by Rita Karnopp
She took a deep breath and fought for self-control. She slid down the rugged cliff in a fraction of the time it had taken to climb it, heedless of the scrapes and bruises she incurred along the way.
Sarah rushed to Henry Junior. She dropped to the ground and pulled his twisted, broken body to her chest. He still clutched the eagle feathers in his fist.
Deep sobs racked her body. Hot tears trailed down across her cheeks, her chin, then down her neck, soaking the front of her dress.
"Junior, oh, Junior. Talk to me," she cried. "You can't be dead. You just can't. I don't want you to be dead." She cradled his bloodied face against her shoulder. Pressing her face into his sandy hair, she rocked back and forth. "I told you not to climb that cliff. I told you it was dangerous. Junior?" Deep, gasping cries, deep within her throat, made speaking impossible.
Sarah didn't know how long she held her brother in her arms. She did acknowledge someone pulled on his body, taking Junior from her. Sarah held onto him fiercely, refusing to let him go.
She looked up. Her gaze locked with the cold, steel, blue, eyes of her father. Hatred blazed in those eyes. He tugged at Henry Junior's limp body. Without a word, Sarah released her brother.
She'd never seen her father cry before. She watched him hold Junior to his chest. His graying, brown hair clung to his perspiring brow. His square jaw visibly tensed as pain carved merciless lines across his face. His full lips trembled as grief consumed him. Deep, cries shook his body and convulsing sobs filled the otherwise silence of early morning.
For what seemed like hours, she sat on the hard, rocky ground, watching her father hold his son, crying. Finally his tears dried. Sarah watched him gently place Henry Junior on the ground. Her father studied his son. The impish grin that often played upon those bow-like lips would be no more. His cherubic cheeks, God, why couldn't she remember them? Why could she only see the torn flesh and the crimson that stained his mouth, chin, and neck?
Sarah watched her father stretch a shaky hand to touch his son's lifeless lips; they offered no words, only warm flecks of red. He stared at his son in silence.
Sarah watched in agony as her father struggled to accept his son's lifeblood had just trickled…into eternity.
He looked up, his expression confused. "How could you let this happen, Sarah? We trusted you to look after him. You killed him! Why couldn't it have been you—instead of my son?"
His insults were barbed and hurtful. They tore at her being and destroyed all hope that Henry Junior could somehow still be alive. It was her fault! She had allowed her brother to die! Sarah pressed her hands over her ears convulsively, fearful he'd say more. She closed her eyes, relieving the pain of seeing her brother's crumpled body. Her father spoke the truth. It was her fault. She felt the loss deep and believed the blame righteously placed.
She glanced up at her father, offering him a pleading look—asking for forgiveness. He backhanded her across the cheek, sending her sprawling backward. Sarah grasped the stinging flesh with the palm of her bruised and bloody hand, staring back at her father.
"You killed my son, Sarah. I'll never forgive you for doing this to me!"
The physical assault couldn't compare to the inner turmoil she already felt. But his blame and rejection only added to the shock. Sarah pressed her palms to her ears. She'd shut out his words. She wouldn't listen to his accusations and hate-filled tone. She'd shut him out. Yes, she'd concentrate on silence. She never wanted to hear his horrid words again. She hung her head in shame. God, how could she have let this happen to Henry Junior? She loved him. It hurt too much to love. It hurt too much to want and need love. She never wanted to feel this hurt again.
* * *
A faint scent of earthy cinnamon filtered into her senses. Sarah liked it. His strong arms held her secure. The steady rhythm of his heart beating against her cheek comforted her. She couldn't remember the last time someone held her.
Sarah opened her eyes and quickly squinted from the bright sunlight filtering through the windows of her room. Glancing to her right she noticed a large white feather. She reached over and claimed it. The effort caused a slight pain in her ribs. Where had the feather come from? She pulled the soft quill through her fingers and drew in the familiar scent. A flood of disjointed images taunted her mind. She closed her eyes to recapture them…and a feeling of wellbeing filled her.
