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Savage Illusions

Page 27

by Cassie Edwards


  She most cer­ta­inly wo­uld not pla­ce a kni­fe to her cal­ves and scar her­self!

  She was cer­ta­in no one wo­uld qu­es­ti­on this cho­ice of hers. To ever­yo­ne but Spot­ted Eag­le, she was still a stran­ger who wo­uld not be ex­pec­ted to fol­low the set ru­les of her el­ders.

  "I will do what I can," Jole­na sa­id, her vo­ice drawn. "But you must know that I will ne­ed to be shown."

  "I will be at yo­ur si­de at all ti­mes, di­rec­ting you," Mo­on Flo­wer sa­id, ta­king Jole­na by the el­bow and us­he­ring her away from Spot­ted Eag­le's dwel­ling. "It is sad that you did not know Two Rid­ges as a sis­ter knows a brot­her. It is sad that he did not know you as a brot­her knows a sis­ter. His he­art was warm and big. He wo­uld ha­ve drawn you in­to lo­ving him, as he did ever­yo­ne who knew him."

  "I'm su­re he wo­uld ha­ve," Jole­na sa­id, no­ting now the ut­ter si­len­ce of the vil­la­ge. No chil­d­ren we­re run­ning aro­und pla­ying. No el­derly men we­re sit­ting out­si­de, sha­ring smo­kes and gos­sip. No wo­men we­re car­rying wo­od from the ri­ver.

  It was as tho­ugh ti­me had sto­od still in the Blac­k­fo­ot vil­la­ge, per­haps wa­iting to re­su­me on­ce the bu­ri­al ri­tu­als we­re over.

  When Jole­na and Mo­on Flo­wer ca­me to Two Rid­ges' te­pee, Jole­na he­si­ta­ted, then wal­ked in­si­de with the be­a­uti­ful, slight Blac­k­fo­ot wo­man. The fi­re in the fi­re­pit had be­en al­lo­wed to die down to cold, gray as­hes. Jole­na shi­ve­red and hug­ged her­self, fe­eling as tho­ugh she had en­te­red a tomb. As her eyes adj­us­ted to the dar­k­ness, she fo­cu­sed them on a body that was lying on a co­uch of be­ar pelts.

  Again she shi­ve­red, stun­ned to find that Two Rid­ges was lying the­re wit­ho­ut clot­hes or any blan­kets to co­ver his nu­dity. When her ga­ze stop­ped at his fa­ce and saw how whi­te and chalky it was, a fe­eling of lig­ht-he­aded­ness swept thro­ugh Jole­na. She grab­bed at Mo­on Flo­wer to ste­ady her­self.

  "You ha­ve not se­en many de­ad pe­op­le be­fo­re?" Mo­on Flo­wer sa­id, ga­zing at Jole­na with sor­row­ful eyes. "You are fin­ding it hard to lo­ok at yo­ur brot­her as he li­es the­re with only his de­ath mask?''

  "No, I ha­ven't ex­pe­ri­en­ced many de­aths," Jole­na whis­pe­red, fe­aring dis­tur­bing the de­ad if she spo­ke alo­ud. "But I ha­ve ex­pe­ri­en­ced one very pa­in­ful loss. My mot­her."

  She pa­used and glan­ced qu­ickly at Mo­on Flo­wer, fe­eling a ne­ed to ex­p­la­in which mot­her she was re­fer­ring to, but she saw that was not ne­ces­sary. Mo­on Flo­wer's eyes, and it se­emed her tho­ughts, we­re now so­lely on Two Rid­ges.

  Jolena fol­lo­wed Mo­on Flo­wer to Two Rid­ges' bed. She wat­c­hed as Mo­on Flo­wer went to one si­de of the te­pee and gat­he­red se­ve­ral ro­bes up in­to her arms, then car­ri­ed them back to Jole­na.

  "You must wrap yo­ur brot­her snugly in the­se," Mo­on Flo­wer sa­id, la­ying the ro­bes ac­ross Jole­na's out­s­t­ret­c­hed arms. Mo­on Flo­wer lo­oked aro­und her, then back in­to Jole­na's eyes aga­in. "Whi­le you wrap yo­ur brot­her, I will carry his be­lon­gings from his dwel­ling."

