Run! my husband shouts from above. I dare not look up. A misstep and I will fall, the landing worse than any tumble from a racing horse. My bones would splinter, and my flesh tear when I bounced across the ground like a buffalo-hide ball. I'd lie stunned, and oddly painless in that moment before agony seeped through the bleeding wounds to crush me. I’d gasp desperately for breath, my shattered chest incapable of filling.
And then the black horror would settle over me like smoke from a burning forest. As it tightened itself around me, it would suffocate my souls and suck them down into the terrible eternity.
Run! I tell myself.
I race down a long slope, legs pumping, feet hammering the grass. Before me I see a line of trees. My hair is flying out behind me, the tips teasing the black horror. I am moving so fast the trees seem to rush up at me in an impenetrable barrier, the trunks gray, branches waving in the wind.
An arrow might see the world flying toward it in this way, the whistling passage, the end growing ever larger until. ..
I burst through the trees, and have vague memories of snapping branches, of lashing leaves. Then I hang, the sensation that of floating, feet churning empty air, as I am stopped short by a great river. A huge expanse of water flows before me, menacing, with secrets hidden beneath those swirling depths.
With water blocking my escape, I pant, a hand to my aching chest. Blackness filters away the world. The horror looms in the sky to the west, blotting out the trees. It has a shape: a huge creature with soulless eyes.
I back into the river. Better to drown, and free the mugwa, than to be swallowed by this horrible power.
And suddenly the mist dog appears. It comes from the side, a foggy white shape, and takes a position facing the menace before me. Tarn Apo, it is too late. I have nowhere else to go. Water is up to my knees, and I am afraid to leap into those cold black depths.
The blackness arches over the sky. I have nothing left, no escape route. Only the misty white dog separates us. He is too small. How can mist defeat such terrible, evil power?
I crouch and scream as the black terror beast springs like a coyote onto a mouse, in that instant, I see the white mist dog leap....
Heals Like A Willow cried out and jerked awake. She blinked her eyes open to see the familiar lodge. Her fingers were entwined in the thick neck wool of her heavy buffalo robe. Frost tinged the curly brown fur before her mouth, and hoary patches of breath had frozen where her long black hair lay close to her face.
The images remained as vivid as if she'd just lived them in the light of day. A dream. Only a dream. But so powerful.
She gasped in relief, happy to fill her lungs with the biting air. Beyond the tawny translucence of the lodge, two dogs were barking, and a man shouted at them to go away. The barking persisted until a hollow thump was followed by a piercing yelp, and silence.
Then a pack of coyotes sent their songs like thorns into the quiet night.
Coyote had laughed at her, as if daring her to run, knowing that nothing could save her from the terrifying darkness.
But what had been the meaning of the misty white dog?
Willow rolled onto her back. Since her husband's death, most of her dreams had been this way. Pursuit, panic, fear, and flight.
What is it? Is the Spirit World trying to tell me something? Give me some warning?
Her breasts ached, as if the exertion from the dream flight had settled within them. She reached up beneath the heavy robe and massaged them, a familiar tenderness in the nipples. As if her son were still there, once again drawing life from her. A shiver passed through her chest and down her spine to warm her pelvis.
The ache in her breasts hardened with the memory of his movements within the cradle of her hips. How miraculous that her husband's seed could take nourishment inside her, become that life that had been so much a part of her.
I gave him life from my own, A man couldn't do that. He but planted his seed and was done with it. I made my boy. From my pain and blood, he was born. From my breasts, he drew his life.
"From me," she whispered, and lifted her damp fingers to inhale the fragrant musk of her milk.
Then she turned her head and wept, the sobs choked so that no one outside the lodge might know the bitter depths of her grief.
She was called the Maria. Travis ran his hand along the cargo box as he walked down the passe avant of the cleated walkway that ran the length of the deck on either side of the boat. It was nothing more than a narrow path between the cargo box and the gunwales. Maria measured forty feet in length, with a twelve-foot beam. When loaded with thirty tons of freight, she drew less than three feet of water. Rude wooden benches in the bow provided a place for eight oarsmen.
