by Jenna Kernan
“How long after the blow to your head did you fall?” she asked. She looked up from her plants and caught him staring at her backside. She tugged down the bottom of her dress and lifted her eyebrows at him.
He cleared his throat. “One moon. We fought the gray coats in the Fast Water Moon and afterward I was brought home to my mother’s care. I do not recall very much of the Digging Moon. My mind was bad during this time, but I did not shake.”
“Or fall?”
“I could barely stand. But, no, I did not fall until we met in the Many Flowers Moon.” This time his words held no condemnation. How strange. When exactly had she turned from enemy to ally? “After the injury, I rarely stood upright. I was too dizzy and my head ached all the time. They carried me home. But now it has been four moons. People are asking when I will ride again.”
She waved a hand, dismissing this, for now. He frowned. A woman knew that a man’s best weapon was his horse. He needed to ride in order to hunt and war and feel alive. Without his horses, he was dying inside, like a plant cut from its roots.
“The injury caused the dizziness. But did it also cause the falls? That is what we must see.”
He nodded.
“Your skull was broken. Four moons is not so long for such an injury to heal.”
“Yes, that is what our shaman, Thunder Horse, said to me. He came to me often and sang over me. I do not think he believed I would live.”
She returned to her potions muttering something about nothing for the swelling, nothing for the pain.
“One moon passed before I left my sleeping robe. During the Digging Moon I left my mother’s lodge but, still, when I walked, the earth seemed to heave beneath my feet. I began to hunt on horseback with Frost beside me during the Many Flowers Moon.” At the sound of his name, Frost lifted his head and thumped his tail. Storm stroked his furry coat and the dog closed his eyes to savor the moment. “My vision was bad and the sunlight bothered me.”
“Headaches,” she asked, guessing correctly.
“Yes. It was late in the Many Flowers Moon when I met you and had my first fall. I woke feeling sore and sick to my stomach. But I managed to get home. I told my shaman only that my stomach was still bad and he said it was too soon to ride.”
“I agree.”
“So I walked. But by the Little Rain Moon, my vision still moved like water in a river and my dreams were strange. That is when I feared you had cursed me. So I took part in the sun dance.”
“That was not wise,” she said, her voice low.
“I did not know what else to do.”
“Stay in your buffalo robes and heal.”
He made a face and she returned to her brewing.
“And the third time you fell?”
He scrubbed his fist over his mouth then told her what he recalled. “My first hunt after my injury, last moon. We stopped to fish on a lake and I managed to get away from the others before I fell.”
“The same moon as the sun dance?”
“No. Not the Little Rain Moon. It was the time of the Ripening Moon.”
She made a face. “So you fell during the dance and then decided to go hunting?”
She made him sound like a fool.
He did not succeed in keeping all of the irritation from his voice. “Do you want to hear?”
She motioned for him to continue.
“I was walking beside the river and the sun was low. I remember noticing the way the water flashed with all the colors of the setting sun. It was beautiful so I stopped to watch it. Then Frost started barking and I tried to get him to stop, but I could not speak. I had time to drop to my knees. The next thing I knew the stars were up and I was laying facedown and bleeding on the riverbank with my arm in the water.”
Skylark felt the stab of fear behind her breastbone, the kind she felt when she had accidentally cut herself but before she began to bleed, for she realized that on that fall he might have rolled into the river and drowned.
“What of your friends?”
“They found me. Laughing Jay and Two Hawks. I told them I fell.”
“Did they believe you?”
He rubbed the back of his head. “I do not think so. But they did not speak of it when we returned to camp.”
Likely because they knew how dangerous it would be for others to know of his weakness.
“They are good friends to you.”
He nodded. “But I think they might have heard the owls, because they will not hunt with me now. That is why I go alone.”
She decided that he could not be alone again until they learned what caused his falling and restored him to health.
She had been trying to heal her mother but she continued to waste away and in the end all Sky could do was ease her pain. Was Night Storm just another incurable in a different body? Could she cure him or was she just fooling them both?
Chapter Six
As the talk between them died away along with the rosy skies to the west, Skylark settled in her borrowed buffalo robe, folding it in half to act as bedding and cover. The sounds of the frogs by the lake and the flapping of the leathery wings of the bats filled the silence that yawned between them. She bade him sleep well and closed her eyes, but sleep was a long time coming. At least she did not hear owls.
To occupy her mind, she thought of all he had told her. Just two moons after cracking his skull he had tried to go hunting and met her. This was his first fall. One moon later he had taken part in the sun dance and fallen. Then last moon he went hunting again and again had fallen. The folly and bravery of that filled her with awe. But the battle seemed to have started his sickness. Was it his battle injury or the enemy’s ghost that provoked his trouble? Sioux warriors were dangerous even in death, but it appeared a good death to Skylark. And he said all bodies were retrieved by the Sioux and the Crow.
