by Karen Kay
She looked up at him, her gaze catching his. “That is good.”
“It is good. However, I am afraid there may be no one else to see such beauty as this except myself and perhaps a stray buffalo bull that may wander into our camp, much to his demise. But do not worry, I do not think you would interest a buffalo bull overly much.”
“No, I suspect not.” She smiled.
“Come.” He led her farther into the water. “I will wash your back as I promised.”
She nodded and took a cautious step forward, sinking into the water almost to her waist.
He immediately drew her chemise down over her arms, and then off of her, doing the same with her drawers, tossing both articles of clothing toward the shore.
She heard his rapid intake of breath.
“Is something wrong?”
“Hiya. Nothing is wrong. It is only that I do not know the white man well, and in particular, before you I had never seen a white woman. The rosy color of your breasts beckons me. I think I shall never tire of the sight.”
“I…I don’t imagine you will, because…” She sent him a speculative look.
“Because?”
She sighed, glancing around the little gully, their short-lived paradise. “Because our time together is short.” Then, out of pure curiosity, she added, “I don’t imagine you would consider coming to England with me, would you?”
His lips thinned, and his gaze danced off hers. “Must we talk about this now?”
“No, we don’t have to speak of it now, but…”
He brought up his hand to run the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “But?”
She bit her lip. “You must realize if you don’t come with me to England, or if I don’t stay here—which I cannot do—our time together is destined to end…very soon.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“But if you were to come with me…” She stared up at him as though, if she could, she would read his thoughts. Tentatively, ignoring the thought that even if he did come with her, theirs would be a difficult life, she asked, “Could you?”
“You know I cannot. I am charged with a task of extreme importance. In truth, all my actions, even here in our camp, must contain an element of some urgency.”
She pressed her lips together, looking away from him.
Though neither one wished it, it appeared now was the time for them to speak of this. Fixing a finger under her chin, he drew her face around to his. “Do not despair. It is said by even the wisest of the wise that we must sometimes lose those things we love most. What is important is not what is lost, but what we do with the time which we have now, no matter how brief it may be.”
“Yes. Yes, you are right, but…have you considered…? What if you were to finish your task before I leave?”
He shook his head, sighing. “For nineteen winters of my life I have fitted myself to complete this task. It has ruled my every thought, for it is of great consequence to my people. I have tried over and over again to accomplish what I must. Many things have I attempted. But in all this time, I have not been able to master that which I must.”
She bobbed her head absentmindedly. “I understand. What you’re saying is that it is doubtful you will finish this task before I leave?”
“Hau.”
“Which means you will have to stay here.”
“Hau.”
She raised her chin. “If that be the case, then it does seem we are fated to part, my husband, for you must know I cannot stay here.”
Again, he nodded. “I have understood this from the first time you mentioned it to me. But now I must ask you something else.”
“Yes?”
“When the time comes, that moment when we must leave one another, I would ask you to throw me away.”
“What do you mean, throw you away?”
“In the Assiniboine camp, this is how a couple parts. She takes a stick. It represents her husband. She throws it away. This action rids both man and woman of their marriage, leaving each free to pursue other interests…or not.”
“I see. But what if I am unable to do it, or do not wish to? Couldn’t you do the same to me?”
“Hau. It is so. But I do not think I ever would.”
Sadly, she cast her glance away from his. “It would appear neither one of us wishes to part.” She paused. “Come to England with me. Help me do what I must. Then we will return here, and you can follow the path that you must. If you do this, don’t you see, I would be here with you.”
He shook his head. “I have only until my thirtieth year to complete my task. I am now twenty-nine winters old. It is summer. Winter will soon be upon us. I have very little time left in which to accomplish much.”
“Oh.” She nodded. “Yes, yes, I understand the problem now.”
“But perhaps you could stay with me until either I solve the mystery, or turn thirty, and then—”
“I cannot stay here,” she reiterated, sending her perusal, once again, off to the side of him. “I, too, must act quickly.”
He didn’t respond, and they stood there together, wet, cold and worlds apart. At last a chilly breeze roused them, and he was the first to speak. “Then come. As I said before, it is destined that one must sometimes lose the one who gives him pleasure.”
“Yes, I suppose you speak true.”
“Hau,” he agreed. “Many people have the rest of their lives to come to know one another; we have only several days, or perhaps a moon. But do not lose hope. The passage of time does not govern the intensity of the heart. One can as easily feel strongly about another in the breath of a moment, as within a hundred winters.”
“That is true.”
“And if this be so, then let us, by our actions today, do those things which will remain in our hearts always. In that way, though we may be apart, forever we will have our memories.”
She swallowed on an ever-tightening throat.
And he carried on, saying, “When the time comes, and you throw me away, it will signify that you are free to live a good life elsewhere, one without me. And perhaps, I, too.”
She nodded. At the moment, words failed her.
“You will do it?” he asked.