  Jolena swal­lo­wed hard, then pro­ce­eded to wrap Two Rid­ges with first one fur ro­be, then anot­her, un­til at le­ast eight we­re fit­ted snugly aro­und him.

  Moon Flo­wer ca­me to Jole­na. "Ever­y­t­hing that Two Rid­ges pos­ses­sed is now car­ri­ed to his gra­ve­si­te," she mur­mu­red. "Now, my fri­end, let us dis­man­t­le his te­pee so that you can then use the lod­ge co­ve­ring for his fi­nal wrap."

  Jolena's eyes wi­de­ned. "That is re­qu­ired?" she whis­pe­red harshly. "That you and I te­ar down the te­pee whi­le Two Rid­ges still li­es wit­hin the cir­c­le of its ba­se?"

  "That is how it is do­ne," Mo­on Flo­wer sa­id, nod­ding.

  Sighing he­avily, Jole­na fol­lo­wed along af­ter Mo­on Flo­wer and be­gan lo­ose­ning the buc­k­s­kin straps that held the te­pee se­cu­rely to the lod­ge po­les. A short ti­me la­ter, ever­y­t­hing was dis­man­t­led and Two Rid­ges' body lay be­ne­ath the lod­ge po­les that still sto­od in the­ir ori­gi­nal sha­pe, be­fo­re the skins we­re wrap­ped aro­und them.

  Jolena felt a col­d­ness rush over her flesh as she ga­zed slowly aro­und her at the ba­re lod­ge po­les, thin­king they lo­oked li­ke the ske­le­ton of a de­ad lod­ge.

  The sud­den dro­ne of a drum be­gan so­mew­he­re in the dis­tan­ce. Mo­ur­n­ful songs and chants fil­led the air as pe­op­le fi­led one by one from the­ir dwel­lings and ca­me to stand in a wi­de cir­c­le aro­und Two Rid­ges' de­mo­lis­hed te­pee.

  Jolena gas­ped when her Blac­k­fo­ot fat­her ca­me in­to vi­ew, wal­king so­lemnly from the pur­p­le sha­dows of the fo­rest on the one si­de of the vil­la­ge. In his mo­ur­ning, he had pa­in­ted him­self black and had cut off his long, thick bra­ids, and had dis­car­ded his leg­gings, re­ve­aling that he, al­so, had sca­ri­fi­ed his legs.

  Jolena's at­ten­ti­on was drawn back to Mo­on Flo­wer, as Mo­on Flo­wer grun­ted and gro­aned with the we­ight of the skins that had be­en tak- en from the lod­ge po­les of the te­pee.

  Jolena went to her res­cue, and bet­we­en them they we­re fi­nal­ly ab­le to get Two Rid­ges' body wrap­ped, then la­ced with raw­hi­de ro­pes.

  Spotted Eag­le and se­ve­ral war­ri­ors ca­me in­to vi­ew. So­lemnly, they went to Two Rid­ges' body. So­me sto­od at his he­ad, ot­hers at his fe­et. Spot­ted Eag­le nod­ded, gi­ving a si­lent or­der to the war­ri­ors to help him carry Two Rid­ges to his bu­ri­al si­te.

  Jolena fell back from the ot­hers, fe­eling that her duty to her brot­her had be­en do­ne. She wan­ted to com­fort Mo­on Flo­wer, who was wal­king be­si­de her crying and wa­iling. But she felt too aw­k­ward even be­ing the­re, much less trying to gi­ve an­yo­ne any com­fort.

  The pro­ces­si­on wal­ked in­to the fo­rest and slowly thro­ugh it un­til it ca­me to a hill, upon which sto­od a lo­ne tree. Upon its bran­c­hes had be­en ar­ran­ged a plat­form of lod­ge po­les.

  The bun­d­le was pla­ced on the plat­form, along with Two Rid­ges' fa­vo­ri­te we­apons, his me­di­ci­ne bun­d­le, and his war clot­hing.

  Jolena had so­lemnly wat­c­hed how re­ve­rently ever­yo­ne then pas­sed be­ne­ath the plat­form, pla­cing the­ir gifts on the gro­und be­ne­ath it.

