriors walked past, spurring her onward. She began to climb the hillock, the question in her mind whether Swift Foot would come to realize she belonged here. If he didn’t, what then?

  One thing was clear: she would not change her mind. Pride demanded she forget that he’d appeared to want her to do just that. Regardless of her own feelings on the matter, she’d never do anything to bring shame to her father, mother or brother, such as breaking an engagement.

  “What a way to start a marriage,” she muttered.

  Brushing her hair clear of her face, Small Bird let out a frustrated breath. She reached the top of a rise and stopped. Turning, she carefully studied the large Hunkpapa camp of more than thirty tipis below. Her tribe and Swift Foot’s had merged effortlessly and with almost no animosity. The positions of the new families had been decided upon by the elders: those of great importance camped on the eastern side of the camp, or horn. Her own parents commanded the southeastern position there, which would allow mother and daughter to be close to each other once she and Swift Foot wed and placed their tipi at the northeastern entrance of the village.

  Surveying the village, Small Bird saw a short distance away a younger group of women surrounded by small children. Strips of antelope and buffalo hung drying on racks nearby, while cook fires steamed with chunks of meat, tipsila, wild onion and greens. Nuts, and dried and fresh berries sat on squares of rawhide there, inviting anyone hungry to snack. Tonight, as they had during the past week, the two tribes would eat as one.

  Moving down the hill, Small Bird avoided the group of women. Her conversation with Swift Foot was still ringing in her ears, and her heart was heavy with disappointment; she wasn’t sure she could act the happy bride. Forcing a smile to her lips when an elderly woman emerged from a tipi and greeted her, Small Bird let her expression die as soon as there was no one to see the false gaiety.

  Needing to be with people she knew and loved, she made her way to where three of her cousins sat. At her approach Makatah and Shy Mouse, daughters of her mother’s sister, smiled and motioned for her to sit between them. Moon Fire, her cousin from another of her mother’s sisters, ignored her. Close in age, the four girls had grown up together.

  Small Bird lowered herself to the ground and folded her legs to the side. She tried to relax and find comfort in the rhythmic scrape as her cousins used rounded stones to grind chokecherries into a fine paste.

  “You look sad, cousin.” Shy Mouse, the youngest among them, eyed her with concern.

  Small Bird reached out and took a berry from the pouch of water in which they sat, softening before being ground. What would her cousins say if she told them that Swift Foot didn’t want her for a wife, that like a young girl with stars in her eyes, she’d thought he’d chosen her because of a shared feeling about their past?

  It would shock and upset Makatah and Shy Mouse. Moon Fire would undoubtedly gloat.

  Makatah smiled with understanding. “She worries about sharing the marriage bed,” she said. “Soon she will become a woman.”

  Small Bird made an expression of exasperation. That was the farthest thing from her mind at the moment.

  “She has more to worry about than the marriage bed,” Moon Fire said. She tossed down the rounded stone in her hand.

  Makatah, the oldest, and the only one married, sent her cousin a sharp look. “And what would you know about sharing a mat with a man?”

  Moon Fire shrugged, then glanced at Small Bird with secretive, sly eyes. “That is not your concern.”

  Hoping to head off angry words, Small Bird reached out to take the stone bowl from Makatah. “Let me do this,” she said. “You look tired.” She needed something to do be fore she drove herself crazy.

  Makatah shook her head. “No. We prepare your wedding feast. You are not to work.” Then the young woman smiled proudly and patted the barely noticeable swell of her abdomen. “Soon your belly will grow round with child, just as mine does.”

  Shy Mouse giggled and blushed. She’d just celebrated becoming a woman, and spent much of her time gazing at single warriors, seeking her future mate.

  Moon Fire shook her mane of shiny black hair over her shoulder, then stood, glaring down at them. “You are fools. Our cousin will be dead long before Swift Foot’s seed can grow.”

