White Flame

by Susan Edwards

  With only half a mind on his work, Striking Thunder watched Emma enter Star’s tipi. When she came out a few minutes later she carried a piece of rolled-up rawhide and took it to Star. His sister handed her the knife she was using. Emma cut the hide into many small squares, then handed back the knife.

  Curious, Striking Thunder picked up another piece of bone made from the porous edge of the buffalo shoulder. The honeycomb composition held paint and let it flow onto the sun-bleached hide smoothly. Again, his attention wandered to Emma who had settled beside a fire, off by herself. Her hair caught the rays of weak afternoon sunshine, adding a wild splash of color to a drab, colorless scene.

  He couldn’t understand his fascination with her hair. He’d seen many white women with hair of all colors. Even the harsh, dyed-red hair of the women who worked in the saloons. So why did Emma’s draw him? What made her so different that he couldn’t dismiss her? Abandoning his own artistic endeavors, he watched, curious to see what she was up to.

  Taking several thin sticks, she set them into the glowing embers, allowing them to catch fire before removing them and blowing out the flames. To his amusement, she used the tips to scratch something onto the cut hide. Over and over, she repeated the process. He took a step toward her to see what she was up to then stopped. No. Leave her. Banish her from your thoughts. Taking his painting implements down to the river, he rinsed them and put them away then decided a ride in search of game would clear his mind. Taking his bow and quiver of arrows down from the pole on which they hung, he stepped outside.

  Once more, his gaze sought Emma. Oblivious to those around her, the force of her concentration reached him from across the village. What was she doing? Every so often, she stopped to reburn the tips of her sticks. Over and over, she dipped her sticks into the fire and pulled them out then scratched the hide with them.

  Slowly, a crowd gathered around her. Curiosity got the better of him. Shoving his way through the throng of hushed watchers, he peered over Emma’s shoulder. He expected her to glare at him as she always did whenever he came near, but she seemed totally engrossed in what she was doing. “Drawing with burned sticks?” He made his voice derisive.

  Glancing at what she was doing, he received a shock. Captured by her crude method of sketching were three women. Singing Sun cradled her infant to her breast, while her mother, Red Woman, stitched beads onto a pair of moccasins and looked on. The love between the three was clear. Two tipis formed a background behind the women. As alive as the subject themselves, Emma had captured the essence of motherly love, whether with an infant or grown daughter. He picked up another square of hide from the ground beside her.

  His gut tightened. Star Dreamer stared out over the plains. Her hair, trimmed and evened out by Emma, now framed her face—but in her eyes, he saw that familiar faraway look. With a few strokes and some clever shading, Emma had captured both the grief and the haunted look in Star Dreamer’s eyes that spoke of visions.

  Ignoring him, Emma added a couple of finishing strokes to the portrait of the two mothers and the infant. Only then did she glance over her shoulder at him. Their gazes met, their faces only a few inches away. Her eyes glowed, the color darker than normal, a dark, smoky green signaling the extent of peace within her. She waited.

  He felt uncomfortable in the face of her talent but fairness demanded he tell her what he thought, honestly. “You are good,” he said, giving her his first compliment.

  Her lips curved slightly. “I know.”

  Staring at her softly parted lips, Striking Thunder felt the urge to lean closer and kiss her. It didn’t matter that his people surrounded them, he wanted her. And that realization brought him up short. He stood and stalked away, the drawing of Star clenched in one hand.

  Emma watched him go. His praise left her feeling warm and satisfied, which unsettled her. She didn’t need anyone’s praise of her work. She drew for her own satisfaction, not to please others. Angry with him, and with her circumstances, which had forced her to draw with such primitive instruments, she glanced down at her work and had to admit, it was one of the best drawings she’d done. The artist in her had seen with her heart, not her mind, and with that clarity of vision, she’d perceived her subjects without anger, resentment and prejudice.

