Dancing Fawn

by Ginger Simpson

  She glared up at the Indian whose bright, lightning-bolt markings did little to hide the evidence of his encounter with a sharp blade—a jagged scar ran from his ear to his chin. Well-deserved, she supposed. Despite her grief and trembling legs, rage overcame her. She jumped to her feet and pummeled the chest of the one she believed responsible. He reeked of death.

  “You...you savage. I hate you, I hate you,” she yelled.

  The younger man grabbed her wrists; the look in his eyes warned her to stop. She lowered her head and stared at the ground. Her falling tears sprinkled the sparse grass and glistened in the sun.

  Again, in a language she didn’t comprehend, the two men spoke in raised voices. The older one shoved the younger one away, grabbed Grace’s hands and trussed them together with a long piece of rawhide. Yanking hard on her tether, he pulled her toward his horse. Once mounted, he glowered at her with piercing eyes beneath a brow creased from years of frowning. He nudged his horse forward and led her like a pack mule, slow and steady at first. She flashed a pleading look back at the younger one, but he mounted his horse and averted his gaze. Why didn’t they just kill her and get it over?

  She quickened her pace to keep from falling. Her bare toes struck an occasional rock, and she winced in pain. Now she wished she’d listened to Mama and worn her shoes. Mama! Her wonderful, beautiful Mama. Through tears, Grace forced herself to glance back for one last look at the family she’d never see again.

  Chapter Two

  The air inside the tepee grew hot and stagnant with the door flap closed, but Green Eyes sought solace from the sorrow that gripped the entire village. The morning fire lay in a heap of gray ashes, but veiled sunlight filtered through the smoke hole, providing light enough to see. Occasionally, one small ember with the circle of stone sizzled to life, but quickly faded.

  The constant wailing of the four-day wacekiyapi, or worship ceremony, continued outside. The woeful chorus replaced the sound of cheerful children laughing and playing. Chief Broken Feather was dead, and the tribe mourned his passing.

  Green Eyes rested against her willow backrest and braided her auburn tresses. Her thoughts turned to her mother-in-law, Singing Sparrow. She and Broken Feather had been married for over twenty years. Although he’d been a formidable leader, Green Eyes hadn’t known him very well. Sioux tradition placed men and women on separate levels, with the men meeting to discuss war, hunting, and visions, while the women cared for the children, cooked the meals, washed clothing, and tended to their husband’s needs.

  Her mate rarely complained, and seemed to love her as much as she did him. Lone Eagle was her life, and she would do anything to please him...anything possible. Her only regret: She hadn’t yet given him a child. A son of his own. She heaved a loud sigh.

  True, he claimed the child her first husband fathered, but Green Eyes still carried the burden of failure in her heart. Often, Lakota men turned to other women to produce more children, and even though Lone Eagle assured her she had no need to worry, she did. Mating with another was his right to continue his bloodline, but to lose or share him was incomprehensible. The idea turned her thoughts back to Singing Sparrow and the sense of loss she must feel. Green Eyes shuddered.

  Vivid pictures of the past flashed through her mind. Fate had sent Lone Eagle to her rescue when her first husband, Walt, failed to return home and left her stranded alone in the middle of nowhere. Seriously injured and covered with blood, Lone Eagle had stumbled into her ramshackle cabin and collapsed at her feet. Thinking back, maybe she had rescued him. She smiled.

  The past etched vivid pictures in her mind. When Walt married her, she barely knew how to cook or clean. Her skin, soft and unblemished, changed with her first attempt at real work—helping Walt repair the barn. With no gloves, her fingers blistered and split. She recalled how angry she became.

  Her gaze dropped to examine her hands. Her once manicured nails were now jagged from hard work, and scraping countless animals hides had calloused her palms. Strangely, she felt no anger. Gone was the naive and helpless Cecile, and in her place, Green Eyes, a woman who decorated clothing with beautiful quills, made moccasins from softened hides, and even erected tepees…now a mature and accomplished wife.

