He cupped her face in his hands—Mati, his beloved, his kulem—and for the first time in his life, he felt at peace. Happiness filled his heart and dampened his eyes.
"My heart is with you, Mati," he breathed again, but this time, the words had true power. Mati was the woman of his heart.
Chapter 25
For Mattie, the days passed in idyllic bliss. The meadow grew knee-high with deergrass and foxtails. Refreshing spring showers coaxed orange poppies to spring up like bright jewels set in the emerald grass. Often she’d grab her sketchbook and wander off to the woods or down to the stream or toward the rise overlooking the canyon. It was impossible to capture everything on paper, but Mattie returned each day with at least a dozen sketches.
The Konkows grew accustomed to her habits. They no longer tagged along to spy on her when she left the village to sketch, which was fortunate. Otherwise, they would have learned every intimate detail about her couplings with Sakote. They’d had so many of them, in every possible setting, from the cradling crook of an ancient oak to the bracing cold of the creek bed, that it was a wonder they hadn’t been caught. It made her cheeks flame to recall their last encounter, high on a canyon ledge by the light of the rising sun.
Mattie had never felt closer to the earth, to nature, to truth than when she lay naked with Sakote in the wild of the wood and the warmth of the sun. It was this emotion the Pre-Raphaelite artists spoke of, she was sure—the clarity of the soul, born of the pure expression of nature in its unadorned glory. Nothing was more dramatic, more moving, more beautiful.
If she lived here forever, Mattie knew she could never capture all the splendor around her. With the vast sky for a canvas, Sakote’s Creator was a far more inspired artist than she could ever hope to be. On one morning, thunderheads curled on the horizon like the heavy beards of grumbling old men. On another, the heavens burned so clear and pure and blue that it made Mattie’s eyes water to look at them.
And even on days when the canopy was only a wash of gray and nature turned a cold shoulder, Mattie always found nurturing warmth in Sakote’s arms. He brought her a comfort and security she’d never known, even as a child, when her parents might be gone for months at a time. And he brought nourishment, not only to her body, but to her hungering soul as well. His embrace made her forget the past. His kiss blinded her to the future.
In fact, her sense of time centered only around the coming Kaminehaitsen, for which the tribe busily prepared.
Today, the first day of the festivities, Mattie was caught up in the excitement. The spring air shimmered with life—darting yellow-jackets, flickering butterflies, swooping blue jays, and a fine mist of pine pollen that settled over everything like fairy dust.
She waded with her two Konkow sisters through the lush, flower-bedecked grass, toward the cedar grove, wearing the comfortable moccasins Sakote had made for her. They went to pick wild mint to brew into tea. Some of the other tribes had already arrived, and Mattie learned that just as in the Hardwicke household, guests expected to be greeted with refreshments.
Of course, the strange white woman had instantly become a topic of much conversation. The adolescents of the other tribes whispered conspiratorially behind their hands, mothers shooed their children away, and the elders frowned mistrustfully at her.
But, accustomed to disapproval, Mattie was undaunted. In fact, she decided to court their affections. It was her intent to serve the mint tea to the headmen of the other tribes herself. After all, pouring tea was a sign of hospitality in her civilized culture. Surely it was thus for the Konkows as well.
They were almost to the mint patch when her sisters stopped suddenly. Mattie heard voices, angry voices, coming from the forest. They spoke in the Konkow tongue, and the two girls listened with deepening scowls. But as they turned to retreat, hauling Mattie with them, she recognized Sakote’s voice.
She didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Surely it was a wicked thing, even in Konkow society, and her sisters seemed determined to drag her away. But she waved them off, and using the light, silent step Sakote had taught her, she drew closer until she could make out the shapes of several Konkow men among the trees.
Behind her, her sisters gestured frantically for her to come away, but curiosity got the better of her, so she ignored the girls until they gave up and marched home on their own.
