Walks the Fire

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  At last Jesse laid the body down and rose from the dust. She turned and walked to where the hunting party stood maintaining a respectful silence. Jesse approached Talks a Lot.

  “I will need help to care for Rides the Wind.”

  Seventeen

  … God my maker… giveth songs in the night.—Job 35:10

  Talks a Lot gestured toward the approaching villagers. “We will do it. The people come.” As they neared, the cries of the mourners could be heard bounding over the prairie. The almost inhuman wails pierced the air until Jesse could stand them no longer. Running at them she screamed, “Stop it! Stop it!”

  The women, amazed by her outburst, stopped wailing and watched as Jesse turned to rush back to the band of hunters. They had begun to erect a burial pyre for Rides the Wind’s body. Jesse tore the stakes from their hands. “No… No! I will not leave his body so. It must be my way!”

  Jesse realized that she must seem demented. Her friends watched her without a word and waited for her to calm herself before proceeding. Catching her breath, she felt an unearthly calm returning. She knew what she wanted to do, and as the plan took shape, her breathing slowed, and she regained her dignity.

  The women of the village stood nearby murmuring their disapproval. She was not, after all, one of them.

  “Please, Talks a Lot,” Jesse said persuasively. “You were his friend. You know he read the Book. He believed in the one God and his Son, Jesus. Please… I want to bury him as my people bury those they love.” Tears began streaming down her cheeks again, but she wiped them away stubbornly. “Please,” she repeated, “I cannot leave him to the birds. I cannot.”

  Talks a Lot came close and murmured, “But his spirit must be allowed to soar to the new hunting ground, Walks the Fire. The people will never understand.”

  “His spirit is already with the Father. That is what the book we read together teaches. I must do this last thing for Rides the Wind.” She turned to look down upon the body. “I will do it!” Her eyes flashed as she hurried away to repeat her words to the elders who had assembled. Then she ran to her own litter where Old One sat.

  “Old One,” Jesse said, dropping down to look up into the aged woman’s clear eyes. “Will you help me bury him?” The old woman sat still for a moment, considering this request to turn against the traditions of her people. A moment passed, then another. The village watched and listened. Then the aged hand reached out to cup Jesse’s chin in a gesture of tenderness. “This I will do—for you, my daughter.” The villagers muttered their disapproval, but none moved to stop the two women as they carefully unwrapped Rides the Wind’s regalia.

  With loving hands, the two women dressed Rides the Wind, placing his ceremonial headdress on his head, his hands across his chest. They wrapped the body in buffalo robes.

  Jesse hesitated. How could she dig a grave? The people had no need of shovels. It would be grueling work, but she knew how. Reaching into her leather pouch for her digging tool, she dropped to her knees beside Rides the Wind and began to scrape the hard earth. Old One knelt beside her, and together they worked. The tools designed only for digging up the roots and tubers they used for stews made hard work of the task, but the two kept on scraping the earth.

  The women of the village began to look about, wondering what should be done. The leaders huddled silently. None of them approved of Jesse’s actions, yet they did not move to stop her.

  He was young, but Soaring Eagle stepped out of the crowd and approached the council. He had been struggling to control his own grief, and now a new purpose helped him. Respectfully he addressed the elders. In the quiet, dignified manner of his father he began, “Walks the Fire is a good woman. She is white, but she has been among you for many years now. She was a good wife to Rides the Wind. She is a good mother to me. I remember your tales of how he hunted after she walked the fire to save Hears Not. When she was well, he held a banquet in her honor. You were all there to share his joy.” Coming from the mouth of a youngster, the short speech carried added weight. The elders murmured their agreement with what Soaring Eagle had said. His speech given, the young boy walked gravely to the travois and seated himself.

  Talks a Lot spoke next. “For many years, Rides the Wind cared only for Walks the Fire. Together they read this Book she speaks of. My daughter has told me of this. Walks the Fire would tell the words in the Book. Rides the Wind repeated them, then he would tell how the words would help him in the hunt or in the council. Walks the Fire listened as he spoke. She respected him. She did as he said.”