  During their trip to the village, Lone Eagle had assured her she would be safe, but the Sioux’s reception made her question his promise. Curious at first, then angry, the villagers demanded to know why the chief’s son had brought a white woman to their home. But, little by little she gained their acceptance, and found peace and contentment with the very people she thought hated her.

  A few loving faces crossed her mind—Rain Woman, her Un`ci or grandmother, the tribe’s beloved medicine woman, with her leathery complexion and toothless grin. And Little Dove, petite and delicately featured, a treasured friend and sister-in-law. Both had been among the first to offer their friendship. Spotted Doe, Green Eyes’ only real enemy, was dead because she couldn’t accept that Lone Eagle chose a white woman over her. In a pursuit to find where Spotted Doe had hidden Green Eye’s son, the frantic woman lost her footing and fell to her death. Where had the past eight years gone?

  * * *

  Somewhere in the village another sorrowful cry drew her thoughts back to present—the irony struck her. Today, amongst all the grief, came a reason to celebrate. Lone Eagle would become the new chief.

  * * *

  “Green Eyes, are you here?” Lone Eagle threw aside the flap and entered, allowing sunlight to permeate the dark interior. He crossed to where she sat and offered a hand up. “Time has come. We will walk together to deliver my father to the Great Spirit.”

  How did Lone Eagle remain so stoic? He worshiped Broken Feather, and would miss his father terribly. They had looked so much alike. The same long, slender form, well-developed shoulders, legs corded with muscles; the only difference…their hair color. Broken Feather’s had been peppered with gray, while Lone Eagle’s was darker than a moonless night. Both men were very handsome.

  Green Eyes stood. “I am ready. Singing Sparrow surely needs me. Losing her husband must be very hard on her.”

  “It is difficult for all who remain behind. But today, Broken Feather’s spirit walks with Wakan Taken and all the brave warriors who have waited for my father’s arrival.”

  Green Eyes grasped Lone Eagle’s hand and followed him outside into the bright sunshine. The same soft breeze that kissed her cheeks danced through the grass between the lodges and rippled the slow-moving river current. She squinted at the sun’s shimmering reflection in the water’s motion while trying to match steps with her husband.

  Pondering Broken Feather’s death brought tears to her eyes that blurred the current. Sad, he had survived so many battles only to succumb to a white man’s disease called consumption. He’d been a brave warrior and fighting man, but even Rain Woman’s tonics and herbs were no match for the chief’s congested lungs and high fever. Green Eyes’ heart ached for her mother-in-law who had spent every waking hour by her husband’s side.

  Lone Eagle and Green Eyes crossed the compound without speaking. If only she could find words to ease his sorrow, but nothing she might say would bring back his father. Still, the awkward silence begged for some sort of consolation. She rested her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘It is good that your father died peacefully in his sleep is it not?”

  His lips thinned, and a dark brow arched, but he said nothing. Had she said the wrong thing? She replayed her words in her mind then wanted to kick herself for insulting the chief’s memory. The Sioux believed it was better to die in battle, and he had missed that opportunity. She hung her head and stared at the ground. She didn’t understand male pride among the tribe and she certainly didn’t mean to trivialize it.

  * * *

  Green Eyes stared at the cocoon-like wrapping holding her father-in-law’s body. Following tradition, his relatives had already dressed him in his finest clothing, put feathers in his hair, decorated his face and bound him in a fur shroud. Som
ewhere beneath the animal skin in which his adorned body was rolled were the prized possessions he’d take with him to the spirit world. The leather thongs holding the wrapping around him would secure his body to the sacred scaffolding built for the purpose of lifting him up to the Great Spirit.

  Her thoughts turned to her sister-in-law. How would Little Dove know her father had died? She’d recently married a brave from another village and moved away with him. Their relationship began at a Sun Dance ceremony and blossomed over the years. Normal tradition dictated that the husband dwell in the woman’s lodge and village, but Two Moons was next in line to be chief of the Brule Sioux.

  Green Eyes and Little Dove had spent so much time together, saying goodbye had been heart-breaking. Her leaving left a void Green Eyes couldn’t fill. No one else in the village shared her age, or the same kinship.

