Savage Illusions

by Cassie Edwards

  Orange, yel­low, and black-spot­ted, the pa­in­ted lady but­ter­f­li­es we­re flying in gro­ups of hun­d­reds. They we­re known to tra­vel mo­re wi­dely than most in­sects. Many spent the win­ters in Me­xi­co, flying nor­t­h­ward du­ring the spring and sum­mer.

  After Jole­na had one pa­in­ted lady se­cu­red in a jar, she wal­ked briskly along be­ne­ath the ca­nopy of tre­es, her eyes dar­ting aro­und. The sun­light fil­te­ring thro­ugh the tre­es over­he­ad ga­ve sharp de­fi­ni­ti­on and in­ten­se blac­k­ness to the sha­dows of the thic­kest, im­pe­net­rab­le part of the fo­rest. She shud­de­red as she tho­ught of the pan­t­her that had thre­ate­ned her the ot­her night.

  She gas­ped when she dis­co­ve­red anot­her but­terfly that she knew wo­uld thrill her fat­her. The co­lo­tis et­ri­da, who­se small, gol­den-tip­ped wings chan­ged form ac­cor­ding to the se­ason. She co­uld tell that this was the sum­mer but­terfly be­ca­use of its stron­ger, blac­ker mar­kings, which la­ter wo­uld di­sap­pe­ar en­ti­rely.

  After se­cu­ring one spe­ci­men, she con­ti­nu­ed the se­arch and so­on al­so had a jeze­bel but­terfly ho­used in a jar. The day wo­re on and fi­nal­ly, ex­ha­us­ted from her la­bors, Jole­na re­tur­ned to the wa­gon. The cal­ves of her legs and the small of her back we­re ac­hing. She was so­aked with per­s­pi­ra­ti­on, and the mist which had ac­com­pa­ni­ed the set­ting sun was li­ke a co­ol spon­ge on her fa­ce.

  "I ho­pe Two Rid­ges finds a pla­ce for a cam­p­si­te so­on," Kirk grum­b­led. "I've ne­ver se­en you as dri­ven as you we­re to­day. Lord, sis, I can ima­gi­ne how ti­red you are. It se­ems that every bo­ne in my body is ac­hing."

  "That's be­ca­use of yo­ur lack of exer­ci­se," Jole­na sa­id, wi­ping her hands ac­ross her fa­ce, smo­ot­hing the fi­ne mist from it. "You spend too much ti­me with yo­ur bo­oks. You ne­ed to be out­do­ors. Fat­her has spo­iled you, Kirk, by hi­ring so­me­one to do ever­y­t­hing, in­s­te­ad of al­lo­wing you to do so­me of the work yo­ur­self."

  "You are just as spo­iled," Kirk sa­id, his vo­ice drawn.

  "Perhaps so," Jole­na sa­id, shrug­ging. "But at le­ast I ta­ke ti­me to go for long walks. I lo­ve the fo­rest that frin­ges our pro­perty in Sa­int Lo­u­is. Al­ways when I've wal­ked thro­ugh it, I ha­ve felt so free, so at pe­ace with myself. So­me­ti­mes I fe­el con­nec­ted with the fo­rest, as tho­ugh I was me­ant to li­ve the­re, in­s­te­ad of in a lar­ge man­si­on."

  She sa­id no mo­re, for Kirk's he­avy sigh told her that he wan­ted to he­ar no mo­re con­ver­sa­ti­on abo­ut her In­di­an he­ri­ta­ge.

  Her tho­ughts re­tur­ned to Spot­ted Eag­le. With him, su­rely she wo­uld be ab­le to talk abo­ut an­y­t­hing, any ti­me.

  She frow­ned as she ga­zed in­to the dar­ke­ning sha­dows of the fo­rest. So­on night wo­uld co­ver ever­y­t­hing with its clo­ak of dar­k­ness, and she co­uld not help but be wor­ri­ed abo­ut Spot­ted Eag­le and won­der whe­re he might be, and if he was on his way back from his vil­la­ge.

