“There will be a celebration tonight,” he said. “If you want to dress for it, now is a good time.”
Using their ponies as screens, they each searched through then-packs for their best clothes. Naduah and Star Name drew their horses close so they could dress together. Their new ponchos and skirts had been community projects. Takes Down The Lodge, Black Bird, Medicine Woman, Something Good, and even Blocks The Sun had helped with them.
“We can’t send you to the Quohadi looking like miserable Tonkawa,” Medicine Woman said. She muttered it through the sinew thread she was softening in her mouth. She was splitting more of it by the feel of it under her deft fingers.
Naduah pulled the clothes from their special rawhide case and held them a moment, remembering the afternoons spent with the women as they helped make them. Then she shook them gently to straighten the long, thick fringes. The bells on them tinkled. She dressed carefully, nervously, tying the new leggings to the thong around her waist and fastening the skirt over that. She pulled the poncho over her head, the horizontal slit in it forming a high, straight neckline. Finally she put on her soft, heavily beaded moccasins, lacing them up to midcalf and letting the fringed tops fold down into a cuff.
Star Name was humming to herself as she dressed. As usual, she didn’t seem to have a care in the world. But then, her father-in-law wasn’t Iron Shirt.
“Sit on the edge of the travois and I’ll do your hair.” Star Name had finished and stood with her brush in her hand. She liked to play with Naduah’s waist-length golden mane, and brushed it for her often.
“All right. And I’ll paint your face for you.”
“Be sure you make the lines neat,” said Star Name.
“What makes you think I won’t?”
“Your hands are shaking.”
Naduah fumbled with her round silver mirror, the one Wanderer had given her the day he had brought one hundred horses to Sunrise.
She could hear her heart pounding in her chest, and rested her hand lightly there to still it. Then she walked over to help Wanderer finish braiding his hair and wrapping the braids with the otter fur that made him a swift runner.
“You’re even slower than I am, Husband. You’re not nervous, are you?”
“Of course not.”
But never had she seen him take such care with his appearance. For the wolf’s rings around his eyes he was using his best paint, pure graphite from the Chisos Mountains four hundred miles to the south, rather than charcoal. He painted the circles painstakingly, dipping his fingers into bear grease and then into the black powder. The eagle feathers that marked his most important coups were reinforced with thin wooden sticks and fastened to his scalplock. Under them hung a vertical row of five polished silver disks on a thong. He wore a necklace of claws taken from the bear he had killed when he was fifteen. They were strung on a strip of otter skin, with the otter’s bushy tail hanging down his back.
What pleased her most was the fringed hunting shirt she had made him that summer. It was well made, and she knew it. And she also knew that no other man would look as good in it. That made her hours of work worthwhile.
Finally he was ready, and he looked at her almost shyly for just a moment, as though asking for her approval. She smiled it. He was magnificent.
It was late afternoon when the canyon yawned suddenly in front of them. From a mile away she would never have guessed it was there. Wanderer halted at the edge of it to build a fire and lay on the green branches that would make the column of black smoke that said “Attention.” Behind them the plain lay as flat as the surface of a yellow pond. Six hundred feet below them was the bottom of Palo Duro canyon.
The canyon was a fairyland of twisting valleys, dark green cedars, and sand-blasted sculptures in shades of pink and red, beige and orange. Water and wind had eroded the sandstone into weird shapes and figures. Bluffs had been terraced until they looked like the flounces of a Spanish dancer’s skirts. The canyon was huge, one hundred and twenty miles long and twenty miles wide in places.
To the west, the sun was setting. Enormous piles of cottony cumulus clouds seemed to rest on an invisible shelf in a bright turquoise sky. The clouds were turning pink and gold on their undersides. The stripes deepened to lavender while Naduah watched, and then to a rich rose color, like the heart of a cactus flower. The reddish-purple spread upward until the whole mountain of cloud seemed to glow with it.
Patches of cloud tore off and floated free in the blue ocean around them. Shafts of golden sunlight poured in rivers and waterfalls through holes in the clouds. Outlined against the darkening sky, Naduah watched it in silence. She wanted to sit there on Wind forever. To halt time and keep the sunset from fading. She wanted to postpone the ride down the canyon’s face and into the strange camp.
