White Dusk

by Susan Edwards

  Trying to act happy and excited, Small Bird knew that a week ago, or even two days ago, she wouldn’t have had to pretend. She’d have eagerly participated. Today she endured. To her relief, her cousins finally decided to leave her long, blue-black hair loose and flowing except for two tiny braids on each side of her head. Thin, colored leather thongs had been woven around the braids, and pure white feathers were left to dangle at the ends.

  A young woman came forward. Small Bird didn’t remember her name, but she remembered the woman’s two children. The young mother smiled shyly. “For you,” she said, holding out two armbands.

  Makatah took them for Small Bird and held the bands up, and the tipi full of women exclaimed over them. Made of rabbit fur, each had been delicately decorated down the center with white, brown and black quills. Once donned, each hugged Small Bird’s upper arm perfectly.

  Yesterday she’d have been thrilled with the gift. Today they were a reminder that soon she’d be tied to a man who didn’t want her. Keeping her feelings and thoughts carefully concealed, Small Bird sent the woman a grateful look. “Thank you for the lovely gift,” she said. “I am honored.” And deep down she found some happiness. She had many good friends, some new, some old. And family who loved her.

  “You are beautiful, my cousin.” Makatah wiped the tears from her eyes.

  Small Bird reached out to hug her. “Thank you for the new garments.” Glancing down at herself, she marveled at the creamy whiteness of her tunic top and leggings. The beauty of the clothing lay in its simplicity. The yoke, worked with bleached porcupine quills, added texture. Along the seam, a tiny row of brown birds in flight were sketched, adding grace and beauty The sleeves bore only fringe, but the edge of the tunic and the skirt sported a simple bird-in-flight V-shaped pattern.

  Shy Mouse came forward. “I too have something for you.”

  “You have all done so much,” Small Bird protested. Slightly embarrassed, with all eyes on her, she took the proffered square of hide. Pulling the edges open, she gasped. “It is…” Words failed her as she stared at the palm-sized medallion.

  The center featured a brownish-black bird sitting between the horns of a black buffalo. A braid of woven grass formed an outside circle, and the background had been quilled with yellow. White rabbit fur backed the round piece of deerskin, and a tuft of fluffy spotted down had been sewn to the bottom. Three leather thongs ending in long feathers finished the piece.

  Tears gleamed in her eyes as she glanced up. Many a moist eye met hers. These women believed in her, and in her marriage. They had confidence that she’d be a good wife to Swift Foot, a wife of distinction and honor.

  Handing the gift back to her cousin, Small Bird turned and allowed Shy Mouse to tie it around her neck. The other women’s sudden quiet after a morning of constant talk, laughter and good-natured advice warned that it was time. Each woman came forward to hug her and kiss her on the cheek.

  She sniffed when everyone but Yellow Robe went out the door. “You will make us proud,” her mother said, tears running down her cheeks.

  “I shall do my best,” Small Bird promised. And at that moment, she knew she would. It no longer seemed to matter what Swift Foot believed or wanted. All that mattered was her own belief that she was doing the right thing. The support of these women of her people—her people now included nearly four times the number of her old tribe—added to her belief that she followed the true course.

  When her father entered, she walked straight to him. Though he said nothing, the pride in his eyes made her stand taller and lift her chin. He reached out and slid the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “Are you ready to meet your future, daughter?”

  The future. Her father had taught her to carry herself tall through everything.

  “Yes, Father,” she said simply. “I am ready.”

  Ducking out the door, she walked proudly to Lone Warrior and nimbly mounted the mare he held, sitting with her legs to the side, her fingers fisted in the beast’s silky mane. She was ready for whatever the future held.

  Chapter Five

  Lone Warrior halted Small Bird’s horse in front of a bright, new tipi with a fire burning before it, and she swallowed hard. This was now her tipi, one she’d share with a man who didn’t want her. Remembering her resolve of just a few minutes before to fight for this marriage and the man she’d been fated to wed, Small Bird straightened proudly and waited. People formed a semicircle around the dwelling, with her, Lone Warrior, Swift Foot and Wind Dancer in the center. Staring at her tipi, Small Bird couldn’t help but note with pride its size, which indicated Swift Foot’s wealth. He’d provided, as part of the marriage price, the many hides needed to make this new home. The workmanship, the wrinkle-free sides, and the curling ribbon of smoke floating through the smoke hole, all looked inviting. Her mother and the other women had worked hard in the past week to finish this, and it showcased their skill and knowledge.

