Soaring Eagle

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  “There are too many of them, Prairie Flower.”

  “There are many ways to have victory, my son. Perhaps you will have victory by making this new enemy your friend. Perhaps you will have victory by learning from him and making a better life for yourself in the new world.”

  Soaring Eagle protested. “The whites offer our people their world. They tell the Lakota to farm the land. The Great Spirit did not mean us to farm. He gave us the hills and covered them with buffalo. He made us to hunt and fish. I don’t want anything to do with a people who tell an Indian warrior to carry water on his shoulder and dig in the earth like a woman!”

  Prairie Flower was growing more and more weary, but she forced herself to contend with Soaring Eagle. “Soaring Eagle, there was a time when our people did not have horses.” When the horses came, there were those who were afraid of them. There were those who worshiped them. But the wisest among our people caught the horse and tamed him. And with the horse, they conquered this land.

  “Now the white men have come. Some Lakota are afraid of them. But the wisest will find a way to have victory. I don’t know what the new world holds for you, but I want you to go forward to meet it. Do not be like the others, always fighting to keep the old ways. Thundercloud told you of good whites who want to help our people. If we keep to the old ways, we will be beaten and bad whites will have victory. You must go forward, Soaring Eagle. Find that man who wants to help you. Learn the new ways. Show them all that the Lakota are real men!”

  The long speech had exhausted her. Prairie Flower lay back on her buffalo robe, her eyes shining with the challenge she had thrown at Soaring Eagle. Seeing her fatigue, he stood up abruptly. “I will go to check on the ponies.” As he reached the opening of the tepee he turned back to say gently, “You have spoken in wisdom, my mother. Rest. Then we will talk more.” He pulled a thin buffalo robe over his shoulders and went outside to check on his small herd.

  When he returned, he saw that Prairie Flower had curled up and fallen asleep. Before falling asleep, she had managed to open the brittle parfleche that she had kept from the old days. Her arms were wrapped about a white blanket that had belonged to Walks the Fire. Prairie Flower had kept it safe for years, wrapping it about her only on special occasions.

  Soaring Eagle stood over Prairie Flower’s form, and as he looked down at her, he said quietly, “Many winters ago, I returned from the hunt to find that Walks the Fire had been taken from us. It was a dark time.” He squatted beside Prairie Flower and pulled the buffalo robe around her shoulders. “It was you who put the light back into the world for me. In all the winters since that time, I have had a tepee to come to that was warm and clean and filled with mother-love.”

  As he covered her with a buffalo robe, Soaring Eagle realized that the still form was no longer breathing. His howl of grief split the night.

  Soaring Eagle sat by Prairie Flower’s body through the next few hours of darkness, waiting for dawn when he would lay her to rest. Painting her face red, he dressed her body in her white wedding dress. She had kept it in the parfleche, along with a pair of heavily beaded moccasins made years ago by Walks the Fire. Pressing Prairie Flower’s knife and sewing case into her hands, Soaring Eagle wrapped her body in buffalo robes secured with rawhide straps. When the body had been prepared, he went outside and searched the edge of the creek that ran by their campsite until he found a tree with four strong branches. Then he carried the body out and placed it high in the tree. Seating himself at the base of the tree, Soaring Eagle crossed his legs and leaned against the trunk, weeping and singing a death song,

  Prairie Flower, you saw me and took pity on me.

  You wish me to survive among the people.

  Great Mystery, help me, do help me!

  I love my country so;

  In losing it I am having a hard time.

  Soaring Eagle remained camped near the tree for four days of agonizing self-searching and grieving. On the morning of the fifth day, he rounded up his ponies and led them to the base of the tree where Prairie Flower’s body lay. Patting their backs and running his hands through their thick winter coats, he said, “You have been my friends. I must run to meet the future. If I take you there, the soldiers will take you from me. But I am setting you free to go into the next land. Find my father, Rides the Wind. He will welcome you to his herd and lead you to green grass and fresh water. Tell him that his son, Soaring Eagle, has gone to meet the enemy. Tell him that Soaring Eagle will not stand and be defeated. He will find a way to be a man in the new world.” Slowly, deliberately, Soaring Eagle killed each pony until there was a ring of ponies about the foot of the tree. Returning to the tepee, he removed the brittle parfleche that carried mementos of the past and tied it to the one aged pony he had saved to ride. Then he gathered wood to build a huge fire around the base of the tepee.