Below, on the canyon floor, Naduah could make out miniature smoke-yellowed lodges spread among the trees. Hundreds of spirals of slate-blue smoke from the evening cooking fires curled upward and shredded in the eddies of wind frisking between the cliffs. Now and then she could hear the bark of a dog, or the bray of a disgruntled mule, the laughter of children and the voice of a mother calling her family to eat. The sounds drifted up lightly, as disembodied as the smoke. And with them Naduah’s worries seemed to lighten and dissipate.
I am Nerm. One of the People. Those camped below might be Quohadi, the fiercest of the nation’s bands, but they were the People. And she was one of them. Resolutely she followed Wanderer over the cliff’s edge and down the narrow path. The rest of the group came after them, with Lance bringing up the rear.
The trail was long and tortuous and the day was fading. But the full harvest moon rose early over the rim of the canyon wall, and flooded it with pearly light. From the village they could hear the sounds of singing and drums, signaling their arrival. As they rode among the first bright lodges, they were engulfed by a swirl of happy people. Naduah could hear Iron Shirt shouting in the distance before she ever saw him.
“Where is she? Where’s the woman who stole my son? The women of the Quohadi must not be good enough for him.”
She sat quietly on Wind, waiting for her father-in-law. She held her chin high and stared levelly ahead. If Wanderer was magnificent, Naduah was a good match for him. At seventeen she was as tall as she would ever be, taller than any of the other women. Her long blond hair, bleached almost platinum, hung in thick braids that reached her waist. They lay along the curve of her large, firm breasts, then swung freely. White-gold tendrils escaped from the braids and blew around her face. She was tanned to a brown the color of rich, golden honey. Her features were even, but her mouth was wide and full over a strong, stubborn chin.
At her waist the curve of her ribs flashed a paler color of honey with cream. Her long legs gripped Wind’s sides, and her hips rode lightly in the saddle. She had a body that demanded to be touched, to be stroked. But it was her eyes that always made people turn to look at her again. They were sapphire, with inner adamantine sparks.
“Where is she?” Iron Shirt called again. There was a shifting in the crowd, and an opening formed. Iron Shirt strode through it with the rolling gait somewhere between a yaw and a swagger that most of the older men had. He had spent most of his fifty years on horseback, and his legs had accommodated themselves to it. There were a few streaks of gray in his coal-black hair. A small, hard paunch was forming over his breechclout belt, as though he had swallowed an oak bole.
He was shorter than his only son, and broader across the chest and shoulders. But Wanderer was in his piercing black eyes, the straight nose, and the arched lips. He scowled ferociously as he paced around the pair of them, inspecting them from all angles. I’m used to this, thought Naduah. Maybe this is where Wanderer learned the habit. Wanderer’s leg brushed hers, as though by accident, before he swung down from Night. Naduah dismounted also. Iron Shirt stood in front of her, his hands balled into fists and digging into his hips.
“You’re the woman my son has been addled over for the past three year
s.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’m Naduah. And Wanderer isn’t addled.”
“Who killed the mountain lion?”
Naduah was startled. She’d forgotten the hide that still lay across Wind’s hindquarters. She glanced at Wanderer to see if he would answer. He stood silent, watching her and his father with the old amused look on his face.
“We did. Wanderer and I.”
The creases in the older man’s face aligned themselves into a smile.
“You did? You and Wanderer?”
Naduah translated the smile as disbelief. “I wouldn’t say I had if I hadn’t.”
The words sounded harsh to her own ears. Two minutes in camp and she was fighting with her father-in-law, a legendary chief. But Iron Shirt didn’t seem to mind. He grabbed her in a crushing bear hug, giving her a warrior’s embrace. With one arm around her shoulder, he beckoned everyone closer.
“This is my new daughter, Naduah,” he bellowed. “My son has chosen well.” He turned to grin at her. “He’s chosen very well indeed, Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer an older man?”
Nadua smiled back.
