White Dusk

by Susan Edwards

  How could she convince him that it was far too late to change her mind? Her brother, and many of their tribe, had been against the marriage and the joining of these two Hunkpapa tribes from the beginning; it put them all at war with the Miniconjou.

  Lone Warrior had even tried to talk her father into refusing the marriage offer. But deep in her heart, Small Bird had known this was her future. She’d turned down many suitors before Swift Foot, sure in her belief that one day her life would merge with his. And now it would—no matter the consequences.

  The welfare of her people weighed heavily on her shoulders. Small Bird’s emotions whirled, leaving her confused and even a bit frightened. Responsibility could be scary. Sometimes she longed for ignorance.

  Caught in the turbulence of the past like a rock or twig sucked up in a whirlwind, she pushed away from the supporting strength of the cottonwood tree at her back. Blinking against the reflected brightness of the sun on the water’s surface, she allowed her sight to blur. The sharpness of the scene softened. Colors and hues merged as the stream turned silvery-white, framed with swirls of green, brown and blue.

  Come to me, she commanded. Knowledge came to her in many forms. Thoughts. Feelings. Sometimes dreams. As knowledge of this fate had.

  Slowly the brown blur took on the shape of a young boy with black hair. He wore a big grin as he waved at her. The scene soothed her. This child—her child, hers and Swift Foot’s—represented the future and gave her the faith she needed to believe she had a future. One shared with a great warrior: the warrior who’d saved her life at the age of three.

  The image of the boy faded at the sound of Lone Warrior’s angry voice. “This is not the time to let your mind cloud with silly dreams.” Small Bird’s brother glared down at her.

  Small Bird didn’t bother to tell him that what he called her “silly dreams” were visions that often spoke of the future or explained the present. She’d kept her talents mostly to herself, speaking of them only to her tribe’s medicine man and her father. It was this dream of the little boy combined with her past connection to Swift Foot that had ensured her choice of husband.

  Swift Foot’s uncle, the old chief, and Wind Dancer, Swift Foot’s tribe’s young shaman, knew of her abilities as well—but she had asked them not to reveal the truth to others. She had no desire to become winyan waken, a tribe’s holy woman. Her role lay in becoming a wife and bearing a child. This child.

  Small Bird waited patiently for her brother to leave. Nothing he said would change the course of her future. Sighing, she put her hand on his shoulder. When it came right down to it, she really didn’t have a choice in the matter. Knowing this was her destiny didn’t make it easy to accept, but her brother’s continual arguments made it worse.

  “I must do this,” she said softly.

  “Then you are a fool.” Lone Warrior grabbed her by the upper arms and held her firmly. “Like that small bird the eagle snagged in his sharp talons, you will be taken by Swift Foot’s enemies.” He released her but held her gaze. “Wambli warns of death. If you go through with this foolish marriage, you will die.” Once more, bitterness filled his voice.

  Trembling beneath the heat and conviction of her brother’s words, Small Bird turned away. She hated the weakness and fear his prediction elicited, yet all she could do was hold on to that bit of hope the dream-child brought her. By this time tomorrow, she’d be Swift Foot’s wife.

  Lone Warrior forced her to face him. “Have you forgotten that you nearly lost your life because of this man you seek to marry?” His voice vibrated with anger.

  Memories intruded, blurring everything around her, flashes of remembered senses.

  The screams.

  The pounding of her heart, which matched the pounding of the horses’ hooves carrying the enemy toward her hiding spot.

  The rumble of the ground beneath her chest, the terror of being alone.

  The acrid smell of smoke mingling with screams that had seemed to last a lifetime.

  She’d been so young. She hadn’t understood death, but she’d been sensitive to the grief around her. And confused. She remembered how scared she’d been in the days following the attack, when women slashed their hair short and cut their own flesh. She shuddered, the vision of a woman chopping off the tips of her own fingers haunting her.

  Small Bird drew a deep breath and forced the nightmare away. She had to make Lone Warrior understand. Though he was not a chief, the warriors of their clan of Hunkpapa looked to him for leadership. If he refused to give his allegiance to Swift Foot, who was to become her tribe’s new chief when she married him, then the rest of the warriors would also withhold loyalty, which would only cause tension and strife.

