by Karen Kay
Ah, but she couldn’t even think, the effort too much, as the pleasure built and built where his mouth employed magic. Onward and upward he took her, until she thought she would not be able to stand it, so good did it feel. She closed her eyes, suppressing the need to scream out her frustration, her gratification, as the heated tide of fulfillment raged within her. On and on it went, over and over she surrendered to it, until at last she couldn’t hold back, and she whimpered and moaned, her tiny cries blocked by his kiss.
Upward, she floated on a wave of pleasure, a pleasure created by her, by him. She soared through the heavens then as though she were a winged creature. At length she settled back down to earth, her body bathed in a sheen of perspiration. She met his grin as their gazes sought out one another.
He didn’t say a word to her, however. He didn’t have to. His expression alone told of his satisfaction.
He was right, she capitulated. Just as he had said, there was much more to lovemaking than she had at first realized. She only hoped that he didn’t intend to stop at this one, single act.
He soon disabused her of that idea, as he brought her again to one dizzying height after another, until at last, as though unable to help himself, he moved his body over hers, his dark eyes seeking out her own. She smiled up at him then, giving herself gladly to him, opening up for him as his body joined with hers.
Ah, she melted against him, the surrender sweet agony. This was what she had been waiting for, this final coupling, this act of love. And she wondered, as she began to move with him in the time-honored way of love, would it always be like this? Would he always look at her as he was now, admiring her? His gaze, as well as his body, thrilling her? Arousing her?
As though he knew her thoughts, he murmured, “Always.” And he smiled at her, the smile of a man caught in the height of seduction, his body never once ceasing its demand upon hers.
She drew a strained breath, then, as the flames of pleasure built and zenithed again within her. But this time when she soared upward, caught in the ecstasy of fire, she brought him with her. She felt the rhythm of his release over and over as he spilled his seed within her, her body, her very being rejoicing in the heady sensation. Together, they floated high above the clouds, their very space entwined, as though each one were now an inseparable part of the other.
And perhaps they were.
They lay next to each other as they both settled down to earth, their limbs still linked together, their breathing rapid and intense, and their hands holding on to one another as though each one were afraid that if he should let go, he might lose the other.
Her mind drifted away, thinking of nothing, and yet much, and he said to her, “Know that I will not let you go.”
She nodded, unable at this moment, and perhaps unwilling, to dispute him.
He continued, “Though I thought I would be able to do it, to take you back to the fort and watch you walk away from me, I know I cannot do it now. We will have to find another way, I believe. I want to keep you with me.”
She closed her eyes and nodded, whispering under her breath, “Aye, my handsome warrior, I understand.”
She left whatever else she might have said on the subject, unspoken, as did he. She didn’t want to spoil the moment, nor, she believed, did he.
She would have to wait and see what the morrow would bring. Briefly she tried to envision how Night Thunder might look in the white man’s clothing…
She groaned. Somehow, the image, the thought of that, did not please her. Not at all.
Chapter Fifteen
Their arrival in Night Thunder’s village, that same day, seemed more an exercise in pomp and ceremony than in the simple act of returning home.
After her bath and before they had entered the camp, Rebecca had stood in awe as she’d watched these fearsome warriors tend to their toiletry. Each one of them had bathed and donned his finest clothes, had painted his face and adorned his hair—sometimes, to Rebecca’s amusement, overly so. Even Night Thunder had dressed in the best that he had with him, going so far as to offer Rebecca his robe, that she, too, might enter his village wearing something of beauty.
His eyes had sparkled at her as he’d handed it to her, and he had said, “So that you might, every time you look at it, remember our morning together.”
She’d been certain her cheeks had stained with color as he’d spoken and she had been glad that no one else had understood English.
She’d been about to refuse the gift, too, on principle, but under further consideration had capitulated. The garment was heavy and would provide her with warmth against the morning chill. It was a thing of loveliness, too, she realized, staring at the softly tanned hide, which had been ornamented and painted with stick figures, depicting, she supposed, Night Thunder’s war adventures.
It would also hide her dress. Staring down at herself, she was sad to note that her gown, although never a thing of beauty, had long since performed its service and now hung on her like a lifeless fellow in duggins. She drew Night Thunder’s robe around her that it might hide and perhaps outshine the weathered condition of her clothing.
Her undergarments, too, were practically unserviceable, and her slippers had been shed for moccasins, an extra pair brought by one of the warriors. She shuddered to think what the fashionable world might say about her state of dress. But she shrugged. No one here seemed to take offense.
Her hair, at least, was neat and orderly. Night Thunder had plaited it into two braids at the sides of her head, her handsome warrior explaining that this style was the most popular among all the married ladies within his camp.
Married…
He had even gone so far as to paint a red strip at the center of her part, a custom, he’d told her, which was considered beautiful among the Blackfeet.
But too soon their party was ready to enter the camp.
Earlier in the morning, a warrior from their midst had stolen into the tribal pony herd and had taken some mounts, bringing them back so that the warriors might ride proudly into the village. Even Rebecca had been given a pony from Night Thunder’s vast herd, to honor her, she had discovered, that she might follow gladly behind him as they paraded.