  As Talks a Lot spoke, the people remembered the years since Walks the Fire had come to them. Many among them recalled kindnesses beyond the saving of Hears Not. Many regretted the early days, when they had laughed at the white woman. They remembered Prairie Flower and Old One teaching her, and many could recall times when some new stew was shared with their family or a deerskin brought in by Rides the Wind found its way to their tepee.

  Prairie Flower’s voice was added to the men’s. “Even when no more sons or daughters came to his tepee—even then, Rides the Wind wanted only Walks the Fire.” She turned to look at Running Bear, another elder, “Even when you offered your own beautiful daughter, Rides the Wind wanted only Walks the Fire. This is true. My father told me. When he walked the earth, Rides the Wind wanted only Walks the Fire. Now that he lies upon the earth, you must know that he would say, ‘Do this for her.’”

  Jesse had continued to dig into the earth as she listened. When Prairie Flower told of the chiefs having offered his daughter, she stopped for a moment. Her hand reached out to lovingly caress the dark head that lay so still under the clear sky. Rides the Wind had never told her of this. She had been afraid that he might take another wife when it became evident they would have no children. Now she knew that he had chosen her alone—even in the face of temptation.

  From the women’s group there was movement. Prairie Flower stepped forward, her digging tool in her hand. Defiantly she sputtered, “She is my friend…” and stalked across the short distance to the shallow grave. Dropping to her knees beside Jesse, she began attacking the earth. Ferociously she dug. Jesse followed her lead, as did Old One. They began again, three women working side by side. And then there were four women, and then five, and six, until a ring of many women dug together.

  The men did nothing to stop them, and Running Bear decided what was to be done. “We will camp here and wait for Walks the Fire to do what she must. Tonight we will tell the life of Rides the Wind around the fire. Tomorrow, when this is done, we will move on.”

  And so it was. Hours later Rides the Wind, Lakota hunter, became the first of his village to be laid in a grave and mourned by a white woman. Before his body was lowered into the earth, Jesse impulsively took his hunting knife, intending to cut off the two thick, red braids that hung down her back. It seemed so long ago that Rides the Wind had braided the feathers and beads in, dusting the part. Had it really been only this morning? He had kissed her, too, grumbling about the white man’s crazy ways. Jesse had laughed and returned his kiss.

  A hand upon her shoulder brought Jesse back to the awful moment. She stared down upon her husband’s body and whispered a prayer. “Sorrow not, even as others which have no hope.” Jesse dropped her braid and put Rides the Wind’s hunting knife into her own belt.

  The women lowered his body into the grave. The leaders might allow this to take place, but they would not help put their respected brother to rest as a white man.

  Jesse pushed the earth atop Rides the Wind’s body. Even the women could not bring themselves to do this strange and awful deed. When it was done, Jesse sat, exhausted, looking about her. Once again the villagers watched in uncertainty. Then Jesse rose and began collecting stones, piling them atop the grave. The women helped her in this, and soon the grave was marked.

  Returning to her litter, Jesse dug out the Bible. She opened it and began reading aloud.

  Most of the tribe had not heard Jesse speak in her tongue for ye
ars. The foreign words were meaningless to them. It was only in the face of the reader that they could discern the comfort the words must speak of. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…”

  When Jesse had stopped reading, she bowed her head. Her lips moved in a prayer. From across the years, she remembered a hymn and found herself singing it.

  Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.

  I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see.

  She went on to the last verse:

  When we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun

  We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise than when we’d first begun.

  Her voice cracked and failed several times, but she struggled on to complete the song.