She couldn’t understand the men’s words, but their sharp gestures and harsh, guttural syllables made it clear that they were engaged in some heated debate. One of the visiting Konkows, a headman by the looks of him, scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. Three of the elders with him did likewise. Sakote shook his head in refusal, and one of the younger men chattered at him, waving an accusing finger at his face. Sakote ran his hand through his hair in exasperation and spoke quietly to the others.
Mattie leaned against the pine trunk beside her. Even when colored with anger, the Konkow language was musical and engaging. It started deep in the chest and came out like the whisper of the wind. She could listen to Sakote speak his native tongue all day long. But it saddened her to see him so distraught. She wondered what troubled him.
As she watched, a beetle crawled down the tree trunk and across her hand, and she snatched back her arm to shake it off, stepping onto a pine twig with a distinct snap. All at once, a dozen pairs of angry male eyes pinned her to the spot. She swallowed hard, blushing furiously. Even Sakote looked vexed with her.
The chattering young Konkow resumed his prattle, smugly stabbing his finger toward her this time. Sakote barked something at the man over his shoulder, which instantly shut him up. Then he stared at Mattie with a tortured expression she couldn’t decipher.
Suddenly, she realized they’d been talking about her. Embarrassed, she turned away, wishing she could disappear or erase time and undo whatever it was she’d done.
Disappointment. That was what she’d seen in Sakote’s face. It surprised her that she hadn’t recognized it at once. After all, she’d lived under that curse most of her life. But coming from him, it dealt her a crushing blow. Unable to face him, she walked stiffly off, determined to remain stoic under the men’s scrutiny.
She’d gone barely a dozen paces from the tree when he caught her shoulder. She tried to break free, but he held on, wheeling her gently into the wall of his chest. He asked no questions and offered no explanation. He simply enveloped her in his arms, holding her to his heart and stroking her hair until she sank against him and surprised herself by weeping.
Sakote felt her tears on his chest as if they were his own, and yet he didn’t know how to stop them. For days, he’d soared as free as the eagle. He’d thought of nothing but Mati—the welcome of her smile, the smell of her skin, the comfort of her body. He’d deceived himself with dreams of their many moons to come, the children they would have and the peaceful winter of their lives together. But this day, that soaring eagle of his heart, so newly borne to the winds, now bore a bloody arrow in its breast.
Sakote had been a fool. The wise men of the other tribes, who left now in disgust, would agree. Living in two worlds was not a blessing. It was a curse.
"Why do they hate me?" Mati’s sobs tore at his heart.
"They don’t hate you," he said fiercely. "They’re only...afraid."
"Of me?" Her eyes brimmed with tears.
"Of your kind, of the willa."
"But why?"
He swallowed hard. She truly didn’t understand. She knew only that their people were different. She’d never seen how those differences could fill a man with hate, could drive a man to kill.
He’d seen it, from the time the first whites brought death in the form of a sickness that had slaughtered half of his people. Since then, his sister had been raped, a pack of drunken miners had strung up three Konkow elders, and even the white man’s pigs had gorged on the acorns the Konkows needed to survive the winter. And not long ago, according to the elders, a neighboring headman’s young son had been shot and killed by a willa.
The
settlers created havoc. And yet, many of them, like his friend Noa and the kind yellow-haired man Mati called Swede, bore no blind hatred for the Konkows. They, like Mati, simply didn’t understand the ruin they brought.
How could he explain all that to her?
The Konkow elders had made it clear they didn’t trust Mati. But he couldn’t tell her that.
Mati gazed up through her tears, her eyes as bright as serpentine rocks in a stream, and Sakote knew at once he would never give her up, no matter how he displeased the elders. She was his kulem now. Whatever happened, he would stay by her side.
He’d never defied the elders before. But though he feared for his people and feared what mayhem the white men might bring to the village, he loved Mati even more.
"I won’t let you go," he vowed. "You’re mine, kulem, and I won’t give you back to the whites."