  He lit the fire and mounted the pony. Heading southeast, he turned to look back at the old campsite. It was consumed in flames. Looking up at the sky, he muttered, “Rest well, Prairie Flower. I am doing what you asked. I am going to meet the future. I will look for those men who want to help us. I will learn the new ways. I will show them that the Lakota are men!”

  The sun rose and set seven times before Soaring Eagle topped a rise and looked down on the little cluster of buildings that made up the Santee mission founded by Alfred and Mary Riggs seven years earlier. What had begun as little more than a rough log cabin and a few tents was now a cluster of frame buildings. Seeing a plume of smoke rise from a pile of stones that went up the side of one building, Soaring Eagle circled about until he found the door and waited uncertainly, his heart pounding.

  From behind him he heard the approach of a horse, and wheeling his pony about he saw a Dakota man and woman coming up the road. They approached cautiously. When they were only a few feet away, the man signed “peace.” Soaring Eagle returned the friendly greeting, and the stranger slid off his pony, handed the reins to the woman, and came closer on foot.

  “You come in peace. You are welcome here. How far have you come?”

  “Seven sunrises—from there.” Soaring Eagle pointed west before adding, “I met one called John Thundercloud. He said to come to the white buildings made from trees on the Big Muddy. He said I would be welcome here.” Soaring Eagle stayed astride his pony. He was tense, and the pony danced nervously as he spoke.

  The man looked about and asked, “Where are your people?”

  “I come alone.”

  “My name is James Red Wing,” the stranger said. Nodding toward the woman he added, “This is my wife, Martha. We help teach here. This is the girls’ home. We call it Birds’ Nest. John Thundercloud comes to help us worship God.” James Red Wing pointed across the compound to a small white building with a cross on the top. “John Thundercloud comes there to help us worship God. His house is there—not far.” James Red Wing pointed toward a line of trees to the south. “Are you hungry?”

  Soaring Eagle nodded.

  “Then come with me to eat. Then we will go to John Thundercloud.”

  Looking from James Red Wing to his wife, Martha, and back, Soaring Eagle saw kindness. He relaxed imperceptibly. Months of wandering, days of mourning Prairie Flower, and a week of traveling into the unknown had taken its toll. For the moment, his desire to fight was gone. Wearily, Soaring Eagle slid from his pony’s back. He reached out to grasp the hand of friendship that James Red Wing offered.

  “Please, come with us. Mr. Riggs will help you. He is the one who built this place of learning. He cares for our people.” As James Red Wing talked to Soaring Eagle a door opened slightly. Soaring Eagle turned to see enormous blue eyes peeking curiously out of a white child’s face. The door swung open wide. Behind the child stood a ring of whispering Indian girls and a white woman.

  The white child didn’t seem to care that he was one of the wild Sioux everyone feared. Meeting Soaring Eagle’s stony gaze with equally unblinking icy blue eyes, she marched across the porch of the house, reach
ed up to grasp the gold locket that hung about his neck, and demanded, “Can I see?”

  The woman standing behind the group clustered in the door gasped.

  Soaring Eagle bent down to bring his own eyes level with the child’s. She had hair the color of Walks the Fire’s. Her eyes sparkled with a color that his own mother’s had lacked. Still, the memory of Walks the Fire softened his features. He didn’t smile, but he did reach up and open the locket to show the demanding child what was inside.

  “It’s a pretty lady, Mama. And another lady too. Come look, Mama!” she sang out, smiling and giggling. She was still pointing at the faces in the locket when her mother grabbed her and swept her up and away from the wild Indian. As she half-carried, half-dragged the child away, she grunted, “Carrie Brown! What do you think you are doing?” As the woman retreated to the safety of the house, Soaring Eagle saw that one side of her mouth turned down severely. The bones around that eye were malformed. Her expression was drawn into a perpetual squint and a permanent frown.

