“And who gives this ‘kiss’?”
“Parents to children, husband to wife.”
“Show me.” As he said it he leaned toward her. Jesse obediently placed a kiss upon the wind-hardened cheek.
He kept his face near hers and the dark eyes searched hers. Then a knowing smile curled up the edges of his mouth. “When Marcus Whitman met with Running Bear and the traders, Rides the Wind was there. I saw many things. I saw this touch you call ‘kiss’ between man and woman. It was not here,” he tapped his cheek, “but here.” His finger indicated his mouth.
Jesse felt her face flush and wondered if the early morning light revealed her embarrassment. She assented, “Yes, for some it is so.”
“Did Jesse King and Homer King touch in this way?”
Jesse looked hard into the searching eyes. They returned her stare with honest interest. “My people do not speak of these things.”
Rides the Wind was quiet for a moment, pondering her response. “If the white man speaks not of what is here,” he laid a hand flat upon the tawny chest, “he must be very sad.” Rides the Wind dressed and went outside.
Light was streaming through the door now, and Old One had risen to stir up the fire and begin the morning meal before he returned. Jesse dressed and went outside. Leaning over the creek she washed her face. She didn’t hear Rides the Wind approach, but as the ripples in the water smoothed out she started to see his face looking down into the water beside her own.
He sat back on the earth awkwardly, folding his crooked leg under him. Jesse noticed a pouch in his hand. It was ornately beaded, obviously the work of a skilled woman. Seeing her eyes upon it, Rides the Wind opened it, taking out the contents and arranging them carefully upon the grass.
First, he picked up two bone needles. “Dancing Waters used these to decorate the cradle board of the child to come.” He laid them back and held up a digging tool.
“While Rides the Wind hunted, she used this to gather food.”
Jesse asked, “What happened to her?” She watched his face intently as he prepared to answer. It revealed nothing of his feelings.
He replied, “When the child came she was silent. We did not know how it hurt her. Old One cared for her well, but she did not rise again.”
After a moment Jesse moved to return to the tepee, but Rides the Wind stopped her. Lifting the last item from the pouch he stood behind her and began to comb her short hair. Then, from another pouch laced to the belt about his waist, he produced a strange sort of woven headband, decorated with feathers and shells. He wrapped it about her head.
Jesse submitted to his ministrations, grateful for any way to hide her singed hair. When Rides the Wind had finished, he placed the tools back in their pouch and handed it to her. Taking the small knife that hung about his neck off, he put it over her head.
“When Dancing Waters was Rides the Wind’s woman, these things belonged to her. Now they are Walks the Fire’s.”
Jesse leaned over the water again to see her newly done hair. At the strangeness of the reflection she laughed a short, embarrassed giggle.
Rides the Wind inquired harshly. “Does Walks the Fire find my gift so?”
She turned to see hurt in the dark eyes, although his jaw was tense with apparent anger. A shadow had appeared under each cheekbone.
“No,” she protested. Laying a hand on his arm, she felt the muscles relax.
Looking across the creek to the distant hills, Jesse took a deep breath and began to speak of things she had never shared with another human.
“It is that Rides the Wind has made me feel as I never felt among my people. “I…” she bit her lip and could not continue. Seeing smoke rise from the air hole in the tepee she said, “Old One cooks. Two Mothers may need me.”
“Old One will not expect you back so soon.” As Jesse began to protest about Two Mothers, he added, “He will wait. Now you speak of how it is with your people.”
His gentle urging opened a flood of memories, and Jesse struggled to organize her thoughts. Then she began again, “I am not one to speak of these things. It is hard for me. I laughed because you have made me feel beautiful. And yet I know that I am not. When the time came for me to marry, men did not come seeking.” Her face flushed with the admission, and her voice trembled with shame as she blurted out, “Homer King only took me because my sister refused him. He needed a woman to help him on the way west. When Betsy said no, he asked me. My pa was glad for a chance to get me married off. That’s how I became Mrs. Homer King.”
Once finished she looked up at him defiantly. “I know I am not beautiful. I laughed at myself for thinking such impossible things.”
