The Warrior's Captive Bride

by Jenna Kernan

  That gave her hope, as well. But when would Night Storm come back? And when he did she wondered if she would be able to change his mind about taking a wife.

  The drumbeat ceased and the men stilled, then cheered before returning to the outer circle. In the echoing silence came the shrieking call of a screech owl. The people went still as each wondered who would die. The owl, the messenger of ghosts, was among them. It flew over the gathering on silent wings, a dark shadow against the night sky and soundless as death.

  Skylark rose to her feet, the only one now standing as she looked about her. He was here. She knew it.

  A low whisper began on the far side of the circle and the people rose, shifting to allow someone to pass. A familiar dog trotted into the circle, making his way straight to her.

  Frost, she realized and stooped to hug the dog.

  Next she saw Spirit Bear moving slowly through the gathering. Upon his head was the now familiar bearskin. The bear’s muzzle and fearsome teeth extended past the shaman’s white hair. In his hand was the long staff tied with cloth, feather, bead and the claws of many bear. The claws made a rattling sound as he placed his staff and moved forward. Someone walked behind him. The people near them fell back as if struck. The whisper changed to cries of alarm.

  Skylark craned her neck to see who came behind their shaman. Hope rose as she searched for some glimpse of Night Storm. She had not realized that she had moved until her aunt clasped her arm, keeping her from entering the central circle.

  The two men turned toward Bright Arrow, who was on his feet and was one of the few who showed no fear. His sister had her bow in one hand and an arrow in the other.

  Skylark’s gaze went to the man with Spirit Bear. She could not be sure who it was. Spirit Bear had left with Night Storm. But this man seemed taller than Night Storm, and his dress was so different. He did not wear his war shirt, leggings and moccasins like a warrior and hunter. His hair was no longer in the style of a warrior. She stared at the stranger, willing him to turn in her direction.

  His hair was loose in the back and tied with many feathers of brown and white. The blunt ends of the feathers and the distinctive wavy edge told her instantly what kind of feathers these were. Owl feathers. Great horned owl mingled with the pure white of the snowy owl. His cloak was tanned leather and was emblazoned with the forked streak of red lightning, but instead of coming from a rain cloud, this streak of red light emanated from beneath the outstretched wings of a great white owl. He also carried a staff, and from the top were tied many strands of sinew threaded with bits of bone, feather, beaks, teeth, claws and talons. It was like seeing the inside of a warrior’s medicine bundle, she thought. The collection of sacred objects rustled as he moved.

  She stared at his face and saw he wore a leather patch across one eye. Had he been injured?

  “Bright Arrow, chief of the Low River people,” said Spirit Bear, lifting his staff high and raising his arms. He aimed the tip of his staff, topped with the shell of a box turtle, at the man next to him. “I present to you, White Owl, shaman and farseeing man.”

  White Owl? Skylark stepped to the front of the gathered women, who now stood in a silent circle.

  Sky pressed her hands over her mouth.

  Spirit Bear turned to the people. “This man is a great and powerful seer.”

  Sky lowered her hands so they pressed to her chest. Hope began to rise once more, squeezing her throat so that she could barely whisper her words.

  “Is it him?” she asked her aunt.

  “I do not know. It does not look like him.”

  The man in question turned in a slow circle. Skylark’s breath caught. White Owl wore a neat leather patch across one eye and the feathered cap covered much of his other eye. But she knew him. It was Night Storm. She meant to run to him and leap into his arms. She had taken a step into the open circle when her uncle, Wood Duck, took hold of her.

  “No, Sky.” His grip was strong and held just enough pressure to gain her attention. “Look.”

  She did. She looked past White Owl to the gathering. They stared in horror at this intruder. Men gripped their weapons and women collected their children as if preparing for flight. The tension pulled at her insides. It seemed that even their chief, Bright Arrow, did not know what to do. Beside him, his sister notched her bow.

  And then, from out of the darkness danced a man painted white from his loincloth to the top of his head. Around his neck, instead of a necklace of bear claw or medicine bundle, he wore a gathered rope of dry Timpsula tubers.

  He hooted and flapped his arms as he danced without the accompaniment of the drums. The only chant came from his lips. Falling Otter made a circuitous route to the two medicine men, finally dancing before White Owl.

  He stopped his dance and the gathering fell silent and still as the stars that shone above. Falling Otter lifted a finger and pointed it at White Owl. Slowly his finger inched closer to White Owl’s bare chest. Sky pressed a hand to the base of her throat.

  Falling Otter’s finger contacted the chest of White Owl. Falling Otter gave a bloodcurdling scream and fell to the ground as if shot through the heart. He lay still as death. Everyone shifted to get a better look. Sky found she could not breathe as Falling Otter’s legs began to thrash and then kick. But then the kicking changed to a kind of dance step done from his back. The next moment his arms were waving and he laughed at them, the gathering of fearful men and women who could not approach a farseeing man because he wore the feathers of an owl. By slow degrees, Falling Otter rose as his dance continued. He danced around the holy men and then the chief, and then he took the arrow from the bow of Snow Raven. Sky had never seen anyone dare to touch a weapon belonging to this particular warrior and she realized again that Falling Otter was as brave as any warrior. Braver, because he dared to show all among them their folly for fearing one who was not like them.

