For a long while he walked, but instead of easing his nerves, he grew more tense thinking of all the ways their first meeting would go. He couldn’t approach her without an invitation, and if she were with others, he couldn’t approach her either. The longer he walked, the more dejected he became. He couldn’t concentrate well enough today to hunt. Perhaps he might have better luck at fishing.
As he neared the stream, a movement by the water’s edge made him still. His heart leaped. Quiet Thunder crouched with a skin bucket. Her dark hair shone like a raven’s in the morning sun.
His heart pounded in his chest. He couldn’t just turn away, she would hear his clumsy footsteps in the leaves and think him dishonorable for not speaking to her. But what should he say? He hadn’t seen her in so long. They hadn’t had a real conversation in longer than he could remember. Certainly not since they’d left with Pratt.
She glanced up and she, too, stilled, her eyes wide. With quiet resolution, she lifted the bucket and walked toward him. “Hello, Black Bear.”
So calm, so reserved. No feeling at all in her voice.
“Hello.” Realizing he had no idea which name she preferred, he couldn’t call her by any name.
Moments of awkward silence stretched on. To fill the void, he added, “You’re looking… well.” Beautiful. More beautiful than he remembered. Youth had suited her, he’d thought at the time–her smooth skin a creamy tan, and her dark eyes afire. The years had only added to her beauty. Her tanned cheeks blossomed with a tinge of peach, and her gaze like starlight. If it weren’t for the lack of a smile, he’d have trouble remembering all that had happened since they last stood together by the stream. A lifetime ago.
“Thank you.” A wince flickered across her features.
Had he upset her? Struck dumb, his mind raced but he could think of nothing to say.
“I’m exhausted from the long journey,” she added tersely.
“Yes. I’ll leave you, then. I’m on my way to search for game.” Idiot! She’d seen his bow, and would know that. His nerves were ready to jump out of his skin. He’d forgotten how to act around her.
Ducking her head, she tightened her hold on the bucket and walked past. “All right.”
His thoughts scudded across his brain like clouds on a windy day. All of his spirit urged him to call out to her to come back. Instead, he stood watching until she rounded past the first tipi. Not until she was out of sight did he regain his senses. He couldn’t go back to camp and risk running into her again, so he shouldered his bow and walked on.
****
Water sloshed against Quiet Thunder’s legs, she walked so vigorously.
You look... well? Is that the best description he could use? Certainly no compliment, from his tone. The hesitation signaling he could think of no better word.
Thoughts roiled through her head like a storm. Did she appear so terrible? Was she such a disappointment, she didn’t live up to his memory of her?
What right had he to be disappointed? He was the one who abandoned her. Left her at the white school, not once thinking to get word to her, or ask how she was doing, whether she were ill or… well. Well! Ooh, the very word made her blood boil.
How foolish of her to stand there like some young girl awaiting her first kiss, hoping for something sweet to pass from his lips? How could she expect anything from him?
Reaching her father’s tipi, she dropped the skin bucket near the fire with such force, water spilled and hissed. Half the flames extinguished.
Stepping outside, he asked, “Are you all right?”
Hastily she crouched to lift the bucket. “I’m sorry. It slipped from my hands. I’ll get more.”
She tensed. Black Bear might still be at the stream. She couldn’t see him again. He’d think she followed him, and he obviously didn’t want to see her.
“Would you rather I went instead?” Her father’s soft voice told her he suspected what had happened. She’d be the joke of the camp, everyone laughing at her foolishness whenever she passed. The old grandmother who never married, and who couldn’t perform a simple task whenever her first love was near.
“No. I’ll go.” Somehow she would have to find a way to endure his presence. If he couldn’t do the same, then he could leave.
No, she didn’t want that. She wanted to know why he’d left Carlisle, to hear from his own tongue the reason he could hurt her so terribly and not apologize. No matter what, she had to live her life, and would do so with dignity.
****
Black Bear’s legs propelled him ahead, but he walked without seeing his surroundings. All he could see was Quiet Thunder’s face. Her anger and cold indifference made a more formidable barrier than the school dormitories and a thousand student guards. How could he begin to repair the damage between them? She appeared the same as the girl he loved, but layers of sadness and wisdom and distance might prove impenetrable.
He should leave her alone. If her lack of conversation were any indication, she no longer wanted anything to do with him. Of course she must hate him. He should never have let her follow him to that terrible place, where the whites stripped them of their most vital attributes—their Lakota families, their spirituality, their respect for Mother Earth and their brother creatures.
A flash of light brown caught Black Bear’s eye, and the flick of a white tail. A deer! The first he’d seen in days. And on the run. He fumbled a bow from the pouch and into the bow. It slipped from his grasp. By the time he readied to take aim, the deer had bounded away through the trees.
Through clenched teeth, he groaned. Dejected, he went back to camp. Making a fire took much longer than usual. Every few seconds, he glanced up to see if Quiet Thunder might be near. His hands performed tasks by rote, and he blew on the smoking twigs to encourage a spark. When flames licked the wood, he stared at the yellow and blue flickers. He wanted another sort of fire to warm him, the kind that burned in his blood, fed by one woman’s touch. Without it, nothing else would warm him.
