On the return journey they followed the trail easily at first. But soon the deeper drifts blew closed and the distinguishing ridge vanished before the long sweep of the blizzard, each contour lost in the advancing waves of a veritable white sea. Since the storm hailed from the northwest, he guessed they’d drifted southeast. So he veered north—or where he imagined north—set Boon on point and raised his forearm to block the wind. Boon plunged briefly through the deepening snow but soon tired, content for once to follow man, horse, and mule. Caspion plowed on for a hundred yards or so; hip-deep, disoriented, he couldn’t recall a stretch like this…wave after drifting wave. Himself now exhausted, he paused for breath, then turned anxiously to the animals and slackened their rope, hoping to see one raise its head in a likely direction. But they all stared back as if confirming his own judgment: No, definitely not a wise journey.
He cursed their silence and his fool jaunt to the river and lunged forth once more. As usual events outstripped reason. In another three steps the surface gave way and he went under, deathly quiet beneath the snow. He struggled for footing and flung his arms, hit something solid and grabbed hold. He pulled himself up, digging in, clawing for daylight. By now half-smothered, fighting for air, he met the iced gaze of a mounted warrior. He gasped in horror at what he embraced. Or was it the moment’s fear—his own death mirrored in the mask of another?
Caspion shoved away and leapt frantically for the bank, kicking to his feet as the snow tumbled in behind, partly filling the sunken cavity. And he continued kicking in the snow, burying what he’d seen or imagined—the Thunder Bow Warrior, from fire to ice, same hair and face, eyes still open in search, and the plaintive cry sculpted to his parted lips as the rousing wind echoed: “Mone-e-va-a! Mone-e-va-a…!”
Horse and mule snorted nervously and backed away from man’s fear. Wolf-dog edged closer, curious of the scent escaping from the snow. But Caspion could not bear the notion of the ghost rising from its grave and kicked in more snow, desperate to cover any trace of the frightful vision. Then he called Boon and hurried on, leading horse and mule, pursued by the cold breath and haunting image of the disturbed burial.
He retraced his tracks to where they doglegged north then found his prior path heading east. Before long the wind tapered off and he noted the swell of the guiding ridge. Heartened by the promising terrain and easier going, he trudged steadily on through the knee-deep snow, encountering no further obstacles. In a short while he sighted the vague outline of the snowcapped lean-to nestled in the relative calm of the sheltering hill. By now breathing easy, he swore against any further forays in the storm; horse and mule could subsist on snow and tree fodder for the duration.
After hobbling the animals, he chopped an ample supply of wood and piled it near the entrance. The work calmed his nerves and warmed him. Likely, he’d jumped at his own shadow; a panic inspired by phobia of enclosure and burial. That was his earnest hope; for the warrior who’d spared his life—irrevocably changing him—was the last man Caspion wished to see dead. Yet their fates were more deeply entwined than he guessed. Gripped by these thoughts and his task, he’d forgotten about Boon and feared the wolf-dog had returned to hunt the grave. But entering the lean-to, he found him curled peacefully beside Moneva. A deep bed of coals warmed the air.
She’d awakened when the wolf-dog entered and greeted him with her soft voice. His fur held the snow’s vibrant scent given off with each caress. In their absence she’d dressed in the strange apparel—fascinated by the unity of leggings and shirt, but puzzled by the loincloth, oddly reversed, flapped down in back; though she admired the mother-of-pearl buttons that fastened in front, they reminded her of the river clam shells that she sewed to her own garments. All in all, a soft warm skin cleverly made. But at the Spirit Hunter’s entry, she nudged to the wolf-dog, still wary of man in any guise.
Caspion built up the fire, seeking greater warmth after his ordeal—hungry for blessed flames after facing the frozen one. And reflecting on the rude discovery, he felt his weight, weariness, and mortality double, as if another soul had taken refuge within so that he of one flesh now had two for which to contend and carry forth. Which is ever the burden and truth of love, and the frightful nature of its promise. He kept his back to her lest his face betray what he’d seen, letting unease yield to understanding before he could once more wear the mask expressive of life. But she’d known that morning when she laid back in sorrow and was left alone; her heart knew and searched no further…let her beloved sleep, his flesh buried…his death song chanted by the wind. And she took for granted that the Spirit Hunter knew as well, for her beloved had told her of their three prior encounters: the coup, the fight by the river, of the Bull Dance witnessed—and he awaited the fourth to reveal the nature of their interwoven fates. She laid there, herself the fruit of his prophecy; and though cruelly delivered she would grow acceptant in time and even acknowledge the other. But that time waited. Again, she slept.
