White Dusk

by Susan Edwards

  “You did not come help ready your cousin, daughter,” Yellow Quail said. Disapproval filled her voice.

  Moon Fire shrugged. “My cousin had more than enough help.” She plucked at the feathers she’d tied above her ear. She too had dressed her best—for Many Horns.

  She still believed he would come. He had to! If he did not, her father would marry her to another. Every night some warrior came forward with a marriage offer. The single men of Swift Foot’s tribe were many, and Moon Fire was smart enough to know her looks were more than pleasing to the eye.

  Restless, she stood and returned to the door. People, young and old, hurried to the lodge on the other side of camp; with the rain, the ceremony would be held there. Their laughter, shouts and the buzz of many conversations rivaled the noise of the Thunder Beings. Moon Fire closed her eyes, resting her forehead against the edge of the tipi.

  Where are you, my love? You promised to stop this wedding, she thought.

  Yellow Quail touched her shoulder. “Soon we will hold a wedding for you,” her mother said, smiling gently. Her eyes were eager and proud. “There are many fine warriors in our new tribe. Already we have offers of many horses.”

  Moon Fire moved away from her mother. She clenched her hands tightly. She was growing to hate being reminded of her duty to marry. “There is no one here whom I wish to wed.”

  There was only one man she wanted, and she’d wait for him. With or without the approval of her parents—she didn’t care.

  Yellow Quail sighed. “Daughter, your sister has found a man she wishes to marry.” She looked pleased. “Your father has accepted his offer. All that remains is you.”

  Waving her mother’s concern aside, Moon Fire turned away. “Let her marry then. I shall wait,” she said.

  Her mother’s voice firmed. “You will marry first—as is your right and your duty. By the next full moon.” She paused. “Your father has accepted a very generous offer for you.”

  “What?” Moon Fire whirled to face her mother. “He cannot!”

  Yellow Quail went to the doorway and shoved open the flap. “It is done. We shall have two weddings. Two daughters to two brothers.” Then she left.

  Stunned, Moon Fire stood where she was. A crack of thunder across the heavens spurred her to run after.

  Her mother had already joined a half dozen other women working beneath a shelter. Frantically, Moon Fire glanced around. The warmth of her tears mingled with the cold rain. Many Horns had to come. And when he did, she’d demand to go away with him. It was the only solution.

  Chapter Four

  As suddenly as it started, the storm abated. The elders sitting around a warm fire inside the lodge smiled at one another, then left the structure. “It is a sign,” they told all whom they passed, a very good sign that the spirits were pleased with the marriage that would soon take place.

  The wind carried the message from tipi to tipi. Mahpiya had heard the Hunkpapa and answered by giving the people pleasant weather—at least for a few hours, at least for the wedding.

  Charging Bull left his tipi. He stopped to have a word with his nephew, who was grooming a horse right outside the doorway. “Anpetu waste. Good day. It is a good day, and right that the heavens smile down upon my son on it.” He drew crisp, clean air into his chest. Time had narrowed that chest, but age had not stooped his shoulders.

  Swift Foot stared into his uncle’s wise gaze. No matter his emotions, he’d never do any thing to hurt this man who’d raised him as his own. “Yes, Ate.”

  Ate. The title echoed in his head. It meant “uncle,” on the father’s side of the family, but it was also the same word for “father” and very fitting, for this man had been a father to him—the only father he’d known.

  His uncle narrowed his eyes, suddenly serious. “Do not try to hide your true feelings, my son. This man knows you do not go into marriage with a happy heart.”

  Swift Foot didn’t deny it. He chose his words carefully. “I will do what is best for our people.”

  Tipping his head back, Charging Bull gave a soft, low laugh that brought Swift Foot’s horse’s head closer for a rub. He obliged as he regarded his nephew. Taking his time, he finally replied, “Yes, my son. You have always put our people first.” His gaze turned sad. “Even at the expense of your own happiness.”

  Startled, Swift Foot tried to hide his emotions. He hadn’t mentioned Emily to his uncle, or falling in love and losing his heart. “I have family and friends. I am a feared warrior and will be a respected chief. Is that not enough to make any man happy?”

