White Dusk

by Susan Edwards

  A bittersweet smile crossed her lips. At seven, before her life-changing injury, she’d thought him the handsomest boy of their two tribes. At twenty, she still thought so. Especially after having seen him up close. A lump formed in her throat when she remembered that he’d been about to touch her in order to help her stand. He’d been the first male aside from her brother and cousin to touch her, and she’d panicked. She couldn’t bear to have him see her deformities so close.

  She panicked now when his gaze found hers through the opening. As if speared, she dropped the flap and held her breath.

  “Hau.” The greeting came in a deep, vibrant voice.

  Closing her eyes, Willow Song couldn’t answer.

  “Cousin to our chief. I have brought you your wood.”

  Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. His kindness, mixed with the urge to see and talk to him, almost made her shove aside the flap. But she didn’t. There came the sound of something being set just on the other side of her door.

  “Your wood. I apologize once more for the behavior of our boys.”

  The noise of leaves crunching beneath feet faded as he left. Slowly, Willow Song pulled the flap open to see him disappear down the trail. From behind, the play of sunlight over the smooth expanse of his back, and the bunching of his thick thighs, spoke of his masculine form—as did the firm backside she glimpsed beneath his plain breechclout.

  Unexpectedly, he turned and caught her gaze with his. He held it for a long moment, then continued away. Shaking, Willow Song closed her tipi’s flap and put her forehead on her knee. His kindness meant nothing, she told herself. It was pity. Guilt for the way the boys of his tribe had treated her. Maybe curiosity. Nothing more.

  Men feared her less than women did. Women avoided her as they dreaded dreaming of her and becoming a Double-Woman Dreamer themselves.

  Willow Song’s lips twisted. She was no dreamer—had never had such a vision—but Buffalo Medicine Man, the tribe’s old shaman, had never believed her. He’d labeled her a dreamer. Now, though his son Wind Dancer, the new shaman, believed her, it was too late. Looks alone labeled her Anog-Ite.

  Drying her eyes, Willow Song returned to her bed of furs. As she picked up a pair of moccasins she was making for her brother, her gaze fell upon a beautiful pouch with a small bird perched on the horn of a buffalo.

  Getting back up, she took it into her hands and sat back down. Running her fingers over the quilled surface, she closed her eyes, tipping her head back. She opened her mouth, and her voice, soft as the summer breeze, lifted with the sweet melody of song. No one but Tate, the spirit of the wind, heard.

  Swift Foot led the hunting party across dry grassland to where earlier, when he’d ridden out alone, he’d spotted a large herd of elk. At his side his closest friend, Night Thunder, kept pace. The rest of the hunting party followed respectfully behind.

  “You seem troubled, my friend,” the other man said.

  Swift Foot glanced over at him. Keeping his voice low so that no one else heard, he replied, “There is much to be done. Many more mouths to feed now.”

  Giving him a sharp look, Night Thunder eased his paint pony close to Swift Foot’s midnight-black gelding. “I know you well my friend. We are like brothers.” He paused. “Small Bird will make a good wife to a powerful chief.”

  “More so than a white woman, you mean.” Swift Foot’s voice deepened, pitched so low he barely heard the words himself.

  Night Thunder sighed. “If you seek the truth, then yes. And you know that in your heart, or you would not have given the white woman to another.”

  Remaining silent, Swift Foot knew there was nothing he could say; his friend spoke the truth. Aside from Wind Dancer, their shaman, Night Thunder was the only other person who knew about Emily. And he knew of her only because he’d known Swift Foot so well that Swift Foot had not been able to hide his pain or resentment. Had anyone else known of Emily and his feelings for the white woman, they’d have been starkly reminded of his father, and Swift Foot’s role as leader would have been questioned.

  “Do not worry, my friend. I will not do any thing foolish,” Swift Foot reassured his friend, glancing over at the other man.

  Night Thunder lifted one brow. “I never thought otherwise. I seek only to ease your pain so that you may enter into your joining without bitterness. There is already too much of that.” He shifted his gaze to the right, where several Hunkpapa warriors rode half a horse-length behind.

