Close to the limits of exhaustion, Hart pinned the Apache beneath his great bulk and demanded concession. "You fight like a grizzly," he managed to gasp as he made his demand.
"You fight like an Apache," Blue Shirt growled back with grudging respect.
Both men stumbled to their feet. Hart waited only long enough to catch his breath, then he picked up his paper and charcoal from the dust at the edge of the circle. With deft movements the artist sketched Blue Shirt as he'd looked with the lance, perfectly at ease and mighty in his competence. Then he sketched him as he'd looked when on the ground, bested and spent. Wordlessly, Hart handed both sketches to the waiting man, who smiled a little in acknowledgment.
A murmuring arose among the braves, and nods of acquiescence followed the pictures as they passed from hand to hand. The women peered over one another's shoulders to see what had been drawn so swiftly, and exclaimed over the accuracy of the portrayal. Hart saw the tension drain from Gokhlaya's features, replaced by a sardonic smile.
The next morning Blue Shirt awakened Hart at dawn and made it clear he wished to offer his services to train him in the use of the bow and lance. The challenge was the turning point in the white visitor's relationship with the men of the tribe; from that day forward he was permitted to test his own skills, as did the other men in the war games they used to stay in readiness for battle. The men found that while he didn't know their ways, he was no coward and had the strength of a buffalo.
To be accepted as a man by the other men of the tribe, it was obvious to Hart that he must participate in men's work. Now that he was no longer merely suffered as Gokhlaya's useless guest, he was invited to learn to hunt game with both throwing stick and hunting club. Ammunition was hard to come by and was saved for war.
Hart learned to shoe his horse with buckskin moccasins or to toughen its hooves with a mixture of deer liver and ashes; he learned to tell the passage of time by the coming of the crescent moon and to ride bareback with skills the Comanches had long ago perfected and the other tribes had emulated. Gokhlaya himself taught him the use of the lance, a formidable weapon often prepared by a medicine man, so that it possessed special power.
In the beginning, Hart told himself he learned these skills because they allowed him access to the intimate life of the tribe, which in turn would enable him to draw its rituals with passion and accuracy. But as time passed, he came to know that his connection to the People was a deeper one; he found himself falling under the spell of their simple and honorable customs. He found he wished to earn their respect.
Everything about the Apache way of life fascinated the artist and the man. The economy with which they utilized every particle they were given by Providence, the integrity of their dealings with one another, their strict adherence to the sacred laws of the tribe, which deemed lying intolerable and respect for God and one another, paramount.
Nonetheless, had it not been for Destarte, Hart might never have committed himself to becoming one of them.
It wasn't that Hart ever intended to fall in love with the Indian woman—the memory of Fancy still lingered. His odyssey to the Apaches had seemed a way to sublimate all thoughts of love in work and research, for what point was there in waiting forever for a love that could not be? But the long illness, coming on the heels of the mine disaster, had touched him; the cold hand of Death on a man's shoulder makes him cherish the living things of this world. As vitality returned to Hart, Destarte was there to make him remember he was alive and a man.
There was a quiet strength about her, like that of a pine tree in the forest, a stillness unruffled by the tempest that stirred the trees around her. Her skills were the sort that make life happy. Her hands on his brow were tender, yet there was strength in them; a powerful life force flowed in Destarte's veins that transfused itself to him when she was near. He took comfort from her strength and gentleness; he missed her when she wasn't nearby. With her, there would be none of the dizzying highs of life with Fancy, but there would be blessed freedom from the devastating lows as well... and he was lonely. Yet Hart didn't want his loneliness and his unrequited love for Fancy to be the only reasons he was drawn to Destarte; she deserved a man who loved her for herself alone.
As time went on, and his communion with the People grew, Hart felt the ties that bound him to the past fading of their own volition; almost without knowing how it happened, he had grown to be less the stranger and more the seeker in this remarkable Apache world. He struggled to justify his love for Destarte as it grew, all the time wondering why he felt the need to do so. Was it because she was an Indian, or because she was not Fancy, that he wrestled so with his growing desire? Or could it be he hesitated because she represented such a major crossroads in his journey toward the future? He could not take her for his own and then leave the tribe, when his original mission was accomplished. To win Destarte's love, he must commit himself to becoming an Apache, not merely to being their fellow traveler... and that was a decision demanding careful consideration. Apacheria was where Hart wanted to be for now, but what of later? If he took Destarte to wife, there could be children, and his own world spared no kindness for the half-breed progeny of such a union.
To acknowledge his growing love for Destarte was easy as breathing; to desire her nearness, to need to share his life with her seemed normal, healthy wants in the context of the tribe... but to make her his wife, he must plumb his own motivations beyond the shadow of a doubt, for to become Apache was a task that must be accomplished from the soul outward, and once it had been accomplished, Hart sensed there might be no going back.
"Do you have a husband, Destarte?" he asked her as she prepared his evening meal in the quiet of the wickiup. She raised her head a moment from her work and looked at him.
