Feather in the Wind

by Madeline Baker

  “I guess we may as well start at this end,” Susannah suggested. Several dozen booths stretched ahead of them, displaying the same types of crafts and souvenirs she had seen at the last POW WOW.

  Tate Sapa nodded. It was exhilarating to be surrounded by Indians, to hear the sound of drums. Two men dressed in elaborate dance costumes walked by and he stared after them, astonished by the brilliant colors they wore, and by the sound of his native tongue.

  Following Susannah, he passed booths filled with Navajo baskets, another that held a variety of Hopi Kachina dolls, some no taller than the length of his finger, others several times larger. There were eagle dancers and clowns and mud men. One booth displayed several bows and quivers of arrows, another had a half-dozen war shields, ceremonial pipes and bear claw necklaces.

  He paused at a booth displaying a number of elaborately beaded vests, fringed leggings, belts and several pairs of moccasins. He lifted one, recognizing it as belonging to the Cheyenne. Another was of Crow design. They were all old, faded and worn.

  “Can I help you?”

  Tate Sapa looked at the man behind the counter, then glanced at Susannah.

  “We’re just looking,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “Those are genuine Crow moccasins, circa 1881. I can let you have ’em for, oh, a hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “They’re very nice,” Susannah replied with a polite smile, “but we’re just looking.”

  “Why would anyone want to buy old moccasins?” Tate Sapa asked as they turned away from the booth.

  “Some people collect that kind of thing.”

  Tate Sapa glanced down at his own well-worn moccasins and shook his head.

  Susannah grinned at him. “Native American stuff is very ‘in’ now. Very popular. Books, movies…” She shrugged. “Lots of people are becoming concerned with the condition of the earth and have begun to have an appreciation for the way the Indians took care of the land.”

  Tate Sapa grunted softly. Times had changed, indeed.

  They passed several booths. He paused occasionally, his gaze lingering over familiar objects—a tortoiseshell rattle, a flute carved from cedar wood, a bone-handled knife, a buckskin medicine bag, a willow backrest. One booth displayed a buffalo robe. A wave of homesickness rose within him as he ran his hand over the shaggy hide.

  Moving on, he saw other things that looked familiar yet different—dreamcatchers in brilliant shades of blue and red, orange and green, drums of all sizes, headdresses made of colorful feathers.

  “Well, I don’t see him anywhere,” Susannah said. “Maybe he’s not here. Do you want to go watch the dancing?”

  Tate Sapa nodded. Hand in hand, they turned away from the concession stands and made their way to the dance arena.

  Tate Sapa stared in wonder at the dancers. Costumes from many tribes were represented, but he could not recall ever having seen bustles, feathers and fans in such vibrant colors—brilliant reds and yellows, bright orange and green, vivid shades of blue, a clean pure white.

  The sound of the drum seemed to penetrate deep within him, echoing the beat of his homesick heart. He heard the sweet welcome sound of his native tongue as the singer began to sing, and for a moment, he was back in his own time.

  He watched the women dance, their movements delicate and understated, the fringe on their long shawls swaying with the rhythm of their steps. Later, the men entered the circle, the tempo of the dance steps increasing with the beat of the drum. He was tempted to shake Susannah’s hand from his arm and yield to the urge to join in the dancing, to feel the excitement flow through him as he executed the intricate steps of the dance, to feel the heartbeat of the earth beneath his moccasins.

  The drumming built to a crescendo, then ceased, and the dancers left the circle, going to join their friends and families.

  Tate Sapa glanced at the spectators, surprised to see so many whites and Indians intermingling, and then he remembered what Susannah had said about the wasichu and their interest in Native American crafts and customs, an interest that had come a hundred years too late to help his people, he thought ruefully.

  He was about to suggest they leave when his gaze settled on a man he recognized.

  “Is something wrong?” Susannah asked, frowning. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Tate Sapa shook his head. “How is this possible?”

  “How is what possible?”

