“Oh, and who is it I want to marry? Or doesn’t anyone know?”
“They know. And so do you, very well, even though you won’t admit it.”
“I … and who is it I want to marry then?”
“Naudah.”
Nocona snorted.
“Why do you laugh? She is pretty. She is a good worker. She has been good to Walks on Wind. She likes you. It is the perfect match for both of you. “
“No, she doesn’t. Besides, I took her away from her family.”
“That was a long time ago. She is one of us now. You know that as well as I do. Everyone thinks that … “
Nocona shut him off. “It doesn’t matter what everyone thinks.”
“Maybe not. But it does matter what you think. And if you search your heart, you will see that what I am saying is true. You will see that she is perfect for you. And who better than you to give her children?”
“I had a son once … I …”
“That is not the argument. You can’t live in the past. It has been nearly fourteen winters since … “
“Fifteen,” Nocona said. In the darkness, his voice seemed louder than it was. Then he whispered. “Fifteen … “
“It is a long time to be alone. Too long.”
“But I am too old for marriage.”
“No. You know that isn’t true. Older men marry young women all the time. As often as not.”
“They are men who take too long to gather the bride-gift. That is not my problem, it is theirs.”
“The bride-gift is not a problem. Besides, it is already set. I spoke to Walks on Wind, and she agrees it is the best thing for both of you. For her, too. She is getting old, and will not be with us much longer. She wants to know that Naudah will be well taken care of.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Someone had to.” Black Snake waited in the darkness for further argument, but none was forthcoming. When he was certain Nocona had been swayed, he said, “You should talk to Walks on Wind soon. Today.”
With that, Black Snake got to his feet. “Good night,” he said. And walked away.
Stunned, Nocona sat there for several minutes. He kept looking around as if he expected someone to argue for him, but there was only silence and shadows. Slowly, he got to his feet and trudged back to his empty tipi.
“Today,” he whispered. “Today, he said, as if I were some gawky boy. He spoke to Walks on Wind! I can speak for myself.”
And that afternoon, he did, bringing ten of his finest horses to the old woman’s tipi. She heard the uproar as he made his way through the village. Everyone must have known, because people stopped in their tracks to stare at him, grinning and teasing him as he strode by, his eyes fixed dead ahead, tugging sharply at the lead rope and doing his best to ignore the whistles and catcalls.
Walks on Wind was outside waiting well before he reached her tipi. She was not smiling.
“I have come to ask for Naudah,” he said, thrusting the lead rope into the crooked hand. “These are for you.”
“You are a man of few words, Peta Nocona.”
“Words are just wind.”
“I see. Then they should be easy for one such as you to make. I am surprised it has taken you so long to make those particular words.”
“Don’t make this any harder than it is, Grandmother.”
She tilted her head back as if to look at the single cumulus drifting high overhead. Rocking on the balls of her feet, she said, “Agreed.”
And that was it. Quick, painless, it had seemed like endless torture in prospect, but in execution had flown by like a hawk on the wind.
Naudah, uncertain of just what it was she had to expect, threw herself into her work. Walks on Wind, her fingers no longer equal to the task, let her sharp tongue create the elaborately beaded wedding dress, with Naudah’s fingers doing the work.
In the old woman’s looking glass, even more faded than it had been ten years before, the young woman looked at herself and tried to see in the murky reflection some shadow of the girl she had been. The long blond hair was not as long, and much darker now. Her skin, exposed to a decade of searing sun on the Llano Estacado, was no longer fair. Burnt brown, she was not as dark as the Comanche women, but almost. Gone were the freckles that sprinkled her face and arms. Angel kisses, Granny Parker used to call them. And at the thought, she stopped looking at the mirror, let the hand holding it collapse into her lap. She found herself drifting back, wondering what had happened to them all.
But the reverie was too seductive for her to succumb to it without a struggle, and Walks on Wind seemed to know when the past was trying to pull Naudah back. She loved the girl who was a girl no longer, and knew that things had been indescribably painful for her, but, like all Comanche women, Walks on Wind lived in the present, because the past was dead and the future was too uncertain. The Great Spirit would provide or not, and, propitiations aside, there was little anyone could do about that. So, whenever Naudah started to drift like a broken reed on the currents of her memory, the old woman waded in, grabbed her by the arm, and hauled her back to shore.
And there was much to do. A wedding was no small thing, a wedding to a chief larger still. And when that chief was the leader on an entire band, as Peta Nocona was leader of the Noconi Comanche, no effort was too great. Naudah would benefit greatly by the match. She was young and strong, she was pretty, and turned more than her share of young men’s heads. It was best for her if she were to get on with the business of being a woman.
And Walks on Wind was not disinterested, either. As the mother-in-law of the chief, more than a little benefit would flow to her. But it was the welfare of her adopted daughter which took the central place in her concerns. She had taught her much, perhaps even everything she knew, and that had been considerable. Unwilling at first, Naudah had shown a resilience that was uncommon, matched only by that of Black Feather in the old woman’s experience. Now, it was time for all of that wisdom and learning to be put to good use, and the tipi of an old crone was no place for that. Naudah needed a home of her own, a man of her own, children of her own, while she was still young.