Sensing a movement near the doorway, Sarah tensed. She peeked through lowered lashes. Doctor Bentley limped toward her bed. She glanced up at him, offering a welcoming smile.
"Does your feather help you remember what happened to you yesterday?" he asked, reaching the bedside.
Distracted by his comment your feather caused Sarah to miss the rest of his sentence.
"What?"
Doctor Bentley sat on the edge of the bed. Pointing at the feather, he said, "Does your feather bring back any memories?"
"Why do you call it my feather? Where did it come from?" Sarah asked, rubbing it across her cheek, enjoying the sensation.
"I hoped you could tell me that. Don't you remember anything that happened to you yesterday? Did you fall off Gypsy? Were you attacked by someone, or Indians?"
"I remember a man holding me close. I remember the feel of his heart beating against my cheek." Sarah placed the palm of her hand against her cheek and pressed into it.
"Sarah, look at me," he said, lifting her chin toward him. "You were helped back to the fort by the one called hero of the land."
"Are you serious? The same one who they say saved the Jameson boy?"
"The very same."
"Great heavens. I wish I could remember. I've had images of being dragged, but it's all fuzzy. I tried to wake, but I couldn't get my eyes open. Does that make sense?" Sarah concentrated on speaking slow and clear.
"That would explain all those thorns and scratches on your arms and hands." He took her arm and turned the underside up toward Sarah.
Extensive scratches covered the soft skin. She stared at them, puzzled. "They itch," she said, rubbing the palm of her hand the length of her arm. "I still can't remember what happened. Will I ever remember, Doctor Bentley?"
"I'm certain you will, Sarah. You already remember more than you did last night. I think in time it'll all come back to you. In the meantime, you must have bed-rest for at least three days. No riding Gypsy for at least two weeks."
"Oh! You can't mean it. What will I do all day long? That much rest can't be good for a person." She sat with a jerk, then clutched her ribs and fell back onto the pillows. "I guess maybe a day or two might be good."
"What am I going to do with you, girl?" He laughed, shaking his head. "You just hang onto that spunk. A few other people around here could use some." He patted her hands and smiled down at her.
Sarah studied his mouth carefully, catching most of his words as he spoke. Grateful he made the effort to pronounce each word clear and slow. She understood he'd just complimented her, and it felt good.
His familiar white shirt, wrinkled black jacket, and floppy string tie sent a whiff of cherry smoke her way with his every movement. He threaded his long fingers through thick silver hair, and then pulled a matching mustache between his thumb and index finger.
"Now, I must get to the infirmary and see to some real sick boys. You stay quiet and get some sleep."
"Yes, Doctor," Sarah answered, hoping her tone would make him realize he sounded like a mother. She flinched at the correlation.
"I'll stop in to see you again later."
"Thank you," she whispered after him. A familiar loneliness surrounded her the moment he walked out the door. She hated to admit it…but she was alone.
* * *
Sarah slept long and hard, waking to the smell of hot chicken soup and the warm, caring eyes of Trail Walker, both her favorites. As usual, their conversations ran from serious to funny.
"Stop making me laugh, Trail Walker! It hurts," Sarah ordered between giggles.
"Ha-im-mit good for sick girl." Concern mirr
ored in his eyes and in the deep creases that had been etched in his face by the passing of time.
Sarah reached over and laid her hand on his arm. The sleeve of his antelope skin shirt felt soft and supple to her fingers. "I thank you for caring, Trail Walker. You are the only one who does, you know."
"You speak from heart and I hear your sadness. I wish I could make parents love beautiful daughter. They will realize loss when it is too late."
Sarah recognized the pain lurking deep in the old dark eyes that gazed at her. "I try hard. Honest I do. You and Doctor Bentley are the only ones who talk to me. Father won't let the men speak to me anymore. He thinks I'm a disgrace. Rachel acts as if she can't understand a word I say."