  Her breathing grew rapid as she really studied her own work. This wasn’t the image of hideous savages. It was a symbol of motherhood, of the bonding of women. Somehow, she’d come to view these people as humans who shared a love of life and who supported one another. She glanced around, seeing the wonder in the faces as they compared her drawing to the subjects across from her. Some smiled at her, others nodded in approval.

  Unsure of what this meant but afraid of the change she’d undergone without even realizing it, Emma shivered. For the first time since she’d been taken prisoner, she felt no resentment, no anger toward these women. Suddenly, she needed to get away from them. She had to think. Signing her name out of habit, she stood and walked over to the young mother. With her first genuine, friendly smile, Emma held out the square of rawhide.

  Hesitantly, the young woman, around her own age, took it. When she looked at it and realized Emma had drawn her and her infant and her mother, her eyes widened with pride and pleasure. Grinning broadly, she showed the others, her guttural voice filled with excitement.

  “Pilamayan,” she said shyly.

  Emma accepted her thanks, then fled to Star’s tipi. Inside, she flung herself down onto her pallet and rested her chin on her fisted hands. Striking Thunder was right. His people were happy, content. Whether it was working or playing, there was a closeness among them that her upbringing lacked. In fact, she’d never seen such devotion and communal support, especially with regard to the elderly and young. Nor had she ever met such giving people.

  Small things, like a simple gift made from braided grass or a colorful quilled pouch, brought them more joy than some women ever experienced when receiving gold and diamonds from their husbands.

  Flipping onto her back, she stared at the intense blue sky peeping in through the top of the tipi. Her throat clogged, and tears gathered in her eyes, and ran down the sides of her face. Today, she’d broken her vow to remain distant, to keep solitary and not allow herself to care about these people. It was easier—and safer—to view them as a lesser race, as savages, for she knew if—when—her father found her, the soldiers would more than likely destroy them.

  Emma bit back a sob. She hadn’t wanted to care. But God help her, she did. She did. The thought of that young mother and her baby dying brutally shattered the last of Emma’s barriers. Turning back onto her stomach, she wept.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The yellow-gold of the summer sun setting over the prairie colored her vision. Star smiled dreamily as the gold glittered and sparkled. She closed her eyes, grateful that this vision lacked the violence and death of her more recent ones. She relaxed and gave herself up to the images floating across the backs of her closed eyes.

  An eagle, with a brownish-red tint to his feathers, materialized. Lifting her hands, she joined the eagle and they glided across the golden haze. She and the eagle became one. The bird dipped, soared and scanned the land below, his cry loud. She sensed he searched not for prey, but for something lost. Puzzled, Star tried to see what it was he sought. Below them, the maka boasted a pale green carpet as the barren winter retreated under the promise of spring.

  With a shriek of victory, the eagle folded its wings and dove toward a spot of bright color amid the green-and-gold landscape—a red flower. Suddenly, Heca, the buzzard who signaled the end of cold weather, appeared. Star cried out a warning but was too late. The ugly black bird swooped down, and with his sharp talons, plucked the flower. The eagle gave chase and the vision slowly faded.

  Still caught in the throes of her vision, Star frowned and tried to make sense of what she’d seen but the glittering golds dulled, the sky darkened, until there was nothing left to see. Opening her eyes, she realized she was trembling, a s
ure sign that there was more to this vision than she understood. What did it mean? Though it made no sense—and most of her visions didn’t in the beginning—she sensed it would play an important role in her life.

  Around her, women laughed and talked as they worked. Several still exclaimed over the portrait Emma had drawn. But Star battled her own demons. Carefully, she stitched the moccasin she was quilling, but her mind wasn’t on her work. It was on the unsettling vision. Who was the eagle and what of the flower?

  Glancing around, she spotted Emma. Her hair glinted in the afternoon light. With sinking certainty, she knew Emma was the red flower that the buzzard had carried off. But it made no sense. The girl had no enemies. Who wished her harm? And the eagle? It couldn’t be Striking Thunder. He was the black raven. Besides, when she’d flown as one with the eagle, she’d sensed a closeness between them, a special bonding of souls.