Rides the Wind was quiet for so long that she wondered if her rush of words had overreached his abilities in English. But then he turned his own face to the horizon so that she could view only his profile.
“When Rides the Wind was young, he danced about the fire like no other brave. It was then that Dancing Waters came to be his woman. She would watch, and her eyes danced with the flames. But one day Rides the Wind went to hunt. His pony fell and crushed his leg. Marcus Whitman fixed the leg, but it would not grow straight. Rides the Wind could dance no more. The fire died in the eyes of Dancing Waters.” He encircled her with his arms before continuing. “Walks the Fire sees Rides the Wind when he walks like the wounded buffalo. She sees, but the fire does not die in her eyes. Beautiful is in here,” he placed his hand over her heart. “So do not laugh when you think you are beautiful. Rides the Wind sees the fire in your eyes. And to him, you are beautiful.”
Jesse reached for his hand and, holding it palm up, she kissed it.
He growled, “… and so you give me more of the white man’s ways.”
In a moment of uncharacteristic abandon, Jesse stood on tiptoe and placed a less-than-chaste kiss upon the mouth of her husband. She smiled in spite of the resulting blush on her cheek, reaching up to tug childishly on his flowing hair.
Then, to his delight and amazement she spoke the Lakota words: “Mihigna—my husband—Walks the Fire is an obedient wife. If he wishes her to stop this strange touch, he must tell her. Walks the Fire will obey.”
Rides the Wind took her hand, and they started back to the tepee. As they climbed the hill together he replied, “Many of the white man’s ways must be forgotten to live among my people… but not all.”
Twelve
Fret not thyself because of evil men… For there shall be no reward to the evil man; the candle of the wicked shall be put out.—Proverbs 24:19–20
It was spring again. Jesse had been with Rides the Wind for two years. At last she spoke Lakota well enough to translate the Bible as she read, hoping that Old One would show an interest in the message too.
Two Mothers toddled about, jabbering as he tossed rocks into the dust. Once when he walked too close to the fire, Jesse moved quickly to scoop him up and out of harm’s way. Old One reached out to stop her. “One must learn from the bite of the fire to let it alone.”
Jesse made herself watch as Two Mothers toddled nearer and nearer the fire. Finally, one toe got too close, and he whimpered in pain. Jesse washed the burn and spread it with healing paste, being careful not to make more of the small wound than was needed. Two Mothers must learn to be brave, to withstand pain with as little complaint as possible. Someday, the survival of his people might depend on his ability to be silent in the wake of danger or discomfort.
Jesse’s friendship with Prairie Flower had grown, and Howling Wolf’s resentment of Rides the Wind continued. His wife’s friendship with Walks the Fire irritated him. The two women shared every task possible, from cleaning new buffalo skins to foraging for food. Nearly every day something happened to emphasize the difference in their husbands and, thus, the differences in their lives. Prairie Flower was stoic about her unhappy choice of a husband. She did everything in her power to keep Howling Wolf happy. She suffered his abuses without complaint and worked hard. Howling Wolf was unappreciative. Sadly, ch
ildren had not come. Unable to blame his poor position in the tribe on his wife’s laziness, Howling Wolf pounced on their childlessness.
“Without sons,” he would say, “we are disgraced among the people.”
Everyone knew that Howling Wolf’s own laziness and poor disposition had earned him the poor position he held in the tribe. Still, he refused to accept responsibility. Rides the Wind tried to help him by hunting with him. They joined together with a small band of braves, riding south through the Buffalo Gap, and soon picked up the trail of a large herd of elk. They followed the trail for many days, and Howling Wolf learned by watching Rides the Wind interpret the tracks.
“The leader is wounded,” he said, showing Howling Wolf how one leg was dragging slightly as the great beast moved along.
“He was challenged by a younger buck here. See how the snow shows the great battle.”
“Do you think I know nothing?” snapped Howling Wolf.