  Sliding her arms free of his grip, Small Bird reached out and took his hands in hers. “I have not forgotten that day. I will never forget. So many died…” Her voice broke.

  Lone Warrior jumped in. “Do you not care that you may meet the same end?”

  Small Bird closed her eyes, her grip tightening on his hands. “You know I care,” she whispered.

  “Then I will speak to our father. I will tell him about the appearance of Wambli. He will agree that it is a sign.” Lone Warrior turned to leave.

  Small Bird grabbed his arm. She loved her brother, hated to see him so worried, but could not allow him to interfere. “No. Do not. No more fights. They will not change what will be.” She tightened her hold on his arm to prevent him from leaving.

  For long moments, brother and sister stared at each other. Finally, Lone Warrior inclined his head. “This does not make me happy, but I will respect your decision.”

  Relieved, Small Bird glanced down at the ground to show respect. “Thank you, my brother.”

  Shouts to her right brought her head up. A group of five exuberant boys ran past, forcing her to step back. Smiling sadly, she longed for the carefree days of childhood.

  The boys skidded to a stop when a woman appeared from around a huge boulder. Leaning heavily on a thick stick, she hobbled over the rocky ground. She wore a long shapeless dress with no decoration. Not even a simple row of colorful quilling adorned the yoke. No row of swinging fringe had been added to soften the plainness of her garment. A long length of softened deerskin covered her head and hid her face. In her free hand she clutched the edges of a wide strip of leather that encircled twigs and sticks.

  After a moment’s hesitation, three of the boys ran in circles around the old woman, taunting her. One youngster picked up a rock. “Show us your face, old woman,” he shouted. “Show us your face.”

  Small Bird gasped at the rude display of the boys—they were from her tribe. The two from Swift Foot’s were silently backing away from their new friends. Ashamed of the children’s behavior, Small Bird rushed forward. Lone Warrior followed.

  “Enough!” she said. Engrossed in their cruel game, the boys didn’t hear. Without warning, one leaped forward and snatched the woman’s head covering away.

  Startled, the woman whirled and tried to take it back. Her crutch fell from her hand and she lost her balance. Her lame foot buckled beneath her and she fell with a cry. Staring down at the woman, the three boys froze in horror.

  “Anog-Ite!”

  “Anog-Ite!”

  “Double-Faced Woman!”

  Small Bird held her breath, her heart beating fast. Anog-Ite was a legend. She had been a very beautiful and vain woman who had married Tate, the Wind, and borne him four sons: the four winds. As time passed, she’d become more and more conscious of her beauty, and devoted less time to the welfare of her children.

  Enamored by her face, Sun invited the wife of Tate to take the seat beside him at the feast of the Gods. He took the seat, usurping the place of a goddess: Sun’s wife, Moon.

  Angered, Shan, the Great All-Powerful Spirit, decreed that Moon would no longer be Sun’s companion. That was his punishment. But condemned for her vanity, ambition and negligence, Ite’s punishment was harsher. She was banished to the world to live with
out friends—and with only half of her beauty. The other half of her face became so horribly ugly that the sight of her terrified any who looked upon her.

  The screams of the small boys brushing against the woman here, the fallen crone, shook Small Bird from her glazed horror. Double-Faced Woman was only a myth. Gazing down at the fallen woman as she turned her head to the side, Small Bird was caught by wonder. She’d always thought her cousin Moon Fire to be the most beautiful woman alive, but this “crone’s” face held an ethereal beauty she’d never before seen. Small Bird heard a gasp from her brother.

  Turning, she saw his jaw had dropped. He stared at the woman as if unable to believe what was before him. Rolling her eyes, Small Bird returned her attention to the shaking beauty on the ground. Compassion won out over superstition. She bent down.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked. She reached out to take the woman by the arm and help her up.