By late afternoon the snow subsided, but not the wind; and minus the muffling effect of the former, the latter howled insatiably. Soon darkness descended from the gray sky, settling upon the land, between the hills and trees, and around the fire. With evening upon them, Caspion brewed more coffee; he prepared her a cup as before, adding plenty of sugar and a dash of whiskey. She watched him, curiously awaiting the rich sweet odor that quickened her senses.
And again, while handing it to her, he spoke her name: “Moneva.”
“Ha ho,” she whispered, meaning thank you, then leaned to her elbow to sip the coffee. She drank it all. When she lowered the cup, he pointed to himself and said his name. Her lips formed the word then softly said—”Caas-pee-yun”—each syllable voiced so delicately as if tasting mystery in the Spirit Hunter’s name. In a moment she said it perfectly. He was delighted by her quick skill. He set her cup aside and pointed to Boon, said his name and waited. She touched the wolf-dog’s muzzle and answered: “Ho’ne,” her quiet emphasis marked by a faint smile. Amused by her playful insistence, Caspion laughed and repeated—“Boon…Ho’ne”—pretending to juggle them in the air, then clenched his fists, catching each; opening his hands, he held then level, indicating either name would do. It seemed a harmless indulgence. Watching him, she too was amused. And he noticed that her left eye was no longer so swollen.
After serving more stew, Caspion offered his spare moccasins to wear should she need to go outside. Readily accepting, she sat up and pulled them on. As she wrapped the blanket about her shoulders, he helped her stand. She experienced some dizziness, but soon found her balance and stepped into the night, accompanied by Ho’ne. The cold wind was invigorating; it swept her hair before her as she walked briskly beyond the tree line, and there discovered the benefit of the reverse loincloth. But her appreciation was brief, for the biting wind encouraged a prompt return. Upon entering the lean-to, she turned to warm herself by the fire; the blanket pulled tight to her shoulders no longer draped below her waist, exposing the ripe swell of her haunches. When Caspion reached to cover her, she flinched at his touch, but calmed when he showed her what he meant to do. She hadn’t realized that the loincloth closed. Her anxiety turned to amazement, watching him fumble with the buttons. And the embarrassment was his alone, for she was only wary of man’s intent, not ashamed of her flesh.
Later, as she lay between the robes, cruel images enlivened the shadows and she fought to kill the memory of her great shame—willed it to lie with Broken Wing Bird buried in the snow, to vanish like winters past, thawed by another warmth; let it die, shed like the snake’s skin so Moneva could live.
When Caspion knelt to turn back the robe, she tensed. Ho’ne, sensing her fear, raised his head protectively. Caspion hadn't slept in two days and was fatigued by the grueling march to the river; moreover, these were the only robes to lie in. But she was frightened and rightly so. What assurance could he give? Her eyes focused on the knife sheathed at his belt; he drew it out slowly—she braced, prepared to struggle. But he gripped it
by the blade and offered her the handle. Hesitant, she met his eyes; he nodded, urging her to take it. She quietly accepted and held it to her breasts; her gratitude as keenly felt as the steel against her flesh. Slowly, he crawled between the robes and lay with his back to her; their bodies touching, motionless, each aware of the other’s pulsing life. She listened to the crackling fire and the whistling wind until his breathing told her that he slept then she eased her grip on the knife. Not that she fully trusted him. But her faith and respect grew from this act.