  “Yes, you have all those things, and more.” A wistful expression crossed Charging Bull’s features. “But you also knew love. And lost it.”

  Swift Foot swallowed hard. He did not dare say anything, for he could not deny the truth. Nor could he admit that he’d nearly fallen into his father’s footsteps—steps that would have led to dishonor and the loss of everything he’d worked hard to become and achieve.

  His uncle spoke: “A man who has known love—and maybe even more so, a man who has had that love, his beloved, ripped from his life—stands a good chance of recognizing the shadow that dwells in others’ hearts and soul. I see the pain you try to hide.” Charging Bull gave Swift Foot a knowing look, then paused once more to gather his words. “I knew when you came back. You did not bring this woman with you, but she was there in your eyes. I wish things could be different. Had I known…”

  Swift Foot sighed and glanced up into the sky. “You could have done nothing different. This love was not to be.”

  His uncle nodded. “Sometimes it is so. But you’ve known the deep joy of love, the completeness when two hearts join. You are a better man for it.” Charging Bull’s melancholy look faded. He drew himself up. “It is a gift. One that remains with us for the rest of our lives and will go with us to the spirit world.”

  “I hope that is true, Uncle,” Swift Foot said. Realizing he’d spoken the telling words aloud, he shifted uneasily.

  In an uncharacteristic display of affection, Charging Bull grabbed Swift Foot’s shoulders with his hands and pulled him in for a crushing hug. Then he stepped back, his eyes moist. “My son. My cinksi,” he whispered. “Son of my brother. He would be proud of you this day.”

  Hearing the words, Swift Foot felt regret. He knew very little of the man who’d given him life—or of the woman. But the anger and resentment he’d always felt toward his father faded. He now understood how his father could have chosen love over his duty to his tribe. He wanted to himself.

  His uncle started to walk away, then turned back. “Give this woman you marry a chance. The pain of losing my wife was such that I chose not to marry another—and now I am a lonely old man. Do not be afraid to let someone new into your heart.” And with those words, Charging Bull briskly strode off.

  Swift Foot resumed his grooming of the mare. He examined his uncle’s words. “I am not afraid,” he said to the restless horse. “I cannot fear losing what I do not want.”

  With quick, efficient movements, he finished combing and cleaning the mud from the gray beast. Taking a pot of red paint, he drew a small bird on its rump, adding black slashes and yellow zigzags. Next he tied braids of dried sweetgrass to the long mane, along with small puffs of eagle down. He left the tail loose and flowing, but added a thick pad of sewn-together rabbit furs onto the mare’s back. Fur and claws dyed yellow, red and black hung from each side. The horse’s rawhide bridle, too, had been carefully lined with rabbit fur.

  Taking hold of the lead rope, Swift Foot closed his eyes, praying for the strength to go through with the dictates of his elders. He reached up and fingered the tiny hide pouch that hung over his heart, rubbing the softened leather together and staring up into the sky. The clouds above him had parted slightly, allowing a thin sliver of blue to peep through.

  Scanning the horizon, seeing the approach of another late-summer storm, Swift Foot knew that the bit of clear sky wouldn’t last. Just like the love he’d known. In
Emily’s eyes, he’d found a ray of happiness—happiness that honor demanded he destroy. Forced to return to his tribe and his duties, Swift Foot had left his true love to be found by a trapper. She’d tried to run after Swift Foot, but like a shadow he’d slipped away.

  He hadn’t left, though. He’d waited. He’d watched over her as she screamed and cried for him to return. His own tears had fallen with hers. He’d remained nearby, hidden in the early dawn, until she was found by the other man, one he knew would care for her. Then he’d left to return home.

  Each night he fell asleep remembering those weeks of bright, happy days with Emily. But when the night turned its darkest and loneliest, his dream turned to nightmare. Her screams haunted him. And he woke with guilt a large stone in his stomach.

