by Karen Kay
“Miss Kristina, your mother wishes to see you in the sitting room.”
Kristina twirled about. She hadn’t realized she’d left her bedroom door open. She’d been so lost in thought, staring down sightlessly into the bustling street, she hadn’t heard the maid’s knock; the gentle request startled her.
She smiled demurely to mask her anxiousness, then responded, “Thank you. Will you tell her I’ll be down presently? I haven’t yet finished dressing.”
“Yes, miss,” their household maid replied, leaving the room and shutting the door behind her.
Kristina stared at the door for a second longer then returned her gaze to the scene outside her window. Where was he now? She lifted her sight to the prairie, just barely visible over the fort’s walls. She missed him.
She’d only been gone from him for a few hours and already she missed him. What was she to do? She couldn’t live with him in either his world or hers. She also didn’t appear to be able to live without him. The problem seemed insurmountable. Squeezing her eyes shut, she sighed before finally drawing away to finish dressing.
“Of course, I have no idea what business the general and Mr. Catlin have arranged here, but I think it time you and I made plans to go home. If they intend to return to civilization after their visit you and I will accompany them.”
Kristina stared at her mother as though she had suddenly grown horns. Carefully clearing her throat, Kristina asserted, “This is my home, Mother. I like it here. I don’t wish to return to the East.”
“Your father will object,” Margaret Bogard continued, choosing to ignore her daughter’s statement. “But I think that our combined arguments will convince him that this is for the best.”
“I don’t wish to leave.”
“Nonsense!” The older woman glared at her daughter. “What culture could this dull fort offer you? There’s nothing here except some half-naked savages and people who cater to them. No, you just don’t know your own mind. When Mr. Catlin returns, we will accompany him.”
Kristina said nothing. It was obvious her mother heard only what she wanted to hear. But of one thing, Kristina was certain: She would never leave.
“Am I to understand that you are an interpreter for the Indians?”
Kristina smiled shyly. “Yes, sir.”
George Catlin eyed the young girl before him.
Slim and beautiful, her manners were entirely English and impeccable. She presented him with an enigma—the contradiction between her demure composure and her ability to communicate with the natives was incredible.
His interpreters always had been either traders, Indian themselves, or half-breeds. Never had a white woman acted as interpreter, and Mr. Catlin wasn’t sure he was entirely comfortable with the situation.
“You say these Indians are Sioux?”
“Yes,” Kristina responded. “They have told me they are here to investigate the trade, that the American Fur Company in the north is cheating them.”
“That’s odd,” Mr. Catlin said, leaning against the balcony where he and the young lady were standing. Below them were the general’s quarters, which housed himself and General Leavenworth. Just inside here, on the second floor, stood several guests who were honoring him with a party. But the day was yet bright and cheerful with several hours of sunlight left before dusk, and Mr. Catlin was unused to having to bear the inside of four walls for any length of time. Absently, he studied the band members who were setting up to play for the scheduled dance. “I don’t quite understand why they are dissatisfied. When I was there amongst them last year they seemed content. A very warlike tribe, the Sioux. I stayed amongst them for quite some time painting their portraits, and I barely left with my scalp in place, an interesting and savage story I must tell you. And they are allowing a woman to interpret for them? Do you hold some sort of power over them?”
His question hung in the air as the delicate young girl looked up at him.
In her gaze he noticed a sort of awe and he wondered why. It was he who was intrigued. Yes, he had just returned from the outermost regions of Indian country where he had painted hundreds of Indian portraits, but this young woman had accomplished the impossible and he was eager to know how she had done it. He’d like to spend hours talking with her, not just these few stolen minutes.
She smiled at him. “Please excuse my delay in answering,” she said. “Your question caused me to remember an old childhood friend. It’s not so strange really that I am able to act as interpreter. I had an Indian nanny as a child who told me wonderful stories and taught me the language of sign. The day the three Sioux came to the fort was the Fourth of July and no one else was here to interpret for them. Somehow I convinced them to accept me as translator and once accepted, I was unable to resign the post.” She laughed. “The Indians would not allow it.”
George Catlin looked hard at the pretty girl before him. Sweet, delicate—who would believe that she alone acted as interpreter for three Sioux warriors?
“Where are they now?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.” She gazed towards the fort’s entry, whose gates stood wide open. “They rarely come into the fort, so my services for them are seldom needed.”
“If they don’t come to the fort within the next few days, will you ride out with me to find them? I am here to paint the Indians and set them on canvas for posterity. I believe that soon these wild tribes will be wiped out. I wish to paint them in their natural state before they are ruined by civilization. I’m to set out for the Pawnee village in a few days, but before I go I would seek out these three men.” George Catlin observed the profile of the young girl before him. “I would like to meet these Indians who allow a woman into their midst. Did you know that the Sioux would not allow me to paint any of their women? After committing the images of their warriors to canvas, they would not allow a mere woman to sit for me. I am surprised at these warriors’ attitudes toward you; I find this single instance of tolerance most interesting.”