  When Jole­na he­ard a com­mo­ti­on be­hind her, she tur­ned with a start and wat­c­hed, puz­zled, as a yo­ung bra­ve ca­me wal­king to­ward Brown Elk, a ro­pe le­ading Two Rid­ges' mag­ni­fi­cent hor­se be­hind him.

  Brown Elk to­ok pos­ses­si­on of the hor­se and led it be­ne­ath the plat­form upon which lay his only son.

  Jolena felt fa­int when, wit­ho­ut he­si­ta­ti­on, her Blac­k­fo­ot fat­her drew a sharp kni­fe from a she­ath at his si­de and plun­ged it in­to the hor­se, over and over aga­in, un­til it was de­ad and lying in a po­ol of blo­od on the gro­und be­ne­ath him.

  Scarcely bre­at­hing, her eyes wi­de, Jole­na then wat­c­hed Brown Elk rep­la­ce the kni­fe in its she­ath, then hold his out­s­t­ret­c­hed hands up to Two Rid­ges' bun­d­led body.

  " No- ko-i, my son, now you will ha­ve yo­ur fa­vo­ri­te hor­se to ri­de on yo­ur jo­ur­ney to the Sand Hills," he cri­ed. "And to use af­ter ar­ri­ving the­re!"

  There was a pa­use, then ever­yo­ne tur­ned and wal­ked slowly back to­ward the­ir vil­la­ge. Spot­ted Eag­le to­ok Jole­na by the el­bow, us­he­ring her away from the bu­ri­al si­te. She lo­oked over her sho­ul­der, wat­c­hing her fat­her as he wal­ked in anot­her di­rec­ti­on.

  "He will mo­urn alo­ne for a whi­le, then co­me to you as a fat­her aga­in," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id softly. "When he co­mes to you then, all tho­ughts of a son will be for
­got­ten. He has a da­ug­h­ter now to fill the empty spa­ces in his he­art that the de­ath of his son has left."

  "I just want this day to be over," Jole­na sa­id, te­ars flo­oding her eyes. "Ta­ke me ho­me, Spot­ted Eag­le. I want you to hold me."

  "I will hold you un­til yo­ur te­ars are was­hed from yo­ur eye­sand hold you even lon­ger, if you so de­si­re," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, pla­cing an arm aro­und her wa­ist and dra­wing her pro­tec­ti­vely to his si­de. "My wo­man, I will al­ways be the­re to hold you. Al­ways."

  "How did I ever exist wit­ho­ut you?" Jole­na mur­mu­red, a sob cat­c­hing in her thro­at. "Su­rely I wan­de­red thro­ugh each day only half awa­re of things aro­und me!"

  "I fe­el the sa­me," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id. "Until you, the­re was truly no pur­po­se to my li­fe."

  "But now we ha­ve fo­re­ver, don't we?" Jole­na sa­id, ga­zing raptly up at him.

  "Forever," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, nod­ding. In his he­art, he was thin­king abo­ut what he had plan­ned for to­mor­row­t­hat he wo­uld be se­ar­c­hing for Kirk, kno­wing that to do so wo­uld be pla­cing him and his many war­ri­ors in dan­ger.

  The Cree re­ne­ga­des we­re al­ways out the­re, al­ways wa­iting for a re­ason to kill the­ir ne­ig­h­bo­ring enemy, the Blac­k­fo­ot!

  Tomorrow they wo­uld per­haps ha­ve that chan­ce, for Spot­ted Eag­le knew that his se­arch for Kirk co­uld ta­ke him in­to Cree co­untry.

  He plan­ned to send sco­uts out to­night, ho­pe­ful­ly to find evi­den­ce of Kirk's whe­re­abo­ut­sor the Cre­es'wit­ho­ut me­eting dan­ger he­ad on.

  "You are so sud­denly qu­i­et," Jole­na sa­id, glan­cing up at him. "Why are you, dar­ling?"

  "No re­ason," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, for­cing him­self to so­und non­c­ha­lant. "No re­ason at all."

  Something in the way he spo­ke and lo­oked ma­de Jole­na not be­li­eve him all that easily.