  Swift Foot glanced over and spotted Kills Many Crows and Lone Warrior riding among the hunters. He grunted. Both resented his position as chief, and Lone Warrior had made his displeasure over the joining of the two tribes clear. “That, my friend, may be asking far too much. Of both others and myself.”

  Spurring his mount faster, Swift Foot headed for a low rolling hill. Silently and single-file, the hunting party urged their horses up the slope after him. At the top, they fanned out without instruction, lining the rise. To their left and right, rounded hillocks dotted the landscape. Some cut sharply from the earth; others rose like the spine of a buffalo; while others still, like the one they stood upon, rolled gently from one grassland to another.

  Less than a hundred feet from them, the river continued on its sluggish way, winding and cutting a path through the rocky land. Here there were no trees to provide relief from the hot rays of the sun. The banks along the river varied from steep, rocky shale to patches of short green grass and clumps of shrub.

  In the midst of the greenery, a large herd of hehaka grazed, rested and took their fill of water in the heat of the afternoon. Opposite the herd, the bank rose sharply upward. Using hand signals, Swift Foot split the hunting party in half. The elk, once warned of the hunters’ presence, would either run to the right or left; Swift Foot and the rest must make their kills before the elk managed to cross the river through the flatter land on either side of the adjacent rock wall.

  Putting all thoughts of both the future and the past from him, Swift Foot squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. He had responsibilities now. Others to think of. Glancing at the herd, he adjusted a gauntlet made of stiff deerskin. Brown rabbit fur edged the cuffs.

  Preparing, he pulled his bow from the case inside the quiver resting slightly behind him on his horse. After adjusting the quiver’s shoulder loop so that it rested at his left side, he pulled out five arrows. Taking one in his right hand, he kept the others in his left with his bow, their points down and feathers up for quick retrieval.

  Before giving the signal to attack, he offered a silent prayer for success. Each warrior did the same. Making a kill was not the joyful sport white men seemed to believe. The act of taking a life, even that of an animal, was Wakan—mysterious, holy. A pipe was smoked before an organized hunt, and an offering given before eating. A good hunter relied not only on skill, strength, and organization, but also on the power obtained from the spirits.

  Nocking his arrow so its blade ran from top to bottom—the same alignment as the rib cage of the animals he hunted—Swift Foot gave the command: “Hoka he!”

  His warriors’ horses rushed down the slope toward the herd. The silence of the afternoon was split with the cries of his men as they tried to confuse the elk. By the time he hit level ground, Swift Foot had already fired off three arrows in a high arc. Those three shafts were followed by two straight shots. All five arrows struck at the same time.

  In seconds it was over. Several elk were down. The rest of the herd split in two, fleeing so rapidly the animals appeared a brown blur flowing across either side of the rocky bank, jumping across the river to rejoin as one brown mass far from the reach of the hunting party.

  Swift Foot reined up. His horse, Kastaka, displayed displeasure at being forced to halt by crow hopping, tossing his head and snorting.

  “Later, my friend,” Swift Foot said, patting the horse on the side of his neck. “You have more work to do this day.”

  A quick count of a half dozen fallen elk confirmed that the hu
nt had been a success. Moving among the beasts, the warriors checked the arrows embedded in each to see who’d made the kill; the meat, hide, antlers and all other parts of each animal belonged to that hunter.

  Pleased to find that two of his arrows had found their mark, Swift Foot called over a warrior who had not made a kill. “I give you first choice, Matoluta.”

  The man nodded solemnly and chose the smaller of the two animals. “My wife will be pleased,” he said.

  Swift Foot knew that Small Bird’s cousin, Makatah, was with child. By giving her husband enough meat not only to feed his family, but his wife’s, he’d shown selflessness and generosity to the other tribe. And proven his skill to them.

  In a short time, all the elk were loaded onto the backs of the warriors’ horses. Night Thunder mounted at Swift Foot’s side, the elk he’d killed tied behind him. Swift Foot’s uncle had also made a kill, and Small Bird’s brother had; made two. There would be plenty of fresh meat for the wedding feast.

