Otter Woman bent over him and put a ladle of water to his lips. He swallowed watching her eyes. “I will… live?”
She smiled. “Nothing can kill Black Hawk. He has much power. The sacrifice has made you weaker for the moment so that the body can rest and become even stronger when it is healed. I watched you, Black Hawk. You were the last to go down. I watched you blow your whistle, and in the end I could see you were having a vision, and that you were lost in it. I am glad. I would not want you to suffer that way without the reward of a vision. You will be even stronger now, and you will be able to carry on with courage against the soldiers and missionaries who try to change us.”
Black Hawk closed his eyes. Yes, he had had a vision. It came back to him now, and he was confused by it. He had to tell Night Hunter what he had seen, but he could not say it in front of Otter Woman. A man’s vision was too sacred and personal to share with anyone but a priest, who was the only one who might be able to tell him its meaning. Besides that, another woman had been part of the vision… a white woman. Otter Woman must not know about this.
“Leave me,” he groaned. “I must… be alone… with Night Hunter.”
Otter Woman wanted to stay. Surely she was important enough to him now to share his vision. She glanced at Night Hunter. The old man’s piercing dark eyes warned her she must go. She pressed her lips together in anger and rose. “I will come back and take care of you until you are healed,” she told Black Hawk before leaving.
Black Hawk watched her go. “Look out,” he told Night Hunter then, “and be sure she has… gone far enough away… that she… cannot hear.”
Night Hunter nodded. He waved a feather over Black Hawk’s wounds, then rose to go to the tipi entrance. He looked to see that Otter Woman had walked over to speak with Black Hawk’s sister, Many Birds, and his grandmother, Dancing Woman, several yards away. He turned back and came close to Black Hawk. “She is gone.” He leaned over the man, lifting a cloth that had been placed over each breast to cover a packing of moss on each wound.
“Never before have you taken sick this way after the Sun Dance,” he told Black Hawk. “I believe there is meaning to it. Do you wish to share your vision with me?”
Black Hawk thought a moment, not wanting to admit that a white woman had been part of his dream. Still, it was important that a man understand his visions. He had suffered much. To do so without understanding the meaning of what he had seen would go against all his beliefs, against Wakantanka, who had brought him the dream in return for his blood sacrifice. He looked up into Night Hunter’s all-knowing eyes, studied the thousands of wrinkles on the old man’s face. Yes, Night Hunter would have the answer.
“I rode… my spotted horse, Father,” he said, using the term often used by his people for the old, wise ones. “I was riding very fast across the wide land. I saw a herd of buffalo to my left, but then I could no longer see them. Ahead of me there was a woman… waiting.” He breathed deeply against the pain, and his body was drenched in sweat from fever. “I thought it was Turtle Woman… that I had died and had gone to be with her; but when I drew closer… I saw that she was white. She had hair the color of corn silk and eyes like the sky. It does not seem right… to have a vision about a white woman… but I must tell you the truth, for I do not know what to make of it.” He swallowed, his mouth feeling as though he had chewed on sand. “I need… more water.”
Night Hunter moved around him to get another ladle of water from a wooden bucket. He leaned down and helped Black Hawk drink it. “You have not told me all of it,” he said. It was a statement, not a question. Outside, children played and men joined in horse racing and a bow-and-arrow contest. The Sun Dance celebration would continue for several more days before they all went back to the central agency. The soldiers had not come to stop them, but they knew that one day even this, their most sacred celebration, would be taken from them.
“No, I have not told you all of it.” Black Hawk held the old man’s gaze as he spoke. “I have never seen this woman before… not in this life. Yet in the vision, when I came closer to her, I seemed to know her well… and I had deep feelings for her. I do not understand this. I could never feel deeply for a wasicu woman. I reached out for her… and she stretched out her hand. The moment I touched it, she vanished.”