"Do not call mother Rachel. She is mother. Is hard for mother to accept daughter deaf. Mother afraid of getting old. Not want to see young, pretty daughter because her own youth is gone."
"You're wrong. She doesn't want to see me because she's ashamed of me. I know she is." Sarah paused…being upset made it more difficult to speak. "I embarrass her because I don't talk right. Do I sound different when I talk?" Sarah asked, watching him shift his moccasin-clad feet and look around the room, then his intense brown gaze settled on her.
"All who talk sound different. I not sound like white man, but I speak white man words. You sound good," he said, patting her hand with his weathered one. "You keep eating. Must eat to get well."
Sarah pushed another spoonful of soup into her mouth. She didn't want to eat anymore, but for Trail Walker she'd do anything.
His long black braids, flecked with silvery-white strands, hung down his heavily beaded shirt that matched his moccasins. She reached up and traced the diamond of elk skin. The design he wore never changed.
"Will I ever dream a design to give me power to wear it, like you did?" She rubbed her fingers across the large, blue pony beads that followed along the stitched edges. In the center a skillfully sewn yellow eagle sitting on a ponderosa pine was outlined with black seed beads. Two white feathers fell from the eagle's tail feathers.
Trail Walker always wore cavalry pants with his antelope skin shirt and blackened soft-soled elk skin moccasins. Once he had let her slip her feet into his winter-wear buffalo hide moccasins. Putting animal hair on the inside of a moccasin made more sense than the thin slippers she had to wear.
"It is hard to say when person will be visited by the old man, Napi. Sometimes he will speak to a pale skin that is true at heart. I cannot predict if such a thing will happen to you, little one."
Watching Trail Walker's facial and hand motions were as exciting as his words. She'd often wished he were her father. Trail Walker had been there from the start. She had wanted no part of learning to speak with her hands and especially not with her voice. But, Trail Walker had promised her a pony if she succeeded. After seeing Gypsy, she knew what she wanted…and what she had to do to get the fine animal.
First he taught her to talk with her hands. Trail Walker had told her she had a good memory and endless determination. Sarah didn't care what he called it. It seemed she couldn't learn fast enough to suit herself. The more he explained, the more she watched people's lips and the easier it had been be to understand what they were saying. He'd been right. She would form the words with her own lips, feeling them with her fingers. Then she would feel Trail Walker's lips as he formed the words, watching his mouth as he repeated them for her.
Soon she understood most everything he said. Speaking out loud came much harder. But gradually he had her talking with her voice as well as with her hands. He'd freed her from the self-imposed prison of a silent world.
They spent hours together. She never tired of the stories he told her about his Blackfeet people. "Would you tell me a story?" she asked, settling back against the pillows. It took little effort to eat, but she suddenly felt exhausted.
Trail Walker sat down at the end of the bed, resting his back against the foot board of the bed. "I will tell you a special story."
Sarah watched him intently.
"Morning Eagle, a respected old warrior, led through our camp his old white war horse. He had decorated it with medicine emblems and picture writings, representing his achievements in early days. In a loud voice he called the people's attention to himself and told of his great deeds at battle."
Sarah watched Trail Walker's hand gestures with close scrutiny. She noted his face softened as he told his story. His eyes looked in the distance, as though he could see the scene before him.
"He was a very old man who was nearly blind and had trouble with the use of his legs. Still he retained his old-time enthusiasm and love of excitement. He would have the young men lift him up on his war horse so that he might ride through camp as of old, and take part in the sham battles."
"What are sham battles?" Sarah interrupted.
"They are practice battles among the warriors. Old and young participate. It is something the men and boys do during a great feast to show everyone their great skill and maturity. The young bucks take great pride in upsetting an already proclaimed skilled warrior."
"This old warrior on the white war horse, he was your father, wasn't he?"