  Her ga­ze shif­ted. She sta­red at Two Rid­ges' back as he ro­de a few yards ahe­ad of her wa­gon. A de­so­la­te fe­eling over­ca­me her, wis­hing the back she was lo­oking at was Spot­ted Eag­le's.

  Oh, when wo­uld he re­turn? What if he did not re­turn at all? What if she ne­ver ever saw him aga­in?

  If he did not re­turn by the ti­me the le­pi­dop­te­rists we­re fi­nis­hed with the­ir se­arch for the ra­re but­terfly and we­re re­ady to bo­ard the ri­ver­bo­at back to Sa­int Lo­u­is, what then?

  Would she be ab­le to ac­tu­al­ly bo­ard the ri­ver­bo­at wit­ho­ut se­e­ing Spot­ted Eag­le aga­in?

  She do­ub­ted it.

  They ro­de on for a whi­le lon­ger, then Two Rid­ges drew a tight re­in and stop­ped his hor­se. "We will ma­ke camp he­re," he sa­id, tur­ning his ga­ze to Jole­na, then shif­ting it to Kirk.

  Kirk nod­ded. He let his re­ins go slack, then jum­ped from the wa­gon. Be­fo­re he co­uld get aro­und to help Jole­na, she had al­re­ady left the wa­gon, stret­c­hing and yaw­ning. He ga­ve her a lin­ge­ring, si­lent sta­re, mar­ve­ling at her en­du­ran­ce, then went to the back of the wa­gon and be­gan un­lo­ading the­ir equ­ip­ment for the night.

  Jolena yaw­ned one mo­re ti­me. Then she stop­ped and lis­te­ned, he­aring a stran­ge ro­aring and his­sing thro­ugh the tre­es. It so­un­ded li­ke wa­ter drop­ping by sta­ges in­to a de­ep chasm.

  Her sen­se of ad­ven­tu­re and cu­ri­osity sent her wal­king thro­ugh the fo­rest un­til she ca­me to a cle­aring that led up­ward. Lif­ting the hem of her skirt, she clim­bed hig­her and hig­her, then stop­ped when she ca­me to a high po­int on a cliff from whe­re she co­uld see not only the wa­ter­fall a short dis­tan­ce away, but the ri­ver down be­low her as it flat­te­ned out and ma­de a wi­de swe­ep aro­und a bald gra­ni­te hill be­fo­re fin­ge­ring out ac­ross the val­ley.

  The wa­ter down be­low was smo­oth and glassy, and the bro­ken ri­ver stret­c­hed in­to the dis­tan­ce li­ke dull stre­ams of sil­ver.

  The sun­set was lig­h­ting the eas­tern hills, sen­ding long sun­be­ams thro­ugh the mist in­to the val­ley be­low.

  Captured by the lo­ve­li­ness of the wa­ter­fall, Jole­na ga­zed at it, sig­hing. Al­t­ho­ugh the sun was fast lo­we­ring in the sky, the wa­ter­fall was still lit and it shim­me­red with myri­ad co­lors. The wa­ter­fall's spu­me ro­se far in­to the sky li­ke a clo­ud of smo­ke from a fo­rest fi­re, then des­cen­ded to the earth as mist, ke­eping the ve­ge­ta­ti­on at the top of the chasm drip­ping wet.

  The sun­set shi­ning on the wa­ter­fall ma­de ra­in­bows, mul­tip­le and im­men­se and so bril­li­ant they se­emed pal­pab­le. They mo­ved with the light, fa­ding and emer­ging and for­ming aga­in at dif­fe­rent an­g­les and in dif­fe­rent si­zes, so that so­me­ti­mes one co­uld ac­tu­al­ly see whe­re they be­gan and en­ded.

  Standing on the cliff, so­aking up the be­a­uti­ful tran­qu­il set­ting, Jole­na grew ten­se with ex­ci­te­ment when a but­terfly flew just past her no­se.

  ''Lord, it's a nympha­lid," she gas­ped. The nympha­lid was ste­eped in In­di­an lo­re, and per­haps al­most as ra­re as the eup­ha­ed­ra.