“It’s only a matter of courtesy and honor.” Kristina turned to him, offering him her hand. “And of course I’ll accompany you to find them.”
Mr. Catlin smiled, and taking her outstretched hand in his own, bent to press a kiss against the proffered hand.
As he straightened away, he caught movement in his peripheral vision, and turning his head slightly encountered savage, black eyes staring back up at him. Sioux. He could tell just from that look alone.
“I think that your Indian friends are here,” he, stated to the young lady. “Perhaps you would be so good as to tell them that I am also a friend. That one looks as though he wants my scalp.” Kristina directed her gaze to the streets. Tahiska stood just below them.
Color filled her cheeks, and quite beside herself, Kristina smiled. Then, without looking up, she said, “Yes, Mr. Catlin, I’ll tell them, if you’ll excuse me.”’
She glanced up then, blushing profusely.
George Catlin just stared at her. What was going on here? He glanced from the Indian back to the girl, to the Indian again. There was no denying the possessive quality in the Indian’s look, just as there was no doubt about this young girl’s reaction.
He scratched his chin, wondering if he should say anything, finally settling on the fact that it was none of his or anyone else’s business.
Music filled the streets, paths, and every corner of the fort, its resonance even carrying over the walls. It was almost dusk, the party just reaching its peak. The two guests of honor, along with the officers and their wives, hovered near the center of the crowd while the traders and junior officers stood to the side, some dancing, some drinking. Most of the Indians from various tribes stood in the back on the inner circle’s outskirts.
Tahiska noted the position of the sun, then glanced toward the fort’s gates. Soon all Indians would be forced to leave since they were seldom allowed to remain here after dark. He took a deep breath, then focused his attention on his wife. He ached for her. He never thought it possible t
hat he could miss the presence of anyone so much, yet he knew he did not confuse these feelings. He needed her. He wanted her. Still, if he understood correctly, she would not be able to visit his camp too often in the future. For one thing, the fort entertained guests, then also the autumn prairie fires had begun, raging indiscriminately over the plains at any given time, leaving behind destruction. It was a dangerous time of year and he wouldn’t have Kristina risk her life on the prairie.
He looked at her there as she sat on the stage accompanying the other, musicians’ lead. And though he thought it strange that a woman be admitted into such a band, he acknowledged that there was much about his wife he didn’t understand, not the least of which being why she failed to recognize their marriage. She acted as his wife in all ways except one: She did not live with him, nor did she appear to have the inclination ever to do so.
Tahiska broke his gaze at her. What would happen when it was time to return home? Would she accompany him? Or would she break the bond between them and simply bid him farewell?
Raw emotion engulfed him suddenly and Tahiska, in an effort to control himself, shut his eyes.
“Look, brother.” Wahtapah elbowed his cousin. “See how the white men hold their women?”
When Tahiska at last opened his eyes, absolutely no emotion showed on his face. He stared ahead blankly onto the dance floor.
“You could hold your wife like that even now and no one could say a thing,” Wahtapah continued as though he didn’t notice his friend’s misery. “Go ask her to teach you this dance. She would show you.”
Tahiska glanced again at Kristina, finding her gaze upon him now. He looked away, then back. She smiled at him and Tahiska, without returning the gesture, quickly decided. Why not? Weren’t there traders dancing with their Indian wives? Why shouldn’t this Indian dance with his wife? What difference did it make if his culture was so dissimilar to hers, at odds with it even? She was his wife.
Tahiska nodded toward his friend. Wahtapah spoke wisely. There was no reason he should suffer. She was his wife, his interpreter, his link to this civilization. If he learned this dance, it would give him reason to hold her whenever these functions occurred, which seemed to be often.
He stepped away from the background, treading toward Kristina, unaware of the looks cast his way, as he broke through the crowds of white soldiers and their wives.
But Kristina noticed the utter disdain thrown at him. She set her guitar aside at once, stepping off the band’s platform, intercepting him as he paced toward her.
She met him face to face, three feet apart, a crowd of people all around and more than slightly interested in this Indian’s purpose.
“I wish to learn this dance.” Tahiska followed this with sign, then in only Lakota, “I wish to dance with my wife.”
Kristina smiled. “Of course,” she said, turning to those who watched. “He only wishes to learn this dance. Is there anyone here who would like to teach him?” When no one answered, she stated as demurely as possible, “Then I shall instruct him.” She gestured toward the dance floor, following closely behind him and whispering, “You realize we cannot touch each other out here. That part of the dance I will teach you in private.”
Tahiska pretended not to hear, though he understood all that was said; he had every intention of touching his wife.
He turned to face her. And when she smiled at him, he knew he had been wise to seek her out. She spoke to him softly in Lakota, pointing out her steps, gesturing toward him to follow. And though normally he would never follow a woman, he observed her lead, learning the dance in a matter of minutes.
He moved to take her in his arms, but Kristina skirted away from him, showing him yet another dance.
Tahiska, however, refused to learn this new dance. He merely stood, glaring at her.