Because of the injury, Night Storm had fallen before taking the scalp of the Lakota warrior. That meant the soul of his enemy might be trapped, unable to leave through the hole in his head. Could it have entered Storm through the crack in his? Such an enemy would have to be strong, because attacking a man during the sacred sun dance would require much power.
She shivered at thoughts of the strength of such a foe and tugged the heavy buffalo robe closer under her chin.
And what of the owls? She listened and thought the whistling was merely the wind.
Skylark dozed, dreaming of ghosts and owls and the shrill sound of the eagle whistle the warriors blew during the sun dance. She felt the vibration of the drums and pounding feet of the women as they chanted and danced in a slow circle about the suffering men.
She woke in a stupor, dreaming that her father was here, perched in the trees beside a snowy white owl. Skylark clutched her chest as she bolted upright. What a terrible omen. Was her father in danger?
She looked about, searching for Falling Otter, but then she recalled Night Storm and the obligation that came with saving a life. She drew her knees up to her chest. For a moment she thought she could still hear her father’s laughter. She listened but heard only a small creature, skunk or raccoon, scurrying in the tall grass and the rising wind whistling through the treetops. Sky nestled back to the earth, curling on her side and longed for morning.
She woke again to the sound of distant thunder. Soon the flash of lightning revealed the dark clouds sweeping in from the west. She drew the thick hide up to her ears, glad that Night Storm had put them on high, open ground, well away from the tall trees that drew the lightning.
Thunderbirds, she knew, flew in the storm clouds, sending the lightning crashing to earth each time they opened their great yellow eyes. And there, trailing behind them came the Thunderhorse, his mighty hooves shaking the earth as he passed. The air smelled cool and sweet as it did before a rain.
Wit
h the next flash she saw Night Storm sitting up, eyes toward the sky, with his dog, Frost, huddling close to his master. They watched the flashing of the Thunderbird’s eyes as the storm came quickly now. She heard the whine of the wind and then realized it was not the wind but his dog. She smiled. Many dogs cried out during storms. But Frost no longer huddled beside his master. Now he barked wildly, dancing before Night Storm, who pushed him away. The dog tried to get Night Storm’s arm over his head, but it dropped loosely to his master’s side. Skylark’s smile fell away as the icy finger of unease prickled over her. In the flashing light she saw Night Storm’s gaze fixed to the sky as Frost began to howl. She had heard that sound once before. Now she remembered when and where. Frost had done exactly the same thing the day she had met Night Storm. The day he had fallen.
She clamped her hands over her ears against the frantic howl followed by the crash of thunder. Frost rushed to her, barking and dancing, from side to side.
“Night Storm,” she called, but received no answer.
She was on her feet as the first stinging droplets of rain struck her face. When she reached him, it was to find him already in a stupor. His expression was blank, his face slack, and his right hand shook. She put a hand on his shoulder.
“Storm!”
His shoulder yielded, but he gave no indication that he could hear her. But then she recalled him saying that sometimes he could hear. That meant she could not cry in hysterics.
“I will help you. I will keep you safe. Do not worry. I am here with you.”
Again the lightning forked across the sky, striking something close. The boom made her jump. The trees now swayed with the power of Tate, the wind, and the rain came in sheets so hard and fast that it was difficult to breathe. Storm’s body swayed like the treetops and then fell. He fell back in a contraction she remembered, his body arching like a strung bow. She stroked his forehead and used her body to keep the rain from his face. His expression was a mask of horror, like one of the newly dead. Was he there in the spirit world right now? His body remained taut as the thunder crashed and boomed all about them, and Frost whined at her side, his thin, wet tail thumping the earth with a hopeful optimism that made her throat catch.
“He will be all right, boy,” she said, and gave the dog a quick pat.
As if her words had triggered some change, his body began to jerk. His arm flailed and he caught her across the cheek with the back of his hand. This sent her to her seat. Frost was barking again and she told him to be quiet, then was surprised when he did as she commanded. The rain drenched them all. She tried to hold Storm, but even when she threw herself across his body, he tossed her aside as easily as he might cast off his fine wool blanket.
Finally she folded the sodden blanket beneath his head as a pad and sat back to wait. The storm raged all about them, and inside Night Storm an internal wind blew. Blood and foam came from his mouth. She rolled him to his side, but he could not stay in that position. As the storm swept out over the lake and receded over the mountain, his jerking motions quieted and he finally went still.
Instantly she went to his side, rolling him so the blood and saliva drained away. Checking to see that he could breathe, she pressed an ear to his wide back and listened. Over the drum of rain she could hear the draw of wind and the beat of his heart. She sat back on her heels and blew out a breath. Her shoulders slumped and her head bowed.
The rain continued to fall, but this was no longer the punishing torrent. Now the rain came in a soft, steady stream. Frost nudged her with his head and then licked her face. Skylark shivered and hugged the wet dog.