  She con­ti­nu­ed to watch the but­terfly as it se­emed to chan­ge co­lors be­fo­re her very eyes, a de­fen­se mec­ha­nism to pro­tect the cre­atu­re from pre­da­tors such as her­self.

  The but­terfly se­emed to be te­asing her as it brus­hed past her no­se, then flew down as if it was go­ing to land on her hand. Her he­art ra­cing, she lo­oked des­pe­ra­tely aro­und her, sud­denly re­ali­zing that her net and jars we­re back at the camp.

  The but­terfly lan­ded on her arm, and Jole­na held her bre­ath as she wat­c­hed it furl and un­furl its an­ten­nae, as tho­ugh tas­ting her to see if she we­re a cop­per flo­wer.

  Jolena star­ted mo­ving one of her hands gu­ar­dedly to­ward the but­terfly. Just as she was abo­ut to pla­ce her fin­gers on eit­her si­de of the but­terfly's wings, the but­terfly to­ok flight aga­in. Yet still it re­ma­ined clo­se at hand, te­asingly brus­hing aga­inst Jole­na's fa­ce or ha­ir.

  "I ha­ve to ha­ve it," Jole­na whis­pe­red to her­self.

  Moving away from the ed­ge of the cliff, her eyes ne­ver le­aving the but­terfly, Jole­na's he­art po­un­ded as for a mo­ment it se­emed to be fol­lo­wing her. As Jole­na mo­ved bac­k­ward, so did the but­terfly flut­ter for­ward.

  Then the but­terfly sud­denly so­ared wi­dely aro­und in a half cir­c­le and mo­ved back to ho­ver over the very ed­ge of the cliff. "Just you stay right the­re," Jole­na whis­pe­red. "Don't mo­ve. Ple­ase, ple­ase don't mo­ve. Be the­re when I get back with my net." In her ex­ci­te­ment and has­te to get back to the ca
mp, Jole­na al­most tum­b­led down the ste­ep em­ban­k­ment. Af­ter ste­ad­ying her­self, she mo­ved with su­re fo­oting on down the hill, then bro­ke in­to a mad rush thro­ugh the fo­rest. When she re­ac­hed the cam­p­si­te, whe­re a fi­re had al­re­ady be­en star­ted, she went to her wa­gon and re­ac­hed in­si­de, qu­ickly fin­ding her net.

  "The jar, Kirk!" she cri­ed. "Get the jar and fol­low me!"

  "Jolena, stop," Kirk sho­uted, not ma­king any mo­ve to do as she sa­id. "I'm not go­ing an­y­w­he­re. Nor sho­uld you. It will be dark so­on."

  Jolena tur­ned on a he­el and ga­ve Kirk a frus­t­ra­ted sta­re. "Kirk, I've fo­und a nympha­lid," she cri­ed. "Now co­me with me. I may be too la­te. It's pro­bably al­re­ady go­ne!"

  Sighing, his sho­ul­ders slo­uc­hed, Kirk grab­bed the jar with its so­aked cot­ton from the back of the wa­gon and be­gan run­ning af­ter Jole­na.

  Two Rid­ges had be­en wat­c­hing Jole­na for so­me ti­me. When he ca­ught sight of the but­terfly she was cha­sing in­to the fo­rest, he frow­ned. He knew the lo­re of that but­terfly. It was a but­terfly shun­ned by the Blac­k­fo­ot and all ot­her tri­bes of In­di­ans!

  It me­ant bad luck to an­yo­ne who lo­oked upon it!

  He bro­ke in­to a mad run. He had to stop Jole­na. She sho­uld not be ne­ar the but­terfly, much less catch it to carry with her for the rest of this ex­pe­di­ti­on.

  If she did, ever­yo­ne wo­uld be in je­opardy! Win­ded, yet too fil­led with ex­ci­te­ment to stop, Jole­na rus­hed back up the ste­ep hill, then suc­ked in a wild bre­ath of re­li­ef when she got to the cliff and saw that the but­terfly was still cir­c­ling aro­und at the very ed­ge, as tho­ugh it had wa­ited for her.

