The Angel and the Warrior

by Karen Kay

  Anonymous

  Mississippi, March 1834

  “You what?”

  “Don’t look at me like that, Angel. I had no option. My honor, Papa’s honor, is at stake.”

  “Yes, I know. But a duel? At midnight tonight? How could you be so foolish?”

  “Foolish, am I? Lowdry called Papa a… Well, I cannot repeat the word in your presence. But it was a bad word, and it was said in front of Papa’s new congregation. And in front of my new… Well, no matter. The fact is I had no choice but to agree to a duel. Even you would have done as much had you been there.”

  “Oh, Julian.” Angel spread her hands nervously down her apron. “You know as well as I do that Papa has been called many things, in many different places.” She gazed at her blond-haired, blue-eyed brother with a glance mixed with humor, though her heart was, for the moment, introspective. “Remember the time we were stationed at that railroad town, and he invited all the Asian workers to our house?” She grinned. “And then there were those times he spoke up for the Catholic Irish in his sermons.”

  “There is nothing wrong with that.”

  “But in the English and Protestant town of Wayside, Pennsylvania?”

  “Prejudice is a very great evil.”

  “Yes, I know,” replied the similarly blonde-haired and blue-eyed Angelia. “But there are ways to go about changing a person’s mind—and ways that… Well, there are methods that cause trouble. I know Papa considers these things that he does to be a part of his work, his faith. And I know that we’d long ago decided to turn the other cheek when we admitted we cannot change him, nor do we want to. But really, even I think Papa has gone too far this time. This is the South…the Deep South. Feelings run high here. There is already criticism in the North for what these plantation owners are doing with their slaves, and yet slaves are a part of their economy. Papa simply cannot go amongst these slaves against the plantation owners’ wishes. I know he hopes for a quiet evening of Bible reading and perhaps the opportunity to preach to them of freedom—but he dare not do it—not without serious repercussions.”

  “Then you agree with these…these…”

  “No, of course I do not.” She pulled a face. “I find the practice of slavery repulsive—and those who condone it bigots. But hadn’t we discussed all this before we came here? Hadn’t we decided to try to change the people gradually? To plant seeds of doubt in their minds as to their activities. Perhaps to sow new ideas.”

  Julian Honeywell, Angelia’s junior by a mere year and a half, frowned at her. “Well, it’s no use to lecture me about it now, dear sister. The deed is done. The time for the duel is set. If I don’t appear, I will be branded a coward.”

  “Better a coward than dead.”

  Julian flashed her a look she knew only too well. She had gone too far. With his chin raised and his blue eyes glaring down at her, he as good as challenged her. He would cease speaking to her altogether if she didn’t back down and apologize.

  And if he didn’t talk to her—as he had done so many times in the past—where would she be? She didn’t even know where this duel was to take place.

  After untying the apron from around her waist, Angelia knotted the material up in her hand, whereupon she began wringing it within her grasp. “Please understand. I’m sure your honor is important, and perhaps it is better to be dead than to be labeled a coward. But—”

  An explosion of shattering glass abruptly ended their argument as a rock flew in through the window.

  Angel gasped. “What in the world?”

  Carefully, both she and Julian tiptoed to the rock, which had landed on the threadbare rug. Attached to it was a note that read, Get out of town now, or pay the consequences.

  Not again. Were they to be run out of yet another parish?

  A shadow stirred on the lawn in front of their house, and glancing through the broken window, Angelia beheld a sight she had hoped she would never see—a burning effigy, the likeness that of her minister father.

  Grabbing hold of Julian’s hand, she asked, “Where is Papa now? What has he been doing? And don’t tell me he went to the plantations. Please tell me he has not been preaching freedom to the slaves.”

  Julian gave her a wide-eyed stare. “I thought you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “That’s exactly where he is, what he’s been doing.”

  “Oh, Julian, no. How could he? Doesn’t he know that—?”