She lifted a brow as a memory struck her. The day she had first seen Night Storm, hunting her in the dappled sunlight, Frost had given away their position. He had barked and she had heard him. It had spoiled Storm’s easy capture, for she had run and he had chased. Frost had barked then and howled. Storm had told him to be quiet but his dog had not obeyed. He had howled as Storm fell.
Sky’s spine stiffened and she realized that Frost had not been crying because of the lightning.
“You knew, didn’t you?” she whispered, looking down into the soulful eyes of his dog. “You knew first.”
Frost left her and approached his master, licking his unresponsive face and then curling up close to his back as if to keep him from rolling.
She recalled that on their second meeting, Storm had been staring at the trees with unfocused eyes and how his dog had poked him with his nose, drawing him back. Had he been nearing a fall then, too? How did his dog know?
Skylark looked to the gutted fire and the wet lump of blanket. Then she glanced to the buffalo robe. Only that would repel rain. She used a bit of wet buckskin to clean the mud from Storm’s body and the blood from his face. Before she finished he was blinking his eyes blearily and trying to move. With his help, she got him up and to the folded buffalo robe. She tucked him in tight and then wrapped herself in the muddy blanket, shivering hard now.
His words were a whisper. “Sky?” He lifted the edge of the robe in an invitation. The strain of the simple action seemed to take all the energy he possessed.
She dropped the blanket and went to him, tucking her body between him and the back of the large buffalo robe. He wrapped one arm across her middle. This was better, she thought. She could listen to his breathing, feel any changes. She lifted the robe’s edge once more and called to Frost who settled before her.
The hide had once covered a bull that stood twenty hands high at the shoulder. Even folded in two, there was plenty of room for a man, a woman and a dog.
Skylark stopped shivering. Night Storm’s breathing grew soft and even. Frost lowered his head to his paws and Skylark knew from the dog’s calm that for this night, at least, everything would be all right.
That was when she heard the laughter again. Frost lifted his head, telling her that the sound was not a dream or her imagining. She rose up on her elbow and searched the open ground for Falling Otter.
“Father? Are you there?” she called.
She listened and heard no reply. It was raining. A time to take cover. So, of course, her father was out in the storm. But he was far from camp.
Should she search the dark for her father or stay with the man she had promised to protect?
Night Storm’s arm contracted as he dragged her closer to the warmth and security of his body. But it was a long time before Skylark closed her eyes.
“Father?” she called. “If you can hear me. I have food in my bag. There are roasted tubers, pemmican and prickly cactus.”
The laughter stopped. Soon she saw the shadow moving through the tall grass beside their camp and with his passing came the sound of weeping.
Her father was happy.
Chapter Seven
Night Storm woke first to find the sun shining low through the trees and the grass of the meadow glistening with droplets of rain. Had it rained? He didn’t remember. His head ached and his body was so stiff. He shifted and felt something soft and warm.
He looked at the dark head of the woman sleeping tucked up beside him. Skylark?
When had she joined him in his bed? He glanced at the woolly fur of the buffalo robe and frowned. He had chosen the red woolen blanket. Skylark had picked the buffalo robe. So he had joined her in her bed? That he surely should be able to remember.
What was happening? But then he knew. It was the only reason he could conceive that would make his head ache so and explain the gaps in his memory. What did he remember? They’d shared a meal.
He had slept. Night Storm groped back through the mist and recalled a storm. At the first sound of thunder he had come awake. Then he watched the lightning from far away. His dog had been whining, upset by the impending storm. Then more streaks of light, closer and closer. The flash of lightning, flashing and flashing, first in the sky and then in his mind.
There had been so little warning. Would he have gotten away from the others in his tribe before it took him? He did not think so. This time again, he had been trapped by the flashing lightning as surely as a fly is trapped by a spider’s web. And just like the fly, he could not move or cry out. He could do nothing but wait for the darkness that swallowed him up.
He had hoped he could master this weakness alone. He had prayed that killing the witch that had cursed him would set him free. But there was no witch, no curse. Only his dented skull and the sickness that made him fall and the ghosts that followed him. If not for Skylark he would have already died in his own blood and vomit.
He tightened his grip on Skylark, afraid that even she could not save him.
“Night Storm?”
Her voice was soft, just a whisper, yet it pierced right through him. He tensed.
“You are awake?” She spoke in a whisper.
“Yes.”
“That is good.” She rolled toward him, her cheek cushioned in the crook of her palm. They lay side by side, nose to nose. Her braided hair was mussed and she blinked at him with sleepy, alluring eyes.
Night Storm had lain with several willing women. Widows or women who did not wish a full-time man, ones who traded their attentions for whatever they lacked. But he had never slept with a maiden and he was certain Skylark was a maiden. He also had never woken beside a woman but now found his chest aching with the longing to do so again. One night more and then she would be gone. She was soft and warm and drowsy. The rising sun cast her face in golden morning light, and he thought she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The need to make her his warred with the sure knowledge that she would never willingly choose a man who was unable to provide for her. Beautiful Meadow certainly would not. He knew that. No woman would. And he could not ask.
