by Harmon, Amy
I am stunned by the silence, by my sudden, unexpected freedom. And I do not stay. I have not been left alone once since I was taken, not even to relieve myself, and I don’t hesitate. I know where Weda and Biagwi’s wickiup is, and I stride toward it, not looking right or left. I do not care what happens to me; I only want to see Wolfe again.
No one stops me. No one seems to see me at all. I duck into the wickiup, heart pounding and stomach clenched. It is shadowed within, like Magwich’s was, and for a moment I stand, chest heaving, eyes adjusting to the different light.
He is here, asleep on a pile of skins, his small arms stretched over his head, his little legs tucked like a frog’s. His lips move up and down as though he suckles in his dreams. He has grown. In two weeks he has grown, and I sink down beside him. I do not touch him; I’m afraid if I do he will wake and I will be discovered. There is a quaking deep within me, beneath the denial in my chest and the ice in my belly, and I moan in dread, pressing my hands to my lips, trying to contain it.
The skin over the door shifts, and light spills into the wickiup as someone enters. A heartbeat, a gasp, and Weda begins to scream in bloodcurdling alarm. “Biagwi, Biagwi, Biaaaaagwiiiii,” she yells, staggering back, the skin hanging over the doorway still clutched in her hand.
“No, no, please,” I beg, but she can’t understand me. I step away from Wolfe, my hands held aloft, but her screams have awakened him. His lower lip protrudes and trembles, and he releases a long, sad wail. Then Biagwi is there, Magwich too, pushing into the wickiup, and Beeya stumbles behind.
Magwich grabs my hair as Weda scoops Wolfe into her arms. Biagwi is shouting at Magwich, and Magwich shouts back, dragging me from the enclosure. Beeya pounds her fists on his back, and for a moment he releases me to push her away. She steps past him and runs her hands along my braids and fingers my earrings before patting my breasts and my hips, her tone full of desperate cajoling, and I know what she is trying to do.
She is trying to convince him that I am pretty. That I am desirable. That he wants me, like John does with his jacks. I heard Wyatt telling Warren all about it, his mouth full of cake, after John and I said our vows.
“You gotta convince the jack he wants the mare, while distracting the mare with what she wants most.”
John scolded Wyatt, but I made him explain when we were alone. He did so in a very delicate way, whispering into my ear and nipping at my neck, his hands splayed on my hips, and I did not need any convincing.
I shove at Beeya’s hands. She scolds me, shaking her head like she is trying to help me. Magwich grunts and grabs my hair again, snapping my head to the side and hissing when Beeya tries to get in his way, but he does not slow. I wrap my hands around his wrist, trying to relieve the pressure on my braids, and stagger along at his side. I don’t know where we are going. We do not stop at his wickiup or at the edge of the camp. Minutes later, we enter the clearing where the men are gathered to race and the women display their wares. People gape at Magwich and me, but Beeya has disappeared.
The warrior with the big scar is standing with a group of men. He has Magwich’s horses, and he is waiting for us.
“Oh, no, no, no,” I moan. The lifeless girl is gone. In her place is the girl who has been waiting to wake up, waiting for rescue, waiting for hope, waiting to forget. This is not rescue or hope, and I begin to beg, clinging to Magwich’s arm. If he gives me away, I will never see Wolfe again. I will not be able to watch over him, even from afar. As bad as life is, the knowledge that it can be far worse crashes over me.
Beeya is back. She has my satchel. My pictures. My precious faces. She runs between me and Magwich and the scarred chief, waving my loose pages and babbling, babbling. Magwich roars, and the chief frowns, but he takes the pages from her. His men crowd around him.
The scarred man studies them, one by one, raising his eyes to me every once in a while. He hands them to his men, and they do the same. Magwich has grown quiet beside me, but he hasn’t released my hair.
The scarred warrior hands my drawings to Beeya.