  Her pain had been his fault. When he first found her and saved her life, he had planned to return her to her own people. But after just one look, he hadn’t been able to resist. He’d wanted her, and he’d selfishly kept her with him for most of the summer, knowing full well that he could not return to his tribe with her at his side. Not with his wedding to Small Bird already arranged. His breathing quickened. Just thinking of that final day added another arrow of guilt to the quiverful he carried lodged in his heart. It had been in his power to spare her the pain. He hadn’t. His hands shook as he replaced his pot of paint in his pouch. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, he put his guilt and shame away too. Picking up the reins, he led the mare through camp. As he made the walk to Small Bird’s tipi, children shouted and fell in step behind him. By the time he reached his destination, a crowd followed. Head high, shoulders back, he halted a respectful distance from the tipi of her parents. From inside he heard women giggling. Soon this whole ordeal would be over.

  Give her a chance, his uncle had said. But the blinding truth was, Swift Foot himself didn’t deserve a second chance—at happiness or love. He’d taken those gifts from another and destroyed them. He had no doubt he would pay for his selfish and cowardly behavior for the rest of his life.

  Lone Warrior came forward, snapping him from his depressing thoughts. Neither man spoke, not even the traditional Hau said in greeting. Small Bird’s brother finally broke the silence, speaking in low tones: “You marry my sister this day. She is no longer my responsibility but yours. Do not allow harm to befall her.”

  Swift Foot tipped his head back. “I am a warrior of name. Your sister will be taken care of. This day she becomes part of my family and tribe—as do you, and your mother and father.” He met Lone Warrior’s stare with a steady gaze of his own.

  Finally the other man nodded. “I will hold you to this.”

  “As I hold myself responsible for the lives of every member of my tribe,” Swift Foot pledged. Holding out his hand, he offered Lone Warrior the lead rope of the mare he’d brought. “As your sister’s Hakatakus, I give you this horse that you may bring my wife to me.”

  Though it had actually been Swift Foot’s uncle and Small Bird’s father who had agreed upon the terms of the marriage price, along with the merging of the two families and tribes, Lone Warrior was her Hakatakus. As such, he was entitled to her bride price. Swift Foot had given him twelve horses. Surprisingly, many of those horses had already been given back to Swift Foot’s people as gifts—which showed the family of Small Bird was generous.

  Swift Foot saw the struggle taking place in Lone Warrior’s eyes. He waited in the gusting wind. Finally Lone Warrior took the reins.

  “I will bring my sister to you as arranged.”

  Swift Foot inclined his head. All that needed to be said had been spoken. Turning, Swift Foot strode back through the crowd.

  Kills Many Crows stalked after him. “She is to become a beloved member of this tribe, but my sister is treated as if evil spirits live in her heart,” he hissed. Bitterness filled his voice.

  Swift Foot didn’t break stride. “Your sister is taken care of, provided for and offered the same protection as all.” The words sounded hollow, but there was nothing he could do to change Willow Song’s status in the tribe. Being chief did not mean he could tell his people what to believe or force them to accept things they would not. He led by example. In Willow Song’s instance especially, that was all he could do.

  “It is not right!”

  “No, it is not. In this we are in agreement, cousin. But you know that there is nothing I can do.”

  “No. It is too late. You’ve done enough. Your family has. If not for your father, my mother would be alive and my sister unharmed. We’d have been whole.”

  Swift Foot whirled around and came to a furious halt. “Choose your words carefully, cousin. I tire of your bitterness toward some thing that happened long ago when we were but children.”

  Kills Many Crows stepped back, but the anger still burned in his eyes and voice. “My father made you a warrior the day I lost my mother, yet it was your father who destroyed our family. Your actions were celebrated in the midst of her death. Death has continued to come to our tribe because you live.”

  “Henakeca! Enough. You go too far.”

  “What will you do? Force me to live with the Winkte’s? With the old women or my sister on the edge of camp?” Spinning around, Kills Many Crows stormed off.

  Another stab of guilt hit Swift Foot. He slowly made his way to the northeastern horn of the camp, regretting deeply that Willow Song had been ostracized due to her looks. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t anyone’s. It just was. Bitterness would not change the past. Only wisdom could bring about a peaceful future.