  “He disappeared five winters ago. He went on a vision quest and never returned. We thought he had been killed.”

  Susannah followed Black Wind’s gaze, felt a cold chill slide down her spine when she saw the Indian who had given her the eagle feather. “You know him?”

  “He is Hehaka Luta, my father’s brother.”

  “That explains it then,” Susannah said. “I thought your father looked familiar when I met him. Now I know why. But how did he get here?”

  “I do not know. There were some among our people who said Wakán Tanka had carried him away. Perhaps he is indeed a ghost.”

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Susannah said pragmatically. “Come on.”

  Tate Sapa shook his head, his gaze fixed on the old man. Could this truly be Hehaka Luta’s ghost? But no, he was speaking to a young girl, nodding to someone passing by. Surely a ghost could not be seen, especially by the wasichu.

  “Are you coming?” Susannah asked, puzzled. He had been anxious to find the old man only minutes before. Why was he hesitating now?

  Slowly, Tate Sapa made his way toward the old man. “Hau, ate,” he murmured.

  “Hau, tunska,” the old man replied, an enormous smile spreading over his face as he clasped Tate Sapa’s forearm, then embraced him. “So, tunska,” the old man said jubilantly, “you are here at last.” He released Black Wind and took a step back, his gaze running over the younger man from head to foot. “I had almost given up hope.”

  “You have been waiting for me?”

  The old man nodded. He looked at Susannah, including her in his smile of welcome. “I knew the woman would bring you to me.”

  “Hello.” Susannah came to stand beside Black Wind. She smiled tremulously at the old man.

  “So, we meet again. Did you enjoy your visit to the past?”

  “How do you know about that?” Susannah exclaimed.

  “We must talk,” the old man said. “But not here. Come, tunska, I have a trailer where we can speak in private.”

  Tate Sapa’s mind was whirling as he followed Hehaka Luta across the fairgrounds to the parking lot and into a small trailer.

  “Sit down,” Hehaka Luta invited. “Are you hungry?”

  Tate Sapa shook his head. “No.” He sat down at the table, and Susannah sat down beside him.

  Hehaka Luta pulled three cans of root beer from the fridge, then sat down across from Susannah and Black Wind.

  “I have much to tell you,” Hehaka Luta said. He handed them each a can of soda.

  “We thought you were dead,” Tate Sapa remarked. He looked at the can, then set it aside.

  “I shall tell you my story, and then I will answer your questions. Shortly after the death of your mother and your sister, I went to the Pa Sapa to seek guidance. While I was there, Wakán Tanka spoke to me. He told me I must leave the People, that I would take a journey far into the future. He told me I was to prepare a place for the warrior who would follow me, a warrior who had been chosen to help our people, one who was brave and pure in heart, who would join me in the future. This man would learn the wasichu language so that he could record the history of our people while it was yet fresh within his mind. This man would go to the reservation and remind our young men what it meant to be a warrior. He would restore their pride in their heritage and teach them those things that have been lost.”

  Hehaka Luta paused, his dark eyes intent upon Black Wind’s face. “You are that one.”

  Tate Sapa shook his head. “Why me?”

  “You have always been a leader among our peop
le. I have learned much since I have been here. There is tension between our people—contemporary Indians against those who hold to traditional ways, full-bloods against mixed bloods. Thousands of our people live on reservations. More than half have no way to earn a living. They drink too much. Babies are born sickly. Many die. Only a few years ago, the white man’s law would not allow us to practice our religion. Our children were forbidden to speak Lakota.”

  “What can I do? I am only one man. I cannot right the wrongs that have been done.”

  “You are young and strong and proud. If your heart is good for our people, Wakán Tanka will show you what must be done.”

  Tate Sapa lifted a hand to the feather in his hair. “Was it my prayer feather that brought you here?”

  “Yes. Wakán Tanka told me I must take the feather from the burial ground. He told me that a woman would come seeking Wanbli’s feather. He said I would know her when I saw her. He told me that her love for you would bring you here, where you are needed.”