  Falling Otter patted White Owl on the shoulder and said, “Go away.”

  Then he danced back into the group and out of sight. His message was clear. Their heyoka believed that White Owl belonged among them.

  Bright Arrow moved forward to greet the shaman of the Low River people and lift his hand in welcome to Spirit Bear’s companion, White Owl.

  Sky sagged with relief. They had accepted him. But would White Owl accept her?

  * * *

  White Owl stood beside his mentor before the gathering of the Low River people. Their shaman had taught him many things and he was a changed man, but he was also the same man inside himself.

  He was surprised and pleased to have found acceptance among the Low River people, for he had wondered if a man who spoke to owls would find a place in any camp. He was different from his fellows. Not better or worse, just different. And accepting those changes in himself had been hard. But he had learned by the examples of Falling Otter and Spirit Bear and Skylark that it was better to be different than try to be what you were not.

  As he looked across the circle for one particular face, hungry for the sight of her, he wished he might know if his future included Skylark. But, try as he might, he could never see her in his visions.

  An owl and a lark were an odd couple, by any measure. Yet he longed for her now more than ever. She was the daughter of the shaman. A maiden of honor and status. Had her new status drawn many suitors? He knew that she might already be promised to another or worse. Many couples married at the gathering of tribes. He prayed Sky was not one of them.

  As the dancing resumed, he watched for her without success. Beside him, Spirit Bear spoke to Bright Arrow. Their conversation was of importance, but he could not focus. The central fire lured him, but he had learned much in his time away with Spirit Bear. The flashing light called and it was up to him to answer. During the Winter Camp Moon the spells were many, but now, his headaches had finally lifted like a mist from a valley. And his b
alance was nearly restored. But most gratifying of all was that he could call the episodes now. Instead of being prey to the light, he was now again the hunter, stalking the visions as he once tracked deer.

  What would Skylark say when she heard? She had been right—the key to his mastery of his weakness. She was the one who had realized it was not the water but the flashing light that brought the falls. And once, not so long ago, she had told him that he had her heart. He thought of his older brother, Iron Axe, and his courtship of Little Rain. It had taken him half a moon to woo and win her hand. White Owl had been gone twice that time. He might be a farseeing man, but he could not see if he still had her heart or if she would want a shaman for her husband. Perhaps he was too different than the warrior he had been.

  He scanned the women on the far side of the circle. Each woman he looked upon quickly glanced away, as if to hold his stare would call bad luck. So the chief had welcomed him and their heyoka had sent him away. But the women had yet to decide if he was dangerous or safe. In truth he was neither. But he did have messages to relate. Many messages for the Crow people. His gaze continued to flick restlessly from one face to the next. He found her aunt, Winter Moon, who also looked immediately away, and then he saw her.

  Skylark was thinner than he recalled and he wondered at the cause. Her cheekbones were more prominent and her eyes glittered dark and mysterious in the light of the central fire. She met his gaze and held on unflinchingly. He smiled. How could they not have seen the iron of their shaman, Spirit Bear, there in this slender woman?

  He lifted a hand in greeting and she glanced away as if to see who he hailed. Finally, shyly she lifted her hand to shoulder height, palm out, greeting him. It was a start. Between them, the men took the place of the married women, to reenact the success of the hunt. And all White Owl could think about was how to get to her. Finally, the great fire began to collapse, sending sparks into the cool air. At last, even the dancing could not keep them warm. The people grew tired and those with young ones ambled back toward their lodges and the warmth of their buffalo robes.

  White Owl hastened after the departing families, but he lost sight of her in the darkness. In the throngs of people leaving the central fire, he forced himself to resist the urge to jump in the air to locate her. He did recall where her uncle had set his lodge, but upon reaching the correct place, he found the flap closed, signaling that all had turned in for the night. He stood looking at the thin wall of buffalo hide that separated them, wondering if she lay inside or if she had made a lodge for a new husband.

  That thought caused an ache deep in his chest, as if something cut across his heart.

  All about him came the murmur of voices as couples returned home or lingered beyond their parents’ homes to steal a few moments alone in the near darkness. The moon was just a sliver in the sky, making the stars twinkle with particular brightness. He stared up at the ghost road with one uncovered eye, a glittering path to lead the dead to the spirit world.

  What if he had lost her already?

  He felt the tug of the sparkling shimmer, the urge to lose himself in the light. But he knew now, sensed how far he could go without ceasing to control the visions. There was a narrow ledge where he could stand and observe without tumbling out into the abyss. He retreated, shifting his stare and refocusing his attention. He did not want a vision now. He wanted the company of a tiny bird who did not fly at night. He wanted Skylark.