Rides the Wind refused to be drawn into a fight. “Howling Wolf, I know that you had no father to teach you. This is not your fault. If you do not know, I mean to help you. You are a fierce warrior—much better than I. You can teach me in war. I can teach you in the hunt.”
Howling Wolf was mollified, but when they neared the herd, he urged his pony to run ahead, eager to kill the biggest elk and take honor for himself. He pictured the triumphant return to the village, the women singing around the campfire. They will sing for me, he thought, a song that says:
Come and see Howling Wolf,
Come and see, all who hear,
The great hunter returns,
He has captured his brother the elk,
And we all will feast,
Howling Wolf returns,
Come and see, come and see.
Howling Wolf grinned to himself at the thought of the village women honoring him with their song. He dug his heels into his pony and eagerly galloped up the hill ahead of the other riders. Rides the Wind watched him go in disgust and turned Wind back toward the Buffalo Gap.
When the others in the group called to him, he gestured angrily toward Howling Wolf, “That wolf runs like a fool. He will scatter the elk, and there will be no kill today. Let him go, I return to the village. We will all be empty-handed and our women and children will be hungry.” Rides the Wind urged Wind to gallop away toward the village.
His prediction came true. Lost in his vision of greatness, Howling Wolf charged his pony up the rise and came upon the elk herd. Surprised by their proximity, he was unprepared to shoot. The elk tore away, their breath rising from their nostrils in great puffs. Not one elk was shot that day, even though the other hunters tried to round them up for a second try. The promise of an oncoming snowstorm forced them all to give up the hunt, and they returned to the village empty-handed and tight-lipped.
The women wondered what had happened. Only Prairie Flower knew the answer, for Howling Wolf was not among those who returned in the daylight. He waited until after dark before skulking into camp and into her bed. He complained once again about the lack of sons, his lack of luck, and his unresponsive wife.
Early one morning not long after the failed hunt, Prairie Flower stepped outside her tepee to braid her own hair. Howling Wolf still slept and she was eager to join Jesse and the other women. Today they were to begin decorating new garments with beads and shells and porcupine quills. Jesse had promised to show Prairie Flower a design used from her days in the world of the whites. Prairie Flower had long admired Jesse’s abilities with a needle. For her part, Jesse welcomed the opportunity to repay Prairie Flower for her many kindnesses. If learning a new design for beadwork would please Prairie Flower, it was a small thing to do. The two women had planned to meet as early as possible so that the morning could be dedicated to their project.
As Prairie Flower faced the rising sun and braided her hair, White Eagle strolled by. He had glanced her way many times. Today he stopped. “Howling Wolf did not come to check on his ponies this morning.”
“He sleeps.”
White Eagle smirked. He reached up to touch one of her braids. “If I had such a beautiful woman in my tepee, I would not sleep while she braids her own hair.” He walked on without a backward glance. But Prairie Flower thought of him often that day. Each time his face appeared in her mind, she tried to force it away, but Howling Wolf’s insolent smile was often replaced by the handsome face of White Eagle.
Prairie Flower did poor beading that day. The village women noticed that her mind was not on her work. Jesse worried that she was ill, but Prairie Flower only shook her head when Jesse pressed her to share her thoughts.
It was the Moon When the Chokecherries Are Ripe when Rides the Wind woke Jesse one night. Laying his finger over his lips, he led her outside and onto the prairie. As they walked quietly away from the soft glow of the village fires he whispered, “You must see the sky… it is on fire.”
He pulled Jesse down beside him and they lay on their backs, all attention drawn upward. The night sky was ablaze with stars and was so clear that even the hazy band of the Milky Way was visible. Taking his wife’s hand in his, Rides the Wind whispered, “Tell me again the words from God’s Book about the heavens.”
Jesse recited, “When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars… what is man, that thou art mindful of him?” As she quoted the familiar psalm to Rides the Wind, a burst of light shot across the sky. Only seconds later, the first streak was followed by others, and the couple gasped in wonder.
The two of them had been watching for nearly an hour when Rides the Wind sat up, cocked his head to one side, and listened. Jesse heard it, too, from near the river. They rose and warily crept through the tall grass toward the sound.
