by Jenna Kernan
He must be mad to covet an owl feather and the daughter of a heyoka.
They rode the next day through Crow territory and stopped in the afternoon, resting and then changing into their finest war shirts for their triumphant return to their village. Frost found him there and trotted beside his horse as they returned home, his pink tongue lolling.
Storm continued on with the others, looking for Sky. But she was not among the faces that shouted and cheered a greeting.
When he reached his family, it was to find his sisters, mother and father waiting with grim faces. Beside his mother stood Beautiful Meadow—the only one smiling. His head swiveled and he searched for the one face he longed for. But did not find her.
He swept down to meet his family. His little sister took charge of his three new horses. Frost trotted from his side to greet his sister and then his mother and father, who did not seem to notice him. But Storm did. Frost’s ease meant he was in no danger of falling. Instead, he faced a different kind of danger.
Beautiful Meadow stepped out to greet him. Something about the triumph of her smile washed him cold. He pushed her away when she threw herself into his arms.
“Where is Skylark?”
Her pretty smile widened. “Gone.”
“What!” Cold fear squeezed his heart and his mouth went dry. He could barely speak. “Where?”
“Thunder Horse said that her healing was owl medicine. He drove her out. Do not worry, Night Storm. Before going, she has set out all your things outside your lodge. So she is no longer your concern.”
He knew by the nausea he felt at her announcement that Skylark would always be his concern, whether she chose to be his wife or not. Storm set Beautiful Meadow aside and went to his parents.
“Where has she gone?”
“Back to the Low River people,” said Red Corn Woman.
He turned to his father, whom he had asked to look after Skylark.
“Who accompanied her?”
“Her father. But she went on foot for she would not take any of your horses.”
On foot with a heyoka as a guard? Storm thrust his hands in his hair and tugged to keep from screaming.
“I asked you to watch over her.”
His father lowered his voice. “She uses owl magic. I hear them in the night. Thunder Horse said she is calling you to your death. Let her go, my son.”
Was his father afraid to face Thunder Horse or to risk his position for a girl who could heal and a heyoka who gave his son the feather of an owl? He did not know, but for the first time, he saw fear in his father’s eyes. Fear for his son, Storm realized, and an enemy he could not fight.
“The owls are here for me, Father. Not her.”
Red Corn Woman grasped his arm. “Let her go, son. She is no longer your wife.” His mother motioned to Beautiful Meadow. “This one is waiting to be your bride.”
Storm tugged free of his mother’s grip and his father’s beseeching stare. They didn’t know what had happened to him and still wanted him to walk the warrior’s way. But he could not.
A tingle of dread rippled through him. A woman alone, making such a long journey, was madness.
“When did she go?”
“Two nights have passed.”
Night Storm swept back up into his saddle, and Frost raced along beside him as he headed toward the herd. There he collected Battle, tying Gallop behind. Perhaps Sky had come into his life, not to curse him or to cure him, but to guide him to a new way to walk the Red Road.
And perhaps she would never again be his.
But he had promised to protect her until the gathering and that was what he would do.
Once he found her.
Chapter Twenty
Sky continued along the river in the golden sunlight of the cool afternoon. Her father’s meandering pace slowed her and if she did not know better, she would have suspected he did so on purpose. She disliked being out in the open, exposed. But she did not know how else to find her people, other than to follow the river. Despite her father’s dancing and crying and swimming in the dirt, they were finally close to the camp her aunt had told her they had left. She knew this place along the river and felt the reassurance of familiar ground.
She wondered if Night Storm had been successful in saving the lives of his friends and if he would be relieved or angry to find her gone. She had promised to stay until the gathering but had been forced out before the wind had even begun to eat away the War Moon.
Now she would return to her path. Not the direction of her choosing but the one she must walk. There were others who had worse situations, husbands dead in battle or from disease. Children lost. But these women had husbands and children. Her hand went to her middle and then she forced it away, afraid to even hope that she carried his child with her. Her father lifted his head from the tall grass by the river and then gave a warning cry of a frightened deer before disappearing again.
Had she been her father’s greatest trick?
It was not just her father who lived the opposite. Her mother had behaved like a contrarian, refusing to take up the responsibilities of other women. She had rejected offers to wed and did not gather food but relied on making what she loved, to see to their needs. And, oh, her quillwork had been a marvel.
Sky’s tread was heavy as she continued on until she found her village spread out on both sides of the wide stretch of water.
She was home at last. She could see her life stretch before her like the river and it was just as cold and solitary.
She glanced back to find her father had vanished into the grass. But her eye caught movement. At first she thought it might be Night Storm and her heart raced with joy. A moment later she realized the warriors bearing down upon her were not Crow warriors, but Sioux.
She turned back toward her village. The distance seemed impossibly far. But still she gave the warning cry. Off on the distant bank, the boys guarding the ponies began to move. The women at the river straightened and then ran. Help was coming. She saw it. Then she turned toward the warriors and knew in her heart that help would arrive too late.