Because their path had for so long followed a riverbed, Rebecca needed to look up to catch her first glimpse of the Indian encampment. Very soon the Indian village stood there before her, high above them on a broad, sunny plain.
She caught her breath. With the sun shining down upon it, the whole encampment appeared to shimmer under the August heat, and had it not been for the fresh scents of smoke and of food and the merry sounds of laughter, she would have thought she was staring at something mythical and fabled, not a village of substance and worth.
A hawk flew high above them, announcing their arrival as though it were a herald of old, while shimmers of excitement raced over her skin.
Their party made their way to higher ground and stopped for a moment, all looking over toward the Indian encampment. Smoke curled from the various lodges while dogs barked and children laughed. Sentries rode back and forth, from lookouts far in the distance, back toward the village. Women sat outside, tanning hides, cooking or just enjoying a good chat with one another, and men strode through the camp, amicably embracing some physical contest or sitting upon the ground attending to a needed chore. Even from this distance, she could feel the happiness and good cheer of the place. Feel it as though it were a part of her and she felt…stirred…
She had never thought to see an Indian encampment, not in this life, and certainly had never expected it to be quite the size of this. She voiced aloud to Night Thunder, “It’s enormous.”
“Aa, yes, that it is,” he replied to her at once, his own gaze scanning the village, his look one of contentment and…pride? He had been riding a little ahead of her and, as she glanced toward him, she thought he must surely be the most beautiful specimen of man she had ever seen. And, she realized, he appeared happy: happy and untroubled as he looked out upon his home. A smil
e lit his face, while his voice was as soft as a tender embrace. He continued, “But there is not just one band of the Blackfeet gathered here on this day.”
“No?”
“Saa, no. It is the beginning of the moon when we prepare food storage, or as your people say it, August. It is at this time every year when our people hold the Sun Dance. And all of the bands of the Blackfeet are here, the Siksikauw, the Kainah, the Pikuni. We all gather here every year to celebrate and to honor Sun. And we will remain here in this way for perhaps the full moon.”
“I see,” she said, and as she gazed out upon the sight, she couldn’t help but admire it. From the hundreds of colorful lodges, which adorned the landscape, to the pony herd which grazed off to the side. It appeared a delightful symmetry of graceful tepees and sun-bleached ground, the village attaching itself to the earth as though it were as natural a part of the open plains as the land itself.
Painted tepees in colors of red, yellow, white, and blue stretched out upon the prairie for what must have been two or three miles. It was a sight that would have stirred the imagination of even the most stouthearted skeptic, and she knew why Night Thunder smiled when he looked out upon it.
In the center of it, she glimpsed especially painted tepees, arranged in an enormous circle, the very shape of it creating an immense, flat, campus-type center.
She asked, “Those tepees in the center, the ones pitched and forming a circle, why are they painted so differently than the rest?”
“Aa, yes,” he responded, “look there in the center of the circle.”
She did.
“Do you not see the skeleton of a lodge there?”
She nodded, and said, “Aye.”
“That is the Sun Dance lodge,” he went on to explain. “It is already erected and awaiting the dance to begin so that we can all do honor to Natose, Sun. Do you see that the circle, which is created by the lodges, is where we will dance?”
She did and she asked, “What kind of dance is it, now, that your people will be doing?”
“Haiya,” he said, “you must wait and see. This is a time of rejoicing for the people. There will be much food, many games, lots of talk and joking. But here is where our boys will become warriors. Sun makes them strong. You will see.”
She nodded. She knew that what he said must be true. She could sense the excitement of the warriors who accompanied her, and she could only compare the anticipation of what she perceived with the same sort of expectation she had experienced as a child, at Christmas.
It must truly be a wonderful dance.
Soon their party was riding through the herd of ponies she had spied earlier. There were hundreds of these Indian ponies, the untamed animals having been turned loose upon the open prairies to graze. Some were hobbled, most, however, were not.
She began to smile at the antics of them, the animals kicking their hind legs in the air and prancing right up to their party, nipping the humans in the heels as they passed. She said to Night Thunder, “They almost appear as children, these ponies.”
“They are happy to see us,” he replied back to her. “Do you not see how they play, how they prance like they do with their tails erect and their heads thrown back? They are showing off for us, that we might take notice of them and train them to be war ponies or buffalo ponies. They are always as excited to be here together, as are we Indians.”
“Aye, I can see that,” she said, and fell silent.
Too soon, several Indian braves from the village spotted the returning party, and vaulting onto their prized mounts, came racing over the fields toward the new arrivals. The braves were yelling and screaming, too, at the top of their lungs. “Hie, hie, hie,” they yelped, and Rebecca’s stomach plummeted at the sound, panic streaming through her.
But when Night Thunder glanced back toward her and grinned, as though to say, ‘They are delighted to see us,’ she knew that there was no immediate danger.
“Po’kioot!” the incoming braves were saying, and she realized, because of their hand motions, that they must be asking the warriors to follow them.