  Startled, the woman pulled back and tried to scoot away. “No! You must not touch me!” She cried out as a sharp rock cut her palm. Small Bird frowned. The backs of the woman’s hands were scarred, and she gave a hiss of pain.

  Small Bird couldn’t help her own escaping gasp of horror. While one half of the woman’s face was a study in perfection, the other had been ravaged by scars and was grotesquely misshapen. The woman rolled, using her hands to hide her face.

  Lone Warrior stumbled back. “Anog-lte,” he whispered.

  Frozen in place, Small Bird stared down at the woman. All background noise faded. A sick feeling crept through her.

  All of her people dreaded the spirit of the Double-Faced Woman. She was very cunning, and she loved to frighten women who were with child to give them pains. She lured hunters away with her beautiful face, then frightened them senseless with her horrid half. And worst of all, if a woman dreamed of Anog-lte, she became a Double-Woman Dreamer—ugly and scarred and a curse her self.

  Lone Warrior pulled Small Bird away. “We must go. Now.”

  Realizing she was still gaping at the cowering Anog-lte, Small Bird slowly rose. As she did, her gaze fell on the woman’s leg. Long scars and puckered skin marred the shapely limb.

  Suddenly Small Bird knew who this was. “Willow Song,” she murmured, staring down at Swift Foot’s cousin. Everyone knew of the terrible injuries the girl had suffered the day her mother had been clubbed to death, how she herself had been close to death for many months. But Small Bird had believed the stories of her mutilation to be gross exaggeration. It seemed they weren’t. She reached down to offer comfort and reassurance to the woman.

  Lone Warrior gripped her harder, stopping her gesture. “Do not touch her. You will be cursed.”

  Small Bird shook him off. “No,” she said softly. “This is Willow Song, cousin to Swift Foot.” She glanced up at her brother and saw the understanding dawning in his eyes.

  Small Bird called out in a gentle voice, “Willow Song?”

  “Please leave,” the young woman said, her voice muffled by her hands.

  “No. I am not afraid.” And she wasn’t. This was not a Double-Woman Dreamer. Willow Song had received her injuries and scars in the same attack in which Swift Foot had saved Small Bird’s life.

  Compassion urged her to wrap her arms around the young woman. “Come, Willow Song. We will help you up.” When Lone Warrior continued to stand and stare at the distraught woman, Small Bird glared at him. He didn’t notice. His gaze remained on Willow Song, who’d hesitantly lowered one hand. The other remained to shield her scarred face.

  Small Bird helped Willow Song to her feet.

  “Thank you,” the woman said.

  To Small Bird’s surprise, Willow Song’s voice reflected the beauty of her perfect profile; it was soft, melodious and clear. Lone Warrior’s gaze remained fixed on Swift Foot’s cousin as if he were in a trance.

  Kicking a large stone, she aimed it at his shin. He yelped, then glared at her. She motioned with her eyes for him to come to Willow Song’s other side. “We will help you to your tipi,” she suggested. Her voice brooked no argument—from either Willow Song or her brother.

  Lone Warrior looked ill at ease, and Willow Song looked frightened as the brave approached her mutilated and ugly side.

  “No!” Her voice rose. “Do not touch me.”

  “What is going on here?”

  Small Bird and Lone Warrior whirled. Kills Many Crows, Willow Song’s brother, approached at a run.

  Lone Warrior stepped forward and quickly explained all that had happened.

  Kills Many Crows narrowed his eyes. “The behavior of those boys is unacceptable.”

  “Agreed. I will deal with them,” Lone Warrior promised.

  Kills Many Crows slashed at the air with his hand. “No. Our chief shall deal with them.” The two braves glared at each another.

  Willow Song reached out for her brother and clung to his arm. “They did not know,” she said softly.

  “It is no excuse,” Kills Many Crows said.

  Small Bird stepped forward. Behind Willow Song’s brother, she noticed several women gathering. “You are right. There is no excuse. We were about to help your sister to her tipi.”

  Stepping in front of his sibling as if to protect her, Kills Many Crows scooped the young woman into his arms. “You and your people have done enough.”