  James Red Wing called out, “It’s all right, Mrs. Brown. He looks fearsome, but he says he has come in peace. He knows Pastor Thundercloud, so I believe him. I’m just going to take him over to meet Reverend Riggs. Then we’ll ride out to Thundercloud’s.”

  With Martha Red Wing’s help, Rachel Brown shooed the girls away from the door and closed it firmly. Soaring Eagle and James Red Wing turned to walk the short distance to the Riggs’s cottage. As they walked, Soaring Eagle turned to look back at the Birds’ Nest. A pair of bright blue eyes watched him from a front window.

  Chapter 15

  He saved them for his name’s sake.

  Psalm 106:8

  Soaring Eagle leaned against the wall of the church building. Crossing his legs, he settled back to listen to the sounds that floated through the window above him. It had become a familiar routine in the few weeks he had been at the agency. Every seventh sunrise, James and Martha Red Wing invited Soaring Eagle to accompany them to the church service. Every seventh sunrise Soaring Eagle declined. Then, as the Red Wings’s wagon rumbled out of sight, Soaring Eagle trotted on foot the four miles to the church. He always arrived just as the choir of Indian men were concluding their singing, and he listened with disgust at the rich voices that blended together, not in the familiar cadence of Lakota song, but in foreign harmonies and strange words.

  Jesus Christ nitowashte kin

  Woptecashni mayaqu—

  (Jesus Christ, thy loving kindness

  Boundlessly thou givest me.)

  He didn’t understand all the words. Still, something kept him sitting there in the dust, listening to the service. Something made him strain to hear the words spoken by John Thundercloud.

  Thundercloud preached in a different dialect than Soaring Eagle had grown up speaking. But Soaring Eagle had been studying both the new dialect and the white man’s tongue for weeks. Unlike many whites, Reverend Alfred Riggs believed that even the wild Indians were intelligent and could learn. He offered instruction for both children and adults.

  Soaring Eagle refused to let them cut his hair. He refused to abandon his native dress. Still, he appeared each day to open the simple readers and learn the words being taught.

  The white man’s tongue was oddly familiar. Sometimes Soaring Eagle felt that he was not really learning it but only remembering it. He didn’t consciously remember that Walks the Fire had spoken to him in this tongue when he toddled about the campfire in the days before she was fluent in Lakota. He didn’t remember that he had, for a time, babbled in Lakota to his father and in English to his adopted mother. The words had been forgotten long ago. Still, the patterns remained and aided his learning.

  When Thundercloud preached, Soaring Eagle strained to hear every sound. Occasionally he heard a familiar word or phrase. He sat listening carefully, not moving, until the usual distraction came along to call his attention away from the nonsensical sermon.

  Just when Soaring Eagle’s brain grew weary of the strain of listening for familiar words, Carrie Brown peeked around the corner of the church building. Just as he had every Sunday since coming to the mission, Soaring Eagle pretended not to see her. Just as she had every Sunday since he had come to the mission, Carrie marched up to where he sat and waited impatiently for him to look up. As soon as he did, she pointed to the locket and settled in the dust at his side, waiting expectantly. Soaring Eagle obediently removed the locket and opened it, whereupon the child repeated the soft cadence, “Such a pretty lady.”

  He didn’t understand what she said, but the sweetness in her voice spoke to some longing in him, and he grew to enjoy her company. This particular Sunday morning, Carrie had come with her corncob doll strapped across her back. Snapping the locket shut, she stood up and impulsively put the cord over Soaring Eagle’s head. Then, she pulled on one of his dark braids to get his attention and, pointing to the doll, said proudly, “Papoose.”

  Soaring Eagle smiled. Carrie didn’t see it, for he kept the smile inside. What Carrie saw was a reluctant nod that said that he had understood her. She felt a childish pride that she had, at last, elicited a response from the stoic wild Indian. She decided to try for another conquest. Pointing to herself she said, “Carrie.”

  Soaring Eagle looked into the wide blue eyes and repeated quietly, “Carrie.”