She felt the stare of the unfamiliar Indians upon her, as the young men brought their ponies to a stop, but Rebecca could not actually catch any of them looking at her. It was not the first time she had experienced a feeling of such scrutiny, without anyone actually staring at her, and she was beginning to wonder how the Indians did it.
No introductions were made between her and these warriors, however, and Rebecca decided to ignore them as best she could.
The young braves led their party into the camp, and at once the Indians, who had for so long accompanied her and Night Thunder, disassembled, the men obviously taking their leave to find their own lodges.
Rebecca stuck as closely as she could to Night Thunder, but she couldn’t help noticing that the Indian women seemed not at all as discreet as the men: all stared at her openly, though Rebecca could not sense any particular animosity in their observation.
One woman, however, one very beautiful Indian woman, regarded her oddly—looking, Rebecca thought, as though she were witnessing a ghost. The woman was beautiful. Was Night Thunder’s fiancée so pretty?
Neither the thought nor her immediate reaction to it comforted her, and Rebecca hurriedly glanced away. Was this jealousy? she wondered. Was it jealousy when a woman wanted to hide her husband away from all other eyes, wanted to keep him with her so that no one else could have him?
He was not truly her husband, Rebecca reminded herself, and she threw back her head, glancing once more around her.
Children swarmed through the camp like wild little whirlwinds, and their gaiety, their very joviality provided her with a welcome sense of relief. Canines, half-wolf, half-dog, ran here and there, too, their howling adding to the sounds of the prairie’s ever present wind, to the beating of the drums in the distance, to the murmur of voices and the happy laughter which seemed to surround everything here.
She became curious. Somehow she had thought that an Indian encampment would be a serious and frightening place, certainly not one of amusement and entertainment. The observation made her ache to ask Night Thunder more about this place, about these people, the children, and, in particular, that one woman who had looked at her so strangely. But she did not know how to begin to ask.
She was also uncertain of the etiquette involved in talking to a warrior in so public a place as this, and she hesitated to do anything that might throw disregard upon him.
At length, Night Thunder led her to a tepee in the center of the encampment, and alighting from his pony, dropped his buckskin reins and strode toward the conical structure. Without saying a word to her or even glancing in her direction, he opened and entered the lodge, leaving Rebecca outside to confront the curious stares of the Indians. But she needn’t have worried; no one approached her or said a word to her, either.
The scent of roasting food and campfires teased at her nostrils, and her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t yet had breakfast. There was another smell in the air, too, a pleasant one, and one with which she was fast becoming familiar—that of the sweet-herb aroma of sage and sweet grass.
All around her came the sounds of camp life, of laughter and good cheer, of the high-pitched voices of children and the buzz of women’s talk, interrupted here and there by a hearty round of giggles and laughter. And throughout the camp came the sound of drums and singing.
Curious. Everyone appeared so happy.
She noted one elderly man, closer to her, engaged in painting what looked to be a war shield, and entrenched around him were a group of young boys, all of them listening in rapt attention as the old man spoke.
It was odd, she thought, that the rumors she’d heard of the Indians didn’t include the description of the fellowship and friendship which she was witnessing here. Strange, since she had been in the camp only a few moments and already she was aware of it. How could another, reporting about the Indians, have missed such a thing?
A woma
n approached her, the same pretty woman whom Rebecca had taken note of upon first entering the Indian encampment, the one who had looked at her so curiously.
“Kyai-yo!” the woman said to her, and Rebecca glanced down toward the girl. “Ah’-ko-two-kr-tuk’ah-an-on,” the young woman tried again, but Rebecca shook her head, trying to communicate by body language alone that she did not understand.
The Indian woman touched Rebecca’s leg where she sat astride her pony, and Rebecca flinched.
“O’toyimm,” the girl pointed to herself and smiled, extending her hand toward Rebecca.
Rebecca let out her breath. It was obvious the woman was trying to be affable, but still Rebecca hesitated, frowning. She had also heard too many stories about the deadliness of Indian “friends.” Wasn’t it Daniel Boone who had once said that one must never trust an Indian, even a congenial one?
Rebecca looked away.
“Poka,” the young woman tried again, and this time when Rebecca glanced back down, she was met with a hearty smile from the young Indian woman. Sighing, Rebecca capitulated. It was obvious the woman was not going to go away, and seeing the woman’s hand still extended toward her, Rebecca decided it would not do her any harm to place her own into that of the other woman’s grasp.
She did so.
And suddenly Night Thunder appeared at her side, though Rebecca had not been aware of him until the last moment, the man having stepped out from the tepee so silently. He looked pleased, too, and Rebecca could only wonder at it.
He said to the young woman, “Nit-ik-oht-yaahsi’taki k-ikaa-o’too’hs’yi, I’m glad you have arrived.”
“O’toyimm. Ah’-ko-two-kr-tuk’-ah-an-on,” the Indian girl repeated, and Night Thunder nodded.
He said to Rebecca, “She tries to tell you that she has friendly feeling toward you. She had heard that there was a woman traveling with me and she is glad to see that we have arrived safely. She welcomes us home.”