by Jenna Kernan
Sky took her place beside Night Storm and Winter Moon moved to stand by her brother.
“Welcome home, brother,” she said.
His laughter was the only thing that succeeded in bringing Sky from Storm’s side because it told her that her father was in great pain. His shirt was soaked with blood. Someone had removed the spear point and the blood flow was too heavy for him to live for long, unless she stopped it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Sky removed a bit of buckskin from her pouch and folded it into a pad. This she pressed over her father’s wound, using the weight of her body to stem the flow.
“Get my things, please, Auntie. The yellow bag and my sewing kit. And my cooking kettle.” It was her prize possession, the small iron pot in which she brewed her medicines.
Sky was still holding the bandage tight to her father’s wound as he made sounds like an owl. The medicine man made his approach to Night Storm.
“Where was he injured?” he asked her.
Yes, that was the question.
“I do not know.”
Spirit Bear’s snowy brows lifted.
“He was injured in a battle during the Fast Water Moon,” she offered. “His skull broke inward. Since then...he falls.”
Spirit Bear’s brows rose even higher and his attention went back to the fallen warrior. He felt Night Storm’s head, his long gnarled fingers pausing on the place at the back where the bone had been crushed.
“This one should have died,” said Spirit Bear. He looked to her. “How is he called?”
“Night Storm.”
His forehead wrinkled. “Are you sure? That does not seem right to me.”
Now her brows lifted as she recalled all Storm had told her of his vision quest and the owls. She was spared from answering by her father’s laughter.
Spirit Bear looked at the feather tied in Storm’s hair with interest.
“What is this?” he asked, lifting one of Storm’s braids so that the feather fluttered in the breeze. The wavy white edge marked it for what it was, for only one bird, a silent hunter and messenger of spirits, had a feather of such an unusual color and formation.
“My father gave it to him,” she said.
“Your father?”
“Your sister is bringing something to ease the pain,” she said to Falling Otter.
“She is not my sister. I hate her. Hope she is very slow.” He closed his eyes and seemed to be concentrating on breathing, which worried her greatly.
Spirit Bear spoke to his wife, who ducked into their lodge.
“She is bringing a Black Hemp tea for Falling Otter’s pain. This is very strong medicine and will make him sleep.”
Sky smiled, pleased at the choice and the knowledge that her shaman worked with both body and spirit. She knew he was more forgiving and tolerant than Thunder Horse, who had frightened her. Still Spirit Bear also had the authority to banish a warrior, though she had never seen him do so.
“Do you approve?” he asked.
Sky still leaned on the folded pad covering her father’s wound, relieved to see the bleeding ebbing. But Spirit Bear’s question so shocked her that she sat back on her heels, releasing her hold on her father. Was the shaman of the Low River people actually asking her opinion? She could think of no reply.
To her knowledge the shaman had never asked the opinion of a woman before. Her stomach ached as she considered what to do.
She glanced at her father and knew what he would do. If it were inappropriate to speak, he would speak. She cleared her throat.
“Well?” asked the holy man.
“That will ease the pain. I would add Cranesbill to slow the bleeding.”
Had her answer been impertinent? She waited, scarcely breathing.
“If I had some, it would be an excellent addition.”
“My auntie is bringing that.” Before she knew it she was in a conversation over which plants she preferred for wounds and when she would stitch a wound and when she would leave it opened. The entire exchange seemed like a dream and she could not really believe that her shaman cared what she thought.
“Well, all I have heard is true. You are an excellent healer and becoming as lovely as your mother.” His smile seemed sad and his gaze lingered on her longer than was polite.
She blushed at the compliment.
Her father, who kept his eyes pinched shut, still managed to speak. “My daughter is very lazy.”
The shaman chuckled. “High praise, indeed.”
His wife emerged with the tea and Sky helped her father drink. Black Hemp was strong medicine, so Sky was not surprised to see that soon her father’s face relaxed, and a few moments later his eyelids drooped.
“Wide-awake,” he muttered, his words slurring.
Sky checked on Night Storm, who seemed to be only sleeping now, his breathing soft and regular through his open mouth. It gave her time to treat her father’s wound. Her auntie returned and Sky set to work, sending her aunt to find fresh leaves from Ground Ivy. When Sky was done, the gash was cleaned and stitched loosely to allow the flow of fluids. The lance tip had not entered the joint of his shoulder but only pierced the bone of his upper arm, slicing away the muscle. On exploring the wound, she had found the tip of the flint point still embedded and carefully worked it out. Her aunt arrived with Sky’s things and Sky made a mash of the bruised leaves to encourage tissue healing.
When she finally returned to Night Storm the sun had dipped below the horizon. She found him blinking wearily. He tried to rise, but Spirit Bear pressed him back to the travois.
“All is well, my son. Rest now.”
He said one word in a slow, slurred speech. “Sky?”
She took his hand. “Here.”
He gave her a weak smile. “Safe?”
She stroked his forehead. “Yes. Because of you.”