  Crash!

  Another flying rock careened into their living room.

  “What now? Isn’t one threat enough?”

  Crash!

  In flew another object, this one slightly less objectionable, being no more than a stalk of corn, followed by a tomato, a head of lettuce, another tomato.

  “What is going on here? Is the entire town assembled on our lawn?” She peeked out through the shattered glass. “Julian,” she gasped. “Come look. Who is that fellow those men are chasing? There, off in the distance. He looks to be running for his life. It looks like…like… No, it cannot be.” She grabbed hold of her brother’s hand.

  Julian brushed her away as he crossed the room. Two quick strides were all it took to carry him to the gun rack, where he picked up a rifle and a pistol, the weapons already primed.

  “Dear Lord! It’s Papa!”

  “I know. I see it. Go out back!”

  “I can’t. I need to go to Papa.”

  “Go out back. Now! Hitch up the wagon. We’ll make a run for it and catch up to Papa. He’ll have to take care of himself until then.”

  “But…but…we might be too late.”

  Julian paused. “If we show ourselves on our front lawn now, we’ll suffer the same fate as he. You know that.” Julian must have seen her face fall, for his next words were more comforting. “Come now. He’ll be all right. He’s a fast runner—look at all the experience he’s had doing it. We’ll meet up with him on the outskirts of town.”

  “But—”

  “Go! Now!”

  “Oh, of all the ridiculous…” she muttered as she grabbed hold of her hat, stomping toward their parish’s back entrance. “Must we always leave a town in a hurry? What a life. One would think that a minister’s daughter would have more sense than to…”

  The rest was lost to the wind as the door gave way, and Angelia Honeywell hurried toward their buggy.

  Luckily the barn was only a few steps from the house, and she was able to quickly round up and hitch the two horses to the wagon. She had no more than snapped the harness into place when the gunshots started. Angel drew a deep breath, glanced skyward, the action seeking divine explanation, and then, lifting her skirts, hurried back inside the house, where she found her brother kneeling next to the window, trading shots with a mob of people outside.

  Hurrying to the gun rack, Angel picked up two pistols that had been carefully mounted there, checked their priming and settled herself next to her brother, leaning forward to take aim and shoot. The fact that she accomplished this with an attitude as though this were as familiar to her as a Sunday sermon was perhaps telling.

  “Did you hitch up the horses to the wagon?” asked Julian.

  “Yes.”

  “All right. On the count of three, we’ll both take aim, shoot and run. Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “One, two. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Three!”

  Both sister and brother jumped up, took aim, shot their pistols and ran.

  One shot from outside came a little too close as she fled, causing Angel to complain, “My hat!”

  “Forget your hat.”

  “Oh! I will not,” she muttered. “I vow, I’ve lost more hats in these escapes of ours than I care to think about. And I so liked this one.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Not this time.” She swooped up the hat from the floor as both she and Julian ran out the door, where they commenced to jump aboard the waiting wagon.

  Without pause, Julia
n picked up the reins and yelled, “Yah!” With a quick jerk, they were away.

  Reaching up to take hold of her headgear as the wagon bumped over the uneven ground, Angel glanced back once. She watched as the townspeople realized she and Julian were escaping and began to chase them, several of the men there taking parting shots at them.

  Angelia ducked a carefully aimed blast.

  “Here.” Julian shoved a rifle at her. “Use it.”

  Grasping the weapon into her hands, Angelia might have been handling something as conventional as a tea set, her expertise was such. Spinning around and bending down so she could use the buggy’s seat to steady her hands, she took aim and shot into the air.

  A discharge from the one of the townsfolk’s rifles whizzed by her.

  “Damn,” Julian muttered.

  “Goodness gracious!” she said. “That shot was close. You don’t suppose they’re really aiming to hurt us? That’s never happened before. Usually the people in the parish just fire into the air in warning, much like I did.”