  Shocked, Small Bird glared at Moon Fire. For weeks the girl had been in a foul mood. Anything to do with the wedding caused her to get angry, sulk or grow petulant.

  “Why do you seek to cause trouble, Moon Fire?” Shy Mouse asked.

  “She is jealous—” Makatah dismissed the question with a wave of her hand “—that she has no warrior courting her.”

  Moon Fire laughed, but the sound came out as a harsh bark. “That is what you think. Many brave warriors wish to court me.” Her mouth turned hard, ruining the soft fullness of her lips.

  Small Bird reached out and picked up Moon Fire’s abandoned stone bowl. Just what she needed: Moon Fire in another of her moods. At sixteen, the same age as Small Bird, her cousin was turning vain, greedy and self-centered—and lately she was becoming intolerable. “Go elsewhere if you seek to cause strife, cousin,” she said.

  Once again Moon Fire tossed her long, silky hair over her shoulder. “You are a fool to marry Swift Foot.” She bent down, her eyes burning with malice. “They will come—the warriors of Hawk Eyes—and they will kill your husband. And they will kill you to prevent you from giving birth to the grandchild of Runs with Wind.”

  Makatah and Shy Mouse gasped as Moon Fire spoke the name of the dead aloud. Small Bird glared at the girl for her disrespect and insensitivity. No one needed reminding that Swift Foot’s parents had been killed shortly after his birth. Least of all her.

  Glancing around the sheltered area in which they camped, Small Bird felt relieved that no one else had heard. Any dishonor Moon Fire brought to herself, she would also bring to the rest of her people. The actions of the young boys of her clan toward Willow Song earlier had been shameful enough.

  Her gaze swept the large camp, and Small Bird couldn’t help the wave of relief that slid through her at the many guards standing watch. Not young, inexperienced braves, these were hardened, trained warriors. Some had even positioned themselves upon the mounds of rock where they had a clear view for miles around the camp. No one would be able to attack without their being alerted.

  “Swift Foot’s warriors are many now,” she said. “We will be safe. Safer than if we were alone in our few numbers.” The marriage between her and Swift Foot would join the two tiyospayes, or clans of the Hunkpapa. The harsh winter had taken the lives of many of Small Bird’s tribe, including their last chief, Moon Fire’s father. With so few warriors, they were vulnerable to their enemies. But all that would change.

  Moon Fire laughed harshly. “The tribe of Swift Foot will face more than harsh winters. And they do not always succeed in protecting their women and children,” she reminded Small Bird cruelly. “Have you forgotten how Swift Foot lost his aunt?”

  “Enough,” Makatah ordered. “This is a happy time. Do not ruin it with your mean-spiritedness.”

  Standing tall, Moon Fire glared at her. “You call the truth mean-spiritedness? You are fools if you believe that there will be an easy peace. This war will not end until all the spawn of Runs with Wind are dead!” She pointed to Small Bird. “If you marry Swift Foot, you will bring death to our people.”


  A heavy silence fell. Small Bird held herself proudly. “I do not let my people down,” she said, forcing confidence into her voice. “This is what must be.” Even at the cost of her own happiness. Even if she could no longer count on her own foolish dreams and desires—like one day seeing love grow in her husband’s eyes. This was what was best for the tribe. She knew that.

  Moon Fire backed away. “You are a fool,” she said, then stalked off.

  Small Bird closed her eyes and fought down fear of the future. Was her cousin right? Was she condemning her people to death? Was she blindly following an instinct that would mislead her? Doubts flooded in.

  The blurry image of that nightmarish day in the past came back to her: the horse of the enemy bearing down as she clung to the young Swift Foot. Running. That scene haunted her dreams still. Though she’d been young, she’d known death rode after her. With her arms wrapped around Swift Foot’s neck, and her legs tight around his waist, she’d watched in terror as the enemy gained on them, coming so close—she still saw the warrior’s features twisted in anger. His hatred had been so great. The Miniconjou warrior had been killed by Swift Foot’s uncle, but his image was forever burned in her memory.