  Star bit her lower lip. She didn’t want to know her future or anyone else’s. Two-Ree’s death haunted her, as did guilt. And with the guilt came the soul-ripping question: Could she have saved her husband’s life? If only she’d paid more attention to her visions instead of fighting them, perhaps she could have stopped him from going after Yellow Dog with her brother.

  Most of the time, she realized the significance of her visions in time to do something about them. But twice in the last few months, she’d failed. Once with Meadowlark’s death, and then her own husband’s. That the visions were tied together, along with the arrival of Emma, wasn’t lost on her. She now knew Emma’s role and understood why the spirits had reclaimed Meadowlark. But why her husband?

  Earlier that year, she’d seen the danger surrounding her brother, White Wolf, and his wife, Jessie, in time that her father, who’d still been chief, could arrange a rescue party. All had turned out well. Wolf and Jessie, now known to their people as Wild Rose, would return and run a school for the Indian children.

  Star looked forward to the end of the following summer. Another smile, this one wide and dreamy, spread across her features. They wouldn’t return alone. But she kept to herself those sweet visions of the future.

  She wished all her visions were of happy events. Why did she have to see danger and violence? If only she could stop her prophecies forever. Her people thought highly of her gift but no one understood how debilitating it was. If it were up to her, she’d gladly give up knowing the future and live her life as a normal person.

  Tipping her head back, she tried rolling the tension from her shoulders. Maybe she should take her children and leave the village. If she weren’t here, living so close to the land and the spirits that inhabited her world, maybe the visions would leave her. She frowned. But where would she go?

  The eagle. In her vision, they’d become one as they’d flown across the blue sky. She longed to leave, to fly away and be free, but as quickly as the thought came to her, she banished it from her mind. Standing, she shook away the notion that she could ever leave. This was her life. There was no other for her. After putting her things away in her tipi, she wandered down to the river. Normally, the rushing of the water soothed her. Not today. She feared what tomorrow would bring.

  “Ina?” Morning Moon called out to her mother.

  Turning, Star held out her arms to her daughter.

  “You had another vision. It troubles you.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Staring at her daughter’s worried expression, Star’s heart thumped. Oh, please, she begged the spirits. Do not do this to her. The one thing Star prayed for daily was that Morning Moon would never know the pain of having the gift of sight.

  “Yes. How do you know?” Kneeling, she fingered one of Morning Moon’s long braids.

  “Tell me you haven’t had visions, daughter.”

  Morning Moon reached out and patted her mother’s cheek. “I see in your eyes when you are worried.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Star led Morning Moon to a tree near the edge of the water and sat, drawing her onto her lap, grateful for her daughter’s comforting presence. “That is good.”

  Mother and daughter sat in silence with the sound of water gurgling past them and the whisper of the wind caressing them. Star leaned her head back and willed the tension to leave her body. With her eyes closed, she didn’t see Morning Moon’s eyes glaze over or the frown that crossed her features.

  Striking Thunder returned from his hunt empty-handed, hungry and in a foul mood. With his thoughts centered on the white woman, he’d been careless and had scared away an entire heard of elk. Unwilling to admit to defeat, he’d traveled far, searching for game but even the rabbits had eluded his swift-flying arrows.

  But what really rankled was that he, a great hunter and warrior, had allowed his thoughts and concentration to slip. And the one he held responsible sat with his sister and her children, eating as if nothing had happened. His gaze fell to her mouth when her tongue snaked out to lick her bottom lip. Recalling the feel of that full bottom lip sent his blood singing through his veins. Fury followed hard on its heels.

  Her father was a murderer, responsible for the death of Striking Thunder’s young wife. So why did he have the irresistible urge to storm over there, take her in his arms and carry her to his tipi? She was a slave, not a revered visitor, yet as he watched, Singing Sun approached her and presented Emma with a bag made from the fur of the coyote.