  But she did not want to clo­ud her tho­ughts with do­ubts and won­der aga­in. For now she just wan­ted to go to Spot­ted Eag­le's te­pee and hi­de the­re from all the rest of hu­ma­nity, at le­ast for the rest of the af­ter­no­on and to­night.

  She dre­aded to­mor­row, fe­aring that Kirk might be fo­un­dand that he wo­uld be de­ad.

  But she wan­ted to fa­ce that when it hap­pe­ned.

  Not now, when her he­art was al­re­ady so scar­red from to­day's ac­ti­vi­ti­es.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The sun had go­ne to his lod­ge be­hind the mo­un­ta­ins, di­sap­pe­aring be­hind the shar­p­po­in­ted pe­aks. In the fa­ding light, the far-st­ret­c­hing pra­irie was tur­ning dark. In the val­ley, spar­sely tim­be­red with qu­aking as­pens and cot­ton­wo­ods, a lo­ne vo­ice co­uld be he­ard in the Blac­k­fo­ot vil­la­ge, from a hil­ltop a short dis­tan­ce away.

  Jolena clas­ped a blan­ket aro­und her sho­ul­ders as she sat qu­i­etly be­si­de Spot­ted Eag­le's fi­re in his te­pee, ha­un­ted by too many things to eat her eve­ning me­al. As so­up sim­me­red over the fi­re in a black pot, she was only fa­intly awa­re of the tan­ta­li­zing frag­ran­ce of buf­fa­lo me­at co­oking with lar­ge chunks of ve­ge­tab­les.

  Spotted Eag­le had sent sco­uts ahe­ad to lo­ok for Kirk. They had re­tur­ned ear­li­er in the af­ter­no­on with the news that he was be­ing held cap­ti­ve in a Cree camp.

  Jolena was joyo­us that her brot­her was ali­ve, yet fe­ared for his tre­at­ment at the hands of the Cree.

  And now she was wor­ri­ed over Spot­ted Eag­le, who was re­ad­ying him­self to go and res­cue Kirk. He had left her early this day to ta­ke his me­di­ci­ne swe­at and to pre­pa­re him­self for a pos­sib­le con­f­ron­ta­ti­on with the re­ne­ga­de In­di­ans. He had even ap­po­in­ted a me­di­ci­ne pi­pe man to ma­ke me­di­ci­ne for him du­ring his ab­sen­ce.

  Spotted Eag­le had cho­sen the war­ri­ors who wo­uld ma­ke up his war party. The­se war­ri­ors and him­self had al­re­ady got­ten to­get­her and sung the wolf song. The­ir swe­at lod­ge was then bu­ilt and, un­c­lot­hed, they en­te­red it. With them ca­me an el­derly Blac­k­fo­ot, Clo­uds Ma­ke Thun­der, a me­di­ci­ne pi­pe man, who had al­ways be­en a go­od, re­ve­red war­ri­or.

  The long- stemmed me­di­ci­ne pi­pe was fil­led. The war­ri­ors each as­ked Clo­uds Ma­ke Thun­der to pray for them, that they might ha­ve go­od luck and ac­com­p­lish what they de­si­red.

  Clouds Ma­ke Thun­der pra­yed and sang and po­ured wa­ter on hot sto­nes in the cen­ter of the swe­at lod­ge, ca­using the war­ri­ors to swe­at pro­fu­sely.

  Clouds Ma­ke Thun­der then of­fe­red Spot­ted Eag­le a new me­di­ci­ne bun­d­le, to gi­ve him strength and co­ura­ge for the ti­me ahe­ad and to bind him with the spi­rits who wo­uld carry his li­fe in the­ir mo­uths.

  The bun­d­le was for­med from the he­ad of a co­yo­te, its jaws sewn to­get­her with si­new; from the jowls hung a few small locks of ha­ir wrap­ped in red cloth. From the back of the he­ad was sus­pen­ded a ro­und lo­op of wil­low, wrap­ped tightly in raw­hi­de, to which was ti­ed a fully stuf­fed war eag­le.

  After the ce­re­mony was over, the war­ri­ors, all drip­ping with per­s­pi­ra­ti­on, ran to the ri­ver and plun­ged in, sin­ging war songs.