  The hunt over, the warriors rode back to camp in loose formation. Lone Warrior rode past without acknowledging Swift Foot. Two other warriors of Lone Warrior’s tribe did the same.

  Night Thunder shook his head. “That one may give you trouble. He is not happy you are to marry his sister.”

  Swift Foot lifted a brow. “It is not his concern.”

  “The happiness of a sister is always of importance to a brother, my son,” Charging Bull, Swift Foot’s uncle, said, riding up beside them.

  Swift Foot kept his gaze trained on the horizon and on the thin trails of smoke rising from his tribe’s camp. Thinking of his cousin Willow Song, he gave his uncle a respectful nod. “My future wife will be taken care of. Lone Warrior has no need to worry. She will have food and a place to live in safety.”

  Frowning, Charging Bull gave him a sharp glance. “What about love?”

  Swift Foot grimaced. “Love does not guarantee happiness, Uncle. Happiness did not last long for my parents, or even you.”

  Seeing the brief flash of pain cross his uncle’s features, Swift Foot cursed his own anger and resentment. He had no desire to hurt the man. “I am sorry, Uncle. I have no right to talk to you in such a disrespectful manner.”

  Charging Bull grunted. Swift Foot kept his silence, hoping the subject would end. His uncle didn’t know of Emily, he knew only that Swift Foot’s feelings had changed toward this joining. Before going away for much of the, summer, he’d been indifferent to the marriage. The council had ordered him to take a wife, and he’d complied. Simple.

  At one time, no sacrifice had been too great for his people. But since meeting Emily on his journey and falling in love with her, he knew he was giving them the ultimate sacrifice: his life. And not physically, though he would gladly die honorably in battle to protect his people. He was sacrificing the life of his heart, his soul. For him, joy or happiness was not something he would ever again experience.

  Kills Many Crows flanked his father and interrupted Swift Foot’s inner battle. “Perhaps Lone Warrior fears you bring dishonor to his sister as your father brought dishonor to us. Perhaps he fears she will die as my mother died.” The young man’s voice was filled with resentment.

  Charging Bull’s head whipped around. He stopped his horse and glared at his son.

  “What is past is past.”

  Kills Many Crows and Swift Foot also came to a halt. “No, Father. The past will repeat itself. More will die. More will be maimed as my sister was. Lone Warrior has reason to be concerned. As do we all!”

  Swift Foot interrupted: “Are we not talking with our enemy instead of fighting? Many Horns has come to us three times now to discuss peace.” Swift Foot stared his cousin down. Progress had been made toward peace between the two tribes. “There have been no raids, no attacks since the maka turned green,” he reminded Kills Many Crows.

  “You are a fool. There will never be peace. Not as long as you walk upon the earth!”

  “Enough,” Charging Bull thundered. “You show disrespect not only to your brother, but to your chief.”

  Eyes filled with fury, Kills Many Crows slashed the air with his hand, startling all the horses. “It will never be enough, Father. The war will continue—the attacks and the deaths of innocent women and children.” He paused and drew in a deep breath. “He is not my brother, yet you regard and treat him as if he were your son.”

  Furious with his cousin for his pettiness, Swift Foot tightened his hands on his reins, causing Kastaka to shift uneasily beneath him. Like water off the back of a bird, he ignored Kills Many Crows’s denial of fraternity; his cousin had resented his presence among their family all his life. Instead he addressed the issue of peace.

  “Am I not doing all I can to find the path of peace between our tribes?” he repeated.

  “How can there be peace when you are the reason for the war? How can you lead our people when you are the one our enemy seeks to destroy!” Kills Many Crows’s voice rang out, drawing the attention of every warrior within earshot. “Like your father, you will bring death to our people.”

  Chapter Three

  Swift Foot clamped his jaw shut as Kills Many Crows whirled and rode away. Beside him, his uncle’s shoulders slumped.

  “My son has allowed grief to cloud his emotions,” the man explained. Sadness and disappointment lined his voice.