  The blue eyes sparkled and a radiant smile revealed two missing front teeth. A long, slender finger poked his chest and a question appeared in the blue eyes. Soaring Eagle took a deep breath and said his name slowly.

  Carrie was elated. Clapping her hands with delight, she triumphantly repeated his name, and when he nodded, she bent over and whispered, “We’re friends now.”

  Soaring Eagle shook his head to show that he didn’t understand. The church service was ending. He had come to recognize the sound of the closing prayer. Although he had no idea what the change in tone meant, he knew that it signaled that the people inside would soon be coming outside and that meant he must get away. Standing up abruptly, he patted Carrie on the head and trotted away, darting behind the first hill before James and Martha Red Wing emerged from the service.

  Martha looked expectantly at Carrie and was pleased to see her nod at the unspoken question. Then, Martha leaned toward her husband. “He came again today, James. Do you think he will ever come inside and really listen?”

  James shook his head. “Hard to say, Martha.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Pastor Thundercloud. “You are speaking of our brother Soaring Eagle?” When James and Martha nodded, the pastor sighed.

  James offered, “He refuses to learn to farm, but he works hard at the languages each day. He cares for the livestock. He’s amazing with the horses. But he never talks. He just watches everything carefully. He’s done everything we’ve asked, except work in the field. When we mention anything to do with the garden or farming, he just looks at us and shakes his head from side to side. Then he goes hunting.”

  “I think he’s lonesome,” a childish voice offered. Carrie Brown skipped across the porch, stopping abruptly to rescue her corncob baby when it fell from the ragged bit of cloth she had used to tie it to her back.

  Martha Red Wing shivered, “Well, lonesome or not, I wish he’d at least try to talk to us. When he looks at me, I wonder if he’s trying to learn or plotting something.”

  Rachel Brown joined the group. “When he first came and Carrie just walked up to him, I was terrified. But then I watched him. I decided he was just as terrified as I was, only he had the good sense not to show it. He must feel so desperately lonely. I think he’s grasping for some way to go on living.” Rachel stroked her crooked jaw and looked lovingly at Carrie. “He may even be looking for some reason to go on living.”

  There was an awkward silence before Carrie sang out, “Well, if he’s lonesome, he can come visit us anytime. I told him we’re friends now.” Her face puckered into a frown. “Just don’t know if he understood me.”

  Pastor
Thundercloud smiled down at Carrie. “The next time you see Soaring Eagle, Carrie, do this.” He held his right hand in front of him, palm out, his first and second fingers extended. Carrie shifted her corncob doll from her right to her left hand and with some difficulty imitated the sign.

  “That’s it. Now raise your hand until the tips of your fingers are as high as your head. There. Just like that. That means ‘friend’ in a language Soaring Eagle will understand.”

  Carrie looked to her mother for approval and saw that she was practicing the sign as well. Rachel said softly, “Carrie and I came to the mission to be of help. Soaring Eagle seems to be taken with Carrie. The Scriptures say that a little child shall lead them. Perhaps the Lord will use Carrie to save another lost sheep.”

  Sooner than they expected, part of Rachel Brown’s prophecy was fulfilled. The Lord did use Carrie in Soaring Eagle’s life, but it was Carrie who was the sheep that was nearly lost and Soaring Eagle who did the saving.

  The following Sunday morning when Soaring Eagle left the church building, he walked for hours before making his way to the shady ravine that marked the halfway point between the school and the agency. In this land where the wind often blew dust and grit for days at a time, such a spot was a favorite. Several large cottonwood trees lined the banks of the creek that flowed strong and clear. Unlike most creeks in the region, this one had a white sandy bottom.

  Soaring Eagle slipped down into the ravine and settled onto a flat rock, intending to stay until the sun set behind the cottonwoods. He had been there for only a few moments when the intense murmur of a familiar, mellow voice made him crouch down and listen carefully.

  “Carrie, be still. Just be very still. It will probably move away if you don’t scare it.”

  “But, Mama, it’s raising its head up at me. I don’t like it, Mama—I’m scared, Mama. . . .” The young voice was making every effort to stay quiet, but terror laced the last few words.