“I cannot dance with you openly here in public,” she told him in Lakota.
“I did not seek you out to learn several dances and to dance none with you. All these other men hold their women and they are not even married. Am I to be denied the comfort of my own wife in a mere dance?”
Kristina blushed. “I can’t.”
Tahiska didn’t say a word. He simply held her gaze. Kristina had never felt so guilty. “Tomorrow in private. I promise you,” she said at last.
Tahiska waited until she lifted her glance to his. Then he smiled. “I look forward to it,” was all he said before turning away, and with Wahtapah and Neeheeowee following, withdrew to the quiet and safety of their own camp.
“There.” George Catlin set his brush aside, setting the canvas on the ground. “I’m ready for your friend. Where is he?”
Neither Indian responded. They hadn’t understood his English, and Kristina wasn’t here to interpret.
The artist turned to Julia, who stood inspecting the paintings of the two Indians Catlin had just completed. “Do you know where the other Indian has gone? I only need his portrait and we can return to the fort.”
Julia shrugged, but put the question to the Indians, speaking in Lakota. George Catlin directed a hard stare at her. “You speak their language?”
“Only a little,” she stated, smiling. “Kristina and I have learned a little of their language and customs over the few weeks they have been here.”
“I see,” he responded. “Then these Indians are often at the fort?”
Julia blushed. “Well, no, we…ah…oh, wait,” she called after Wahtapah, who had risen and was now sauntering from the camp.
She lifted the front of her skirt to rush after him, calling back over her shoulder, “Come with us, Mr. Catlin. I think he goes to find Tahiska and Kristina.”
George Catlin shook his head. Just what was going on here? He had accompanied these girls to the Indian camp, thinking himself their protector against a hostile Indian attack. He hadn’t understood at the time why the two women had insisted that no one else escort them. Now he grasped the situation. These women needed no protection. They were more than well acquainted with these Indians. In fact, they probably safeguarded his own position.
“Kristina?”
“Shh.” Wahtapah held his finger to his lips. “Iho!” he whispered and pointed toward the stream.
Julia halted with Mr. Catlin directly behind her. All three stared off into the distance. All three observed in silence as though watching the unveiling of a delicate, wild flower.
The two lovers were some distance off, almost indiscernible. Yet the love between them was visible, as an almost tangible entity. Tahiska held Kristina in his arms as though they danced to a waltz. The combination of sun and shadow, throwing them into light, then dark, created a magical effect while the Indian swept his partner around the clearing just like it was a dance floor. She gazed up at him in utter fascination and he, in turn, smiled down at her, completely enraptured with her.
None of the other three could turn away, the couple’s enchantment such that no one could deny its beauty nor fail to appreciate its purity. The two young people loved one another. No one could have missed it. It was manifested in every movement they made, every look they shared, their every touch a caress. And no one cared that they were white and Indian. This love between them was as beautiful as the nature all around them.
“I do not believe,” Wahtapah whispered to his friend, the white woman, “that I have ever seen two people who loved each other more.”
Julia nodded and glancing ahead, wished with all her heart that she would find such a love.
Even George Catlin stood, looking on in wonder. He wasn’t sure he could say just who possessed the most magic.
As the Indians would say, together they were good medicine.
“Tell him,” Tahiska signed, “that I would be happy to let the white medicine man set my image upon this board, but that I would make one request first.”
“And what is that?” Kristina signed in response.
“I would ask him with all my heart if he might capture the image of my wife upon this board first that
I would see it every day of my life.” Tahiska spoke in Lakota, then picking up his pipe, set it down before the artist. “I would offer my pipe in return for this favor.”
“I…”
“Tell him this.”
Kristina turned toward the artist. Though Mr. Catlin had been amongst them only a few days, already he was like an old friend to her. At the artist’s request, Tahiska, along with his friends, had accepted the invitation to visit the fort. The artist had not had time to paint Tahiska’s portrait the other day and wished now to set the young man’s likeness upon the canvas.
Kristina hesitated. How could she make Tahiska’s request known when there were others in the small room, her father amongst those present? Her glance quickly scanned the room.
“Mr. Catlin,” she began at last, her voice no more than a whisper, “Tahiska wishes you to paint my portrait first. He would ask this as a favor to him.”
“Wife.” Tahiska stepped forward before the artist could answer. He spoke to her in Lakota. “You did not tell him I wish this because you are my wife and I wish to have your image before me, since it may be all that I will have.”
Kristina’s gaze went immediately to her father, then to Tahiska.
“There are others present here,” she said in Indian. “Is it your desire to have the whole fort aware of our relationship? Do you wish them to value your scalp?”
Tahiska shrugged, and Kristina noticed that he carefully masked his amusement. “I merely wish to inform this white medicine man why I make this unusual request. Is it every day that an Indian will trade his sacred pipe for the image of a white woman? Do you not think he is wondering? Perhaps if I, like other men, could hold my wife at night, I would not be so anxious for her portrait.”
Kristina blushed.