Watching Naudah, Walks on Wind knew that it was the best thing, but she understood the uncertainty, the reluctance that was not quite fear but not quite something else, either. More than once, she sailed away, an empty canoe tossed by swirling water, thinking of her own youth, her own husband, long since dead at the hands of Apache, somewhere in Mexico, and her own sons, victims of the Osage so long ago she could barely remember their faces when she wanted to, and could never chase them when they haunted her.
As they were finishing the wedding garment, she watched Naudah in silence for a long time. The beadwork was extensive and elaborate, and Walks on Wind explained the significance of the design, element by element, knowing that Naudah had her mind on anything but the placement of beads and bits of shell.
“You are worried,” she said, and only the crackle of the fire answered her at first.
“No,” Naudah said, her voice hoarse, the answer almost a question.
“Yes, you are. But that is all right. It is a big thing you are about to undertake. I know you are frightened. I was frightened. All women are. It is one thing to slip out of a tipi at night and lie in the grass with a boy. It is something else again to lie in a buffalo robe with a husband. But he is a good man, and he will treat you well.”
“He always has. I’m not worried about that.”
“Soon, you will teach your daughter the things I have taught you. And Peta Nocona will teach your son the things his father taught him.”
“I don’t know enough. I feel so empty, like everything that was in my head has gone away.”
“Your head does not matter. It is your heart that matters. And your heart is large and full.”
“I hope so.”
She let the dress fall to the floor of the tipi and walked to where Walks on Wind was sitting in the shadows. Sitting by the old woman, she let her
head collapse and felt the old woman’s fingers in her hair. She thought back to the first time Walks on Wind had touched her, and she started to cry.
The old woman patted her back. “It will be over soon,” she whispered.
Chapter 13
Summer 1846
NOCONA LAY AWAKE, tossing restlessly, Naudah, now pregnant, lay beside him. Reluctant to ask what was on his mind, she propped herself up on an elbow and looked at him. His eyes were closed, but neither the movement of her body nor the pressure of her eyes on him made him aware of her presence. He opened his eyes and looked at her, blinking as if he had just come back from a long way away, someplace where his thoughts had occupied him fully.
“Why are you awake?” he asked.
“Because you are awake.”
“You need sleep. It will not be long before the baby comes.”
“Is that what you were thinking about? Were you wondering how he would compare to Little Calf?”
“No.”
“You can tell me. I know you still think about White Heron sometimes. It’s natural that you would. I would want you to think about me sometimes if …”
“Stop!” he said, placing a finger to her lips. “I don’t want to think about that. I couldn’t bear to lose you. Not now, especially.”
“So, then, tell me what you were thinking about.”
“I … I was thinking that it would be a good idea to move the village. Farther from the Texans. I know a place, very pretty, deep in the Llano Estacado. Not even the Osage come there. It is Comanche land if any land is.”
“It is a lot to ask of the people.”
He nodded. “I know, but we have done it before. It is our way. You must know that by now.”
“Yes, I do. But I would hate for them to think it was because of me.”
“It isn’t. It is just that I am worried. This war between the Mexicans and the Americans. I am afraid it will spill over into our land. And even if it doesn’t, once it is over, whoever wins might decide that it is time to make war with the Comanche. They will have their soldiers and their weapons. They will be spoiling for a fight, and we will be handy. It is a dangerous time.”
“Then I think we should move.”
“I do, too.” He lay back and closed his eyes.
“That was easy,” she said.
He swatted her on the hip. “It is always easy to help someone else make a decision. Not so easy when the decision is your own to make.”
“Sometimes I think you just like to exaggerate how hard it is to be chief.”
He laughed. “I wish it was something I could control.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make fun. It’s just that sometimes I worry about you. You have so much on your mind.”
“Sometimes I think that is what separates us from the horse and the buffalo. Sometimes I think how nice it would be to be a buffalo, and worry about nothing. They roam around wherever they want, and if a Comanche comes along, then the buffalo fights or runs. If the Comanche catches him, that’s the end of it. If not, he roams wherever he wants again, until the next time. But in between he doesn’t worry. He doesn’t even know the Comanche is there when he doesn’t see one. But I know the Mexicans are there, and the Americans and the Osage and the Apache. And sometimes I wish they weren’t.”
“Tomorrow, we will go wherever we want to, and we won’t worry about the Mexicans or the Osage. We will worry about the baby. That will be enough to worry about, don’t you think?”
He grunted.
And they moved.
The tipis were disassembled, the lodgepoles converted to travois, and everything packed. It took just a few hours for everything the village owned to be loaded, and by early afternoon, the Comanche were on the move. Men, women, and
children were mounted, the younger boys given responsibility for the extra horses. The warriors were divided into three groups, one small contingent sent on ahead to scout territory and make sure there were no surprises. Another group was sent to the rear to guard against attack from that quarter, and the remainder stayed with the main band, keeping to the outer edges of the caravan for defensive purposes. Like most plains war chiefs, Nocona also sent men to either flank.