He relaxed back to the ground, and for just one instant she thought his breathing stopped. She gave a shout of panic and pressed her ear to his chest, hearing the steady beating of his heart and then the slow draw of breath. So slow, she thought. Too slow, she knew.
“We have to sit him up.”
With the help of her aunt and Starlight Woman, they propped Storm up. His breathing improved. The bluish tint receded from his lips and Sky thought she herself could breathe again. Warriors from the Low River tribe arrived to stare at the falling man from the Black Lodges people. Sky remained at his side.
Her aunt asked her to come home, but she would not. Her uncle returned from the chase and reported that all was clear. Lately there had been many more skirmishes between their tribe and the Sioux snakes, and her uncle said he looked forward to winter camp when the snow would be too deep for the Sioux to consider attack. Until then, the men would raid and fight because it was the War Moon.
As twilight turned to evening, her aunt insisted that both Falling Otter and Night Storm be moved to her lodge. The transportation was easily arranged and once the men were safely tucked inside by the fire, Winter Moon insisted that Sky eat. Later, with her stomach full, Skylark turned to face her aunt and uncle’s questions. Why had she come alone across the distance between their tribes? Why had her husband been chasing them? And what was wrong with her husband?
Sky felt weary before she even began to answer. There was no reason to lie now. She had set out her husband’s things, ending the marriage, and all had seen him fall. The truth he had dreaded had been revealed. So Sky told her aunt and uncle everything that had happened since she had left their tribe, and then she added a truth she had not spoken aloud.
“At first I was only trying to help him. But over the days and nights I began to wish he could love me and that he was not already promised to another.”
“A man can take two wives,” said Wood Duck.
“Her mother told her never to be a second wife,” said Winter Moon. “Second wife, second life, second love, second from his heart. Isn’t that right?”
Sky nodded.
“But if it is the only way to have him.”
Sky shook her head. “She hates me. It was by her efforts that I was cast out. Their shaman is her uncle. Her father is chief of the Wind Basin tribe. And my father is...”
“A man of great power and well respected by all.”
Sky lowered her head.
“But your father is powerful, as well.”
Sky placed a hand on her father’s forehead and smiled.
“Skylark,” said her aunt. “He is powerful and you are powerful, but your power does not come from Falling Otter.”
“What?”
“You’re power is not of chaos but of healing.”
Sky squinted, trying to make sense of her aunt’s words.
Winter Moon placed a hand to her mouth and met Sky’s gaze. Then she lowered her hand. Sky knew that what she would say next was important and she straightened.
“My brother is a great teacher and he loves you very much, but he is not your father.”
Sky blinked in astonishment as she tried to tell if Winter Moon was teasing and saw that she was not. Her mind struggled to understand but it made no sense. Her gaze flicked to her uncle who was not her uncle.
“I don’t understand. My mother told me...” But what had she actually said? That her father loved her. That her father was a great man. That her father could not live with them like other fathers. She fixed her attention on her aunt. “Who?”
“This man, who is your father, I wish to say that he asked your mother to be his second wife. And his first wife agreed to bring your mother into her lodge. But your mother had just left her husband and his wives. She had been very unhappy there and had no interest in becoming a second wife again. Also, she once told me that she knew this man loved his first wife with his whole heart. He was much older than your mother then, perhaps twice her age. She turned down his offer and asked him not to claim you. This was a hard thing to do because this man and his wife had no children then or now.”
Sky’s eyes widened as a possibility rose in her mind.
Her aunt continued. “When you were born he asked again, begged to claim you as his daughter. But your mother reminded him of the promise he made.”
“Aunt, who is my father?”
“A healer, like you. A leader and a husband who has no child but you.”
“His name?” And then another thought struck her. If he had been an old man when she was born he might have already crossed the spirit road. If her father was dead, then her aunt would not, could not speak his name. To discover her father was not her father and that her real father might be dead—it was too much. The tears began to leak from her eyes and roll down her face. “Has he crossed over the way of souls?”
“No. He lives. Your father is alive.”
“Spirit Bear,” said Wood Duck.
“The shaman?” she whispered.
“Yes,” said Winter Moon. “I discovered from my brother. It is easy when he speaks in opposites. I asked your mother and she admitted the truth but asked me never to tell. I have kept that promise.”
Sky thought of Spirit Bear, seemingly an old man even then and then recalled the man who she remembered as if in a dream, from her earliest memories, when her mother still walked out in the forest and Sky used to chase butterflies. There was a man with white hair. Had it been Spirit Bear?
Sky looked to Falling Otter, still blissfully unaware thanks to the Black Hemp tea.
“But why did my mother not let Spirit Bear claim me?”
“She said she did not want the tribe gossiping about her and Spirit Bear. She did not wish to bring pain or shame to his wife, who was unable to bear his children.”
“Strange the man who can heal so many could not heal my mother.” Just as she had been unable to find a cure for her. At the end she could do nothing but ease her pain, and she recalled Spirit Bear had come and sung her to the way of souls, so she could cross safely to the spirit world.