  “Don’t fire into the air this time. You’re our only defense right now.”

  “Come now. You know that I can’t purposely aim at them. What if I were to hurt someone?” She dropped her glance to Julian, and what she saw made her gasp. “You’ve been hit. Dear Lord, are you badly hurt?”

  “It’s just a scratch.” He winced when she touched the injury.

  “A scratch? You have a bullet lodged in there, and that’s going to require attention.” She took a good look at her brother, who sat beside her stiff and white-faced. “Why are they shooting at us?” She returned her attention to the task at hand and took aim with the rifle. “We haven’t done anything, have we?”

  Another bullet flew by them, and she fired.

  In response, there in the distance, a man fell.

  A man fell?

  What? Had she done that? Surely not.

  Not in all her earlier escapades had she ever hit or maimed another human being. She shot to warn only.

  She gulped. “I think we’re in trouble. I think I might have hit one of those people.”

  “Good.”

  “Good? And what if I did shoot one of them? What if whoever it is were to die? You know that killing is a sin.”

  “Is it? Now listen, what you did is called self-defense.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. You’d think it would be called self-defense, but these Southern towns are different. These people might not see it that way. Besides, hadn’t we long ago made a pact that we would never really harm anyone? Wasn’t that the only reason we agreed to learn how to shoot—it’s supposed to be for protection alone, and only because of Papa’s particular ways of preaching.”

  “Forget it,” responded Julian. “They were shooting at us. And that’s the end of the matter. But please, whatever you do, don’t tell Papa about this.”

  “I won’t.” Hadn’t she learned over the years to hide many a fact from their father? And why not? The last thing she and her brother needed in any of their situations was to stir up their father’s sense of righteousness.

  Angelia glanced behind her once more, but she did not see anyone following them. Perhaps she had only wounded the man.

  She certainly hoped so. After all, if it had been more than that, wouldn’t the townspeople have come storming after them, demanding revenge?

  Angelia allowed herself a deep sigh, which turned quickly to a frown. Only time would tell if that were true.

  The Top of a High Butte

  The South Platte River Area

  Ponoma’a’ehaseneese’he,

  Drying-Up Moon, March 1834

  It was the cry of a hawk, though the voice sounded unusually high and lovely. From a distance above, the bird flew downward, coming closer and closer to the young man perched so precariously near the butte’s edge.

  This was a good sign, thought the man, for the hawk was his animal helper—his defender and protector—having come to him in his first vision quest. Throwing off his buffalo robe from around his shoulders, Swift Hawk spread his naked arms open, and lifting his face upward, he raised his voice to the heavens in song:

  “Haiya, haiya, oh spirit of the hawk;

  I offer you blessings.

  Haiya, haiya, oh powerful hawk;

  Come to me, accept my gifts.

  Haiya, haiya, come to me,

  We will fly together,

  Haiya, haiya, I will hear your wise counsel.”

  In response, the magnificent bird continued its own song as it descended toward Swift Hawk. Would it touch him?

  Once in the past, in an earlier vision, a golden hawk had reached out a single feather toward Swift Hawk’s open arms, and the effect of that encounter had changed Swift Hawk’s world forever. For it was the hawk who had enlightened Swift Hawk as to what he needed to be, what he needed to have and what he needed to do, that he might break the spell that enslaved his people.

  It was also the hawk that had shown Swift Hawk that war was not the only skill he must master. So too must he condition his mind. For while it was a fact that Swift Hawk must be unequaled in battle, he must also attain a frame of mind whereby he honestly desired to show mercy and extend aid to the enemy.

  This had been the hardest lesson to learn. Indeed, were it not for his training as a scout, Swift Hawk doubted he would have ever grasped it.

  Yet all was not well. Despite his training, despite his war record, despite his desire to free his people, they remained enslaved in the mist.

  What was he doing wrong?

