by Karen Kay
I have not laid their plight to rest.
Mountain lioness, protector I would ask your help.”
“Ha! Ha!”
Had the sound came from above him? What was it?
“Ha!”
There it was again. Hau! It was above him, in the clouds.
“Ha! Ha, ha!”
“Who is there?” Black Lion addressed his words to the low-ranging and ever-moving black puffs of vapor.
“Ha! You dare to come this close to me? You, who are no more than a human being?” It was the Thunderer, his enemy. There could be no mistaking the identity of that voice.
“Human being I may be,” called out Black Lion, “but I would best you if you would dare to come to earth to fight me. Because of you, my people are enslaved. Because of you, my people weep. Because of you, my heart is filled with the desire for revenge, so do not taunt me, Thunder Being. Either meet me in a hand-to-hand fight, or leave this place.”
“Ha! Ha, ha, ha!”
The dark clouds rolled, gathering force, and Black Lion thought that at any moment a lightning bolt might strike him down. Still, he did not retreat. Instead, he bared his breast to the god of thunder, physically issuing a challenge.
But there was to be no fight this day. Still laughing, the Thunderer moved along in the sky, forcing the clouds to speed elsewhere, perhaps to torment some other unfortunate soul. Gradually, the Thunderer’s laughter faded into the distance. But not so Black Lion’s resentment.
In protest, Black Lion raised his arms to the sky and shouted, “Come back again and challenge me, if you dare, Thunderer. I will best you!” Lowering his arms, he repeated, this time more softly, “I will best you.”
But the Thunderer was gone, taking the blackened clouds with him.
Black Lion paused, if only to clear his heart, for it would do no good to address the Great Spirit and his protector with anger. At last he was ready to continue his prayer, and he sang:
“Mountain lioness, spirit protector
Can you tell me if my wife is the one who owns the song?
May I sing to her?
Help me discover the truth of this,
For I am lost in this land of the whites.
Protector, I would give my life in service to my people,
For I am not afraid.
But to wait when she, who may know the song, is close,
Is torture.
Help me, Spirit Protector. For if you do, I promise
That I and my people will sing songs of your praise so
Long as we exist.”
Again, Black Lion raised his arms to the heavens. This time, his exposed face was lifted toward the sky. Hope burned deep within him, and he waited for a reply.
But it seemed his spirit protector was not here this day. Lowering his arms, Black Lion squatted next to the fire, warming himself but a moment. Though the fire’s heat called to him, he could not linger here. Need drove him to find the mountain lioness, for time was growing short.
Standing, Black Lion made a decision. He would leave the safety of his camp to go in search of his namesake, his protector. Though Black Lion was naked, he would endure the cold, the sleet and the snow. Somehow, in some way, he would find the guidance he desperately sought.
After damping down the fire, he set out upon his journey. He traipsed in a circle around the mountain, and all the while he called out, “Mountain lioness, protector, come. I have need of counsel.”
But there was nothing.
Almost delirious from hunger, cold and disappointment, Black Lion treaded back toward his camp. Reaching it, he noticed that the fire was still alive but almost out. Quickly he rekindled it. He would remain here one more night, but he feared he could devote no more time than that. Already he had been on this mountain two days and nights, and the white man’s show would not allow him more than this.
One more night.
“Human!”
Black Lion came fully awake.
“Human, you have called my name the day through. I have watched you. I have seen how you suffer. I have taken pity on you, and I will help you if I can. What is it that you seek from me?”
Black Lion sat up, his buffalo robe falling from around his shoulders and onto his lap. At last, he had come face-to-face with his protector, the mountain lioness, for that animal sat close to him, the lion’s hind legs folded beneath her, her front legs and paws stretched out in front of her.
Black Lion tried to speak, but his voice took leave of him. He coughed and sputtered in his attempt, but at last he was able to say, “I seek counsel.”
“I am here.”
“Thank you. Mountain lioness, I would seek to know if I am on the right path. I have found the voice of the woman who sings the sacred song to me each night in my dreams. I long to sing the song to her, to see if I can break the spell for my people, but I fear to do it, in case she is not the one. Will you not tell me, mountain lioness, is she the one who will proclaim the song?”
“Human, you must discover this yourself.”
“Hau, hau. But, protector, are you saying that I may sing it to her?”
“Human, do not misunderstand. Listen well to me. You have one chance and only one chance to chant this song without missing a word. If you sing it to your wife and she does not know it, then you will have failed, for you will not have found the song. Know that if this happens, you will have lost the opportunity to save your people…forever…”
At these words, Black Lion sank inward on himself, bringing up his hands to cover his face. He must have appeared utterly dejected, for his spirit protector continued to speak. “But come, it is not hopeless. I will cleanse you in the right way, and afterward, I will give you my own song, the song of the lion. While it is not the sacred song, it is one you may sing freely to anyone you choose. Perhaps the one who knows the sacred melody may recognize this, a lion’s song, and then perhaps that person might help you.”
As she spoke, the mountain lioness had come up onto all fours, so that the two of them, human being and lion, stared at one another, face-to-face.