Once again, she inclined her head, then whispered softly, “I will. But not until that time comes.”
“Hau. Not until then.”
This said, he took her in his arms, holding her tightly, as though he feared she might disappear this very minute. He sighed, and slowly, one muscle at a time, he began to enact his earlier promise, and with his fingers, he gently worked over the muscles of her back.
“Hmm,” she hummed. “That feels good.”
“Hau. It does.”
Smiling, she turned into his arms, inviting him to massage the front of her as well. As he gladly complied, she pushed her fingers through the long length of his dark mane.
“I love the feel of your hair,” she said. “Why do you wear it so long?”
“It is a symbol of manliness—or womanliness, as well, depending upon to whom you speak. Long hair is much prized by all my people. It can have great power. And one only cuts his hair if there is a death of a loved one. Do you not like it?”
“I love it.” She ran each lock through her fingers more passionately. “I love it.”
As I love you.
Silently, she gasped. No, that was all wrong. The thought had been a mistake.
She didn’t love this man. She couldn’t love this man. Her entire life, her whole future was destined to be lived elsewhere.
While she could admit that she did feel something for Grey Coyote, wasn’t the emotion she felt merely one which was so only because they were alone with one another? And for an extended period of time?
Yes, that was all this was. It had to be.
But, screamed another, virtuous part of her, if she didn’t love him, what was she doing here? Like this? Had the far West somehow made a loose woman of her?
She sighed at the sense of moral obligation. One
would think a person would be permitted to have at least one skeleton in the closet, one adventure in life. After all, it wasn’t as if it was bad. Both she and Grey Coyote referred to one another as husband and wife.
Indeed, he truly believed it.
And so it was on this particular thought Marietta quickly came to a decision. She would have her adventure; she would have her skeleton. Alas, she would have her memories. For she could never remember a time when she had been happier.
Thus, having settled this conflict within herself, she stepped forward and closed the distance between them. “Is it your idea to repeat much of what we did last night? Now?” Smiling up at him, she drew her fingertips down his chest, emphasizing her point.
“It is, my wife. Though I fear you may be sore from our lovemaking. Are you?”
She nodded. “A little.”
“Then come, there is time enough for more of the same. Let us bathe now and heal the part of you which is sore with the mud from Mother Earth. But do not be deceived. When you are healed, it is my intention that we repeat last night again and again and again.”
She grinned up at him. “And I think I will give you little complaint.”
He, too, smiled, and they beamed at one another, her heart, even his, there for the taking within a heated gaze. True, their passion might be temporary—in fact, it might end tomorrow—but neither of these things would make the intensity of the moment less.
Indeed not.
Chapter Nine
Their little camp had become a flurry of activity, and it was a good thing Grey Coyote had secured their gully against an enemy, for it would be here that they would pause for a few days. Days which would be filled with the chore of drying meat and making pemmican.
“We will be traveling deep into enemy territory,” Grey Coyote had explained. “We will not be availed of the luxury of lighting a fire along the way.”
Lighting a fire was a luxury? One would never know it, Marietta thought, the way she struggled with the chore.
Grey Coyote continued to speak. “Kakel, thus, although I do not like to wait, for there is urgency in my duty, we must take these few days to prepare our food. But I can only allow two or three, perhaps four days at the most.”
Marietta readily agreed. This suited her, and she was quick to let Grey Coyote know as well.
So today, their third day together, Grey Coyote had taken to the hunt early, informing Marietta that she was to remain inside their hideaway until he returned. Since she bore many chores involving the pounding of various berries, this was no hardship.
Grey Coyote returned before noon, carrying the carcass of a deer over his back. Marietta watched from their shelter’s entryway as he lowered the animal to the ground. In truth, she never tired of looking at the man, for his physique was most pleasing.
Crawling out from the shelter, she said, “Good morning, husband.” Odd how the term husband fit him well. Strange also how natural it sounded on her lips.
“Hau, hau,” he replied, pulling her into his arms. He gave her a robust hug.
“It never ceases to amaze me.”
“What is that, my wife?”
“How is it that you can carry a deer for miles and miles, and do not seem to tire?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps it is because I have done so all the days of my life. I know of no Indian man who cannot do it.”
She merely shook her head. “And still, for me, you are the only one I know who can.”
“Perhaps the white man has a more leisurely life.”
“Maybe. Well, come. Before we start skinning the deer, you should take yourself down to the stream and bathe, for you smell of deer and blood.”
He sniffed at himself, pulling at his shirt. “You do not like it?”
“There are other scents I prefer.”
He grinned, but nonetheless, turning, headed toward their little stream. She watched him with a greatly adoring gaze. Then, sighing, she returned to her chores.
Soon both she and Grey Coyote were hard at work.