  “The white woman is a talented and skilled artist.”

  Glancing at his father who’d joined him, Striking Thunder shrugged. “Many people can draw.”

  “How many can capture a woman’s grief with only burned sticks and rawhide?”

  Striking Thunder folded his arms across his chest. Fairness dictated he give credit where it was due, even if he hated to utter the words. “The white woman is good, but she is still only a slave.” He indicated where Emma sat. “Have my people forgotten that she is the daughter of a man who seeks to rid the land of The People?”

  Golden Eagle lifted a brow. “Is the daughter responsible for the actions of her father? Do we not judge others on their own goodness and worth? Our people know this and accord her the respect she has earned.”

  The reprimand made him wince. Emma had proven herself worthy of his people’s respect, starting the day she’d returned to finish tanning the hide she’d been assigned. Grudgingly, he agreed. “My father is wise. Yet, she is here for only one purpose. When we have no need of her, I will return her.”

  Golden Eagle remained silent for a moment, his gaze on Emma. Then he slowly pulled his hands from behind his back, holding up a sheaf of parchment paper, a pencil and a steel pen with a half-full bottle of ink. “You will do what must be done when the time is right. But while we have such talent in our midst, your mother would like to have a drawing of each of her children.” He handed the items to Striking Thunder.

  Striking Thunder frowned at the items. “Why does she not ask the woman herself?”

  “She is your captive. Your mother does not wish to interfere.”

  With a bark of disbelief, Striking Thunder fixed a skeptical gaze on Emma who now held Singing Sun’s infant daughter on her lap. The picture touched him. Emma would make a wonderful mother. Long before the women had accepted her, the children had been drawn to her. With her experience raising her sister, she had a special affinity with the young. “We know that nothing would stop my mother from interfering if she deemed it necessary.”

  “That is true.” Golden Eagle chuckled, and without giving his son the chance to reply or protest, he walked away whistling.

  Striking Thunder stared at the paper, tempted to return the items to his mother. Let her ask the white woman. Yet, what was the use? She’d insist and in the end, he’d still have to do it “Mothers. Women,” he muttered, giving in to the inevitable. When he arrived at the group of chattering females, they all fell silent. Emma shifted her gaze from the baby to him. He held out his mother’s gift.

  “These are from my mother. In return she’d like you to draw each of he
r children. And her husband,” he added, knowing she’d want one of Golden Eagle and his father would not have passed that on.

  Emma’s eyes shone with pure pleasure. “Paper.” Her voice shook with awe. She stood. Before he realized her intent, she’d thrust the baby into his arms so she could examine the pencil and pen.

  In his arms, the infant squirmed and turned its head toward Striking Thunder, rooting for nourishment. With a soft chuckle, he touched the child’s downy cheek. The baby latched on to his finger and suckled until it discovered there was no milk there. But before it could wail its displeasure, Singing Sun returned. He gladly gave over the infant and put it to her breast.

  Unbidden came the image of Emma’s breasts, creamy and full, the tips puckered. Perfect for suckling, for drawing those pouty nipples into his own mouth to taste and draw out to full beaded tips. Unsettled by the course of his thoughts, he stepped back, fighting his attraction to Emma. He was a warrior. When he took a wife to his tipi, it would be an Indian woman, one with whom he could have Indian children, one whom he could respect. Not one who made him forget his goals, forget who and what he was, a chief with a duty to protect his people. Yet, he had no trouble envisioning him handing her a child—their child to put to her breast.

  He took a step back. To keep the barriers raised between them, his voice turned harsh. “I forbid you to sketch me.”

  Emma shrugged. “All right.”

  Taken aback by her easy acquiescence, Striking Thunder stalked away. Her indifference stung, which made him all the angrier. She shouldn’t matter to him. But somehow, she did. And no matter how much he tried to tell himself that only vengeance mattered, it wasn’t true anymore.