“Those are mine. That is mine!” I hiss at her, hanging from Magwich’s arm. But the scarred man shakes his head and points to me. He wants me, not the pictures. He speaks, and Magwich answers. Back and forth they negotiate, and Beeya clutches my satchel to her chest, her eyes swinging between the men. The scarred one signals for two more horses, and Magwich releases my hair. He folds his arms and walks along the animals, thinking. Then he shakes his head, takes the satchel from Beeya, and hands it to the scarred warrior, a note of finality in his voice.
My vision swims. I expect to be taken, dragged away by a new set of hands, but the scarred warrior turns, my satchel in his arms, and his men lead the horses away.
Magwich pushes me toward our camp, but my legs are limp, and I almost fall. He barks at me and takes my arm, but his grip is firm, not bruising, and he urges me forward. Beeya is smiling and cooing, hurrying along behind us. I don’t know what happened. The warrior improved his offer, but Magwich changed his mind.
Beeya brushes my hair and sings a song that has no tune. We do not leave the wickiup again, though I can hear the swell and the fervor of the scalp dance beginning. She is happy Magwich has not traded me, but I am shaken. I don’t understand anything, and my pictures are gone. I have nothing left.
When Beeya lies down to sleep, I do the same, staring up through the hole in the wickiup at the gray-black heavens. The sky is even bigger here, and I am much, much smaller here.
Put your energy into rising above the things you can’t change, Naomi. Keep your mind right.
I hear Wolfe cry; it is distinct and unmistakable, like every child’s cry, and I sit up, straining to hear him. I am in the grass again, waking up to find him missing, but it is not John who holds him; it is a stranger. It doesn’t last long, a few angry bellows, and he quiets. I lie back down, but I don’t stop listening. The sky is bigger here, and I am much, much smaller here, but this is where Wolfe is.
Magwich returns while I am still awake. I don’t expect him, and I jerk upright when he enters the wickiup, drawing his eye. He walks toward me, his hands on his hips, and stops beside the buffalo robes. I avert my eyes so he won’t get angry, but he stoops down and grips my chin so he can study my face. His breath is sharp with spirits, and I lean away. He puts his hand on my chest and pushes me back so I am lying down again. Then he bunches his hands in my dress and flips me over onto my stomach.
I cry out, but I don’t dare fight. If I fight him, I will lose. If I fight him, he will give me away. My heart has fled my chest, and it pounds in my head, pulsing against the backs of my eyes. I can’t breathe, but his breath rasps in my ears. He grips my hips and hikes me up to my knees, shoving my dress up around my waist. I have nothing underneath. I removed the leggings before I lay down to sleep. Beeya rolls over, muttering in her dreams, but if she were awake, she would not help me. She would be glad. Magwich has decided he wants me.
It hurts, but I do not fight.
I do not fight. I do not scream. I cry silently, and I endure.
I distract myself with what I want most.
He is not gentle, but he is quick, and he finishes with a grunt and a shiver and pushes himself away from me, staggering to his feet before falling onto his own pile of robes on the other side of the wickiup with a long, belching sigh. He is snoring almost immediately.
I walk out into the night and into the creek, lifting my skirt as I sink into the water to wash him away. I sit for a long time, waiting for the cold to make me numb. A dog barks, but there are so many dogs that no one listens. Distant singing. Distant fires. The sky is bigger here. I am much, much smaller here, but this is where Wolfe is.
“I gotta get my mind right,” I whisper. “Gotta find transcendence.” But I’ve already begun to float away.
JOHN
The valley is teeming with tapered tipis and domed wickiups on the morning we arrive. Camp after camp, thousands of people, thousands of horses, and a billion d
ogs. It is worse than the hills of St. Joe during the jump-off season. Washakie and his chiefs move up into the lead as we slowly proceed through the Gathering. A slice of the valley has been left open for him, one that extends up from the surrounding creek to an enormous circle in the center, where the people seem to congregate. I cannot help but scan the faces, searching desperately for sight of Naomi, but the numbers are too vast, and though we wind our way through the camps, Washakie and some of his men greeting other leaders of other bands, I do not see her. Washakie says that we are the last to arrive, but he does not prolong my agony.