  As the final note died out, Jesse turned away from the grave. Her shoulders sagged, and she would have stumbled had Prairie Flower not been there to hold her. She led her to the litter, then walked back to the grave, where the other women circled and began the keening. When the cries had subsided, Prairie Flower turned to see Jesse sitting, head in hands, on her litter. Soaring Eagle stood at her side. The loss of his father meant that he was the leader of the family now, and he took his new position seriously, not allowing himself to show any grief, eager to prove his manhood.

  Prairie Flower helped Jesse up. “You will sleep in my tepee tonight, Walks the Fire. And Old One too. And Soaring Eagle.” Jesse allowed herself to be led away like a child. With relief she realized that Prairie Flower’s invitation meant she would not have to struggle to erect her own tepee for shelter tonight.

  The people moved about quietly, raising their tepees so that each one faced the east. Soaring Eagle wandered off by himself. The sun was setting, and fires were started. Supper was prepared and taken in a subdued manner. Occasionally a baby whimpered or a dog barked, but most of the evening was spent in unnatural quiet. Families whispered of the strange things they had witnessed that day or shared a memory of Rides the Wind. Many wondered how his white woman would fare among them now that he was no longer alive.

  When Jesse finally sank onto her pallet in her friend’s tepee, the drums had broken the silence, calling the village to dance and sing and tell the life of Rides the Wind. Alone, Jesse listened and wept quietly. Shadows danced about her on the walls of the tepee. The fire crackled, and Jesse longed for the shadows to take the familiar form of Rides the Wind coming to her. She wept, her body shaking with each new wave of grief.

  At last, the sounds of the village slipped away and Jesse slept. As she slept, her hand came to rest over her abdomen. The child within had stirred.

  Eighteen

  Hear my cry, O God; attend to my prayer. From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I.—Psalm 61:1-2

  Then there was the grieving. She had buried a child and lost one husband, but this was different. Sadness brooded over her, a dark, heavy presence that covered every act, every word. At times she felt breathless from carrying the weight of it.

  Old One cautioned Jesse not to travel too far from the tepee. “You might see something that frightens you—the child would be marked.” When Soaring Eagle hunted and brought in rabbit, Old One refused to cook it for fear the baby would be born with harelip. Duck was forbidden lest the baby have webbed feet. Jesse complied with the superstitions, too weary with grief to protest.

  When Jesse grunted with the effort to bend and cook, Old One took over tending the fire. “Eat much meat—cook little. We do not want the child to go back to the hills.” The familiar saying used to describe the death of a baby made Jesse flinch. She fled outdoors, hoping to find someplace that death would not haunt her, but her feet swelled in the heat of the day, and Prairie Flower forced her back inside her tepee, insisting she rest. She encouraged her to make clothing for the baby and brought plentiful supplies.

  The kindnesses of her friends brought little comfort. All their attention could not fill the emptiness.

  Over every day, in every moment, the absence of Rides the Wind presided. When Jesse fled the tepee to walk in the open, there was Red Star, hurrying across the landscape to nuzzle her shoulder. But Red Star’s welcome hung in the air, unanswered by the shrill neigh that had always followed it. Wind was not there.

  When Jesse returned to her tepee, she was faced with the conquests of Rides the Wind painted on the outside. Inside, there was his parfleche. Oh, why had she kept it? Why hadn’t she buried it with him?

  Jesse picked up his parfleche, running her hands along the edges, feeling the rawhide thongs. His parfleche… his stitching… his tepee… his mother… one hand fell to her swollen abdomen. Something pressed against her hand. Jesse pushed against it. It pushed back. She looked about the tepee. His tepee… his parfleche… his baby.

  She should be planning for the baby. She should—but no, not today—perhaps tomorrow. But tomorrow the grief was back, covering everything. Jesse pushed it aside, took a breath, and started another day. She carried the grief, carried the growing baby, carried wood for the fire. Just carrying it was all she could do. Beating it down into something she could carry took all her strength. When the evening fire died and her strength waned, the grief loomed up and won. It carried her into the night and filled her dreams. It denied her rest. She woke and listened for his breathing. She reached out to feel the emptiness next to her. She inhaled only smoke from the fire. There was no scent of war paint and animal skins and warm flesh.