“I like the one I have.”
“Did you make his shirt?”
“Yes.” Naduah had the disorienting feeling that Iron Shirt was carrying on several trains of thought at the same time.
“Would you make one for me? None of my women can sew that well. But don’t tell them I said so.” He didn’t wait for her to answer. As they all walked toward the dancing area, he grabbed Wanderer’s upper arm and shook it, like a dog worrying a bone.
“No wonder you were restless and heading south at every excuse. I have a new wife too. She’s younger than yours. Introduce me to the rest of your group.”
Star Name caught up with Naduah as Iron Shirt was leading Wanderer off, already firing questions at him about the Penateka and the situation in the south.
“I hope you don’t get too bruised,” Star Name said in a low voice.
“What do you mean?”
“When they fight and you try to stop them.”
“Grown men don’t fight.”
“You’re right. Wanderer will probably just kill him.”
“I doubt it. But now I know why he left our packs near the edge of camp, away from his father’s lodges.”
“Would you care to bet that Wanderer suggests a long hunting trip very soon?”
“No bet, Star Name. He probably will. And I’ll be glad to go with him. I’m sorry our trip here has ended.”
“I know what you mean. It was fun, wasn’t it. Sister. But there’ll be many more.”
“Here come the women,” said Naduah. “They’ll probably want to know whether the Wasps put plums or persimmons or pecans in their pemmican.”
“Or whether we prefer the lazy stitch or the overlay stitch for beadwork. Or whether our women are sewing their blouses and skirts together in the new style.”
“And they’ll finger the seams on our clothes, and study our moccasins to see if they’re made well enough.”
“And of course they’ll want to touch your yellow hair. Sister.”
“I don’t mind, as long as they don’t try to take any away with them.”
The drums started, and the singers began to chant for the dance.
Naduah and Star Name joined the group of women coming toward them. They would go to Iron Shirt’s set of lodges for a feast, then join the welcoming celebration and dance the sun up.
CHAPTER 38
Naduah lay on her back, feeling the warmth of Wanderer’s long, lean body next to hers. The gold chain with the eagle coin on it trailed across his sleek chest. The sun had yet to heat up the east side of the lodge, but it was June and the day would be hot. The robe had slid down toward their feet and she had awakened with a start. Even after ten months living alone with Wanderer in the Quohadi band, she still felt self-conscious. She still thought, when on the borderline of sleep and consciousness, that her family was sharing the tent with them and would see her exposed.
She gently pulled the furry robe up to their waists and lay listening to Wanderer’s soft breathing. His head was turned toward her, and his face was totally at peace. He looked young and vulnerable. The beauty of him made her eyes fill. She blinked and stared at the blurred outlines of the lodge cover above her. The shapes of the hides were familiar patterns to her. As her tears dried, she studied the seams of Takes Down’s neat stitches. She sighed. It was evident which seams Takes Down had done and which ones she herself had sewn. She’d do better on the next one. Just for practice, she would offer to help anyone making a lodge cover. In the meantime, Takes Down’s seams were a comfort to Naduah, as individual as a signature.
Naduah listened to the birds whistling and squabbling in the cottonwoods and cedars outside. Now and then a blackbird would crash into the treetops with a sound like the tearing and crumpling of paper. From nearby came the morning song of the first riser. As she listened to Lance chant his thanks for the new day, Naduah felt as though it had officially begun.
She turned over, raised herself onto her elbows, and started to climb carefully over Wanderer. He always slept on the outer edge of the bed, ready to leap up and grab his lance or his cherished carbine. It leaned now against the pole by his head. He kept it oiled and polished, and wrapped in a leather case when traveling. The brass trigger guard and bands around the barrel gleamed, and the wooden stock was satiny with handling. Next to it lay the pouch with the balls, and the powder flask. He had taken the triangular bayonet that fit under the barrel and had ground it down into a large knife blade. The People’s style of warfare had little use for hand-to-hand combat.