"The man who was my husband is no more," she answered. Hart knew this was one of the Apache euphemisms for death and that except in extraordinary circumstances, no one spoke the names of the dead, who were simply called "one who is not here."
"How did you come to be my nurse?" he asked, wondering if Gokhlaya had put them together for some purpose, and she smiled.
"The one who was my husband was as a brother to Gokhlaya. When he did not return from the raid in Mexico, and I did not wish to remarry, Gokhlaya took me under his protection."
"Is this unusual?" he asked, feeling suddenly jealous of this unknown man whom she had loved enough to mourn.
Destarte let the fruit she was peeling slip down into the bowl; she sighed and sat back onto her heels as if preparing to tell a lengthy story.
"In our People, a woman has freedom to choose her husband, Firehair. Sometimes, if her man dies, a woman returns to her family. I could not do this, for my parents were both killed by the white soldiers. Gokhlaya honored my wish to remain alone for a time. My husband was a good man, I could not easily seek another."
Hart studied the lines of her face and form, her back curved gently as a willow, her honey-colored skin gleaming in the soft glow of the firepit.
"Do you hate the white men for what they did to you?" he asked softly.
"For a time there was hatred in me and that is very bad, for it eats away at the heart. But then Gokhlaya asked me to nurse you, and I saw that all white men are not murderers."
She smiled a little and averted her eyes from his. "I was afraid at first, when I saw your red beard."
Hart laughed at that. "Your men do not grow beards."
"No, it would be thought foolish for them to have hair on their faces. Each hair is plucked out that their skin may be smooth."
"If my beard frightens you, I will cut it off today," he said, smiling.
"No," she answered quickly. "I have grown to know you as you are. I would not like you to be someone else."
Destarte looked embarrassed, as if she'd said too much, and returned her careful attention to the bowl of fruit. Hart knew in that moment she felt as drawn to him as he was to her.
"You are very beautiful," he said gently, suddenly wanting to touch
her soft skin and to make her understand that he restrained himself only to protect her from harm.
"Are such words spoken lightly in your world?"
"Sometimes they are. But not now."
He saw her hands begin to move again, as if she'd stopped breathing, awaiting his reply.
"There is so much I would like to say to you, Destarte, but I know so little of your customs I'm afraid that I'll blunder and offend you."
"You do not offend me, Firehair," she answered with great dignity. She raised her eyes to his, and he saw so much promise in them, it took all his restraint not to take her in his arms.
The flames from the ceremonial fire flickered on the oiled bodies of the dancers as Hart sat in the circle of men beside Gokhlaya, watching the women gyrate to the rhythm of the drums and flutes. He saw Destarte detach herself from the others and move silently behind the seated men; he felt the touch of her fingers on his neck and knew she had invited him to join the dance. As he rose to do so, Gokhlaya held him back with a gesture and leaned toward him to whisper in his ear. "The woman invites you to courtship. Think carefully, Firehair. This is not merely an invitation to the dancing...."
Hart lay awake for hours after the exhilaration of the ceremony, trying to fathom the future; trying to separate head and heart and loins. There wasn't any question that he wanted Destarte, more than he had any right to... but if he courted her and won her favor, he committed himself to stay and severed forever his last link to his own world and Fancy. Throughout the long hours of darkness he wrestled the demons of his own need and drifted off to sleep with the lingering scent of the beautiful Apache woman still in his nostrils, the feel of the satin strength of her skin making his pulse race. Oh, God, how I need to love someone who loves me back, he thought as he let sleep end the terrible confusion and soothe his heart with visions of Destarte.
When Hart woke up early the next morning he was surprised to realize he knew exactly what to do. He walked deliberately to Destarte's most frequented trail, the one along which she traveled each day to carry water. Gokhlaya had instructed him in the necessary behavior, if he chose to court her in the Apache way, so he placed a row of stones on both sides of the trail behind a tree and waited to see if she would stop there, or pass him by, unheeded, for both were her prerogatives. Hart stood in the shelter of a tree and watched the graceful movements of the woman, as she read the sign he'd left for her. Destarte lingered for a moment touching the stones, then without looking in his direction, she whispered, "I will come to you," into the air, and continued on her way.
Hart waited in his wickiup after sunset, twitchy with anticipation; he had ceased to worry about his own strange choice of future at the moment he'd gone to meet her in the woods.
Destarte made her way through the camp after sunset, knowing the other women tittered among themselves, at her madness in accepting the red-bearded stranger. She hesitated only a moment in the moonlight to calm herself, before slipping inside the wickiup, where he waited so eagerly. Her heart pounded violently against her ribs, for with this choice, she abandoned all hope of a simple, uncomplicated life and embraced an unknown future. This man she loved, whom she knew so well and so little, and whom she desired so urgently was not one of the People. Someday, he would go back to his own kind and she would not be able to follow, even though it broke her heart to see him go. She was not a fool, as the other women said, she was merely a woman who had once loved deeply and who had felt, since her husband's death, that never again would she feel alive, as she once had been. Then this strong and gentle stranger had touched her, and she had grown to know that whatever the cost, she would willingly pay it to be with him for whatever time the gods would allow.