  Jolena ga­zed up at the smo­ke ho­le in the ce­iling, shud­de­ring when she dis­co­ve­red that the sun­set's bril­li­ant oran­ge splash had fa­ded from the sky, which me­ant that Spot­ted Eag­le wo­uld so­on le­ave the vil­la­ge. He had ex­p­la­ined to her that he wo­uld be ri­ding with his war­ri­ors from the vil­la­ge just af­ter sun­set, for it was a fo­olish war­ri­or who tra­ve­led in the day when war par­ti­es might be out.

  To busy her hands, Jole­na le­aned over and tos­sed so­me small twigs in­to the low fla­mes of the fi­re. Then she stra­ig­h­te­ned her back and stif­fe­ned. She glan­ced qu­ickly to­ward the clo­sed en­t­ran­ce flap of the te­pee when she he­ard the thun­de­ring of many hor­ses' ho­oves le­aving the vil­la­ge, Spot­ted Eag­le's vo­ice the lo­udest of them all as he sang a song of war.

  "Return to me with spe­ed," Jole­na whis­pe­red to her­self, re­ac­hing a trem­b­ling hand to­ward the en­t­ran­ce flap. "I lo­ve you. Oh, how I lo­ve you."

  Again she ga­zed in­to the fla­mes of the fi­re, the hor­ses' thun­der ha­ving at le­ast for a mo­ment drow­ned out the mo­ur­ning cri­es of her Blac­k­fo­ot fat­her as he sat on his high pla­ce, alo­ne and dis­t­ra­ught over the de­ath of his one and only son. Thro­ugh the long day, her fat­her had sat on a ne­arby hill, mo­ur­ning, his songs and wa­ils fil­led with much sad­ness.

  Jolena bu­ri­ed her fa­ce in her hands, her he­art to­uc­hed by the wa­iling. She still co­uld not find it in her he­art to mo­urn with him, but she did mo­urn for him!

  Jolena mo­ved her hands from her fa­ce and slowly lif­ted her eyes, her pul­se ra­cing. She le­aned her ear to­ward the en­t­ran­ce flap, now scar­cely bre­at­hing, re­ali­zing that sud­denly she no lon­ger he­ard her fat­her's mo­ur­ning cri­es. Ever­y­t­hing out­si­de was qu­i­et ex­cept for an oc­ca­si­onal bark from a dog, or cri­es from a child fig­h­ting off the ur­ge to sle­ep.

  A fi­re out­si­de threw a squ­are of flic­ke­ring light on the out­si­de of the te­pee and then she saw the out­li­ne of so­me­one stan­ding over the fi­re, fe­eding wo­od in­to the fla­mes.

  "Is that my fat­her?" Jole­na whis­pe­red, pus­hing her­self up from her co­uch of skins. "Is that him be­si­de the com­mu­nal fi­re?"

  Keeping the blan­ket aro­und her sho­ul­ders, clas­ping it to­get­her with a hand, Jole­na went to the en­t­ran­ce flap and pe­ered out­si­de, di­sap­po­in­ted that the per­son she had se­en ten­ding to the fi­re was not her fat­her at all. Fo­ur Be­ars, a han­d­so­me, mid­dle
-aged Blac­k­fo­ot, tur­ned Jole­na's way and nod­ded a grim and si­lent hel­lo, then sa­un­te­red off in­to the night to­ward his own te­pee, whe­re his wi­fe and da­ug­h­ter wa­ited for him.

  Sighing, Jole­na de­ci­ded to wa­it out­si­de for a whi­le lon­ger to see if her fat­her's si­len­ce might me­an that he was pla­cing his sad­ness for a son be­hind him to jo­in a da­ug­h­ter who was very much ali­ve.

  The night bre­eze car­ri­ed a chill, but the blan­ket lent warmth to Jole­na's sho­ul­ders. She lo­oked he­aven­ward and wat­c­hed the play of stars in the vel­vety black sky. She co­uld ma­ke out the big and lit­tle dip­per and ot­her con­s­tel­la­ti­ons, es­pe­ci­al­ly that which the Blac­k­fo­ot cal­led The Se­ven Per­sons, the con­s­tel­la­ti­on of the Gre­at Be­ar. To­night it se­emed over­po­we­ringly bright, as if it we­re an omen.

 

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