  The inside—the housekeeping, the level of comfort and decorations—would be an opportunity for Small Bird to display her own skills. Pride rushed through her. This was now her home. Hers. Her eyes shifted to the man standing to one side of the open doorway. Hers and her husband’s.

  Lone Warrior spoke, his voice loud and clear. “I bring to you your new wife.”

  Swift Foot stepped forward. The aura surrounding him frightened Small Bird as much as it drew her; he looked more like her chief than a man who was as good as her husband from this moment on. Her brother’s words gave her to him. The words to come from Wind Dancer were only a formality.

  From her perch on the horse, she noted the short headdress her mate wore. It was made of eagle feathers, and she knew he’d earned each one for a brave deed.

  He stopped below her, feet planted apart. As he reached up one hand to signal his acceptance of her, she took a deep breath. He looked unapproachable. And undeniably handsome.

  He wore his hair parted down the middle, bound on each side with leather strips starting just below his ears and ending at his strong, smooth jaw. Small, downy feathers swung back and forth from his hair, blown by the wind.

  He wore the shirt she’d made for him, and it pleased her to note that it fit like a second skin. When he crossed his arms, rows of fringe swayed. The cut hide moved with him. It was part of him—fluid, free, yet fierce.

  His greatness was apparent: he’d been a brave, strong child and had been nurtured into a courageous and powerful leader. His wide forehead and the intensity of his gaze bespoke intelligence, while prominent cheekbones, a proud, hawkish nose and firm lips were outward signs of his power and authority.

  But Swift Foot had also once been a kind, concerned and tolerant boy. As Small Bird searched the dark depths of his eyes, she wondered where that boy had gone. Was he there, hidden deep inside, or had the warrior completely devoured him?

  She swallowed nervously, her mouth dry. It had been easy to convince herself of the rightness of this moment when she’d been alone in her tipi, but facing her future was more difficult.

  This is right. You know this is right.

  And soon Swift Foot would see the truth. Perhaps he worried that a wife would interfere with his tribal duties. She would prove that a wife would be a great asset.

  Taking a deep breath, Small Bird held out her hand. When Swift Foot closed his warm fingers over hers, she twisted on the back of the mare. Swift Foot’s other hand reached up to swing her down, and her free palm instinctively landed on his shoulder. The rope of muscle there bunched—hard flesh covered in soft deerskin. The contrast made her long to run her hands up and over her husband’s shoulders, to marvel in his strength and enjoy the soft feel of the shirt she’d made for him.

  Her fingers dug in for a brief moment before she realized what she was doing and pulled her hand away. For a long moment, Swift Foot and Small Bird stared at each other. Harsh slashes of red, black and white paint across each cheek and his forehead emphasized the warrior in her husband. The hard man. Then Swift Foot turned a
nd led her to the fire, where Wind Dancer waited.

  Following slowly, with head held high, Small Bird felt pride in her betrothed’s appearance. The long rows of fringe on his clothing trailed back and forth as if a plaything for Tate. To tease her, the wind lifted the back of Swift Foot’s breechclout, revealing glimpses of the smooth, golden skin there, the rock-hard flesh. Small Bird’s pulse jumped, surprising her. She knew what he looked like—or at least most of him—as she’d studied the sculpted strength of him each time their tribes came together over the years.

  Somehow it was different, studying him now. Maybe because soon she’d have the right to touch those wide shoulders, to trace the powerful muscles across his chest, back and upper arms, and to explore his very male body. Even fully clothed, he set her heart to hammering. Maybe even more so fully clothed. Now, when he was not walking around wearing just a simple breechclout, less was visible. But each step, each swing of his arms or lift of his head, hinted at the potent power hidden beneath garments she’d fashioned for him. Small Bird had to refrain from running her tongue over her suddenly dry lips.