  Stung by the man’s insult, Small Bird fell back as Kills Many Crows strode past her. The crowd of collecting women scattered. Some ducked their heads, some ran, and others slunk off.

  Lone Warrior glanced down at his sister with troubled eyes. “Do you need further proof of what your future with Swift Foot holds? His enemies do not care who they harm, but harm they shall. Think upon that.” With that final shot, he stalked off.

  Alone in the morning sunshine, Small Bird shivered. She was very much afraid that he was right. If the talks of peace failed, the Miniconjou would not hesitate to kill or maim her. She too might end up scarred like Willow Song.

  Needing suddenly to be around her people to keep her worried thoughts at bay, Small Bird turned to leave. She froze when Swift Foot stepped out of the shadows.

  “Your brother has no faith in his new chief,” he said mockingly.

  Swift Foot had heard most of the conversation between his soon-to-be wife and her brother, and it upset him. While he cared little what Small Bird personally thought, he could not allow any member of his tribe to doubt his abilities. Their faith in him made him an effective leader. His people accepted his abilities without question—and while there were less than a dozen warriors, young or old, in Small Bird’s tribe, Swift Foot knew it didn’t take much resentment or dissension to weaken or split a group. Regardless of how anyone felt, he was chief. And he’d earned the role by deed, sacrifice and hard work.

  Expecting Small Bird to appear uneasy at being caught discussing the wisdom of their coming marriage, Swift Foot was surprised when she boldly held his gaze. Her eyes were the color of fresh-churned earth, and wide, large and innocent as those of a newborn fawn. They gave him no apology. Which was irritating. Folding his arms across his chest, he stared down at her.

  Since her tribe’s arrival more than a week ago, he’d endured the doubt of her people in silence. The two tribes were to join as one—as decreed by their two councils. But not all embraced the idea. His youth alone caused many to question his capability. And the lifelong war between him and his enemy made many doubt the wisdom of becoming embroiled.

  Small Bird broke the tense silence between them. “It is no secret that your enemy hunts you. Many have died in the past.” The proud tilt to the woman’s head and shoulders dared him to deny what she said.

  He tipped his head slightly, too, acknowledging the truth in her words. “It is a battle I seek to end, one my father began before my birth and one I will put to right before I die.” The selfishness of Runs with Wind, who’d chosen to marry the white captive he loved instead of the woman he’d promised to wed, had shaped Swift Foot’s future. Like the man who’d sired him,
Swift Foot had been ordered to marry a woman chosen for him by the council. And like his father, Swift Foot yearned to marry a white woman with hair of the sun. But unlike his father, Swift Foot had not given in to the needs of his heart. He’d put his people first. At great cost to his own happiness.

  “My brother, along with many others, believes you are too young to lead so many.” Small Bird watched him carefully.

  Narrowing his eyes, Swift Foot answered, “If there is doubt regarding my ability to lead, then why did your elders agree to join tribes with me? Why did you agree to marry me?”

  Small Bird’s gaze slid from his. “Some choices are made despite knowing the risks.” She moved away from him.

  Shifting sideways in order to watch her, Swift Foot searched her words and tone for bitterness or resentment. He found none. Yet in his own mind and heart, those two emotions swelled, growing daily, crushing the man within.

  “You could have said no. My uncle would have accepted your refusal,” he pursued. Then he could have married the woman of his heart, not his uncle’s choice.

  No, a small voice inside him declared. Your uncle would have found another for you to wed.

  That, Swift Foot knew to be true. His future had been decided the moment his uncle decided to step down as chief. Before even. It came as no surprise to him, or to anyone else, that the council would choose him to succeed his uncle. Since the age of seven, he had been groomed for the position. But the honor came with a price: he had to take a wife of the council’s choosing.

  He hadn’t hesitated in agreeing. Nothing was more important than restoring his family’s honor and ensuring the safety of his people.

  Until Emily—the white beauty who had captured his heart.

  Over the summer, he’d learned the power of love, come to understand what had made his father risk everything, including his life, for a woman. Yet for Swift Foot, love had changed nothing. He had still returned here to marry.