She awakened first next morning. Caspion hadn’t stirred through the night; the warmth of woman next to him induced the deepest slumber. Moneva built up the fire, melted snow, and made the coffee. She’d observed him closely the previous evening, knew which parfleche contained what. She poured a cup and sweetened it as he’d sweetened hers, first tasting the sugar several times with a moistened finger. But when she uncapped the whiskey, she recoiled from the scent of the Dog’s breath and quickly replaced the bottle, like an evil talisman, forgoing even a small dose. She knelt by the sleeping one, uncertain whether to awaken him. Then nudged his shoulder and quietly spoke his name: “Caspion…?”
He opened his eyes and slowly sat up—surprised but pleased to see her much improved and evidently quite resourceful. He ran a hand through his hair and was also grateful to find his scalp intact and that he’d only suffered the usual back-strain from sleeping on his side. He slow-twisted his neck and shoulders, then gave a quick jerk, snapping all into place.
“Maktabo mah’pe,” she said, handing him the coffee. Which he accepted with a smile and answered: “Ha ho…thank you.” She watched him, fascinated by his lip-hair submerged in the vapors; then became absorbed in a greater wonder and caught herself studying his eyes studying hers. Shocked by this breech of good manners—her own rudeness—she quickly returned to the fire. The Spirit Hunter was definitely man and flesh, but curiously made. She beheld mystery in his eyes, and to her mind his eyes and name became one. When she thought of his name, she saw his eyes; and likewise, their deep blue vision called forth his name.
Interrupting these thoughts, Ho’ne bounded through the entrance and leapt on the one in the sleeping robe. A morning ritual between wolf-dog and man. Caspion rolled out wrestling with Boon.
“Ho’ne,” she called in mild reprimand. Man stopped, and wolf-dog sat up perking his ears and went to her. “Ho’ne,” she softly repeated, smoothing his fur as he lay down obediently at her feet, muzzle to paws.
“Boon,” Caspion called; but wolf-dog didn’t answer, nor respond the second time. But when Moneva said his name once more with precise finality, wolf-dog raised his head. Caspion could neither fathom her insistence nor the animal’s ready response. But rather than confuse animal and man, Caspion yielded and called “Ho’ne.” Wolf-dog rose and walked over to nuzzle his hand in fond submission. Caspion glanced to Moneva. Her wide smile opened her lip wound, but she let it bleed and continued smiling as she lowered her eyes to the fire. Dark embers curled and glowed as the flames consumed old skins…ashes of her ruined dress vanished in the coals.
That day Caspion fitted her in a dark wool sweater and his extra pair of dungarees. She was tall, barely an inch shorter than he, so length was no problem. But she was far more slender, particularly through the waist. The pants needed a belt. He took one of the three straps used to bind his bedding and held it to her waist. He feared it would prove too short, but it fit neatly as he pulled it snug. Before fastening the buckle, he removed the empty sheath from his own belt and laced it to hers. Finished, he stood back and waited, curious to see where she’d hidden the knife. Realizing now that he meant her to keep the weapon, she retrieved it from her left moccasin and slipped it in the sheath. She raised and lowered the blade several times, testing the fit. Satisfied, she set it firm.
That’s when she noticed her hair hanging to her waist; the braids unraveled, here and there still encrusted with mud. Though Caspion had cleaned the ends, much of its length was so tangled and matted that he left it be rather than disturb her. One moment she’d stood proudly sheathing her knife, and the next, shamed by her hair. She ran her fingers through it, absently stroking its length, reliving its defilement…the captive’s silent plea. Caspion fetched a comb from his saddlebag and pressed it in her hand and held it there till she raised her eyes in recognition. The comb buoyed her spirit; she grasped it with fresh purpose, knelt by the fire, and began combing-out her hair. She loosened each braid and worked carefully through the tangles and dirt. After a good deal of labor, she combed it free. That done, she washed it with handfuls of snow and combed it out again, washing it over and over till the full length sheened black. Watching her, Caspion saw her beauty surely emerge. Yet he’d wait awhile before giving her a mirror. The single glimpse of her hair was shock enough, but seeing her facial wounds would likely replay the whole dark scene.
Caspion spent the rest of the day caring for horse and mule, melting snow then watering them from his hat. After braiding her hair, Moneva helped; she used her knife to shave bark from branches and fed the animals from her hands. Work was good for her; the cold air, revitalizing. And horse and mule responded to her nature. She learned to say their names, though slightly altered in a soft accent: “Too-Jass” and “Stumm.”