  Swift Foot turned and took his place near the fire. The wind ruffled the feathers in his headdress and whispered over Small Bird as she took the last few steps to stand at his side.

  Around the couple, friends and family of a united people gathered. The air grew quiet, and Wind Dancer lifted his arms high. For the first time, Small Bird got a good look at the medicine man in his full regalia. While she’d been focused on Swift Foot, the young shaman had finished preparing for the ceremony.

  He wore a breechclout, the front emblazoned with the head of a bear. A ring of bear teeth sewn to a strip of otter skin encircled his neck, hanging low in an arc from his collarbones to his breastbone. Around each wrist and ankle, bear claws spiked outward.

  Most impressive was the bear head he wore; Wind Dancer’s eyes barely showed beneath its snout. The slits where the bear’s eyes had once been were sewn-together dark spots, and the ears sat perked on the shaman’s head. The rest of the bear hide flowed around his shoulders and nearly down to the ground.

  Small Bird stared at the young shaman in awe. She’d seen him many times over the past week from a distance but had never seen him in full glory. She was now impressed. As a young brave, he’d repeatedly dreamed of a bear. The next morning, he’d come face-to-face with one.

  Without a weapon, Wind Dancer had been unable to defend himself. Bravely he’d stood his ground, showing no fear, even when the animal rose on two feet to tower over him. Speaking softly despite the animal’s roars, the boy had calmed the beast. It had unexpectedly dropped to all fours as armed warriors arrived to aid him, then, to everyone’s surprise and shock, the bear left.

  That night, the spirit of Mato returned to Wind Dancer’s dreamworld. This time the bear spoke and told him he’d given his life for him, and that Wind Dancer was a Bear Dreamer who would one day walk with the spirits while still roaming on the maka.

  The next morning, warriors found the bear dead, lying in the spot where Wind Dancer had encountered it.

  Wind Dancer now belonged to the Bear Society. He was considered Wakan: a wise man who had power, spoke to the spirits, and did many strange things.

  Small Bird felt insignificant as she met his gaze through the eye slits of the bear mask. When he turned away, she released her breath and tried to relax.

  Without warning, Wind Dancer bent down, picked up a leather pouch and straightened, throwing his arms high once more. His voice rose, as he sought to gain the attention of Wakan Tanka, the Great Spirit, the one who was all. He shook his hands, the claws on his sleeves jangling and matching the pitch and rhythm of his voice.

  Moving slowly around the fire and behind the bridal couple, he chanted. Sprinkling a mixture of sweetgrass and other medicines known only to him, he formed a circle separating them all from the rest of the tribe. He then tossed herbs to the sky, the earth and to the four winds. Four times he repeated action and prayer, one for each of the four kinds of gods as he prayed to Wohpe, the Mediator. Then he turned and pulled a knife from the sheath strapped to his ankle. He still chanted, but in a low, soothing, magical tone. It washed over Small Bird, and she allowed him to take her hand in his.

  Tipping his head back, the shaman stared into her eyes and spoke. “You bring the gift of words to this tribe. It is words that often cause war, but it is also words that can end it. This you bring to our people and to your husband. You will walk at his side, be of comfort to him, care for him and be his help mate.”

  Mesmerized by the medicine man’s words, by the validation he gave to her own feeling of the rightness of this joining, Small Bird barely felt the tiny cut he made in her thumb. Keeping her eyes on Wind Dancer, she watched him turn to Swift Foot

  He said, “You have fulfilled your destiny, one begun when you were but a boy. This path has led to greatness and given you wisdom and courage. But remember this: it takes a wise man to keep to his chosen path.” He paused. “And many sacrifices.”

  Small Bird didn’t have much time to wonder if he referred to her or to the marriage, for the medicine man quickly continued. “It is your duty to care for this woman, make her yours and live as man and wife. You will protect her and consult with her—for her words hold truth. It is through this woman that peace for our future will be fulfilled. Questions of the past will be answered in time. Join now your future to hers. Let the path of yesterday and today become as one, as you and she become man and wife.”