The old man closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “I have seen things myself, Black Hawk. I have seen death… a white man. I cannot see his face, but his death will mean much trouble for you. This white woman with the golden hair, I do not know who she is, but there is talk of a white woman who has come here to teach the children. She has golden hair, and she is different from the others in that she speaks the Sioux tongue, and she seems to understand our ways. I do not know if this could be the woman in your vision, but I feel the meaning of the vision is that somehow that woman will help you. If you accept her, she will not vanish when you need her.” He opened his eyes and looked down at Black Hawk. “Somehow I believe this woman will have something to do with the trouble you will see over a white man’s death, but I know no more than that. When you feel you have found this woman, do not shun her, in spite of how you feel about the wasicus. This vision must be fulfilled. I do not know how it will happen. Only your own heart can tell you what you must do, and only your heart will know when you have found this woman.”
Black Hawk could still see it all vividly. He could see her hair, her blue eyes, yet he could not see all of her face. He could feel a fire tear through him when he touched her fingers, and it still startled him to remember it. “I want nothing to do with any white woman,” he told Night Hunter.
The old man scowled. “To turn away from our visions is to die, Black Hawk.” He shook a sacred rattle made from a turtle’s shell over the fire nearby. He prayed for Black Hawk’s health, and for an answer to his vision. He breathed deeply of the sweet smell of the sacred smoke. “You will know, Black Hawk. You will know, and you will not be able to turn away from her.”
Black Hawk closed his eyes.” I would rather die.”
Seven
Evelyn approached the gathering hesitantly, accompanied by Anita, who explained the ritual taking place. “Many Birds has had her first time of month,” she told Evelyn, who understood that talking about such things was natural to the Indian. All aspects of life were beautiful and to be celebrated, such as a young girl’s first menstruation, which in her own culture was a forbidden subject, something women only whispered about, as though it was something shameful.
She and Anita watched the ceremony from a small rise, remaining on horseback. Anita sat astride a roan gelding, while Evelyn used an old sidesaddle on the ageing white mare that belonged to Reverend Phillips. She could see Black Hawk’s sister sitting below, in the center of a circle of men and women. The thirteen-year-old girl was listening intently to an old man, who was talking quietly to her, sometimes shaking his finger at her.
“The old man is Night Hunter, isn’t he?” Evelyn asked Anita.
“Yes. Because he is considered sacred, he has been chosen to instruct Many Birds in her responsibilities as a woman now. The old woman sitting close behind her is her grandmother, Dancing Woman. She is the only relative left to Many Birds and Black Hawk, except for Black Hawk’s little son.”
Evelyn looked around the crowd, more interested in catching a glimpse of the mysterious Black Hawk than watching the puberty ritual being conducted for his sister. For several days she had contemplated whether or not she should go and talk to the rather frightening old Night Hunter, but she had not been able to drum up the courage.
“The ritual would have been conducted before this,” Anita was telling her, “but first came the Sun Dance. Because Black Hawk wished to participate in that, and since he was sick for several days afterward they waited until now for his sister’s celebration.”
“Sick? I didn’t know he had been sick.”
“The wounds from the piercing of the breasts became infected, and for a few days he was
very weak.” Anita patted her horse’s neck to keep it calm. Today her hair was combed out long and straight, and she wore a doeskin tunic rather than white woman’s clothing. Evelyn knew she did so out of respect for her people at this sacred celebration. Today Anita was a Sioux woman in every respect. She could sense her pride as she explained the ritual.
“The tipi to the right is a new one, constructed by Many Birds’s grandmother and other friends,” Anita continued. “Many Birds has placed her menstrual bundle in a tree to guard it from the evil influences of Inktomi, the Spider. Night Hunter will smoke the pipe and will burn sweetgrass and sage to ward off the evil spirits and assure that Many Birds will live a long life and bear many children.”