"Yes. I have great pride to have a father so brave. Morning Eagle would wake me every morning as the sun began to rise. He would chant his medicine songs. There was not a day that he missed. The songs were the same and I loved listening to him. He could chant and sing the songs of many different birds and animals. During a heavy storm, and in spite of his age and feebleness, he crawled from the lodge on his hands and knees and seated himself in the pouring rain, with only a blanket thrown over his head. He prayed and chanted medicine songs for the purpose of driving the storm away."
"Did it work?"
"Yes. The next day the rains stopped. My people believed it would have rained for weeks, months, even years had he not sung his songs."
Trail Walker's posture betrayed his pride. Sarah smiled to herself. "Were you happy living with your people?" she asked, even though her head pounded.
"Yes. They were the happiest days of my life."
"Do you…I've been wondering…do you have a wife, Trail Walker?"
"I once married the most beautiful girl in all of our village. She smiled from the rise of the sun, until it set behind the great mountains. She had shiny black hair that when braided fell down her back, almost touching the ground. No other woman had such beautiful hair. Her eyes made me think of the shimmering night sky. They sparkled with joy. Her heart was good and she loved me as much as I loved her. I will speak her name this one time for you. We called her Mutsi-Awotan-Ahki."
"What does it mean?"
"Fine Shield Woman. She was well known for making the most handsome shields in our village. It was a great honor to receive such a name."
He sat for a few minutes, reliving some private moments. Sarah watched his face sober. She knew Indians didn't speak the names of their dead. "What happened to her?"
"She and Manski-Stumik, my son, Young Bull, were killed by the great smallpox disease, brought by the pale faces. I could do nothing for them. My sorrow ate my spirit. I wanted Napi to take me, too. But he didn't. I must live without them."
"Is that when you became a scout for the cavalry?"
"No. My sorrow made me dead inside. I wanted to leave my village and live alone with my memories. But I had a mother and a sister to care for. So I stayed. Everywhere I went, I found reminders of my beautiful woman and my son of one winter."
"How did you come here?"
"I permitted my sister to marry a great warrior, Many Ponies. I still cared for my mother. Then my people saw a great fort going up and many white seizers came, too. My people felt much fear. I went to the white man's fort to make peace. I did not want them to attack our village with their big mouth guns."
"But we don't have any cannons here!"
"That is what we were told, but we did not trust the white man. I talked for many days with your father. He asked me to be a guide for the pale skins. I t
old him when Napi took my mother to the Sand Hills I would return to be his guide, and I did."
"Don't you miss your people? Why haven't you gone back to be with them after all this time?"
He leaned forward, looking directly into her eyes. "If you want to know what the wolf has planned, you must be one of his pack."
She thought his smile resembled that of a child who'd gotten away with a trick. Then she understood. Instead of living with his beloved people, he protected them by living with the enemy. She felt sadness for him. She watched him rise from the end of the bed, adjusting his stiff, old body before moving to her side.
"You must rest and get well. It is the time when the buffalo calves are yellow and I want to show you many surprises. Just this morning I heard the o-toch-koki sing for the first time."
Sarah watched his lips form the Blackfeet word, pleased she'd recognized it. "You mean the meadowlark, don't you?"
Trail Walker nodded. "He is one of the first birds to come when the grass turns green. My people are glad to see him, because we know summer is near. He has many songs and sings in different tongues. The Blackfeet understand the songs of the yellow breast. He sits high on the budding branch, he sings beautiful in Blackfeet, nat-siake-oa-se-kim-aki."
Sarah wondered how it sounded when Trail Walker described what the birds or animals sounded like. She imagined it to be like a song. She missed many of his words, yet she understood many, too. "I wish I could hear the meadowlark. You make it sound like the most wonderful bird of all." She recognized gentleness in his gaze.
"You are nineteen winters now. You are ready to learn much. When you are well, I will take you with me. I will show you many wonderful things. Right now you must sleep, Sa-sak-si."
Sarah smiled at him. She loved it when he called her by her Indian name, Freckle Face. Of course it had been more fitting four years ago since few freckles now remained. Yet, he still called her Freckle Face and it made her feel special.