  * * *

  A heart-wrenching wail from the widow interrupted Green Eyes’ pleasant memories of her friend. Singing Sparrow knelt, flailed her arms in the air, and then collapsed. Her forehead rested on the lodge floor. Her piercing cries continued. Smudges of caked blood remained around the self-inflected gashes on her arms. Mourning was not only a painful process but a tiring one. The poor woman looked exhausted.

  Green Eyes grasped the custom of cutting one’s hair or sacrificing adornment as an expression of grief, but not body mutilation. To show her own sorrow, she had chosen only to cut the fringe from her dress. She hoped her shorn doeskin showed respect enough for the dead. This was the first time since losing Lone Eagle’s child that death had touched so close to home. She had miscarried the baby shortly after returning to the village years ago from her final visit with her parents. Right now, helplessness enveloped her as she stood next to her grieving mother-in-law.

  * * *

  Lone Eagle placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Today my father walks among the spirits, but he will be forever in our hearts.” His voice quivered.

  Singing Sparrow took a deep breath. “I know, my son. It is so hard to let him go, but we must. What will I do without him?”

  “You will meet again when the spirits summon you to begin life anew.”

  “But I want to go with him now. Unless I join him in the spirit world, my heart will surely break.”

  Lone Eagle jerked his hand away. His ebony eyes hardened. “Do not speak of dying! Losing my father is enough. You are still needed here. What would my wife do without your wisdom, and my son without his grandmother?” He motioned to Little Cloud, standing with Rain Woman.

  Tears glistened in Singing Sparrow’s aging eyes. She managed a weak smile. “You are right. I think grief has clouded my thinking. Losing my husband is a sorrowful thing, but today my saddened heart must find room for pride in my son. You are now our Chief, and that is a good thing.”

  “Grief has dulled my mind as well. I have given little thought to my new responsibility, but yes, today I am Chief. My hope is to lead the people in the same wise and honorable manner as did my father.”

  Singing Sparrow, her hands trembling, grasped her son’s arm for support. “You will, you will, my son. Your father taught you well. He was very proud of you.

  “A-and I of him.” His voice faltered with emotion. Lone Eagle turned toward the door and squared his shoulders. “We have friends waiting outside to help Father on his journey, and I have his favorite horse ready.”

  He pushed aside the flap, allowing his mother to see the chief’s Appaloosa, decorated with red markings and bearing a blanket of the same color across his back. Adorned in fitting fashion, this beautiful animal faced death to accompany his owner to the great beyond. Indians valued their horses, and this one was Broken Feather’s most prized possession. Why such a senseless death?

  Even stranger, the custom of self-mutilation. Green Eyes gazed at the bleeding gashes on Singing Sparrow’s arms and shuddered. Lone Eagle had chosen to cut his beautiful, long hair as his show of sorrow—so much better than marring his handsome body. She longed to embrace him in comfort, but public displays weren’t proper. Instead, she cast a smile in his direction, hoping it conveyed her loving support. Sadness etched his face as he held open the lodge flap.

  * * *

  Green Eyes, Lone Eagle and those inside the tepee joined the mourners who waited outside. Other female relatives moved the chief’s body onto the waiting travois. His wife walked alongside as Lone Eagle took the reins and led the horse toward the leader’s final resting place—the scaffold erected not far from the village. Green Eyes joined the procession and followed along.

  Broken Feather’s body was hoisted onto the sapling altar; his war shield and medicine pouch were tied to the poles. Green Eyes, with her head lowered in reverence, jumped at a sudden blast of gunfire.

  Lone Eagle’s best friend, Brown Otter, felled the chief’s horse with one, well-placed shot. He stepped forward, cut off the animal’s tail and held it high in the air. “Be free to follow your owner to the spirit world.”

  He handed the flowing mass of coarse hair to the new chief and stepped aside.

  Singing Sparrow and several other close relatives dropped to their knees and resumed wailing. Listening to their pained cries, Green Eyes felt terribly out of place. Joining in didn’t come natural, so she bowed her head and remained standing.

  “My father will travel to the Land of Many Lodges. There, he will dwell with ancestors, who have traveled the spirit trail before. He is in a good place where tatanka abound.” Her husband’s voice over the din showered her with relief.