The dark hair of every woman passing drew his gaze instantly, his pulse racing. Unable to stand the disappointment when none proved to be Quiet Thunder, he went inside his tipi. He lay back on the buffalo skin. All the things he should have said, but now couldn’t, came to mind. As he rehearsed each scenario, the vision of Quiet Thunder answered in anger and bitterness, no matter how he pleaded.
A sign she would never forgive him.
He never should have returned here. His days would be one torture after the next, living within plain sight of her but unable to touch her, or speak more than mundane greetings. His tongue refused to obey in her presence, growing thick and useless. Dazed by her beauty, all his muscles were useless, too, unable to respond to his will until she’d gone. He acted like one cursed by a bad spirit. Maybe in all her anger, she had set a curse on him.
Maybe he’d cursed himself to this fate, worse than the ghost of his spirit who sleep-walked through each day at Pratt’s school. For now, he felt each loss like a thousand piercing thorns in his heart. Only Quiet Thunder could heal the wounds, but instead, being near her caused more thorns to sprout and cut in. He would have to find some way to live with the pain.
****
Sunlight filtered through the top of the tipi. Afraid to fully awaken and find it all a dream, Quiet Thunder closed her eyes and willed sleep to return. Outside, a dog barked in the distance. Her father greeted someone in Lakota. A thrill went through her. She wasn’t dreaming. She was home.
Grabbing her moccasins, she tugged them on her feet and opened the flap. The morning sky stretched like a blue carpet with wisps of white streaked through. Flashing a smile at Flying Horse, she lifted the skin bucket. “I’ll get the water.”
With light steps she crossed the field to the trees, mindful of every moving thing. Two men rode out past the tree line, away from camp. Neither was Black Bear.
Someone bent by the stream and then stood. A woman. Gathering water like herself.
She nodded in greeting, and
took her time filling the bucket, and returned to camp with slower steps. Black Bear was nowhere in sight. By intention? But how could he have known when she would go to the stream? She couldn’t spend every moment guessing what he might do. Regardless of where he might be, she’d have to go on with her daily tasks.
Exchanging the skin bucket for two smaller pouches, she set off for the fields. Of all the things she’d learned at The Indian Industrial School, she could apply almost none of it to her life here. Years had passed since her mother taught her how to find wild turnips, a root vegetable difficult for an untrained eye to spot. Pretty Eagle’s tutelage had faded, and Quiet Thunder struggled to recall. The plants she dug proved not to be turnips. She did manage to find chokecherries, so plucked those. Her mother’s methods of making certain foods escaped her, but another Lakota woman would help her.
On the way back, the vastness of the sky overhead reminded her of all the trials she’d endured these past years. To stand again under the Western sky was a blessing and a miracle. Some who had been taken away would never return, either because of sickness or accident or choice. But here she was, home.
To commemorate it, she found some blackberries and took those to the tipi and ground them up the way her mother used to. On the tipi, she painted a beautiful eagle in flight, both a symbol of her freedom, and of her mother, whose spirit would always be near.
****
All day, Black Bear had wandered aimlessly, not wanting to risk running into Quiet Thunder. His horse grazed while he lay on the field and watched the clouds. Each time he decided on a course of action to follow, he found reasons why that course would fail. When he returned to the camp, the blue of the sky had faded to a pale line along the horizon, darkening to indigo overhead. The fires of each family made shadows dance across the glowing tipis.
In one of those tipis was Quiet Thunder. That she had returned at all surprised him. She could have stayed with William in the East. Black Bear felt sure William had asked her. Or she could have earned good wages as a teacher. She’d asked him to treat her as an equal, but with her education, she would need no man’s help. She could do as she pleased. And yet, she had come home.
The fleeting sense of victory abandoned him. Her loyalty to the tribe brought her home, not him.
When he entered his tipi, he sighed in frustration. The few possessions he owned made the tipi appear too large by comparison. His mother had saved some of his boyhood things, wrapped in a skin. He hadn’t looked through them, but guessed most of them to be trifles he had no use for. Maybe he could give them away. When he unrolled the pack, the flute stuck out at an angle as if calling for attention. Of course he hadn’t forgotten it, but wished his mother had thrown it away. Its presence would be a painful reminder.
After rolling the bundle back up tight, he lay on the buffalo skin. Beyond the opening at the top, a star pierced the sky above. Another long night awaited him. Between the lack of sleep and the confusion of Quiet Thunder’s presence, he couldn’t think straight. His nerves, wound so tight, threatened to split apart.
Aimlessly, he went outside and to his parents’ tipi, where they sat beside the fire.
His mother offered a bowl to him. “Here, I kept some for you.”
“I’m not hungry.” His stomach grumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since early that morning.
“Eat anyway.” She pressed it into his hands.
Arguing would prove useless, so he ate.
“Where have you been all day?” she asked.
“Looking for game.” The shame of losing the deer returned. Tomorrow, he’d hunt again, and bring that deer back.