  “White Owl?” The voice came from just beside him and he knew it instantly. “Is all well with you?”

  She had found him. And suddenly he did not know the words to speak. What could he say that would let him have just one more chance to be all for her, as she was for him?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Before Skylark stood the man she had fallen in love with, but now he seemed a stranger once more. He was changed. That much was certain. He had been on another vision quest and had taken a new name. But how much of him remained? Did he still have feelings for her?

  She knew that shamans took wives, had children and lived among the people. They held great respect and were as powerful as the chief. Had White Owl set out to become a powerful man of great importance he could not have done better than to become a shaman. The fall he had taken was the message that he had ignored telling him he must take a different path. He was strong and so he fought this change. But now...now he was what he must be.

  “Hello,” he said.

  They stood beneath the stars, a man, a woman and silence. Frost left White Owl’s side to greet her with a thumping tail. He wiggled like a puppy as she stroked his wiry coat.

  “He has missed you,” said White Owl.

  “Yes.” She straightened to face him.

  “I have missed you,” he said.

  “You have?”

  She felt the smile curling inside her like sunlight. His face was familiar, if thinner than she remembered. She took in the other changes and lingered on the patch over his left eye, remembering the buckskin she had once tied over his eyes.

  “Is all well with you?” he asked.

  He seemed tentative now. Not as authoritative as when he stood before the people.

  “I am well,” she said. “And you?”

  “I have not fallen in over a moon. Spirit Bear even tried to bring the falls. But you were right. It is the light, sparkling, flashing, tumbling light.”

  She stepped closer, her fingers stroking the band that held the patch in place. “Did you injure your eye?”

  “I did not. In fact I switch the patch day by day from one eye to the next.” He lifted it now, drawing the patch to his forehead. And then she saw the face she recalled, handsome, winning and familiar.

  She smiled and stroked his cheek. He stiffened and then captured her hand, pressing it to his mouth so that his lips kissed her palm. Then he released her.

  “Skylark, it is only because of you that I am alive. And because of you, I learned that the light brought my spells. Spirit Bear made me wear this patch and taught me how to coax the visions.”

  “You were a seer before the fall,” she said.

  His brow wrinkled at that.

  “What?”

  “Your vision, it was filled with owls. The Great Spirit had chosen you even then.”

  He looked down at her and wondered if she would ever cease to amaze him.

  “I did not recognize it then.”

  “You did not wish to recognize it because you wished to walk the warrior’s way.”

  “That is so. Perhaps that was why I was unseated. Perhaps that was why I nearly died, and still I could not see my way.”

  White Owl looked down at the small radiant face that was more beautiful to him than the face of the moon.

  “Do the owls not frighten you?” he asked.

  “No longer, because now I understand that they are here to bring you messages from the world of spirits.”

  “I have seen many things and learned many things, but I never saw what I most wished to see.”

  “What is that?”

  “You,” he said.

  That took her breath away and she stilled as the hope began to rise in her again.

  “I hear that Spirit Bear has claimed you as his daughter.”

  “That is so.”

  “What of Falling Otter?”

  “He will always be my father. Perhaps not by birth, but by all other measures.”

  “He was of great help tonight. For a time, I did not think your people would accept me.”

  “You did not seem frightened,” she said.

  “My fears are deeper now. My reputation, my place, it is not as important as what I see and how I serve the people.”

  “You have a gift.”

  “But I am no longer a warrior and will never be.”

 
; She said nothing and his fears mounted, gathering one upon the next like droplets of water that fill a river.

  Had she found another?

  “You once told me that you wished to marry a warrior and be like other women. Have you married, Skylark?”

  “I have not.” Her smile was coy and becoming.

  He stepped closer. “I am certain you do not lack for suitors.”

  “Once I longed to hear the sound of flutes and to stand before my aunt’s lodge wrapped with a young man in a blanket.”

  “And now?” His question was like dust in his mouth.

  “I have grown tired of the sounds of flutes.”

  Perhaps she would be like her mother. Spirit Bear said Skylark’s mother was beautiful and solitary. That she would not become his wife even after his first wife had gone to her to ask her to join their lodge.

  “You do not wish for a man to play his flute for you?”

  She smiled. “The young warriors seem more boys than men. Why do you ask me this?”

  He found himself suddenly afraid. Nothing he’d experienced compared with the dread he now felt when he considered losing this woman. What were the right words to tell her how he felt, how much he needed her, longed for her and wanted her to walk with him throughout their lives.

  He lifted a hand. “Once I wanted you here.” He pressed a hand low on his stomach. “And then I wanted you here.” He touched two fingers to his forehead. “But now I want you here.” He pressed a hand to his heart. “I love you, Skylark.”

  She wrapped her arms about him, pressing her ear to his chest.

  “Did you wait for me, Skylark? Or is there another?”

  She drew back, smiling up at him.

  “There will never be another.” She took his hand and pressed it to her heart.

  He released a long breath.

  “Is it me, Skylark?”

  She moved in close to him and placed her hands on his shoulders.