  The ceremony and four long days of mourning ended. The crowd dispersed quietly. Lone Eagle helped his mother to her feet and walked with her toward her lodge. Green Eyes lagged behind, glancing over her shoulder at the women who remained behind to erect a tepee over the scaffolding. With the remains of the chief and his horse inside, all lodge openings would be sewn shut. Lone Eagle would return later to hang the horse’s tail from the highest lodge pole, signifying the sanctity of the tepee and all within. Green Eyes shivered at the thought of ever having to leave her own husband behind, wrapped in skins and sealed for eternity. Being wife to the new chief enhanced her fears.

  Chapter Three

  Within the ring of stones, colorful flames rivaled each other for height as the wood sizzled and cracked apart. Green Eyes leaned on her husband’s shoulder and enjoyed the rare serenity. Her son, seven-year-old Little Cloud, was spending the night with his grandmother. One full moon had passed since Broken Feather’s burial ceremony, and the child’s continued presence in his grandmother’s lodge eased her loneliness.

  For the past two weeks, Lone Eagle had met daily with the elder tribesmen, and tonight he seemed lost in thought. Green Eyes tickled his ribs. “Where are you? Your body sits with me, but your mind wanders. We should be making better use of our time alone.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have much to think about.” He sounded unusually somber. “Now that I am Chief, my first concern is the well-being of our people.”

  Our people. His words touched her heart. Relations with the whites were strained, and messengers from other tribes continually brought news of raids, kidnappings, and killings. Outsiders made her nervous, and she only felt secure with Lone Eagle’s people—her people.

  The anguished look on her husband’s face bothered her. This wasn’t the time to think only of herself. “What worries you most, my husband?” She grasped his hand.

  “I fear we will be drawn into war. At the Elder’s Council, there was talk of the white man’s continued encroachment on our land. They violate our treaties, and we can no longer move about safely. Slaying buffalo has become their sport, and our brothers are being killed for no reason. If our tribe had not separated from the rest of the Oglala, we would already be living on a white man’s reservation. There is no way we will surrender our freedom. If surviving means war with the whites, we will fight.”

  Her throat constricted. “Where will that leave me?” She forced the words. “Will our people turn against
me because of my skin color?”

  “Your skin may be white, but your heart is Sioux. Our people love you. You have nothing to fear. Long ago, the Sioux accepted you as one of their own.”

  Nothing to worry about? His assurance did little to calm her. How could she support killing her own kind even if she’d abandoned them by choice? Support any killing?

  “But I do have something to fear,” she argued. “Losing you and this life I love terrifies me.”

  “Fear is useless. It changes nothing. I pray we will have many years together, but as the Chief’s wife, you must understand that warriors believe it is more honorable to die in battle than of old age.”

  Her thoughts scrambled back to the statement she’d made about Broken Feather’s peaceful passing. Now she clearly understood the look on Lone Eagle’s face that day. Death and honor went hand and hand. Still, she didn’t share his opinion about dying.

  “How much honor can death bring?” she snapped. “Is it not more honorable to avoid battle all together?”

  Lone Eagle turned and pierced her with a steely gaze. “Rest assured I will avoid war, but I will not run from it!”

  Her shoulders sagged until he gathered her in his arms. “Let us stop this talk of war and concentrate on other things.”

  Pressing her back against the soft buffalo robes, he probed her lips with his tongue until they parted. One hand untied the thong holding her dress, pushed the soft doeskin aside, then caressed her breast. Her nipple pebbled between his finger and thumb. His kiss deepened as his other hand crept up her thigh. She sighed when he abandoned her mouth to dust kisses along her shoulder. All thoughts of war faded. Her hands stroked the broad bands of his muscled back; her fingers dug into his sun-kissed skin. She craned her neck, creating easy access to her sensitive collarbone, and then chewed her bottom lip in anticipation. The feel of his soft butterfly kisses blazed a trail to her hardened nipple. When he sucked the bud into his mouth, she responded with moaning pleasure. Her fingers twined through his shorn locks, wanting more…needing more.