Hart watched Destarte enter the wickiup, and was startled to see that she looked at him shyly for the first time, as if she had never tended him, or seen him naked and helpless. The shyness seemed so sweet to him that any lingering misgivings were swept away by a desire to be for her everything she needed or dreamed.
Hart reached out to her wordlessly, and she came into the shelter of his arms, where she'd longed to be. He could feel the beating of her heart behind the warmth of her breasts and bent his head to catch her lips with his own. There was passion behind the restraint of propriety, and it made the blood rise precipitously in his loins, and pulse in his head to still the phantoms of a lost love and of a world that this commitment thrust behind him forever.
Hart led Destarte toward the bed and watched wonderingly as she tugged the deerskin shirt over her head and let the soft skirt fall to the dirt floor. She stood waiting, in the dim light; her eyes met his in unselfconscious giving. Destarte's slender limbs were long and her taut body was the color of warm honey; it was nearly perfect from a life of exercise and lack of self-indulgence. She had full round breasts, so well muscled that they swayed only slightly as she bent or moved, and her waist wasn't tiny like the corseted waists he was used to, but instead it was supple and swelled into hips and buttocks that were strong and sensual.
"You are very beautiful," he said, in answer to her unspoken need to know if she pleased him. "And I love you very much." She did not reply but smiled instead, and he felt the tension drain from her body.
Hart touched her chin with his hand and tilted her face to his own; he saw so much love in her eyes, he felt washed clean by the grace of it. Destarte touched the buttons of his shirt to remind him that, he, too, should be naked, so they could learn more of this strange, wondrous choice each had made so deliberately.
Hart tugged the clothes from his body, wanting to be all that she needed. He remembered how often during his illness, he'd longed to reach for her, when she'd hovered above his naked form, soothing and comforting; now he could be the one to give and she to take. He pulled her gently to the bed beside him, and kissed her long and searchingly to still the trembling his touch provoked. Destarte lay watchful and waiting, stretched out so that the skin of breast and belly was tautened in the flickering fireglow. Hart touched her flesh with the backs of his fingers and traced his hand slowly, deliberately down the length of her, lingering at each place where he intuited her longing, learning her as he touched, and remembering. Destarte closed her eyes and abandoned herself to this stranger whose body and destiny she'd chosen to share.
How very much she'd wanted to touch more than was allowed, while he was in her care, she thought, as she felt the strength and love in him engulf her. From the time she'd begun to know his character, his body had filled her with desires she'd thought long dead. She'd watched him as he lay sleeping, and longed to caress the huge male body that promised such strength and power... just to imagine the force of him within her, breaking the boundaries, easing the terrible ancient ache, had driven her to wild fantasies. She wasn't wanton, merely free to love and be loved as she chose, and somehow she'd known that in Hart's arms she could find all the loving she'd craved in her long loneliness.
"Lie very still, Destarte," Hart whispered into her ear. Belong to me, depend on me, be my love and mine alone, was what he said to her in his heart. "Let me love you as I've imagined it...." Destarte unfolded beneath him like an opening flower; she received nothing she would not willingly return, but Hart desired only to prolong her pleasure. He teased her to the brink a dozen ways, exploring her body as he'd been exploring her mind and heart. She would fill all the empty spaces in his soul, and in return he would give her all the pent-up love that had been stored so long, awaiting a recipient who would care. There would never, never come a moment when what each offered the other wouldn't be enough, and more than enough, there would never be a time when they would fail each other.
He entered her with exquisite care, as if he feared to injure her, but she raised herself to meet his thrust, hungrily, lovingly, and he knew her desire matched his own and that the strength of their love would make up for both their pasts.
"I love you," he whispered again, but she couldn't answer him, for she was lost in a place that had no words. He felt the spasms
tense her body in his hands and sensing her fulfillment, he gave himself up to completion.
Afterward, as they lay entwined in each other's arms, Hart felt, more than heard, Destarte sigh.
"Are you sad?" he asked, turning her to face him so he could see the tears he knew were there.
"I am afraid."
"What are you afraid of, my Morning Mist? You must know I'll never let anything harm you."
A drop of water trickled down Destarte's cheek to the pillow.
"I am afraid you will go back to the white man's world and when you do, a part of me will go with you."
Hart touched the wet cheek with his fingers and brushed away the moisture, tenderly. "I would not have taken you to my bed, Destarte, if I intended ever to leave you... the Apache world is my world now."
She looked into his eyes, her own luminous in the dim light, but he could see she knew, as he did, that whatever his intention, it was inevitable he would one day go back to his own people, and she did not reply.
In the morning, when he arose, Hart saw that Destarte quickly hung his bedding out to air, before bringing him his saddled horse. He smiled inwardly at the sweet gesture for he knew from Gokhlaya that by eating what she'd prepared and mounting the pony she offered, he would accept her as his wife, just as she had accepted him as husband by hanging out his covers. He did so with a happier and more peaceful heart than he'd known in years.
Paint the Wind Page 58