Travis walked toward the stern and climbed atop the cargo box. Here the patroon, or steersman, stood and handled the long steering oar that extended out over the stern of the boat. A twenty-foot mast had been stepped into the middle of the box, and carried a square sail for those rare days when the wind was right.
"How's she look?" Dave Green asked, the weak winter sun gleaming in his blond hair as he clambered up the ladder to stand beside Travis.
"Reckon she'll do. From what I can see of the hull, she's somewhat scarred up, but the planks seem sound."
"I looked her over from painter to steering oar. I know something about boats, and I couldn't find much wrong with her," Green stated.
"Yep, wal, I've pulled lesser boats upriver." Travis stared out over the swirling muddy water. The Mississippi had a raw look, heavy with snow melt and churning mud. The Illinois bank to the east lay muzzled in patchy gray trees. Even from here, Travis could see the distant Trappist monastery on the big Indian mound above Cahokia.
"Come on." Green turned. "Let's look inside."
Travis followed Green down into the cargo box. Some of the trade goods had already been stored: barrels of flour and salt rested neatly between the ribs on either side of the deck planking. The six-foot clearance made him crouch. Ropes, to stabilize the cargo, had been tied off from the mast to rings bolted onto the ribs.
Loading a keelboat for the upper Missouri required special skill. The cargo had to be balanced to maintain the boat's trim in the water. Trading would occur throughout the journey, so different kinds of goods needed to be easily accessible at all times. Guns, shot, and other durables were placed low in case the hull was breached by a sawyer or some other underwater obstruction. Powder, cloth, and goods easily water-damaged rode higher in hopes they could be salvaged before the river exacted its toll.
"Wal, Davey, weather's turning. Ice'll be a-breaking up-river any day now. Time's about here."
Green fingered the edge of a barrel packed with hanks of colorful Italian glass beads. "And we're still short enough men for a crew."
Travis pulled at his grizzled beard. "The good Lord provides, or so I was told once upon a time."
Green knotted a fist. "Time? That's the one thing we don't have." He pursed his lips. "Huh! Seems like all of my life, I've been gambling. Well, all right. I say we bust a gut and sail within the week." He leveled his gaze at Travis. "Find me the men, Travis. We've got to go. The sooner the better. Too many people know what we're about. If word gets to Clark, he'll stop us cold."
Travis rapped one of the barrels with his knuckles. "I'll find us enough crew ter get out of Saint Louis—provided ye ain't picky about what sort I gets. We can recruit as we go, too. Reckon we ought ter be able to fill out a boatload. Won't be a brigade like Lisa could muster, but by Hob, we otta be able ter piece together a boatload."
"That... or there'll be hell to pay."
Travis made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Waugh! Yer headed for the mouth of the Big Horn, smack inta Injun country, an yer worried about Hell? Reckon we'll git enough of that ter fill a lard eater's gut and then some." An' we'll be pilgrim lucky if'n there's a one of us with his topknot left by next spring.
The sun shone brightly in the cloudless blue sky. With characteristic suddenness, the terr
ible cold snap had broken, driven away by west winds that had howled out of the night
White Hail squinted up toward the bright sun, shielding his eyes with a callused hand. Their camp lay in the Warm Valley bottoms of the Big River. To the west, the Warm Wind Mountains rose in tall peaks capped with a bright, aching white against the deep blue of the sky. To the north, the tall, snow-clad heights of Coyote Penis Mountain rose as a symbol of the Trickster's culpability. In the beginning times, Coyote had paid dearly for unmitigated lust, his member being turned into rock as a reminder to all who saw it that moderation was often prudent.
White Hail studied the distant mountain for a moment, thinking about his beloved brother, about death, and about desire, if not lust.
No. I never lusted after Heals Like A Willow. But I have desired her all these years. Desired, yes. Loved, definitely, but not lusted. White Hail glanced around, aware that a man had to be careful about such things. He wasn't sure, but it seemed that the Spirit World listened in on a man's thoughts sometimes. That, or perhaps it was the Nunumbi, the little people who hid in the brush, behind logs, and in holes. They had strange abilities and did no little mischief.