“I will not go to Pocatello’s camp, but Hanabi and some of the other women will visit. There is good feeling among the Newe, even if their chiefs do not see eye to eye. They will look among the women for your wife and her brother. If they are here, I will call a council. We will not cause panic or raise an alarm. That would not be good for your woman or the tua.”
Washakie and some of the men go to watch the horses race and mingle among the warriors of other tribes. I see to my mules and help Lost Woman set up Washakie’s big wickiup and start a fire for cooking. The women seem to carry the brunt of the labor in the tribe. It is no different among the Pawnee. The men kill the meat, but the women skin it, quarter it, pack it, and drag it home. Then they cut it into strips, dry it, pound it, dry it some more, and pack it up again. They gather the wood and prepare the skins and herd the children and feed the tribe, and the work never relents.
Lost Woman works quietly, efficiently, and she stays close to me. I haven’t spoken more than a few words to her since I arrived, but she sleeps in Washakie’s wickiup, she knows my story, and she senses my snakes.
“You are scared,” she says.
“I am. If she is not here . . .” I can’t finish. If Naomi isn’t here, I don’t know what I’ll do.
“She will not be lost forever,” Lost Woman reassures me quietly, and I pray forever ends today. We wait for hours. I don’t know the customs or the traditions that occur in a visit between tribes, and I even crawl into my tent and try to sleep, exhausted by not knowing. Lost Woman promises to wake me, but I know the moment the women return, and I have scrambled out of my tent before she has time to alert me. Washakie and his men have returned as well.
Washakie’s face has no expression, but Hanabi runs to me.
“She is here. The babe too,” she says, slightly breathless.
I am overcome with relief and cannot stand. When I sink to my knees, Hanabi crouches beside me and takes my hand.
“The boy has fattened since I saw him. He is well.” She is smiling, but there is something else. I can see it in Washakie’s face. Hanabi is trying to buoy me up, but there is something wrong. His people are watching, and Washakie extends his hand, helping me to my feet.
“Come,” he says, and I follow him to his wickiup, Hanabi and Lost Woman at my heels.
“Tell him everything,” Washakie says to Hanabi.
“They have given the boy to a woman who lost her baby only days before the attack. Her husband, Biagwi, spared the Wolfe boy because of this. It was Biagwi’s brother the arrow killed,” Hanabi says.
“They talk of the attack?” Somehow I imagined they would try to conceal what was done.
“They call it a battle. Weda, Biagwi’s woman, is very proud. She did not hide the Wolfe boy,” Hanabi says.
“A battle?” I gasp.
“One of their own was lost,” Hanabi reminds me, and her gentle voice is a lash against my skin.
“It was not a fair fight,” I hiss.
“To them, it was. And it was a battle they did not start.”
“And Naomi?”
“We saw her, but she was taken away as soon as we arrived,” Hanabi says.
“The men are talking about her. She is Magwich’s woman now,” Washakie says softly. “She lives in his wickiup. They say she paints faces—waipo—on the skins. She is valuable to him, and he will not trade her.”
“She is called Face Woman,” Hanabi says. “It is good, brother. If she is valued, she will be safe.”
“She is valuable to him,” I whisper. My mind is reeling, and I’m going to be sick. I will kill this Magwich, and I will kill anyone who tries to stop me. If I die, it could not be a worse hell than this.
Washakie touches my shoulder, and his eyes are bleak. He sees what is in my heart, and he’s troubled by it.
“I have sent word to the leader of every band. We will meet in council at nightfall. You will come. You will tell them what has been done. You will ask for the woman and the child to be returned. And I will speak for you.”
NAOMI
I saw Hanabi. I thought she saw me too, but I’m not sure. Her baby was strapped to her back, just like before. Beeya is skittish, and we haven’t left the wickiup since Hanabi and the women came to visit. John said Hanabi’s husband’s name was Washakie. He met him at Fort Bridger and was greatly impressed.
I’ve heard the name Washakie many times since we arrived in the valley. He is admired among the Shoshoni. They are all Shoshoni. The same people who killed my family fed my family. The woman who nursed my mother’s child sits with the woman who stole my mother’s child. And I am lost.