As she sat beside the woman she had known her entire life, something occurred to her.
“If Falling Otter is not my father, then you are not my aunt.”
Winter Moon paused and gave her the look of exasperation that she had seen so many times after returning from the forest alone.
“I was your mother’s best friend. I helped deliver you and I raised you after her death. I am your aunt, by choice if not by birth.”
Sky hugged her.
When she drew back her gaze turned on Falling Otter.
“Did Falling Otter think I was his child?”
“He told everyone that you where his child. I don’t know why they believed it. Falling Otter was the only one who ever shared your mother’s lodge but only when it was very cold, so it made sense. Everyone just assumed.”
Why had she never noticed that Falling Otter called her daughter the same way that he called a rabbit a bird?
“I think your mother preferred her freedom and solitude to the responsibilities of a wife.”
“So Falling Otter is not my father.” That truth filled her with a real aching sadness for she loved him. She swallowed.
“Not all relationships are forged in birth,” said Winter Moon.
Sky nodded her agreement as she looked at her father. He had been there, helped raise her, taught her how to climb trees and catch frogs, and made her laugh so hard her sides ached. He had carried her on his shoulders and lifted her so she could pick the highest fruit. He had followed her to the Black Lodges and he was always close when she needed him.
She rested a hand on his uninjured arm.
“This man, Falling Otter, is my father in all ways that matter. He claimed me and in his own way, he raised me. And today, he saved my life,” she said, looking at Falling Otter with new eyes. “He threw a rabbit at a charging warrior.”
“A live rabbit?” asked Wood Duck.
“A dead one. It hit the Sioux warrior in the face.”
Wood Duck chuckled. “I would bet good tobacco that that surprised him.”
Sky laughed. “Indeed. It changed the direction of his charge from me to him.”“
“Worst weapon imaginable,” said Wood Duck.
“It worked,” said Winter Moon, defending her brother. “She’s alive and he’s alive.”
“I’m dead,” said Falling Otter without opening his eyes.
“Have you been listening all along?” asked his sister.
“No,” he said.
“Are you hungry?” asked Winter Moon.
“No.”
“I’ll get you something.”
Sky moved to Falling Otter and took his hand. “Thank you, Father, for rescuing me.”
He smiled. “No. You are dead and I am dead.” He began to chant as a shaman might do over the body of a dying warrior, but then he groaned and pinched his eyes shut tight.
She stroked his forehead and checked his wound. Then she kissed his brow.
He smiled. “Go away.”
“Yes, I will stay with you,” she said.
He nodded his head and gave her hand a squeeze. “No.”
Falling Otter drank some broth and Wood Duck helped him rise and leave the lodge for a few minutes. Inside the lodge, Sky helped her aunt set out the sleeping skins.
When they drew apart, her aunt looked down at Night Storm.
“Does he usually sleep so long after falling?”
Sky moved to his side. “No. Not usually. But this fall was a bad one.”
She studied him, seeing his color was good and his breathing normal. She noted something else. Beneath his closed l
ids, his eyes moved fast.
“Dreaming,” said Winter Moon. “Should we wake him?”
Sky shook her head. She caught movement and looked to the circular rawhide door of the tepee that was reinforced by a frame of wood. At first she thought it was Wood Duck and Falling Otter, but the flap lifted only a few inches. Sky reached for her skinning knife but relaxed when she recognized a certain long furry snout and wet black nose.
Frost poked his head into the lodge.
“Who is this?” asked Winter Moon as the dog slipped into the lodge uninvited.
“An honored guest. His name is Frost.”
Sky smiled. She was not surprised that Frost had found his master and thought she should have expected it. Frost greeted Sky with a wagging tail, then politely greeted Winter Moon with a lick of her extended hand and finally moved to Night Storm to sniff at him. Then he folded in close to his master, resting his head on Storm’s stomach.
Some relationships are not forged in birth but in love.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Night Storm woke in the darkness to find his head aching and his body stiff and sore. The metallic taste still clung to his tongue. He stared up at the poles of the lodge, trying to grasp a thought or a memory of how he came here and where he was.
“Sky,” he whispered. Something had happened to Sky.
And then she was there, her face glowing warm in the light of the dying central fire.
“Shh. All is well.”
On his opposite side something cold and wet touched his neck. He startled and then found Frost resting his head on his master’s chest, so it was easy to lift his arm to the top of his dog’s head.
“Safe?” he asked.
“Yes. You can rest. We are all safe.”
Storm closed his eyes. “Dreaming,” he murmured. “A boy, sick from eating white berries.”
“What boy?” Sky asked.
“I don’t know. Black face. Many owls are waiting for him.” The pull of sleep was so strong. He struggled to open his eyes but could not. The visions came again of owls lurking in trees and walking boldly up to the fevered boy. Beside him, a shaman wearing the headdress of a bear chanted and prayed, waving sacred smoke over the boy with the feathered wing of a hawk. The horned owl in the tree rotated its head in Storm’s direction.