"Where are you off to?" Red Calf asked, walking up behind him. Her belly was swollen with their first child, and she'd been nothing but bother throughout her pregnancy. She acted more like a bitter hawk than ever before.
Red Calf would capture any man's fancy. Her oval face, large dark eyes, and shining long hair had only accented the saucy sway of her hips when she walked. People had warned White Hail about marrying her, but somehow he'd misled himself into believing that Red Calf's tart answers, her resolute defiance, and unquenchable spirit paralleled the qualities of Heals Like A Willow.
Fact was, White Hail had married the human equivalent of a snappy bitch who'd nip the fingers off the first person who tried to be kind to her.
"You're going to see her, aren't you?" Red Calf narrowed her lustrous eyes to slits.
"She's my brother's wife. You know what is expected of me."
Red Calf's smile hardened. "Indeed, husband. It all worked out, didn't it? You've always done everything you could to follow in your brother's tracks. Now you can slip your lance into her sheath, see if you fit her as tightly as your brother did."
He balled a fist. The sudden anger, mixed with the pain, would have made it easy to flatten her. No one would have sucked their lips, or looked away in censure. The muscles in his arms knotted, but as always, the promise of retaliation in her dark eyes quenched any thought of striking back.
She'll take the child away from me. That, or she'll find some way of disgracing me, publicly humiliating me. So he said, "I ought to divorce you."
"Go ahead."
White Hail turned on his heel, striding for Two Half Moons' lodge.
"She's trouble!" Red Calf called behind him. "Goes out into the hills during her bleeding. Why? So that the rock ogres can feel her with their pitch-sticky hands? She dreams about things a woman shouldn't! Is that it? You want to bring a witch into our lodge?"
White Hail willed himself to deafness. Brother, I'm sorry it came to this. I cry out that your spirit may know. I have always loved Willow. That was no secret between us. But, brother, I would give her up forever to have you back alive.
High above, an eagle screamed. White Hail looked up. Eagle, the messenger from the Spirit World. His brother understood.
White Hail slowed as he approached the doorway to Two Half Moons' lodge. He pulled his buckskin shirt straight, checking to see that the eagle-bone breastplate lay flat and the horsehair tassels swung free. The glossy scalp locks— coup he'd cut from a dead A 'ni warrior's head—hung down from the tops of his sleeves.
He cleared his throat, scratching on the leather of the lodge. "It is White Hail, come to see Heals Like A Willow. Is she within?"
"Come, feci" she said. "I've been expecting you."
His heart leapt. White Hail pulled the doorway back and stepped inside, crossing to the man's side and seating himself. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior.
She sat on the buffalo robes across from him, Two Half Moons' backrest between them. Dying coals in the firepit radiated enough heat to keep the temperature comfortable.
As his vision improved, he noted the puffiness around her eyes, the drawn look around her mouth, and the disheveled hair. Was this the same wondrous woman whose laughter sparked like flint on steel, whose eyes laughed and danced like dew on grass?
Despite the haggard look, her beauty remained. Her heart-shaped face, delicate, straight nose, and full lips were meant to be admired. Even uncombed, the thick wealth of her raven hair contrasted to the firm lines of her forehead and accented the thin arches of her eyebrows. He wished he could reach out, run a fingertip along the smooth hollows of her cheeks.
He'd seen his brother do that. Seen her melt at the gentle touch. And his heart cried out at the pain stirred by the memory.
"My soul cries for him, too," White Hail began.
1 'I didn't know it would be so hard," she whispered, looking down. Her slim hands occupied themselves with the fringes of her dress. If only he could hold those slender fingers, quiet them.
"I want to thank you for attending to him the way you did. I would have been there, helped you to sing for him, pray for him, and for the infant, too."
"I know. But you were hunting, my brother. Attending to your duty to your family. I only attended to mine."
"I thought. . . thought that if I could bring him fresh meat, hot liver, that it would help. Make him strong. I didn't expect him to go so fast." White Hail gestured with his hands. How perfectly futile.