Sakote’s words, whispered against Mattie’s hair, brought fresh tears to her eyes. She loved him fiercely, passionately, and she couldn’t bear to cause him such anguish among his own people.
Somehow she’d fix things. She’d learn to speak his language. She’d learn to like the taste of grasshoppers. She would even learn to weave a basket. She’d do whatever it took to belong to his world.
Comforted by renewed determination, she sniffed back the dregs of her sorrow and wiped away her tears.
"You shouldn’t cry," he teased, tucking a curl behind her ear. "My little brother will think I’ve beaten you, and then he’ll tell our mother, and she’ll beat me."
His silly words coaxed a smile from her. Dear Sakote, he always knew just what to say. She looked into his dark eyes, twinkling now like the first stars of evening, and felt suddenly overwhelmed. He knew her so intimately now, not only every inch of her body—which he’d touched and kissed and bathed and worshipped till she no longer remembered what modesty felt like—but also her heart.
Yet, as close as they’d become, she felt as if she’d hardly scratched the surface of his soul. His life might be simple, but he was as complex as the shifting color of his eyes and as deep as the waterfall’s pool. She wondered how long it would take to know Sakote, truly know him. She doubted anyone could ever learn him completely. But she prayed she’d get the chance.
She straightened his abalone shell beads and stood on tiptoe to brush a soft kiss upon his lips. "I’ll make them like me," she promised him, trying not to think about all the times she’d murmured those words in the past.
"Kulem, how could they not?" Sakote took her head between his hands then and kissed her so thoroughly that when he was done, her heart hammered like a woodpecker, her knees turned to custard, and her only coherent thought was that for a novice, he certainly had mastered the art of kissing quickly. She moaned in protest when he pulled away, and he chuckled at her wanton complaint. They both knew that Kaminehaitsen was upon them, strangers filled the woods, and this was neither the time nor the place for lovemaking.
Sakote left to greet the arriving guests, and Mattie remained behind to pick wild mint from the cedar grove. When she returned, she dismissed the curious stares of her sisters and set about making tea, dropping a hot stone into the tightly woven basket of water to heat it, as she’d seen Sakote’s mother do.
Meanwhile, more and more guests arrived, and, despite the racks of dried salmon, the burden baskets of acorn meal, and the dozens of camas bulbs she’d helped to dig up, Mattie wondered if there’d be enough food to last the several days of the celebration.
Certainly there was enough tea. Those few who actually accepted the drink Mattie offered did so with great reluctance. She supposed they feared the nefarious white woman might have slipped poison into it. Nonetheless, she tried to remain as gracious as possible under their scrutiny, mimicking her Hardwicke cousins’ unflappable grace.
It was sunset by the time the last tribe padded into the village. A huge fire was lit, and gradually everyone gathered around it, chattering and laughing, elbowing each other, talking behind their hands, squirming to get comfortable. Mattie smiled. Their celebration bore a striking resemblance to the affairs Uncle Ambrose hosted. She supposed their purpose was no different. It was called Kaminehaitsen, the Feather Dance, but it may as well have been dubbed the Hardwicke Winter Ball. It was an occasion for friends to exchange news, young swains to court, and old ladies to gossip.
Sakote’s mother directed the serving of supper—roasted trout, yellow-jacket eggs, and bread made with acorn meal and flower seeds. Sakote sat beside her so he could serve as translator while the visiting Konkows finished their meals and began a series of formal speeches.
As the stars glimmered overhead, putting the crystal chandeliers of Hardwicke House to shame, the best storytellers of each village related the news of their tribe. If Sakote’s translations were to be trusted, the tales seemed to be more fable than fact, but everyone listened with hushed interest and nods of accord to what were surely grossly exaggerated accounts of bravery and cunning.
One man claimed to have battled a pack of yeleyena, wolves, and come away without a scratch. Another recalled his flight in the talons of a sacred eagle. A third had spoken to Henyakano, Old Man Coyote, and tricked him into revealing where a herd of fat deer grazed.