Evelyn tried to concentrate, but she could not help wondering about Black Hawk… if he would come here… how sick he had been. She admired his courage and faithfulness to his religion and beliefs for participating in the Sun Dance, even though she personally agreed it was rather barbaric. The thought of a man willingly sacrificing blood and suffering pain stirred feelings deep inside that she would rather not admit to. She shook away those thoughts as Many Birds rose and walked inside the tipi with Night Hunter, who had first put on a buffalo headdress and a buffalo tail. The old grandmother and several others followed the two of them inside. “What will happen now?” she asked Anita.
“Many Birds will sit between a sacred altar and the tipi fire. On the altar will be a buffalo skull, a pipe, prayer wands, and sweetgrass. Night Hunter will light his pipe and blow the sacred smoke into the nasal openings of the buffalo skull, then will paint the forehead red. He will tell Many Birds she must be industrious, silent and wise, and cheerful like the meadowlark. If she does this, she will command a high price as a bride, and will bear many children. She must be wary of evil influences. She is now a buffalo cow. Soon you will hear singing as Night Hunter dances the buffalo dance around her. She will drink from a bowl of water and chokecherries, as a symbol of drinking from a buffalo watering hole. She will be told to sit like a woman, with both legs to one side of her, and Night Hunter will paint her forehead red and on up through a center part in her hair. Her grandmother will go and remove the girl’s menstrual bundle from the tree, and she will be declared a woman and can leave the lodge. Then there will be a fine feast to celebrate Many Birds’s womanhood.”
Evelyn watched quietly, wishing she could see the entire ritual; but she knew that those below would never allow her, a white woman, inside the sacred tipi. “I wish—” She did not finish the sentence, for just then she heard the shudder of a horse behind her. She turned, and her breath caught in her throat as her heart inexplicably pounded so hard she could feel it beating. She felt the crimson coming into her face as she stared at the most handsome Indian man she had ever set eyes on. He was so like the man in her dreams that she had to struggle to keep her mouth from falling open, and she wondered at the possibility of supernatural powers having invaded her soul. He sat there tall and proud on a spotted horse, his dark skin glistening in the hot sun, his chest and arms bare except for a bone choker necklace around his throat. He wore only a loincloth because of the heat. She forced herself to keep from allowing her eyes to move over him admiringly for fear she would appear lustful… yet to her surprise and chagrin, lust was exactly what she felt at this moment. She knew without casting her eyes downward that his legs would look as strong and muscled as his powerful arms.
Simple rawhide straps decorated each of his upper arms, from which dangled little beads. The necklace and armbands, and a beaded rawhide strap tied around his forehead, left him simply adorned, no paint on his finely etched face or on his chest. His black hair hung long and straight, and his deep-set eyes were dark and unreadable, his nose straight and a perfect size for the rest of his face. His lips were full and clearly outlined, and she could see his jaw flex in what she supposed was anger at finding a white woman at a sacred Sioux celebration.
Perhaps the sight of him would not have held her so spellbound if he did not look exactly like the man in her dreams. Could this man, whom she had never met before, be the same one who had haunted her in the night? Perhaps it was just the part of her that wanted to find that man that led her to believe this was he. Whatever the answer, she knew without asking who he was: the notorious and elusive Black Hawk.
Black Hawk felt an odd force rush through his veins at the sight of the light-haired white woman who sat sidesaddle on a lazy-looking white mare. All the words Night Hunter had spoken to him about his vision came back to him. A white woman with light hair would someday help him. Could this be she? It angered him to come face-to-face with this beauty who could very possibly be the woman who had plagued him since the Sun Dance.
“Who are you?” he demanded in the Sioux tongue, thinking to frighten her by speaking fiercely in his own language. To his surprise, she did not flinch, and she apparently understood his question, for not only did she answer him, but she did so in his own language.
“I am called Evelyn Gibbons,” she answered. “I have come here to teach on the reservation.”
Although the woman put on a show of calm, he could see that she was somewhat shaken by his silent and sudden appearance. It was more than that, though. He had never met this woman, yet she had not only recognized him and seemed to expect him, but she also had looked at him as though they were already acquainted. How could that be? In those stirring blue eyes he saw the same emotion that stirred in his own soul—a feeling that he already knew her, and she knew him… a sense of oneness that sent a chill through his blood. The realization that this could be the white woman Night Hunter had told him he would find angered him even more. “You do not belong here!”