By evening, when the wind died down, all seemed suddenly peaceful and warm. Ravens fluttered, appearing in treetops of surrounding hills, scrutinizing the whitened landscape. A first tentative cry sparked bolder announcements of life awakening in the vast silence. Yet hushed again as darkness swallowed each black note. Above the frigid stillness clouds parted before the deep blue patches of darkening sky where the stars reigned through an old infinitude, challenging the sense of life and man. A wolf howled far to the north; others answered. And Caspion’s heart welcomed their chorus; life was brief and hungry, quick and desperate, but the passionate quest endured in spite of the eternal’s cold disdain. Moneva and Ho’ne sat by the fire, listening as the wolves ranged closer. Caspion grained horse and mule then returned to the lean-to. Tonight he would tether Ho’ne.
Indeed, the wolves prowled hungrily over the hills and plains, hunting for victims stranded in the storm; their haunting call chilled the very flesh and soul anxious before the beast. Their incessant howls buffeted the air, like wind stirring the coals. Moneva stiffened and gazed into the night; a fearful loneliness for one who’d never camped beyond the circle. She knelt on her haunches by the fire, her back straight, head held alert. Caspion watched her now: long black hair framing her golden skin, flames lighting broad cheekbones tapering to a delicate chin, full lips moistened by coffee, the faint line of her brows arched intently, eyes beautifully enlarged, alive, like a frightened antelope preparing to flee a predator. He’d lived apart so long that he was accustomed to night and all its terrors. Her unease moved him. Although the wolves posed no grave threat, they were unnerving, and he wished to comfort her, somehow bridge their separateness; but mutual words were few, and signs served only function—and to take her in his arms, while desired, was a fool notion. Caspion tossed his coffee in the snow and reached for the canvas bag that held his guitar. Music might cheer her.
While he cradled the guitar and strummed, tuning before the warm fire, Moneva turned quietly, forgetting the wolves, the night, and her sad exile—she moved closer, intensely curious. This was the Music Bow her beloved had described held by the Spirit Hunter when he stood before the Sacred White and received the coup. The mystery of its voice drew her closer still; she knelt on the white robe listening. Caspion encouraged her to touch. She ran her hand over the satin sheen of the polished wood. He guided her hand to strum the strings. The Music Bow came alive, and she jerked her hand away. Her eyes full of wonder. She reached again and strummed, holding her hand near the sound-hole, and felt the air vibrating as if warmed by a flame. This evoked a smile. Caspion fingered a chord and she strummed again; still another, and they continued the game for a time, him changing chords to her rhythmic strum, bot
h lost in play, unaware until the song had formed. Lorena: a Southern love ballad that had carried north during the war; a wistful melody in the minor key of two lovers parted by the war, torn by time and distance…hearts yearning for one another. And as “Moneva” fit easily for “Lorena”, Caspion simply switched the names and began to sing:
“The years creep slowly by, Moneva…”—upon hearing her name, she ceased to strum, engrossed by the song, his voice, and her name therein. Without missing a beat, Caspion strummed on, singing: “…the snow is on the grass again…the sun’s low down the sky, Moneva…the frost gleams where the flowers have been…” And if she knew nothing of the words, she knew everything of the meaning. Her eyes moistened and the singer’s as well as he sang the final verse: “A hundred months have passed, Moneva, since up the hilly slope we climbed, to watch the dying day, Moneva…when last I held your hand in mine…”
As the song faded, her smile expressed bittersweet joy, heart gladdened to hear sorrow so keenly voiced. And her smile sang to him; Caspion had never felt so good. The flames lapped the silence; her eyes met his without fear. Again she strummed the Music Bow, singing, “Mon-e-va…,” asking for the song. A request he would not deny. Caspion sang the song many times that evening, with tears and laughter often replayed. And the accompanying wind hummed with greater intensity, soon quieting the distant howls. Ho’ne laid warmly content by the fire, blinking his eyes from one to the other, listening to the song of Moneva…and the mournful chorus of the wind.
Caspion & the White Buffalo Page 24