  Taking Swift Foot’s thumb, Wind Dancer sliced the skin. A bead of blood formed. The shaman took both Swift Food’s and Small Bird’s hands, pressed them together at the palms, then joined their thumbs so that their blood mingled. As he bound their thumbs together, he lifted his voice. “You are now as one, just as your blood is one. I command you to live as one flesh ever after.”

  Swift Foot drew a deep breath. It was done. He was now married to this woman—forever. Keeping his face devoid of emotion, he held up their hands for all to see.

  Cheers rose high and loud, coming in waves. His gaze met hers. His mouth opened but he didn’t know what to say. What did a man say to a spouse he did not know?

  “My wife.” The words came out low, harsh, a barely audible whisper.

  Her head tipped back and she boldly met his gaze. “Yes,” she whispered. “Your wife.”

  Firming his lips and clenching his jaw, Swift Foot glanced away when the sound of drums reverberated through camp. The crowd that had encircled them now dispersed amid excited chatter. Unbinding his thumb from his wife’s, he couldn’t help but note her long slender fingers, their pads rough from long hours of sewing. His eyes traveled from her hand to her wrist, lingering on the soft, fragile skin there before skimming up and over the finely tanned sleeves of her shirt. Of their own accord, his eyes absorbed her, taking in the short, nervous breathing that lifted her breasts and warmed the air between them.

  Standing before him, her head barely reaching his shoulder, his new wife seemed small and fragile. She looked younger than sixteen winters. But he should not judge her so; he himself often felt double his twenty years of age. He’d seen more in his lifespan than had some men his uncle’s age. And he’d lost so much.

  What did he have to give this woman? he found himself wondering. Protection? For all his brave words, he couldn’t even guarantee that. Her brother had been right: now that he had a wife, his enemy would target her.

  “You are not pleased,” she said softly.

  Meeting her searching gaze, he saw unexpected wisdom there—along with compassion and determination. And something else in those dark, depthless eyes made him feel uneasy. As if she saw clear down into his heart.

  “Any wife of mine is in danger,” he explained. It was the truth. Not all of the truth, but all she needed to know.

  She shook her head. “Our joining is for a reason, and it is not fear for my safety I see in your eyes. It is sadness. Grief.”

  “Have I not lost much? Do
I not have reason to grieve?” His lip curled, but with difficulty he kept his voice dispassionate.

  She did not flinch. “Have you not gained much as well? This is your wedding day. And I do not believe the pain I see in your eyes is the pain of past loss. It is too fresh, this agony I see.” She reached up as if to touch his face, then slowly lowered her hand to take his.

  Her warmth stole into him. And Swift Foot, frightened of no man, not even his most feared enemies, felt true fear in the face of this small woman with more compassion in her eyes than he deserved.

  Had he not met Emily, nor fallen in love with her, he might have been open to giving his heart to another. He’d at least have gone into this union with the same acceptance with which he’d agreed to it. If not for Emily, he might not have resented Small Bird’s place at his side. But he had met Emily, and he had loved her.

  Deep down, he knew he wasn’t being fair to Small Bird. It wasn’t her fault that he’d given his heart to another. She was beautiful and kind in her own way, and in a different time or place… Needing to dispel the gloom growing inside him, he turned.

  “Come.” Tugging at her hand, he led her to where two willow backrests had been positioned before the fire; then he let it go. For show, he told himself, to prove to his people that he accepted this woman as his mate. But the minute he released her hand, he felt strangely lost, like a small child who’d forsaken the comforting grip of a parent and wandered off alone.

  Shaking such foolishness from his mind, he took a seat beside her. The willow chairs had been placed so close that, as she reclined, her shoulder touched his. He shifted slightly to put a measure of space between them. Her sudden stiffness said she’d noticed.

  His people returned slowly, and food was brought, and gifts. Sighing with relief, Swift Foot turned his attention to these guests. But through the distraction of their conversation, he couldn’t help noticing the gentle manner of his wife. He listened to her soft, gracious voice and observed the smiles she elicited from his people, old and young.