  Arriving at the new dwelling erected by Small Bird’s female relatives, Swift Foot hesitated. It had been dedicated yesterday by a group of old men who each struck the south door pole with a stick, then recited a coup before entering. Swift Foot had held a special feast for the men afterward.

  Entering, needing to be alone, he stared at the interior. Larger than most tipis for a newlywed couple, it seemed empty and hollow. His shield, three lances, a bow and quiver of arrows, and his war ax hung from two poles at the back, along with his feathered bonnets.

  On the floor behind the fire an altar had been fashioned, and a pile of food stores, pouches and other cooking and housekeeping implements waited for a new mistress to make this shell a home. Alone on another slanted wall, several brightly quilled parfleches were hung for easy access.

  Across from him, on the other side of a glowing fire, one sleeping pallet waited. Piled high with furs, it was meant to invite. Swift Foot felt only dread at the sight. Running his hands over his jaw, around to the back of his neck, he approached it. Tonight he’d be expected to share this bed and make Small Bird his woman.

  In the center of the bed a bundle of clothing lay neatly folded. Kneeling, he picked up the moccasins on top. He studied the skillful, brightly colored quilling. Setting the shoes aside, he held up a shirt. Fringe edging the yoke, the seam under the arms and along the bottom, swayed from his shaking hands. He rubbed the material. The buckskin had been tanned to a soft, creamy yellow, and felt soft as the fur bands around his upper arms.

  He marveled at the softness. With no woman in their tipi since his aunt’s death, he, along with his uncle and cousin, had received clothing in exchange for providing meat to other families or widows. But nothing he’d ever owned felt this soft. Not even the gifts from Willow Song were tanned to this degree.

  He ran the pads of his fingers along the rows of decorative quilling covering the yoke. The same black, red and white design ran down the sleeves from shoulder to wrist and bordered the bottom above the long fringe.

  Next he examined the leggings. Again he found no fault with the workmanship.

  Like the shirt, long fringe and a swath of red, black and white quills ran down the sides.

  The last item was a matching breechclout. Reluctantly, Swift Foot admired Small Bird’s skills. To be honest, her quilling was better than any he’d ever seen—even that of Willow Song.

  Hearing the sound of a drum beating outside, Swift Foot stripped off hi
s clothing and slid into the garments made by the woman he would soon call his wife. With each heavy beat of the drums, the heaviness in his heart grew. The time had come. His people for his heart. A future decided by his past.

  Stepping out of his tipi to await the arrival of a woman he didn’t know or love, he spotted a small brown spider crawling along the outside bottom of the tipi. It was looking to get out of the water.

  Iktomi! A spirit who it was said resembled a man with the many legs of the spider. Iktomi delighted in pranks and jokes on the people. He used his powers to work magic on his victims, and sometimes included his friend coyote.

  Squaring his shoulders, Swift Foot looked out over his people. This was no game, no joke to be laughed over. It was real. And it was forever. But as if Iktomi were actually there, on the hide of the tipi, Swift Foot heard the taunting laughter of the mystical spirit. Though he had passed the test the spirits had put him through by leaving Emily behind, it was a hollow victory.

  Swift Foot might have earned his place as leader, but Iktomi had had the last laugh.

  Pressed on all sides by the crowd of chattering women, Small Bird smiled, laughed and endured. Makatah and Shy Mouse tugged, braided and yanked as they tried several different hairstyles.

  “No,” Shy Mouse said. “Try this.” Half the voices in the tipi agreed; the rest urged Makatah to leave it.

  Feeling a strand of hair pulled from her scalp, Small Bird finally exploded. “Enough!”

  Makatah poked her gently. “You will be wife to our chief. You must look your best.”

  Small Bird rolled her eyes. But with so many surrounding her, she couldn’t argue with her cousin. Around her, those women who were married smiled indulgently, assuming her nerves stemmed from simple bridal jitters.

  Small Bird gave up. She just wanted it to be over, to get through the day. But then there will be the night, a small voice whispered. Unwilling to think that far ahead, she put her fear aside. Across the tipi, throaty giggles drew her attention. Yellow Robe, surrounded by new friends, was also being dressed and groomed—as mother of the bride, she too had to look her best.