The hundreds of travois gouged tracks in the earth and tore up some sod, leaving a plain track for anyone but a blind man to follow. In addition, the hundreds of horses kicked up a considerable cloud of dust which would hang in the warm, nearly motionless air of early summer. The cloud could be seen for miles, and with enemies on every side, only a fool would think his passage would be overlooked by warriors in the area.
But the move, which took several days, went off without a hitch, and as Naudah crested the last rise before the intended campsite, she saw something that took her breath away. The Laguna Sabinas lay below, its deceptively blue waters bitter with alkali. But the valley surrounding the huge lake was covered with flowers. Even in the desertlike atmosphere, the mingled fragrance of buttercups and violets and bluebonnets was strong, disguising the dryness that smelled of brittle grass and seed hulls.
She looked at Nocona, who smiled. She was pleased with the campsite, and he was glad. With the baby coming, her mind would be on a hundred things, and he wanted the surroundings to be as pleasant as possible.
Everyone rushed into the valley, eager to establish the new village. The travois were unloaded then disassembled, the poles reconverted to frames for the lodges. By early evening, the camp looked as permanent as if it had been there for a year.
And it was time for Naudah to prepare the birthing lodge. That evening, she walked in the meadows above the laguna until she found the perfect spot, a little hill away from the village, grass covered and overlooking the vast lake.
First thing in the morning, she began to supervise construction, several women assisting her. It was like the other lodges, but smaller, since it served a single purpose and would not be required to house anyone once the baby arrived.
Inside, a bed of buffalo skins she had scraped and prepared especially for this purpose occupied the middle of the floor. On either side, at the head of the birthing bed, a stake had been driven into the ground and leather loops attached. During the hours of labor, she would take hold of the loops and pull to facilitate the delivery.
Once her labor began, two women accompanied her to the lodge, to render whatever assistance might prove necessary. There was much to do. Cloths and warm water to bathe the newborn had to be readied, drinking water and meals for the attendants had to be brought in. No one knew how long it would take.
Nocona stayed in his lodge, sometimes smoking, sometimes getting up to pace nervously. He had been through this before, but it was as if it were the first time. He tried to occupy his mind with his responsibilities, but at the moment, no responsibility was more important than that of expectant father. Friends tried to keep him busy. Black Snake told stories of Nocona in his youth, amusing everyone but the chief, who seemed too distracted even to hear them.
It was near nightfall when Naudah’s attendants rushed in, bearing what appeared to be a ball of fur. Inside it, as everyone knew, was the infant.
“A son,” one of the women shouted, handing the bundle to Nocona, who gingerly unwrapped it to see the red face and wrinkled fists of the baby, its eyes squeezed shut.
Holding the baby aloft, its arms waving from the fur blanket, Nocona paid thanks to the Great Spirit. Relieved, overwhelmed, his head swimming, he burst into the most brilliant smile anyone could remember, and handed the baby back to the attendants to return it to Naudah. As soon as they were gone, he went outside to decorate the wall of his lodge with the large black spot that proclaimed the birth of a son.
Now there was the business of a name, and he made arrangements for a medicine man to come to the lodge the following morning.
As the sun rose, Nocona, with the significant chiefs and warriors of the band in a semicircle around the fire and the new baby on a buffalo robe between them, he waited for the arrival of the medic
ine man. In ceremonial dress, the shaman entered the lodge. He acknowledged the newborn, then got down to business.
Facing the place of the rising sun, he paid meticulous attention to his ceremonial pipe, packing it carefully, lighting it and making sure that it would stay lit. When he was finally ready and Nocona’s eternity of waiting had ended at last, the medicine man took a deep drag on the sacred pipe and expelled the smoke toward the east. He repeated the procedure three more times, each time turning to a different cardinal point on the compass before spouting a plume of smoke.
Passing the pipe to Nocona, he bent over the child, lifted him and presented him in turn to each of the compass points, starting with the east. And to each direction he announced, “His name shall be Quanah. One day, like his father, he may become a great chief, with the blessing of the Great Spirit.”
The name, chosen by Naudah, meant Fragrance, and he was named in homage to the flower-laden scent of the valley in which he was born. When the ceremony was over, Quanah was taken back to his mother, and the medicine man left the chief and his friends to their celebration.
Nocona, bursting with pride, hosted a feast for the men, who not only were the elite of the village, but the men on whom he most depended to defend it. Black Snake, as Nocona’s closest friend, so close they thought of each other as brothers, had a special place in the feasting, and led the dance of celebration that began at sundown.
Nocona, as was his custom, was sedate, even restrained, at the dance. He missed Naudah, and was counting the hours until she would return to his lodge after the prescribed period of separation.
When the dancing was over, and he was alone in his lodge, he lay awake staring at the stars under the sides of the tipi, rolled to let the cool air circulate. Shadows and memories, the distant echoes of another infant’s cries, the murky face of another son, seemed to drift in and out of the lodge.
He remembered what it had been like to play with Little Calf. He found himself reliving the swim they had taken that last day before the raid into Mexico. And he started to cry.
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