Black Lion said, “I thank you for your wisdom, protector. It is, indeed, a great gift you offer me. For this I will honor you, and I will sing your song with a glad heart.”
The mountain lioness seemed well satisfied with this and turned to walk a few steps away. Black Lion commenced to follow, but the mountain lioness hadn’t gone far before she leaped onto a ledge and spun around toward Black Lion. “It is good, human being. I am honored by your words. Know this in warning. Nothing in this life is certain; nothing, no man, no animal, is perfect. But there are those who help others more than they harm. Seek to be he who helps, not he who harms, and if you do this, your pure heart will guide you straight.
“But beware. The white man’s ways are tempting. I will do what I can to help you, but you must keep to your purpose. Do not become distracted by ways of the flesh. Though you are married, you, your people, must be willing to sacrifice pleasures of the flesh.
“Now come, and I will lead you to a stream where you may cleanse yourself. Then I will sing my song to you.”
“Hau, you speak wisely, my friend, and I will honor your words. If you will guide me, I will follow.” Gaining his feet, Black Lion adhered well to his promise, chasing after that mountain lioness as they sped over the rocky terrain of the high mountains.
The Deadwood stagecoach was a piece of history, and was in fact the same coach that years earlier had been held up by Indians. Pulled by six mules, the coach sped into and around the large open-air arena as if pursued by Indians.
And it was.
The stunt was meant to be a reenactment, not simply a show. As a matter of fact, Suzette had come to learn that Bill Cody did not consider the Wild West a show at all. Rather, the Wild West was a depiction of the history of the West, as
Cody had known and lived it.
In the reenactment, the coach was driven by Tom Duffey, a man who had been one of the original drivers of the Deadwood coach years earlier. Seated atop the rear of the coach was John Nelson, another colorful frontiersman who was rumored to have wed several Indian maids during his career—and at the same time. At present, Nelson and family were among several authentic characters in the show.
Suzette was seated within the coach. Her role in this drama was to be the maiden in distress, the one who would be rescued by Buffalo Bill, himself. It was Saturday, late in the afternoon, and this would be the last of three shows for the day.
The coach jerked back and forth as dirt from the mules kicked up enough dust to create a cloud. Suzette was reclining next to an open-air window, and with the coach running at full speed, she was joggled this way and that, often sliding into the gentleman seated next to her, necessitating several apologies from them both.
Behind the coach could be heard the war cries and the high-pitched whooping of the Indians as they gained speed over the wagon. In anxiety, Suzette’s stomach lurched over once, causing Suzette to lay a protective hand across her abdomen. Funny, the Indians hadn’t sounded so frightening in rehearsal. What was it about the actual performance that made the event seem so real?
Perhaps in rehearsal the Indians were not so loud or so intent on their prey, or maybe the crack of the whip was not quite so ominous or desperate. Whatever it was, it took no stretch of the imagination to envision how it would have felt to be involved in the real thing, even knowing that Buffalo Bill and his riders were to come to their “rescue”.
Jittery now, she glanced toward her fellow passengers seated across from her, a man and his “wife”. They all three shared a smile, and then, on cue, the man drew his pistol, leaned out the window and commenced firing the blanks from his gun.
Gazing once again out her own window, Suzette marveled at the skill of the Indian brave who rode up to the front of the coach on her side. The warrior sent a round of arrows toward the driver, who immediately fell over, “dead”. But the stagecoach kept going.
The Indian jumped from his seat on his pony to the coach, grappling to hold on while he wormed his way onto the topmost seat. Truly, it was a most athletic move. Meanwhile, another one of the Indians, a man she knew was called Red Shirt, rode up to her window, and drawing his bow taut, sent an arrow aimed directly at her.
She screamed, even as the arrow whizzed harmlessly past her. Of course she’d known this was to happen; they had rehearsed it many times. Be that as it may, whether the stunt was real or not, it was still shocking.
At last the stagecoach came to a halt. The Indians dismounted and surrounded them. One Indian, whom she believed to be the man she knew as Red Shirt, ripped her door open.
Suzette screamed, again according to script. Even without the inducement of the script, she might have done the same thing regardless. Indians were everywhere—and they were painted for war.
And then the oddest thing happened: The Indian who had ripped open her door winked at her.
Winked at her? Red Shirt?
Eyes wide, she studied her attacker more carefully. Ah, here was the reason. This was not Red Shirt at all. This man was… It was Black Lion, and beneath all that war paint on his face, he was grinning at her.
Stepping into character for a moment, he frowned at her, sized her up and down, from the top of her bonnet to the tips of her boots. Then he said, “I think you will decorate my tepee well. Although my wife may be jealous of one so beautiful.”
Suzette shook her head at him, then shivered, remembering she was supposed to be frightened. “Why, sir, do you mean to tell me you are already married?”
“Alas, I am,” he replied in an accent that sounded more British than Native American. “My wife is a white woman, too, and very beautiful, also. It is strange, for she looks much like you.”
Suzette almost laughed. “Oh, do stop,” she admonished, damping down the smile. “If you keep this up, Black Lion, you are going to cause me to laugh instead of doing what I am supposed to do—which is screaming and begging for mercy.”