  Swift Foot remained silent. There was nothing else to add. His uncle had never held him responsible for either the death of his wife or the injuries to his only daughter.

  “I do not know what to do for him,” his uncle admitted, his face filled with defeat.

  For the first time. Swift Foot noticed how old his uncle had become. The man’s face shone with the look of oiled leather. Age had pulled the brown skin around his eyes and mouth downward, while wrinkles carved deep grooves down the center of each cheek, around his eyes and across his forehead. His hair now had more white than gray. Even his sharp gaze had dulled with age. He was a proud man who’d seldom shown emotion, but now sadness clung to him. Without another word, the old chief dropped back as if ashamed to ride at the side of his brother’s child. The side of his new leader.

  Swift Foot drew in a deep breath. He vowed to avoid any more confrontations with Kills Many Crows within his uncle’s hearing. Kills Many Crows was now his problem. As chief, he needed to have the trust and loyalty of all his warriors, yet he knew he’d never have those from his cousin. Too much resentment and hatred stood between them. And it didn’t stem just from the war Runs with Wind had started.

  Kills Many Crows hated Swift Foot because of the status his cousin had earned that he himself hadn’t—and because Swift Foot’s status had come on the day of the death of his mother and so many others. Before that day, Swift Foot had been Calf-Boy—just another boy in the tribe aspiring to become a great warrior. But at the age of seven, Swift Foot had achieved what many warriors to this day had not—including Kills Many Crows—counting coup by touching the enemy, causing harm to the enemy by touching him. In his cousin’s eyes, Swift Foot had compounded his crime in the years following by becoming a great warrior and earning Charging Bull’s respect and loyalty, and the title of chief—things that were due to him.

  As the dead elk weighed down his horse, the weight of so many lives settled across Swift Foot’s shoulders. Once more he found himself yearning for those few weeks during the summer when he’d been carefree and truly happy. For the first time since saving Small Bird’s life, he’d felt responsible for only himself.

  Of course, he had quickly taken on more responsibility—that of the life of a young white girl stranded in the wilderness after an Indian attack had killed her parents. But no one had any raised expectations. No one had expected him to train harder or ride to war with grown warriors. During those few blissful weeks with Emily, he’d been able to leave everything behind. For the first time since boyhood, he’d savored each day, each moment as it came—not worrying about being the best, but simply living. As the mounds of rock near h
is people’s camp came closer, along with thin wisps of smoke carrying the scent of food, Swift Foot tried not to think of what could not be. But with the lingering sorrow of his uncle, the resentment of Small Bird’s brother and his own cousin’s hatred, Swift Foot’s inner spirit flagged. Starved, wounded and desperate, he needed to remember—to dream, if only for a moment. He closed his eyes, his horse needing no guidance from him to find his way back home.

  The bright afternoon sunlight burned through Swift Foot’s eyelids, lighting his inner mind. His gaze turned inward, seeking the dark, shadowy recesses of his heart, inviting a petite figure to emerge from his memory. Long hair the shade of a new sun framed her shoulders and fell over one breast. Her eyes, as bright a blue as the sky after a rain, smiled at him. She held out slim arms, begging him to come to her, to bring her fully out into the light. Back into his life.

  She danced around the edges of his heart and mind, carefree, filled with life and laughter. He saw himself running to her, grabbing her, twirling her around. He saw the two of them falling to the ground, arms and legs tangled, lips merged as one, his body sliding into the slick warmth of hers. He heard her cry of pleasure, felt her trembling, heated warmth and shook with fulfillment he’d never known. He reached for her, needing to hold her close, but the sound of high-spirited warriors intruded. In the blink of an eye, she was gone.

  Swift Foot’s eyes flew open, and he cursed Mato, the spirit of the bear in charge of love and hate, bravery and wounds, and many other powerful medicines—but he was also the patron of mischief.

  He took a deep breath and struggled with the tide of emotion racing through him. Nothing was amusing about his current situation. Though he’d proven his bravery many times over, the elders still demanded that he marry before he’d be allowed to fully take over as chief. At twenty, he was the youngest chief his tribe had ever appointed.