Naduah thought she could slide over Wanderer without waking him. But as her full breasts brushed his chest, he reached sleepily for her. He hugged her voluptuous body to him, nuzzling her neck and nipples. She gently bit his shoulder, her long pale hair cascading around them both. Then she pushed herself back up onto her elbows.
“I’m going down to the river.”
“Mmmmmm.” He smiled without opening his eyes. Then he let her go, rolled over with a faint grunt, and went to sleep again. They had all been celebrating until just a few hours before. Buffalo Piss had arrived with a dozen people from the Penateka, and there had been the usual carrying-on. Tonight the men would probably sit long in council. Buffalo Piss obviously had something on his mind.
Naduah pulled her one-piece dress from the pole rack where it hung next to Wanderer’s everyday breechclout and leggings. She drew it over her head and shook out the fringe. She brushed her hair quickly, slipped on her old moccasins, and stepped out into the cool, fragrant morning. Next to the doorway Wanderer’s covered shield stood on its tripod, soaking up the power of the sun. And it seemed to her like a sentry guarding them from harm.
Wisps of ground fog still clung to the bushes low to the ground. The air was scented with cedar and flowers and smoke. Around her, the red walls of Palo Duro canyon rose in a protective embrace. Tall grass grew along the shallow river that meandered through the bottom of the canyon. The lodges were thinly sown among the trees along the river. She followed the well-worn path to the best bathing place. Dog came with her, wagging her tail and frisking clumsily, zigzagging from one side of the trail to the other.
Naduah was careful not to disturb Lance. He preferred to take his morning bath in solitude. He would stand silently with his arms upraised to the rising sun. Then he would solemnly wade into the water and splash it over himself.
The most astonishing thing about Lance was that he had found time from his religious preoccupations to marry. He hadn’t had many horses to pay for Tarkau Huhtsu, Snow Bird, but her father had agreed anyway. Everyone could see that Lance would be a powerful medicine man some day. Already people came to him to ask him to name their children, or give them amulets for hunting or war, or paint holy designs on their shields. And Snow Bird suited him. She was as quiet and shy as he was.
Naduah lay serenely in the water, naked in
the morning sunlight. Her hair floated out behind her, and she drowsed. Above her a fleet of fleecy white clouds sailed by, shifting and billowing. Graceful vultures soared lazily around the canyon’s lip. A few late bats flitted among the trees, like hallucinations seen from the corner of the eye. Soon they would disappear to dangle, little velvet sacks, in crevices in the canyon wall.
As she soaked, Naduah reached down and scooped up handfuls of sand from the bottom. She rubbed it over her body and felt the grains wash away and drift to the bottom again. She and Star Name, Deep Water, and Wanderer had returned from a hunting trip the day before, and she could still smell the lingering odor of the crushed mescal beans she had spread on herself. The powder kept the mosquitoes and buffalo gnats off her, but she didn’t like the fetid odor.
Then she heard the distant laughter of children coming to wash, and she knew it was time to leave. She waded out, swinging her arms in front of her through the water and watching the glittering silvery spray of water it made. She dressed and filled the water paunches she had brought. As she walked along the path through the bushes and grass and flowers, cooled by the shade of the cotton woods, she thought of the chores she had to do that day. Make breakfast, gather wood, see to the horses, pack the dried meat they had brought in yesterday, smoke the hides she had tanned, and gather herbs. Then there was the painted robe she was making for Wanderer and the shirt for his father, and the moccasins that always needed mending.
And there was the visiting and the gossiping. And dyes to boil. It was becoming harder and harder to slip away with Star Name for long, leisurely rides along the river or practice with their bows and arrows. And Wanderer had promised to teach her to shoot his carbine. But ammunition was scarce. There was little for practice. Naduah didn’t like the gun anyway. It was loud and it hurt her ears. It bruised her shoulder and exploding powder burned her face. But she stubbornly kept on trying.
Without thinking, she hummed Lance’s morning chant. The daily repetition of it and its simple monotony made it impossible to drive from her head at times. She stopped guiltily and looked around when she realized what she was doing. A person’s medicine songs were his own, and sacred. They could be given or sold, but never taken without asking.
Robson, Lucia St. Clair Page 46