  Clutching the han­d­le of her but­terfly net, Jole­na in­c­hed clo­ser to the ed­ge of the cliff. "I can't be­li­eve it," she sa­id, gi­ving Kirk a qu­ick glan­ce over her sho­ul­der as he lag­ged far be­hind her. "Kirk, it's still he­re. Can you be­li­eve it? It's as tho­ugh it wa­ited for me."

  "Don't get too clo­se to the ed­ge of the damn cliff," Kirk war­ned, wi­ping per­s­pi­ra­ti­on from his brow. "Watch it, now, Jole­na. Don't go any clo­ser!"

  Jolena did not he­ar an­y­t­hing but the thun­de­ro­us ro­ar of the wa­ter­fall and the cry in­si­de her to catch this but­terfly for her fat­her. She in­c­hed her way along the land now, but when she got to the ed­ge of the cliff, whe­re be­low her ra­pids we­re swir­ling, she stop­ped.

  But the but­terfly se­emed to be te­asing her aga­in when it flew only a few in­c­hes away from whe­re she co­uld re­ach it.

  Fearlessly, she le­aned out, swin­ging her net in a des­pe­ra­te at­tempt to catch the but­terfly, then scre­amed as she lost her fo­oting and tum­b­led over the si­de of the cliff.

  Kirk stop­ped in mid-step, his eyes wild. "Jole­na," he whis­pe­red, his thro­at so sud­denly dry he co­uld scar­cely bre­at­he. "Jole­na…"

  Chapter Thirteen

  Spotted Eag­le had just ar­ri­ved at the cam­p­si­te when he saw Two Rid­ges en­ter the fo­rest. When Spot­ted Eag­le dis­mo­un­ted and dis­co­ve­red that ne­it­her Jole­na nor Kirk we­re among tho­se bus­ying them­sel­ves aro­und the fi­re he con­c­lu­ded that per­haps Two Rid­ges was fol­lo­wing Jole­na and her brot­her to pro­tect them whi­le they ex­p­lo­red.

  Spotted Eag­le re­cal­led the cliff ne­arby and his he­art skip­ped a be­at. Qu­ickly se­cu­ring his re­ins, he glan­ced to­ward the fo­rest aga­in, whe­re he had last se­en Two Rid­ges.

  Then, wit­ho­ut sa­ying an­y­t­hing to an­y­body, he bro­ke in­to a hard run. He felt slightly re­li­eved when he fi­nal­ly re­ac­hed the slo­pe of land that wo­uld le­ad him up to the cliff. Jole­na was now­he­re in sight. Nor was her brot­her, or Two Rid­ges. Per­haps they had go­ne anot­her way.

  Suddenly an eag­le ro­se in­to the air with a sna­ke which so­on drop­ped from its claws and es­ca­ped. Spot­ted Eag­le felt that was a bad omen. The lo­we­ring sun, too, was pa­in­ted with sun dog­sa su­re war­ning that dan­ger was ne­ar!

  Then a mind-shat­te­ring scre­am sud­denly pi­er­ced the air, star­t­ling Spot­ted Eag­le.

  His in­si­des grew cold when he he­ard Kirk sho­uting Jole­na's na­me.

  "Hai- yah!" Spot­ted Eag­le cri­ed in des­pa­ir, kno­wing what had hap­pe­ned.

  His wo­man!

  Just as he had fe­ared, she was in dan­ger!

  She might even now be de­ad, for he had he­ard but only her one scre­am and the sho­ut of her brot­her.

  Now ever­y­t­hing was too qu­i­et!

  Almost blin­ded with fe­ar, Spot­ted Eag­le ra­ced up the hill. When he re­ac­hed the sum­mit, his eyes shif­ted from Kirk to Two Rid­ges, who we­re stan­ding, mo­ti­on­less, the­ir eyes wi­de as they pe­ered over the si­des of the cliff.

  Spotted Eag­le's he­art se­emed to plum­met to his fe­et, af­ra­id now to lo­ok over the cliff, fe­aring that he wo­uld see not­hing but the crash of the wa­ter­fall and the whir­l­po­ols be­low. If his wo­man had fal­len in­to the ri­ver, she wo­uld not sur­vi­ve the fall, much less the po­wer­ful sur­ges of the wa­ter.