She could see by Sakote’s bemused expression that he, too, doubted the verity of the stories. But stretching the truth was apparently a Konkow custom of the highest order, and Domem, the storyteller of the village, carried on that tradition with just as much bluster as his brothers.
As soon as he began, Mattie froze, her cup of mint tea halfway to her lips. Everyone had turned to stare at her.
Sakote translated in a murmur. "Domem will tell the tale of the white woman’s bravery." He clearly approved of the idea.
Mattie felt ill. She wasn’t brave. She couldn’t even enter her hubo without checking for stray rodents first. What possible story could Domem tell? Or invent?
He began by making a swirling gesture with his fists, and Mattie recognized the movement instantly.
"The white woman," Sakote translated, "once lived in the village of the men who winnow gold rocks from the water."
Mattie, trembling, set her tea on the ground before her for fear she might spill it. Ever since that horrifying spectacle she’d caused at her Uncle Ambrose’s party, she hated being the center of attention.
"She came over many mountains to be the woman of the healer there," Sakote whispered. "But when she arrived at the gold camp, her man had already traveled to the other world."
Mattie swallowed uncomfortably. The way Domem described the rugged journey, it sounded almost poetic.
"The white woman was filled with sorrow," Sakote told her.
Domem mimicked a woman wailing, and Mattie had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Heavens, she hadn’t wept that loud when her own parents died. She certainly wouldn’t make such a fuss over a husband she’d never met.
"And so when the brother of her husband came to the village, she welcomed him."
Mattie stiffened. She didn’t want to hear about Henry, didn’t want to relive that horrible incident.
"But the man was a bad man, an evil spirit."
Domem raised his arms over his head and grimaced, frightening some of the children into giggles. But Mattie could no longer enjoy the story.
The storyteller growled, baring his teeth, and began swinging his arms about violently, chopping and hacking. Mattie didn’t need to be told what event he portrayed.
Sakote spoke through clenched teeth. "The evil spirit attacked the men of the village. He tore them into pieces with his sharp teeth and claws, stabbed them with his knife and shot them with his golden gun."
Mattie could hardly breathe. The Konkows around her seemed entranced by the story, but she felt sick, as if the cool, crisp night was airless.
"But when he came to the house of the white woman, she did not know all this, and she invited him in."
Mattie felt dizzy, remembering, but not so dizzy she didn’t notice some of the tr
ibesmen muttering amongst themselves as if they argued.
A headman with cropped hair raised his hand suddenly to stop the story, which drew gasps from the villagers and a look of shock from Domem. It was undoubtedly a breach of etiquette to interrupt a storyteller. The headman asked Domem something which Sakote didn’t translate. Domem replied. Then the headman raised himself to his full proud height and issued a proclamation that made the village fall utterly silent.
Sakote jumped up, startling Mattie, and began arguing with the man. She sat, bewildered, while two younger men joined the debate against Sakote, poking fingers in her direction. Finally, Sakote’s mother placed a comforting hand upon Mattie’s forearm, but worry clouded the Konkow woman’s face. Mattie knew she’d done something terrible again.
She wished she could understand what they were shouting. Sakote seemed very upset, and the Konkows of his village muttered nervously amongst themselves, glancing fearfully in her direction from time to time.
"Akina!" Sakote spat the word at the larger of the two men. Apparently their argument was at an end. The man grunted back, and everyone returned to their place by the fire. But Sakote wouldn’t look at her, and his brow was deeply lined with brooding. He mumbled something to his mother, and she motioned for Mattie to follow her.
Mattie was only too happy to oblige when the woman led her away to her hubo. The peaceful ambience of the evening had been destroyed, and somehow she was to blame. Disapproval from a society whose language she couldn’t comprehend was even worse than the cutting remarks she’d overheard in her uncle’s parlor about "that wayward Hardwicke girl."
But she didn’t intend to give up or run away—not this time. The tribes’ approval was important to Sakote, and she’d do everything in her power to assure that approval.
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