* * *
Night Storm heard Sky sound the alarm, a high trilling call that traveled well across the distance. He had no doubt that the Sioux would reach her before her warriors. She had done the right thing and likely prevented her capture because a woman, even a small one like Skylark, would slow their retreat. And the men must retreat, for they would be badly outnumbered in a very short time. So the men had two choices. Withdraw or kill the enemy woman and then flee.
Sky turned to face the men, drawing her skinning knife. His little healer was preparing to fight and to die. He thought he would never forget the defiance in her stance as she drew her shoulders back and stood tall.
He pressed his heels into his horse’s sides and the horse exploded into a smooth fast gait. He did not give his war cry yet. He needed to be closer to keep the element of surprise. Three to one, but he had the advantage because he had Sky to protect. Nothing would stop him from reaching her.
The warriors were upon her. His horse was fast, but not fast enough to be there first. Night Storm gripped his bow and notched an arrow, feeling the smooth gait of his charging horse and sighting his target. He aimed for the heart of the warrior last in line and released the arrow that flew straight. The Sioux warrior arched and cried out, toppling from his mount. His fellows turned to witness the fall and then glanced back, seeing Storm riding on their heels.
The lead man lowered his lance at Skylark, who turned to run. Then out of the grass leaped her father, Falling Otter. Was he brandishing a dead rabbit? Night Storm could not think of a more useless weapon, which was the point, he supposed. The warrior turned his lance toward the new target and Falling Otter threw his rabbit. The rabbit struck the warrior in the face and the lance dipped, so
instead of hitting Falling Otter in the center of his chest it sliced into his shoulder and stuck forcing the warrior to release his weapon. His fellow was now firing an arrow back at Night Storm, who had already taken a position on the side of his galloping mount.
Falling Otter fell laughing to the ground as Night Storm reached the archer and drew his war club, swinging it high. The warrior lifted his rawhide shield as they passed, but Storm succeeded in contacting him in the center of his back, unseating him. His opponent rolled along the grass and then to his feet, but without his horse or bow he was no threat. The last man chose to retrieve his fallen comrade rather than finish Sky or her father. Then the two remaining Sioux raced past him. Storm recovered his bow and planted one arrow into the second rider’s back before the two charged over the rise and out of sight.
“Come!” Storm shouted. “There are more of them.”
He reached and captured her, pulling her up behind him. From the ground, they located her father, who shouted, “Stay. Stay. Stay all day!”
“He wants us to go,” she said.
Storm looked back and found the warrior he had engaged now returning with many more.
He pressed his heels into Gallop’s sides and dashed for safety, passing the warriors of the Low River people. Beside him the river sparkled and danced in the bright sunlight and his mouth filled with the taste of blood. He knew what was coming and he did not stop. Did not close his eyes because he had to get Skylark to safety.
“Sky,” he said, his words thick and awkward on his tongue.
She pressed tight to his back. “Yes? I am here.”
“I do not want...” He tried again. “I still wish you to be my wife.”
“What?”
“My wife. You. Only you.”
The ringing was so loud now that he could not hear his words. Had he even spoken? His body began to tremble. He could see men ahead of him. The mounted warriors, preparing to fight should their vanguard fail. The women waited for orders to flee. The lead warrior rode a warhorse that was as white as the fur of a fox in winter. He knew this warrior, for a female warrior was a rare thing. It was the sister of the chief of the Low River tribe, Snow Raven. Beside her on a red roan galloped her husband, the mighty warrior, Iron Wolf.
Night Storm’s vision narrowed as if he rode through a day that was morning and night together. He urged his horse on, but his legs had grown slack. Behind him, Skylark gave a yelp and wrapped her arms about him, clutching the saddle horn before him.
“Sky,” he said, but his words were a gurgle. He had saved her. She was safe. Night Storm let go and allowed the moth madness to consume him.
* * *
Sky gripped Storm even tighter as he went stiff in her arms and then slumped forward. She knew what came next but still she held on. If she let go he would fall and his horse would continue on, without him. She knew his skull was still healing. She knew a fall could kill him and she knew that if she succeeded in reaching the village she could find help. That also meant that the people of her tribe would see his weakness. He would not thank her if she let the men of her village see him twitch and shake.
She clung tighter and steered his horse with her legs, pressing with the heel closest to the river as her uncle had taught her, sending the horse back in the direction of help. Her uncle, Wood Duck, reached her first and dragged Night Storm toward him, but still she clung.
“Let him go, niece.”
She did. But she knew what would happen. Night Storm’s mouth began to foam and his body began a wild jerking. Her uncle just managed to bring Night Storm to the ground before he stepped away in horror.
“What is this?” he asked. “Is he injured?”