I lie down on the buffalo robes and close my eyes. I don’t think I am unwell. My skin isn’t hot and my throat isn’t sore, but something is loose inside my chest. I can feel it sliding and slipping when I move.
Beeya pokes at me and tries to get me to paint, but I can’t, and she lets me sleep. Magwich comes in hours later. He is angry that I am sleeping. He argues with Beeya and prods me with his foot. Beeya brushes my hair and braids it down my back. She hands me a long skirt and a cloth blouse, something a woman gave her for one of my paintings. I put it on with shaking hands. There are beads at the neckline and beads at the cuffs, and a thick beaded belt wraps around my waist. It is beautiful, and Beeya is pleased.
She is taking me somewhere, and I’m too weary to be afraid. I should be. The moment I think I am saved is the moment I open another window to hell.
18
THE GATHERING
JOHN
Word has spread, and the clearing is teeming with warriors. There are too many leaders to fit inside a wickiup, so the council is being held outside. A fire has been built in a hole so the men can sit around it and still see each other, and Washakie says it’s a rare occasion that the people can observe, even if they can’t hear all that is spoken.
Hanabi thinks I should dress like I belong to the people. “He is not so white,” she says. “We can claim he is one of us.”
But Washakie shakes his head in disagreement. “He is here to claim his white wife and her white brother. He must be a white man too. That is how he must be seen.”
Washakie sits on the east side, the northern bands to his right, the southern bands to his left, the western bands across the flame. I sit behind him with his war chiefs. He tells me that when it is my turn to speak, I will stand. There are old chiefs and young chiefs, but most, like Washakie, are caught somewhere in between, though Washakie stands out from the rest. He is respected and lauded, and I am reassured by his position among the leaders. Pocatello sits among the chiefs of the Northern Shoshoni. He is feathered and proud, but his lower jaw juts out too far, competing with the beak of his nose, and his eyes are mean and small. Beyond the circle of leaders, the field is dense with their men. The women make a circle around the edges, standing so that they can see. Hanabi is among them, Lost Woman too, but I do not see Naomi.
They begin with the pipe, passing it from one leader to the next. Each speaks of the prosperity and prowess of his tribe. Pocatello speaks the longest, describing his battles against the Crow and the Blackfeet and the white enemy that invades the land of the Shoshoni. He shakes his scalps, suspended from a pole that he lifts into the sky, and the people murmur and nod in approval. He does not speak of Naomi or Wolfe. He does not know why the council has been gathered.
Some of the older chiefs speak slowly, their voi
ces muffled, and the crowd gets restless; the leaders grow sleepy. Finally it is Washakie’s turn. He says that it is good to defeat our enemies and protect the lands, and it is good to make peace to protect the people.
“We made an agreement at Horse Creek to let the white men pass in their wagons. When we break our agreement, we give the white chiefs reason to break theirs.”
“They do not keep their agreements,” Pocatello yells out, interrupting. “They want to deceive us.”
Washakie nods, acknowledging this, but he turns to me and asks me to stand. Curiosity ripples through the crowd, and the chiefs straighten. My presence, which has obviously been noticed, is being explained.
“This is John Lowry. Two Feet. He is a friend to my people and a brother to my woman. He saved my daughter from drowning.” He pauses, letting the people look at me, letting his words settle. “His white woman and her brother were taken by Pocatello. He has come in peace, asking for their return. We will listen to him.”
Pocatello shakes his scalps, and there is an audible shifting among his men, but the other leaders stare at me, waiting.
I am nervous, and I begin speaking Pawnee without realizing what I have done. When the people grumble and hiss, I stop, find my words, and try again. I have been preparing, but the weight of the moment, of Naomi’s fate and my own, tangles my tongue.
I do not have an orator’s skill, and the language does not flow from my lips, but I tell the story as well as I can. The burned wagons, the boys who hid in the rocks, the dead women and men. I tell the story of the bow and the child who wielded it, accidentally killing Biagwi’s brother. I speak of Naomi, my wife, the woman who paints faces wherever she goes, and her infant brother. I tell them she is here—many of them have seen her—and I ask that they give her back to me, along with her brother.