  Hehaka Luta smiled at Susannah. “You love my nephew, do you not?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  The old man looked at Tate Sapa. “And you love her?”

  Tate Sapa nodded.

  Hehaka Luta nodded, and then frowned. “But you are not happy here. You wish to go back.”

  “I have thought of it.” At his words, he felt Susannah go suddenly still. He had never told her of the night in the park, when he had held the prayer feather in his hand, felt the power warm to his touch.

  Hehaka Luta glanced at the eagle feather in Tate Sapa’s hair. “You have the power to return to your own time,” he said quietly. “But I warn you, tunska, should you choose to go back, you will not be able to return to this place.”

  “I understand, uncle.”

  “I know what you are thinking, what you are feeling.” Hehaka Luta took a drink of his soda, then smacked his lips. “Waste,” he remarked, grinning. “This is a strange place, nephew. Right now you think you will never belong here. But I tell you from my heart that you are needed here, that you can be happy here if you will let go of the past and learn to live in the white man’s world.”

  “I will never be a white man. I am Lakota.”

  Hehaka Luta nodded. “That is why you are needed in this place. Your heart and soul are Lakota. You must help our people understand that they can live in the wasichu world without sacrificing their pride in their heritage. You must help our young men and women find their way back to the true path, the life path. Many have strayed from it.”

  “I will think on it, uncle.”

  “I have a small ranch on the outskirts of Pine Ridge. It is in your name. Should you decide to stay, it is yours.” The old man sighed. “I have done what Wakán Tanka asked of me, nephew. The rest is up to you. I know you will make the right decision, tunska. Our people have always depended on your loyalty and your wisdom. I know you will not fail them now.”

  Hehaka Luta stood up. “I must get back to my booth.”

  Tate Sapa stood up and embraced his uncle. “Toksha ake wacinyuanktin ktelo, ate.”

  The old man smiled. “And I will see you again.” He winked at Susannah. “Both of you.”

  Tate Sapa stared after the old man. For five winters, they had thought Hehaka Luta dead and all the time he had been here, waiting.

  With a sigh, he faced Susannah. “Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “I wish to leave.”

  He was silent on the drive home, his thoughts turned inward.

  Susannah kept silent as well, knowing that this was a decision he had to make for himself. The thought that he might leave her, that he might return to his own time, left her feeling cold and hollow inside.

  She parked the car and started for the front door, stopping when she realized Black Wind wasn’t following her. “Are you coming?” she asked.

  “I am going for a walk.”

  She waited, hoping he would ask her to go with him. When he didn’t, she opened the door and went into the house. Kicking off her shoes, she went into her office and switched on her computer. One of the things she loved about writing was being able to lose herself in another world. Times when she was unhappy or blue, she could escape into her make-believe world where happiness was guaranteed and, sooner or later, there would be a happy ending.

  But for once, the magic was gone. All she could think about was Black Wind. She knew he was considering what the old man had said, that he was deciding whether to stay in the present or return to the past. Had he been at home, in his own time, he would have gone up into the Black Hills to ask Wakán Tanka for guidance. Where would he go now?

  Switching off the computer, she went into the bedroom and stretched out on the bed. Feeling empty and alone, she stared up at the ceiling. If he wanted to go back, she wouldn’t try to stop him. As much as she needed him, as much as she would miss him, she wanted his happiness more than her own, and he if could not be happy here, then she would let him go…

  She couldn’t stifle the sob that rose in her throat as she thought of what it would be like to live without him. Though he had been there but a short time, he was already woven into the fabric of her life. She fell asleep in his arms every night, woke to his kisses in the morning. His clothes hung beside hers in the closet, his toothbrush rested beside hers in the medicine cabinet. When she was working, she was ever aware of his presence in the other room. More than once, a quick lunch break had turned into an hour spent in his arms.