Bright Arrow, the chief of the Low River tribe, remained on his horse as the warriors who had remained behind circled the downed man. Night Storm’s attack went on and on. Skylark tried to go to him, but her shaman, Spirit Bear, ordered her back.
Her stomach tied itself in tight, painful knots as her gaze swept from Night Storm to the men watching with a mixture of horror and disgust.
“He has moth madness,” said Little Badger.
“He will swallow his tongue and die,” said Laughing Crow.
“Niece,” called Wood Duck, but she did not heed him as she dropped to her knees beside Night Storm. His madness passed and he went still. His face turned purple and Sky pushed until he rolled to his side, his head lolling and his eyes fluttering.
“That one is dead,” said Little Badger.
“Or soon will be,” said Laughing Crow.
Off in the distance came the shouts of the warriors as they engaged the enemy. From the opposite direction came the answering cry of the women, still safe behind the line of men guarding the camp. Sky knew that the Sioux were crafty and might send a party to a camp and lead away the best warriors only to attack from another direction with a larger force. But if she knew this, her chief also knew it. So he had kept most of his men back and close to camp. This only gave a larger gathering to see the worst falling spell of them all.
Even on his side, he did not breathe. So she pried open his mouth, releasing the blood and saliva that blocked the sacred wind of Tate from flowing in and out of his body.
As his breathing returned to normal and the purple color left the skin of his face and neck, Skylark sat back on her heels and let her shoulders sag. He had survived again.
When she lifted her head to meet the stares of the onlookers, it was to feel their shock and unrest. Did they find his fall disquieting? A reminder of their own vulnerabilities? Or was it that she had pried open his mouth and snatched him again from death. She felt them measuring her and found herself lacking.
She threw herself over Storm’s body, wrapping him tightly in her arms and weeping. From somewhere behind them came the sound of a warrior singing his death song, mixed with short intervals of the women’s harvest song. She lifted her head, recognizing her father’s voice. He sang a death song, so he thought he might live.
“Falling Otter,” she said. “He was wounded trying to save me.”
Hunting Wolf, a member of the council of elders, ordered Little Badger to retrieve Falling Otter from the field. Then he called for a travois to bring the fallen man to their camp.
“I would have Spirit Bear attend this one,” said Hunting Wolf as he motioned to Night Storm. “Perhaps he can do something or sing him to the other world.”
Spirit Bear was the shaman of the Low River people. She was honored and terrified that the elder tribal council member had asked for the help of one so holy. Perhaps Hunting Wolf believed that Night Storm needed to be helped to cross the spirit road.
That only made Skylark grip Storm more tightly. She would not let them sing a death song.
The first travois passed them on the way to collect her father. Before long a second arrived. Sky was happy that Storm was still unaware as they placed him on the travois and carried him behind a horse through the village.
She walked beside him, her head up and her hand upon his chest as it gently rose and fell. There would be no more hiding now. All would know. Certainly his tribe would strip him of his position, as they had done to Winter Bear. But would they also cast him out? Storm’s moth madness would give Thunder Horse the weapon he needed to attack Storm. She feared for him now more than ever before.
If they banished him, could he survive? Few ever had, because the task of hunting and gathering wood in the harsh cold moons was too much for just one person. But what if he brought a woman, a certain kind of woman who knew how to gather roots and berries and make medicines?
A man like that might have a chance of surviving. Was she seriously considering going with him?
Yes, she realized—if he would let her—because she would rather walk with him than stay here without him.
The cheering women and chil
dren parted as their chief led the procession of warriors back to the village, their bodies gilded by the late afternoon sunlight. They were followed by a travois carrying her father. She walked beside Storm, past the curious stares. Behind her, Falling Otter shouted from the travois, hurling insults at the Low River People, calling them cowards and fools, proving just how proud he was to be returning to them.
Winter Moon stepped from the gathering to embrace Sky and then fell into step beside her niece. The cries of the women greeting the returning men filled the air, making speech impossible, and Sky was relieved.
They stopped before the lodge of Spirit Bear. The hide that stretched over the frame had been painted with a series of medicine wheels showing the four directions in black, red, yellow and white. Spirit Bear called often to the power of Waki—the son of Tate, or the Wind—to heal and teach.
The travois had been detached from the horses and her father began to laugh. His sister, Winter Moon, knelt at his side and took his hand. Spirit Bear’s wife stepped from her lodge. Starlight Woman greeted her husband first and then her guests. Her face was smiling and well wrinkled from the many winters she had walked the earth. Sky suspected she had been married to Spirit Bear for longer than Skylark had lived. Yet the medicine man, who was capable of taking several wives, had need only for this one and had kept only her even when she had born him no children. Skylark felt a prick of jealousy as the woman leaned to press her forehead briefly to Sky’s and then repeated the greeting with Winter Moon. Starlight Woman left them then to assist her husband, who still rode a horse, but he was stiff and the joints of his fingers each swelled like the burl on a tree branch.