It would be Grey Coyote’s duty to clean and gut the animal, while Marietta set to striking up the fire and fixing the tripod that would hold the meat for smoking. It would also be her task to dig out the marrow from the various bones of the deer, for this yellowish fat looked and tasted much like butter, and when it was pounded, along with berries and dried meat, it made a fine pemmican.
At the moment, however, she had ceased her work, for Grey Coyote had come to her and was bent over her, painting her face.
To herself, she grinned, for it seemed Grey Coyote regarded her with a bit of awe. His hands shook at his task, and his fingers were unsteady. Though she dared not smile openly, Marietta was thoroughly charmed.
“Tell me again,” she said, barely moving her lips, “why is it that you are painting me?”
He paused, his midnight eyes looking deeply into her own. For a moment, they shared an affectionate glance. “Because your skin is fair and will burn under the sun. Therefore, you need protection. Also because it is my duty as your husband to do this for you.”
“Ahhh. An Assiniboine husband performs this custom for his wife as a matter of course?”
Grey Coyote nodded. “Every day. Unless there is no sun.”
“I see. And what does an Assiniboine wife do for her husband in return? Does she paint his face as well?”
Grey Coyote drew himself up as straight as he could, given his position. “No man requires a woman to paint his face.” He frowned at her, his countenance mock-serious. Though he smiled, he asked, “Do you mean to insult me?”
“No,” she said, not wishing to offend. “I was just curious.”
This seemed to placate him easily enough, and despite the fact that his hands still trembled at his task—reminding her again that he treated her like she might be a fine jewel—he at last completed the chore.
Sitting back, Grey Coyote surveyed his handiwork. “Since you have asked, I should tell you that instead of painting a man’s face, an Indian woman takes care of her man by cleaning the meat, sewing him good, sturdy clothes, putting together their lodge, and many other things. An Assiniboine wife is very tireless in her work, and when a man returns from the hunt with game, she will settle her man into their lodge and bring him pipe and food. She will even remove his moccasins and rub his feet.”
“Really?”
He bobbed his head. “She will also slick down his pony and take the game he procured, will dress it and cook it. It is a good time for a man. An Assiniboine husband anticipates these leisure activities with his wife with much joy.”
“Does he now?”
“Hau.”
“It’s really a lot of work for a woman,” Marietta said with a smirk. “You should know this.”
“It is true. And a good woman is the object of much affection, as you are with me.”
She grinned.
“But tell me,” he continued, “does a white woman do no work?”
Marietta shrugged. “She does much work, as does her husband.”
He nodded. “It is the same for the Indian. There are women’s chores and men’s chores. And when in camp with others, the two never cross. Now here, I help you with many of the chores that are traditionally considered the tasks of the woman. I do this because there is no one else here, and because you do not know our ways. But were I in an encampment of my people, if I were to be caught doing these things for you, I would be laughed at, even called a woman, perhaps rejected from the society to which I belong.”
Marietta tossed her head and tut-tutted.
Still, he continued, “But a good Assiniboine wife does not object to her work. If she is a good woman, she takes much pride in her tasks, and would shoo a man away with a stick if he tried to help her.”
“Truly?”
“It is so. She would accuse him of trying to make her lazy. Her mother and grandmother, if they were also good women, would taunt her. They would call her lazy, and this no woman of good merit
could stand.”
Marietta smiled at him. “Well, husband, if we are ever in an Indian encampment, I will be certain to bring you your pipe and food, and rub your feet.”
“But only if I return with game.”
“Only then?”
“It is so. If I fail to bring home food for the family, the Assiniboine wife will ignore her man and will leave him alone, sometimes not even returning that night to sleep with him.”
“Honestly?”
“I speak true.”
“All right, then, if we are ever in an Indian encampment and you bring home game, I will collect your pipe and food for you, and will rub your feet…most adoringly,” she added.
It caused him to grin. “Do not tell me this, wife, if you do not mean to keep your promise, for I will hold you to it.”
“I’ll do it.” She frowned. “If we are ever together in an Indian encampment. But I doubt this will happen.”
He gave her a rather crafty smile. “We will see.”
“Humph.”
“And I will remember to hold you to it.”
She smiled at him. “Do that.”
Two days had passed. Two days of rapturous bliss, the daylight hours being filled with the chores of pounding berries, smoking meat and pemmican making, the evenings fueled by passion, quiet conversations and teasing embraces.
It was a little past noon on this, their fifth day together. Grey Coyote was sitting across from her in their shelter, a small fire between them. He had been sewing a pair of extra moccasins for their journey. When he at last finished, he put away his handiwork and stared at her. “The time has come for us to make final preparations to go.”
Go? Leave their paradise? So soon?
Their gazes met, locked, and though neither one spoke what might have been in their hearts, each knew what was on the other’s mind. Still she managed to smile. “This is good.”
He nodded.
In the silence that ensued, each one of them carefully avoided looking at the other. In due time, Grey Coyote said, “There is one more thing I will require before we journey to the trading post. But only the one.”