“Scream away,” he said as he pulled her from the coach. But his touch was hardly rough. Indeed, he brought her into his arms, and for an instant only, he pressed his face up close against hers.
“Sir.” She added a scream to the word for good artistic measure. “This is sudden, is it not?”
“So it is. But I must work fast, I fear, for even now the cavalry is sounding their horns in the distance, and I suspect that soon I will be lying here dead at your feet. Ah, what a man must do to hold his own wife in his arms.”
She burst out laughing.
He frowned at her and shook his head. “And now you laugh at me when you should be screaming.”
“Oh, of course. I forgot.” She shrieked.
His hand came up to cover her mouth, but instead of jerking her toward his horse, as he was supposed to do, he leaned down, took his hand away for the barest of moments and pressed a kiss against her open lips.
She wasn’t supposed to respond. Dear Lord, she was performing in front of thousands of people. How could this happen?
Yet, she answered him back in the only way she could. She fell in against him, and within seconds his arms encircled her. A cavalry trumpet sounded close at hand, which must have prompted him to remember the script, for he said, “Lean on me,” and then he dragged her as gently as possible toward his pony.
“You should not have done that. You should not have kissed me,” she said, even while she pretended to struggle to get away from him. “Someone is sure to have seen. Do you wish to bring trouble to yourself?”
“A man might dare much,” he responded while fielding her attempts to hit him, “when he discovers his wife has not a single moment to spend with him.”
“But I thought you understood that—”
He winked at her, and then, as he had predicted, soldiers and the Wild West riders sped onto the scene, coming to the rescue of the coach. Within a matter of minutes, Cody galloped toward her and Black Lion. After jumping down from his mount, Cody had no sooner pulled Black Lion away from her than the two men commenced upon a completely scripted yet desperate fight.
Suzette found herself silently cheering for the Indian, and she wondered if any of her counterparts of old might have done much the same.
Cody won, of course, and when it was over, Black Lion lay at her feet. Alas, it was done. Her honor had been saved a terrible fate.
“My lady.” Cody bowed. Then he smiled at her and gallantly extended a hand to help her to her feet.
“Sir,” she said loudly so that the audience could hear. “You have saved me. You have saved my father. How can I ever repay you?”
“No need to do that, ma’am,” answered Cody in his best theatrical voice. “I am only doing my duty.”
“Ah! You are so brave. You are my hero!” With this said, as she was supposed to do in this little drama, she collapsed into a faint, directly into Cody’s waiting arms.
Chapter Twelve
“Good show,” said a smiling John Burke, the Wild West Show’s manager and press agent. “Good show.” With a drink teetering precariously in each hand, he mingled in between and amongst the assembled guests in the after-the-show party, passing by Suzette and her grandmother.
He acknowledged Irena, extended a glass of champagne to her and offered the other to Suzette. Suzette declined, but Irena accepted gracefully.
“Thank you.” Irena smiled at Burke.
Burke nodded, then turned and retraced his steps, presumably to find more champagne.
Irena looked at Suzette over her glass. “That is a beautiful gown. White is a good color on you. The material is very soft. Is it silk?”
“Yes.”
“And the cut is quite flattering, as well, the neckline not t
oo low, not too high.”
“Thank you.”
Still eyeing her granddaughter over the glass of champagne, Irena commented, “Oh, and by the way, I saw him kiss you.”
“Did you?” said Suzette, not bothering to ask who he was. “Let us hope that no one else did.”
“Suzie, I fear it could not have been missed.”
It was true. “Do you know if he is in trouble?”
“I must admit I have no idea.”
“But why did he do it?”
Irena smiled at her as though she knew something Suzette didn’t. “Perhaps you could spend some time with him. You must be aware that it is well over a few weeks since you first wed. Perhaps, if you were more attentive to him, he might not look upon a public demonstration as a way to become closer to you.”
“We are not supposed to become closer.”
“Need I remind you that you are wed.”
“Irena, do stop this. You know the particulars on that.”
Irena shrugged. “He is a man, and you went into this arrangement willingly.”
“Has he said something to you, then?”
“No, he has not. But I think he would like to get to know you better.”
Suzette didn’t respond.
Completely unnecessarily, Irena stated, “He is your husband, after all.”
“No, he is not,” Suzette denied. “Well, maybe,” she said more honestly. “But not really. I bear his name. That is all.”
“And so it is your plan to take his name and ignore the man?”
Annoyed, yet keeping a smile affixed to her countenance, Suzette turned on her grandmother. “What do you expect from me, Irena? The man knew what he was doing, as well as I. I did not lie to him about what I needed or what our relationship would be after the deed was done. He agreed.”
Irena raised a single eyebrow, but otherwise remained silent.
Suzette abruptly changed the subject. “When do you perform?”
“As soon as dinner is finished.”
“What are you singing?”
“The Barcarolle, ‘Belle Nuit’, ‘Oh Lovely Night’, from The Tales of Hoffmann, by Jacques Offenbach.”