  Yet as horrible as that image was, what had also stayed with Small Bird year after year was the way Swift Foot had comforted her afterward. For two weeks she’d followed him everywhere, as if he’d become her big brother that day. He’d ignored the surprise of his peers. During that confusing time of laying the dead to rest, and those days of wailing and lamenting, Swift Foot had taken the time to hold and reassure her—something remarkably mature for a boy his age. Which in part had led to her belief that he’d known of the importance of that day to their future. Since then, she’d seen him only at the end of summers, when hundreds of tribes came together for the Sun Dance. But she dreamed of him, and of the day when he would come to claim her.

  Foolishly, it seemed. So what now? Canceling the wedding was not an option, yet going into a marriage with a man who clearly did not want her didn’t hold much appeal either.

  “Ignore her,” Makatah said softly of Moon Fire, reaching out to touch Small Bird on the arm. “You know she seeks to cause trouble.”

  Small Bird gave her cousin a grateful smile. “I know.” She shook off her doubts and fears of the future. Continuing to grind chokecherries into a fine powder, she reminded herself it was out of her hands. This was her destiny.

  Sighing, she shifted until she sat back on her feet, her heels turned outward. It would have been different had Moon Fire truly acted out of concern for her safety or even the safety of the tribe, but Small Bird knew better. Her cousin’s concern ran only to herself.

  Needing reassurance from her family, her best friends, Small Bird kept her eyes on her task as she said, “If I do not marry Swift Foot, I would be no better than Runs with Wind, Swift Foot’s father. If he had done his duty and married the mother of Hawk Eyes, as promised, there would be no war between our tribes.” Small Bird thought of Swift Foot’s father, who’d chosen love over duty and, in so doing, had caused years of misery and bloodshed.

  Makatah reached over and gripped Small Bird’s hand until they locked gazes. “We cannot change the past. You of all people know that.”

  Small Bird forced a smile and a bright tone to her voice. “Forget it.”

  The subject was dropped. Silently Small Bird listened to her cousins discuss plans for the days of feasting to come. Absently she scanned the skies. The sight of several soaring eagles in the distance brought back her earlier fears: there was trouble ahead.

  Willow Song settled herself on her thick bed of furs. Wincing at the bruise forming on her hip, she shifted, then let her breath out slowly. Beside her, Kills Many Crows watched anxiously.

  “I will deal with those boys,” he said, clenching his fists at his sides.

  Reaching out to take her brother’s tense hand, she stared at her own scarred flesh. Kills Many Crows was strong, brown and unmarred beneath. “No. Do not,” she said. “They did not know.”

  “Does it matter whether they knew or not? Had you been one of our elders, bent with age and fragile of bone, would you accept ignorance as an excuse for their shameful behavior?”

  Willow Song closed her eyes. “They would not have treated one of our elders in that manner,” she admitted softly.

  This wasn’t the first time children from a different tribe, not believing the rumors of her double face, had tried to taunt her into revealing herself. The children of her tribe knew the truth. They steered clear of her.

  “They are just children,” she murmured, fighting back tears. She loved children, ached to someday hold her own in her arms—but knew she’d never know that joy. Nor could she gain any comfort from cuddling another woman’s child. No one allowed her anywhere near their babies.

  Kills Many Crows stood. He didn’t look appeased. “I shall bring you fresh meat after the hunt.” He paused, the muscles in his jaw taut. “And more wood for your fire.”

  Willow Song gave him a grateful look. “Thank you, my brother.”

  Staring down at her, he shook his head. “I do not understand how you are not angry. Or bitter.” His voice rose slightly.

  “It does no good to place blame.” She rubbed her arms. “It changes nothing.”

  “It is not right that you live alone. You are the daughter of our father, an honored and respected chief.” His anger was apparent. “And it is not right that our cousin becomes chief. It was his father who was responsible for the death of our mother, and for the grave injuries you suffered. Instead of rescuing you, he saved a child of another tribe. Instead of being blamed and shamed, he was made a warrior that day.”