"No one did." The corners of her lips trembled.
White Hail took a deep breath. "I came here to ask you to share him with me. Together. . . over the years. I cannot replace him. I would not want to. My brother's lodge is gone. You have no lodge to go to. I would have you come to mine, as my second wife."
SIX
As long as men remained content with their rustic huts; as long as they were happy with clothes crafted from the skins of animals, sewn with thorns and fish bones; as long as they continued to consider feathers and shells sufficient for ornaments, and to paint their bodies in different colors, to improve or ornament their bows and arrows, to fashion little fishing boats with sharp-edged stones, or clumsy instruments of music; in a word, as long as they undertook such works as a single person could accomplish, and stuck to such arts as did not require the joint efforts of several hands, they lived free, healthy, honest, and happy, as much as their nature would admit.
—Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Discourse on the Origin and Foundation of Inequality Among Mankind
No change of expression crossed Heals Like a Willow's face after White Hail made his proposal. She sat in silence while he endured the hollow beating of his heart.
"No," she said at last.
He squirmed, as if movement would vanquish the sudden discomfort in his breast. "I would give you everything you ever wanted." He swallowed hard. "If you wish, I. . . I'll divorce Red Calf first. Make you kwihi, my first wife." And give up my son. Other sons could be made.
She raised her tired eyes, shaking her head. "I cannot be your kwihi, White Hail. Not your second wife, or your first."
"But. . . . Have I done something to displease you?"
She smiled sadly. "No, my brother. Quite the contrary. I like you a great deal. I will always think of you fondly. Of the jokes and the laughter. When he looked at you, love filled his eyes. It will fill mine from now on as it did his. But not with a wife's love, teci."
"I don't understand." White Hail frowned. "Is it wealth? I'll bring you all you can stand. Horses from the A'ni. Scalps from the Pakiani. Mirrors, beads, colored cloth, and metal kettles from the White men. I'll leave tomorrow, and not return until I can shower you with—"
"Enough, my brother." She raised a hand and resettled herself on the robe-covered backrest. "I have no need of those things—let a
lone the White man's wealth. It isn't a matter of wealth, and shouldn't ever be."
"Wealth is proof. Proof of a man's ability to provide for his women."
"That's a Ku'chendikani belief. Not mine."
"I would see you decorated in colors, each step you take accented by the chime of bells. I would have all people look up as you pass and say: There goes Heals Like A Willow, wife of White Hail.' "
She arched one of those shapely eyebrows. "To hear that, you would ruin yourself?"
"Ruin?"
"Isn't that what Red Calf wants? Wealth and status, to be drowned in the White man's magical colors, metal, and looking glasses? Isn't that why you've been gone more than you've been at home?"
He sighed and studied the worn parfleches stacked along the lodge liner. They added to the old lodge cover's musty smell of leather. "A man must travel a long way, across very dangerous country, to reach the Mandan territory and the Ha 'nidika. When he gets there, he finds that he needs a great many beaver hides, buffalo robes, and horses for the poorest of the White man's wonderful things."
"Yet you've been across the Plains twice."
"I have." He grinned proudly. "And I'll go as often as I like in the future, too. I'm careful, cunning, and fast as the wind."
"And if, let's say, the Pakiani catch you with your horses, pelts, and robes?"
"They'll kill me. That's why I don't intend on getting caught!" He clapped his hands to accent the point.
"My husband didn't intend to die from soul wasting, either." Her challenging eyes met his across the fire. "If I had a husband I loved, I would rather walk in hole-riddled rags than think he was dead over something as silly as White man's goods."
"A man gains honors by taking such risks. So does his wife. Would you have people think I am a coward?" He glanced up to where the lodgepoles were blackened with soot from the smoke hole.
"I would have you be as brave and courageous as I know you are. I would also have you be wise and intelligent. Let me ask you, is it better for a man to lose his life way off someplace trading for White man's goods, or fighting bravely to buy time for his wife and children to escape the village when the Pakiani attack?"
The Morning River Page 9