“I brought her here, Black Hawk,” Anita spoke up. “She wants to learn all about our ways so that she can understand our people better. She has a good heart.”
He looked at Anita with a sneer. “You have befriended the white man, gone to his school, taken his teachings to heart. You are not one to choose who can and cannot attend a sacred ritual!”
Anita held her chin proudly. “I am still Sioux! I still honor and respect our beliefs. I am just smart enough to understand that to survive, we must accept what is. We must learn the white man’s ways. To cling to the old ways and continue to fight will mean the end of us! The battle is over, Black Hawk. The time for healing and learning a new way has come. It does not mean we must give up all that is precious to us.”
He rode his spotted horse closer, tossing his long hair behind his shoulders and turning his dark eyes to Evelyn. “That is exactly what the white man would have us do. Teachers like this woman here have come to steal away all that is sacred to us. She might say she has not come to take away our children or our very hearts, but that is her mission, all the same!”
Anita started to answer him, but Evelyn interrupted, angered by his words, determined to show no fear in front of this man who was equally determined to insult her and frighten her away. “If I were here for such a thing, why would I come to witness the puberty celebration for your sister?” she demanded. “I want to understand, to find a way to teach your children what they must know to survive without their losing grasp of their own heritage. I understand more than you think, Black Hawk. I have lived among Indians most of my life. My mother and father taught on a Cheyenne reservation in Indian Territory when I was a child, and I befriended—” She hesitated, realizing now why this man looked so familiar to her. He was the image of Wild Horse. Had he returned to her in another form? Such a thought went against all her beliefs, and she felt like a fool for even considering it. “When I was a little girl, my mother and I befriended a Cheyenne warrior called Wild Horse, who taught us many things about his people that I never forgot. I saw him killed by soldiers, and I vowed then to always do what I could to help all people of the Indian race, to help them preserve their customs while learning to live a new way.”
For several seconds Black Hawk’s dark eyes drilled into her, and Evelyn felt as th
ough the man could see right into her soul. Did he sense her attraction to him? His eyes moved over her, and she felt totally naked, not just in body, but in her deepest emotions. He drew in his breath when he looked into her eyes again, and he seemed to be fighting something in his own soul when he suddenly jerked the reins of his horse and urged the animal to back away. “I do not believe you!” he said through gritted teeth. “I do not want you here!”
He looked back at an approaching pony, and Evelyn moved her gaze to see a young boy riding toward him. She knew it had to be his son, Little Fox, who at seven was obviously already a good rider. The boy came toward them at a gentle lope, perched in a sure position on the young Appaloosa, his dark hair dancing in the wind. Even from a distance, Evelyn could see the boy was as handsome as his father.
“Leave this place!” Black Hawk demanded. “Do not set eyes on my son, and do not speak to him! You will not take my son from me!”
Evelyn frowned, turning her horse slightly. “I have no wish to take your son from you, Black Hawk; but if you would allow him to come to my school, it would help convince the rest of your people to do the same. You would be helping them by setting an example, by showing your trust—”
“Do not speak to me of such foolishness!” he interrupted her. “My son will never set a foot inside a white man’s school, where they would cut off his hair, and punish him with the whip for speaking his own tongue; where they would destroy his soul and break his heart!”
“I would never do any of those things,” Evelyn said calmly, forcing herself to face the man squarely in spite of his fierce determination and the threatening look in his eyes. “My school is right here on the reservation. Children who come there can go back home every day when their lessons are done. I do not ask them to cut their hair or wear white man’s clothes. Talk to Red Foot Woman. Her son, He-Who-Hunts, has been coming for many days now. And Big Belly has sent Standing Horse and Bright Feather.”
Full Circle Page 10