“Running Horse may need help. He’s building a tipi.”
“He needs no help from me.” And he didn’t want to discuss Quiet Thunder with his mother. He shot a glare in warning.
His mother pursed her lips. “We must all help each other, Black Bear.”
He finished eating in silence, then set down the bowl. “Thank you.” He stood.
“Did you have enough?” she asked.
“Where are you going?” his father asked.
“Yes. I’m going… I don’t know. Maybe to sleep. Or for a walk.”
They exchanged knowing smiles. Before they could tease him, he strode away, and found himself near Flying Horse’s tipi. The old man sat by his fire, and Quiet Thunder beside him. She glanced up, and her mouth fell open, staring.
Black Bear said the first thing that came to mind. “My mother said you may need help with a new tipi.”
Arching his brows, Flying Horse glanced at his daughter, who still stared. “Why don’t you sit, Black Bear? Share a drink with me.”
“I’m sure he’s too busy.” Quiet Thunder stabbed a stick at the fire.
He sat opposite her and crossed his legs. “I have nothing else to do.”
Words flew from her like frightened birds. “Really. No fish to catch or deer to shoot?”
“Not in the dark.” He studied her. “But I plan to go tomorrow.”
“For all the good it does. You bring nothing back.”
“I bring back what I can find. Which is nothing.”
She glared across the campfire, firelight flickering across her face. Her eyes glinted like knives, sharp and dangerous. Like an animal cornered. Or a woman in love.
Forcing his tongue to stay silent, he held her gaze. A pouch came into his vision.
“Have a drink, Black Bear,” Flying Horse said.
After taking a sip, he passed it back. “Maybe you’d like to come along, since you’re a better hunter than me.”
Her nostrils flared. “I see you are your old self again.”
She’d noticed. That fact reinforced his being. “Yes.” He wanted to laugh, but her anger quelled it.
Clenching her fists, she stood, her frustration leaving her in a huff. “Oh!”
“While I was apart from the tribe, I wasn’t sure who I was.” He braced in case she leaped across the fire for his throat. Instead, she whirled and disappeared into the tipi.
Flying Horse pressed his lips together and gazed into the flames. “Quiet Thunder is herself again too.” A slow smile spread across his face, the smile of a wise father.
****
The rush of anger made her blood boil. The audacity. How dare he mock her. Go hunting? She hadn’t held a bow and arrow in more than six years.
On the side of the tipi, her father’s shadow loomed, his arm lifting the pouch to the side again and again. Their murmurs lingered a long time. She wished her father would tell him to leave. How could he speak at such length to him when he had nothing to say to her?
When her father finally stood, she turned on her side to pretend to sleep. But after he’d settled onto his buffalo skin with a grunt, she had to speak.
“When will you be able to make a tipi for me?”
He blew a long breath. “The head man says we may move soon. It’s better to wait until after, so there’s less to take along.”
Moving already. She’d almost grown used to living in one place year round.
“Maybe it will bring us closer to a buffalo herd.” There’s a hint of playfulness in his voice.
Frustration nearly made her burst into a whine. Arguing with Flying Horse would make him more stubborn, so she bit back her arguments.
“Maybe.” She could use the skins to make her tipi. Her tipi where she’d live alone. The thought filled her with yearning.
She hadn’t ground chokecherries for berry soup in six years. She had to prompt herself on everything. What made her think she could come back to her tribe and remember how to be a Lakota? She’d left the girl called Quiet Thunder here. Maybe she shouldn’t have assumed the spirit of that girl waited to be reclaimed. That girl might be lost forever.
****
Flying Horse talked long of all the things that happened in the tribe. Families split apart, and the heartache of the parents who had no idea what their children might be forced to do, whether they’d ever see the
m again, or whether the children would want to see them. The Rosebud agent often brought rations late, sometimes not enough to feed everyone. A neighboring tribe found one of its men dead, shot, his body left as a warning. Black Bear’s return had been the first bit of happiness the tribe shared in a long while. That Quiet Thunder had followed seemed a good sign.
“Why?”
“Our tribe grew smaller and sadder. You two brought joy, sure to double. Or triple.”
“She hates me.” Already his hope had begun to fade.
“I wouldn’t be so certain.”
“Too much has happened. She’ll never forgive me.”
“You must try if you want the truth.”
“Try how?” Each time he thought he might have a solution, his spirit told him it was wrong.
“You will know.” Flying Horse pushed up to a stand, nodded and shuffled to the tipi.
Black Bear stood. He would give anything to be the one going to Quiet Thunder now. Her father’s words repeated in his head as he walked home. The stars overhead brightened and grew larger, seeming to urge him to think harder, let his heart remember the way back to Quiet Thunder’s heart.
The harder he thought, the less clear it all became. He threw open the flap and crept inside. His foot tapped the skin his mother gave him, and the tip of the flute appeared.
He sat and looked at it a long while before lifting it. When he did, his spirit lifted too.
****
While gathering water at the stream the next morning, Quiet Thunder lifted the skin buckets, then halted, breathless. “Black Bear.”
Follow The Stars Home Page 21