  She felt her tears flow harder, faster. She liked having him there, liked cooking for him, caring for him. Sometimes, at night, they sat side by side on the sofa and he listened to what she had written during the day. Occasionally, he made suggestions or corrected a misconception about Lakota customs or traditions. How could she let him go, knowing she would never see him again?

  “Su-san-nah, why do you weep?”

  Looking up, she saw Black Wind standing in the doorway. Her gaze moved over him lovingly, admiring the smooth copper color of his skin, the ebony fall of his hair, the width of his shoulders, his long, long legs. How could she face the future without him?

  “I’m not crying.” She sniffed, blinking back her tears. “I thought you were going for a walk.”

  Tate Sapa sat down on the edge of the bed and touched his forefinger to the tear slipping down her cheek. “Are these tears of joy then?”

  Susannah shook her head. “You’re going to go back, aren’t you?” She sat up, drying her eyes with a corner of the bedspread. “Aren’t you?”

  He shook his head, his long black hair moving like a dark cloud about his shoulders. And then he blew out a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his being. “No.”

  “No?” Exhilaration spread through her like summer sunlight, chasing away the shadows of despair, filling her with warmth. “What changed your mind?”

  “You.” With infinite tenderness, he cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs caressing her cheeks. “I started to go for a walk, Su-san-nah, but I missed you at my side and when I turned back, I saw your house, with the light shining through the windows, and I knew that my future was here, with you. I could not live without my heart, Su-san-nah. I could not live without my soul. Both belong to you.”

  She couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat, knew that never before had she loved him so much.

  He smiled faintly as he lowered one hand and placed it over the gentle swell of her belly. “Our child will need a father. I will stay here and teach him what it means to be a warrior. With your help, I will learn to read and write and I will do as Hehaka Luta said. I will record the history of the Lakota nation as I know it. I must go to the reservation and try to help my people, as my uncle said. Perhaps he will come with me.” He gathered Susannah into his arms. “With us.”

  He gazed into Susannah’s eyes, thinking how beautiful she was, how very much he loved her, needed her.

  “Will you come with me, Su-san-nah?” he asked quietly. “Will you teach me the things I mu
st learn to help my people?”

  “You know I will,” she replied fervently. “I’ll go anywhere you want to go, teach you anything I can.” She smiled up at him. “And what I don’t know, I’ll find out.”

  “When I saw you in my vision, I knew you would change my life,” he said, his heart swelling with tenderness. “Truly, Wakán Tanka has blessed me.”

  “And me. Do you know how much I love you?”

  “Perhaps you should show me.”

  “I will,” she promised. “Every day of our lives together.”

  “Starting today?”

  “Starting right now,” she murmured, and lifted her face for his kiss, and in that kiss was the promise of a lifetime.

  Epilogue

  South Dakota

  Five years later

  Susannah sat in the shade on the front porch, her six-month-old daughter, Carrie Lynn, sleeping peacefully in her arms. She was an adorable child, with a wealth of curly black hair, dark brown eyes and a dimple in her chin.

  Rocking gently, Susannah sighed with soul-deep contentment. It was a beautiful day in early spring and life had never been better. Her children were happy and healthy, the ranch was prospering, and she had just signed a new four-book contract with her publisher that included a sizeable advance.

  A noise in the yard drew her attention. She smiled as her gaze met Black Wind’s. She had never gotten used to calling him Daniel; to her, he would always be Black Wind. Dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans, a black t-shirt, scuffed black boots and a black Stetson, he looked devilishly handsome.

  He stood in the midst of at least a dozen boys ranging in age from four to ten, teaching them how to fletch an arrow. Her oldest son, Daniel, stood beside his father. He wore jeans and a t-shirt and a Stetson hat, just like his daddy’s. There was a look of pride on his handsome young face as he listened to every word his father said. Her two-year-old son, Jason, was perched on Hehaka Luta’s shoulders, his chin resting on the older man’s head. Both boys had their father’s straight black hair, dark eyes and copper-hued skin.