When they saw the herd of ponies grazing peacefully, they both relaxed a little. The ponies would be restless if an enemy were near.
As they approached the river, the sound stopped. Then, coming from behind thick brush growing along the banks, they saw the source. White Eagle and a young squaw scurried toward the village.
Rides the Wind made no attempt to overtake the two lovers. He put his arm about his wife and led her toward their tepee at a leisurely pace.
Jesse relaxed against his arm, praising God for sending her to a man so well suited to her own nature. He is so solemn in public, she thought. Prairie Flower was a bit afraid of him. It made Jesse smile to see her friend, usually so outgoing and friendly, become unusually quiet and reticent around Rides the Wind. Yet, she secretly enjoyed the knowledge that part of Rides the Wind belonged only to her—and Two Mothers and Old One. The rest of the village saw only the skilled hunter, bent on providing food for the village, limping out early each morning, unable to participate in the dances of celebration, seeking no deep friendship with any other brave.
They knew that he loved to tell stories, but if they had seen him retelling his expeditions to his family, they would have been amazed. The stern face softened, the eyes crinkled with broad smiles. He delighted in entertaining his young son with tales of the hunt. Crouching on all fours, he would paw and spit like a buffalo, charging Two Mothers and making him tumble head over heels. Father and son wrestled about on their buffalo skins until Two Mothers gasped for air and begged for him to stop. Then Rides the Wind would turn to Old One, respectfully requesting her advice about some new project. For Jesse, he reserved all his tenderness. The love of God found a willing vessel in Rides the Wind, whereby it could flow to Jesse.
The morning after the meteor shower, Prairie Flower and Jesse had just begun quillwork along the front of a new elk-skin dress when Howling Wolf burst into the circle of women. Shouting and cursing, he grabbed Prairie Flower by the arm and pulled her up. Her face went pale, and she tried to pull free. Enraged, Howling Wolf slapped her across the face, shouting accusations about White Eagle.
The women scattered immediately, and Jesse ran for Rides the Wind. She found him working with a new colt. He had led the colt into chest-high water and was prepa
ring to mount him for the first time.
Gasping for breath, Jesse cried out, “We must do something! Howling Wolf—” She gave the details, ending with a plea that Rides the Wind intervene. He continued soothing the nervous colt and made no move toward the village.
After a long silence Rides the Wind said, “It is a matter between Howling Wolf and Prairie Flower.”
Jesse protested, “But he is so angry… he may kill her!”
“I do not think that even Howling Wolf would be so foolish. Prairie Flower is a beautiful woman, and she is the only good thing that he has. He will not kill her.”
“But he slapped her so hard!”
“Yes, and that is his right. It is the way of the people.”
He slid up on the colt’s back. The colt thrashed about madly in the water, rolling its eyes and trying to rear up, but the deep water prevented it from unseating Rides the Wind. The mad splashing went on for a few moments, but not for long. The colt was intelligent, and soon realized that its rider was determined and able to stay on its back. At last it stopped thrashing about and stood, shivering, in the water. Rides the Wind slid off its back and patted its neck, whispering in the colt’s ear and patting its side until the shivering subsided and the colt stood quietly, head bowed.
Rides the Wind turned to Jesse. “Prairie Flower must decide what she will do. Howling Wolf must decide what he will do. I can do nothing. It is for them to decide.”
He ended the conversation abruptly by leading the dun colt up the bank of the river and toward the herd. Jesse bustled angrily back to her tepee.
Just as Old One had begun to explain the Lakota outlook, Prairie Flower charged into the tepee. She was howling with pain, her hands held up to her face, blood flowing between her fingers. Jesse grabbed her and pulled her bodily down onto a buffalo skin. The woman rocked and wailed with pain.
Old One instructed Jesse to hold Prairie Flower down. Jesse straddled her friend, grasping one wrist in each hand, forcing the thrashing woman’s body back with all her weight. At last, Prairie Flower lay still, trembling and crying with pain.
Walks the Fire Page 9