  His jaw tight, his thro­at dry, Spot­ted Eag­le rus­hed to the ed­ge of the cliff, ro­ughly ed­ging him­self bet­we­en Two Rid­ges and Kirk. When he ga­zed dow­n­ward, si­lently pra­ying to the fi­res of the sun that his wo­man had so­me­how li­ved thro­ugh the fall, he gas­ped at what he saw.

  " Wo- ka-hit, lis­ten to my ple­as," he pra­yed des­pe­ra­tely to the fi­res of the sun. "Do not let my wo­man die."

  He lo­oked qu­ickly up at the sky, from which he tho­ught he he­ard a vo­ice say, " A-wah-heh­ta­ke co­ura­ge, my son." Then he fell to his kne­es and ga­zed wild-eyed down at his wo­man, who was only mo­ments away from de­ath's do­or.

  "Jolena?" he sa­id as he sta­red dis­be­li­evingly down at her whe­re she clung des­pe­ra­tely to a hu­ge, man­g­led ro­ot of a tree that had grown out of the rock at the si­des of the cliff.

  "Save me," Jole­na whis­pe­red. "Oh, Lord, Spot­ted Eag­le, I can't… last much lon­ger. My fin­gers. I… fe­el them we­ake­ning!"

  Spotted Eag­le flat­te­ned his sto­mach aga­inst the rock be­ne­ath him and sco­oted out as far as he co­uld over the led­ge wit­ho­ut pla­cing him­self in dan­ger of top­pling over. He had to gi­ve his body eno­ugh le­ve­ra­ge so that it co­uld to­le­ra­te Jole­na's we­ight, as well as his own, on­ce he grab­bed her hands to pull her up to sa­fety.

  He knew that he sho­uld ask the as­sis­tan­ce of Two Rid­ges and Kirk, but they had al­re­ady pro­ved the­ir co­war­di­ce too of­ten to be ab­le to de­pend on them for an­y­t­hing.

  They had just sto­od the­re wat­c­hing when they co­uld ha­ve be­en wor­king to­get­her to sa­ve her!

  But now was not the ti­me to con­demn. Now was not the ti­me to con­f­ront Kirk with his sus­pi­ci­on that he was the one who had pa­id Whi­te Mo­le to co­me to Spot­ted Eag­le with li­es abo­ut an ailing fat­her!

  It was the ti­me to sa­ve his wo­man's li­fe.

  If she slip­ped away from him to her de­ath, he felt as tho­ugh he just might fol­low her.

  Without her, he wo­uld be only half a man!

  "Grab my hands, one at a ti­me!" Spot­ted Eag­le sho­uted, sco­oting out a lit­tle far­t­her, as far as he pos­sibly co­uld, and re­ac­hing his hands out for Jole­na.

  "One… at… a… ti­me, Jole­na," he ca­uti­oned aga­in.

  Her he­art po­un­ding and dizzy from fe­ar, Jole­na to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, then qu­ickly re­ac­hed one hand up, re­li­ef rus­hing thro­ugh her when Spot­ted Eag­le grab­bed her aro­und the wrist.

  Then just as qu­ickly, she re­ac­hed her ot­her hand out to him and a gra­te­ful sob lod­ged in her thro­at as she smi­led thro­ug
h te­ar­ful eyes up at him.

  "I am go­ing to pull you up slowly," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id thro­atily.

  Spotted Eag­le's he­art was fil­led with gra­ti­tu­de that Old Man, the chi­ef god of the Blac­k­fo­ot, had he­ard his si­lent ple­as and had an­s­we­red them. He now knew, be­yond a sha­dow of a do­ubt, that it was his and Jole­na's des­tiny to be to­get­her, to sha­re li­fe as tho­ugh one so­ul and one he­ar­t­be­at.

  Today was pro­of eno­ugh to him that they we­re me­ant for one anot­her, for ot­her­wi­se, she wo­uld ha­ve not be­en gi­ven back to him, as tho­ugh a gift from the gods!