  Soaring Eagle returned from hunting with his friends. His father’s death had matured him, seemingly overnight. He was tender with Jesse, no longer her little boy, but a young man who wore the mantle of manhood willingly and took pride in his ability to provide his two women charges with meat. His care brought little comfort, for in the line of his jaw, Jesse saw another’s face. When he spoke, the inflection of another’s voice hung in the air. And the grief came rolling in.

  Jesse fought it desperately. It seemed bent on smothering her very will to take breath. Still, she clung to life. She marked every sunrise without Rides the Wind by inserting a black bead into the design on the dress she was decorating. When thirty black beads had been worked into the design, the dress was finished. But the grieving was not.

  Howling Wolf watched Prairie Flower help her friend prepare for the baby. He sat in his empty tepee at the edge of the village and replayed scenes from the past until he convinced himself that the white woman’s arrival in camp had been the start of his worst troubles.

  In his eyes, when “Woman Who Makes No Fire” had arrived in camp, Prairie Flower’s attentions had turned from her own tepee. She had been caught up in teaching the woman. She had forgotten her own husband.

  Was it not her helping the white woman that had forced Howling Wolf to start his own fire the day of the buffalo hunt?

  When “Woman Who Makes No Fire” had become Walks the Fire, Prairie Flower had deserted him for many nights to tend her wounds.

  Then, Walks the Fire had tricked him out of the lovely new wife he had brought to camp.

  Sitting alone in his tepee, Howling Wolf went over and over each incident. Each time his resentment for Jesse grew. He began to believe that ridding the tribe of the white woman would enable him to regain his position with Prairie Flower. If he regained his wife, the people would no longer call him canniyasa, the derisive term they used that meant he had shown himself unfit as a husband.

  A plan began to form. When it was complete, he kept it to himself, going over and over the details. Soaring Eagle will go to hunt as soon as we make winter camp, he thought. Then I will repay the white woman for all she has done to me. He watched Jesse furtively, smiling to himself.

  The village joined thousands of Lakota moving through Pte ta tiyopa, the “Gate of the Buffalo,” and into winter camp in He Sapa, the Black Hills. Heavily wooded with dark pines, the hills hid countless pure springs. Abundant wood and game and shelter from winter storms made it a fav
orite winter camp for both the Lakota and the buffalo.

  When Jesse and Old One tore down their tepee, Jesse reverently carried Rides the Wind’s parfleche to the travois and took great care to see that it was firmly strapped in place.

  Her heart ached as they walked along the narrow stream bed that marked the trail. Only last year, she thought, he had me look up to see how the trees almost touch at the tops of the cliffs. Jesse stopped abruptly, pretending to have a rock in her moccasin so that her tears would not be seen.

  Arriving at winter quarters, the people set up camp and settled in. Jesse moved quietly through the days and Old One worried. Talks a Lot offered a new cradle board for the coming child. Prairie Flower stayed nearby and watched her friend closely. Howling Wolf leered at them from across the camp. He watched Jesse’s growing belly with quiet delight, plotting and waiting.

  Working with her hands kept Jesse sane. She opened her Bible each evening out of habit, but Rides the Wind was not waiting to absorb the beloved words, and they lay dead on the page, lost in a stream of tears.

  It had been her habit to greet each day with Rides the Wind. Together they would face the rising sun and pray. He had often used the very words she had read by the previous night’s fire. Now, no words came. The wound of his death lay fresh, and she had no words for the pain. Raising her empty palms to the sky, she waited for the sun to rise, wordlessly offering her emptiness to God.

  Not until she lost count of the black beads in her work did Jesse find words for her grief. Even then, they were not her own, but those of an ancient who had also known the deepest sense of loss.

  Hear my cry, Oh God; attend unto my prayer. From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I.