  Was he not strong enough? Was he not kind enough, wise enough, helpful enough? Had he not gone to war and, when victorious, shown benevolence and mercy to the enemy? Did he not aid the enemy and counsel him judiciously? Had he not given of himself, made the right offerings, sacrificed in the proper way?

  But in all this time, what good had these things done him? Were his people freed? Was he more enlightened as to what he needed to do to accomplish his task?

  Hova’ahane, no.

  Swift Hawk shook his head. He did not know what else to do—and the time in which to learn what he must do was quickly passing by him. Two more snows, or years, was all he had left, for already eighteen snows had passed. Problem was, he feared he was no closer to unraveling the spell than when he had been ten winters old.

  As a solution, Swift Hawk had come to this lonely spot upon this butte, seeking yet another vision. In this place, he would entreat his spirit protector to guide him, to assist him in understanding what it was he failed to see.

  He had prepared himself well. Naked, save for his comfortable buffalo robe, Swift Hawk had bathed himself in the sacred herbs; he had gone without food and water; he had murmured his prayers, singing his songs to the Above Ones, watching carefully as the wind carried the smoke from his small fire upward, into the realm of the spirit world.

  Now, taking a long, deep breath, Swift Hawk sat forward with anticipation, for the hawk had at last appeared to him. As Swift Hawk waited, he raised his voice higher and higher, stretching out his bare arms toward the heavens, hoping he might receive the bird’s blessing.

  But this quest was proving to be far different from his previous vision. Instead of the gilded touch from his protector, this particular hawk spread its mighty wings wide, fluttering them against the wind. It hovered before Swift Hawk, its sharp eyes seeming to see directly into Swift Hawk’s soul. Swift Hawk returned that look, one for one.

  Gradually the powerful bird lifted one of its wings and turned its head toward the east, the tip of its feather pointing toward something.

  What was it? Swift Hawk gazed in the indicated direction. He could see nothing.

  Then, as dim as the first ray of morning light, there came an image. It was an ethereal likeness, for it appeared as though it were made of mist, yet it was an image of two people, two pale faces whose skin was so light that it reflected the sun. Light, too, was their hair color, which seemed as fair as the burnished summe
r grasses.

  At present, these two people were engaged in the running of a white man’s travois at full speed. Atop that wagon sat one fair-haired, pale-faced male, the other occupant, a similarly featured female.

  As Swift Hawk watched, he observed that at different intervals, one or the other of the two would look over a shoulder, as though something followed them. Whatever that something was, it was not part of this misty image that Swift Hawk was presented.

  Without warning, there came the boom of rifles, followed by a shower of bullets speeding toward these two, maiming one of them…the male. In response the female sat down, her features facing the challengers. She took careful aim with her own rifle and shot.

  Yet instead of sadness, a look of shock came over her. He watched as she turned to her partner, noticing that she murmured something to him. But there was more.

  He saw her face before him, and in that instant she was as real to him as the light of day. He beheld her likeness with awe, for this was his vision. And yet he could not view her with a completely open heart, for she represented something he did not understand.

  She was white; he was Indian. What did she have to do with him?

  Still, hers was a symmetrical countenance. She was feminine and pretty, perhaps even beautiful…at least she might be considered so by the white man.

  To Swift Hawk she was as strange as any alien being might be. He watched her with some foreboding, watched as her long pale curls wafted in the wind, watched as the strands of her mane shone, reminding him of the silvery rays of moonlight. He scrutinized her thoroughly, even as her blue eyes sparked with such a bright hue they might shame a radiant summer sky. As he surveyed her over and over, he wondered, Who is she?

  All at once, the golden hawk took to song, serenading Swift Hawk again with its strangely high voice, chanting the strains of a melody as unfamiliar to Swift Hawk as might be the white man’s music.

  What did this vision mean? And more important, what did this have to do with him?

  Then, before another moment had passed him by, the woman spoke in Cheyenne. “Ne-Na’estse! Come here, come to me.”