  “I am grateful to be alive,” Willow Song said.

  “What kind of life is this?” Kills Many Crows waved his hands around him. “You, the daughter of a chief, cursed and forced to live alone, away from everyone like a Winkte!” His voice rose as with disdain for the men who dressed like women, acted like women and shared their mats with other Winktes.

  Willow Song held her tongue. They’d been over this ground before—especially since it became official that Swift Foot would take over the role of chief. She’d known that her brother held out hope all these years that their father and the council would pass the role on to him, but though he worked hard, he was not a good leader.

  She’d never admit her feelings to him, though. It wasn’t his fault that life had been so hard on him. And Willow Song didn’t know how she’d have ever survived without his help and devotion. Weary after her ordeal with the children of the other tribe, she lowered herself back to her furs. “I am tired. Go now. You have duties to do.” She ran one hand over her eyes and rubbed at her aching temple, worrying that her brother’s bitterness would lead him to do something rash.

  Kills Many Crows hesitated.

  “I will be fine,” she reassured him tiredly. As much as she loved her brother, sometimes his overprotective nature and bitterness wore on her nerves.

  His lips tightened, but he did not argue. “You rest.” With that command, Kills Many Crows strode out the door, closing the flap behind him.

  Left alone in her tipi’s shadowy interior, Willow Song stared out the smoke hole to the treetops above. Her home was small but it usually suited her. Yet sometimes, like today, it felt more like a prison than a home. And in a way it was. Though she remained a member of her family and a member of the tribe and was afforded the same protection as the rest, essentially she was alone. She ate alone. Gathered firewood alone. Bathed alone. Spent each day, all day, alone. And she spent evenings and nights the same way.

  Visits from her father were few and far between. And at no time was she allowed to set foot in the tipi she shared with her brother and cousin.

  But Swift Foot came to see her often. She closed her eyes, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth. Her cousin’s visits were a treat to which she eagerly looked forward. Like her brother, Swift Foot brought food, water and w
ood. But more important, he provided conversation filled with humor, serious talk of life and simple everyday conversation. He offered Willow Song the chance to forget she was not like other women—and sometimes he even sought her insight. He made her feel useful and needed when he asked her opinion and took her answers seriously.

  Sitting, she brushed her hair back from her face, her fingers caressing the smooth skin on one side, and the puckered, scarred flesh on the other. Frowning, she wondered if Swift Foot would continue to visit once he married.

  Remembering Small Bird’s kindness when she’d fallen, Willow Song prayed the girl would show the same nature by not preventing Swift Foot from coming to see her. Though Kills Many Crows took care of her, he worried constantly—which didn’t allow either of them to relax. He refused to forget the past. Around him, Willow Song couldn’t either. But with Swift Foot she could sometimes be happy.

  Shifting her left leg from its odd angle before her, she rubbed the aching muscles of her thigh. Broken when the horse had run her down, it hadn’t healed properly, and still pained her.

  Outside the tipi, laughter sounded. For a moment self-pity took over. Willow Song wished she could join the upcoming festivities, but she dared not. Glancing over at a colorfully quilled parfleche, she knew she shouldn’t even give Swift Foot’s bride the gift she’d made. Even though Small Bird seemed kind and caring now, soon the girl might treat her as did the rest of the women—with a combination of fear and dismissal.

  Willow Song scooted to the doorway and pulled the flap open a bit so she could at least watch the preparations for the celebration. Lifting her good knee, she rested her chin on her fisted hand. The other hand held the tipi flap partially open.

  An approaching tall figure startled her. Lone Warrior. He carried her sling in one hand—filled. Shocked, she realized he’d picked up her fallen firewood. Holding her breath, she narrowed the slit in her door and watched as he neared. Tall, broad at the shoulders and lean at the hips, he took her breath away.