White Dusk

by Susan Edwards

  Small Bird picked up the broth. “You must eat and stay strong.”

  Yellow Robe shook her head. “I wish to be alone.”

  Small Bird set the bowl down. When her mother motioned for her to go, she stood. At the doorway she hesitated, worried, but at last she left. It was only right that her mother have some time alone before putting her father to rest.

  Small Bird next went to check on Makatah. She had never experienced a miscarriage, and the memory of her cousin’s left her shaken. How could anyone bear to lose a child before its birth, to have felt its life for just a short while? Her hand crept to her belly.

  Had she and Swift Foot created a life last night? Would she soon feel movement, as her cousin had? She couldn’t even imagine the pain and devastation of losing something so precious.

  Matoluta answered her greeting. He stepped outside, his face ravaged by loss.

  “How is she?” Small Bird asked.

  “She is sick. Here.” Matoluta jabbed his heart, his voice bitter. He turned away, hate in his eyes.

  Small Bird put a hand on his arm. “I am not your enemy, Matoluta.”

  “No. Your husband is. I am taking my wife away. We will leave here, somewhere we will be safe.” He stormed away.

  Behind her, Lone Warrior appeared. He said, “Many are angry. Many will leave.”

  Whirling around, Small Bird glared at her brother. “And will you leave as well?”

  He shrugged. “This is not a good place to be. There are bad spirits here. Angry spirits.”

  Small Bird moved over until she stood toe-to-toe with her brother. “Maybe they are angry at our people’s lack of faith. It is not bitterness that is needed here, Lone Warrior. It is unity.”

  “Death is all that your husband brings to us,” Lone Warrior responded. “Our own father died in yesterday’s battle.”

  Pain seared Small Bird’s heart. Only the knowledge that her father had wanted her union with Swift Foot, had believed in the joining of these tribes, and that he had been so proud of her during the ceremony kept Small Bird from becoming mired in guilt.

  She held on to Wind Dancer’s wisdom of this morning. “There are many things that are not clear to us, but there is a reason for everything that happens. Even if we cannot see it.”

  Lone Warrior stepped back. “Some of us seek reasons where none exist.” He stalked away.

  Small Bird sighed. “This is a wonderful first day as Swift Foot’s wife,” she said to herself. Of course, last night had been worse: the deaths, the late-night flight… Yet the coming of the morning had been wonderful. Her husband had shown her how the stars glowed in early morning. And he had made love, glorious love, to her. And the last time he had been slow and gentle.

  Sighing, she turned and saw her cousin standing in the doorway of her tipi. “You should not be up,” she scolded.

  Makatah waved her concern away and said, “I feel fine.”

  Small Bird moved closer, noting her cousin’s swollen eyes and the paleness of her face. “You are angry with me as well,” she said. She swallowed the lump of pain in her voice.

  Makatah limped forward. “No. I am not angry with you. You are my cousin. This was not your doing.”

  Sighing, Small Bird said, “Your husband does not believe that.”

  “My husband is angry. He will calm.”

  “How can you be so calm?” Small Bird knew she’d have been wailing and knocking things over.

  Makatah took her hand. “Did you not hear your own words to your brother? Neither anger nor placing blame will bring my son back. And neither will harsh words heal your father. Or any of the others. We have to go on. We have to find a way to end this war before any more die.”

  Feeling a huge sense of relief, and an easing of her guilt, Small Bird asked, “Then you do not plan to abandon Swift Foot?”

  Makatah shook her head. “This is where I belong, this tribe. My family is here. My husband just needs time to clear the anger from his mind. To see that his chief did what he thought was right.”

  Small Bird nodded. Overcome, she turned to go and see what needed doing. There was much to be done, building this new campsite.

  Makatah tagged along. As she put it, if she stayed alone, she’d think of her loss. She needed to be busy. Small Bird welcomed the company.

  Beginning her first day as the leader’s wife, Small Bird found that her resolve to find a peaceful ending for this war was growing. Tipi after tipi revealed either injured men or grieving widows. Women had shorn their hair, mutilated their flesh, and now wailed in loud lament. Those cries filled the air and made her cringe.

  The warriors who were uninjured had mostly ridden off to scout out the enemy, so the camp was sparsely populated with the living. Women helped their sisters, mothers, daughters and friends prepare the deceased. Tomorrow those bodies would be laid out to rest on scaffolding. Some would be lashed to high tree branches, like her father.

  By the time the sun rose fully, Small Bird was mentally drained. She never wanted to go through such bloodshed again, and she would do whatever it took to avoid it. How had this continued for so many years?

  Far away, in another place, similar activities prevailed. Hawk Eyes had traveled long and far to return to his people’s camp. His warriors had followed.

  Now, in the first hours of being home, Hawk Eyes was overseeing the dead, the wounded and the grief-stricken. Glancing up, he wondered where the storms were. Why weren’t the spirits angry, slashing the sky with their fury?

  So many deaths. He staggered to the water of a nearby stream and dropped to his knees. Defeat rested on his shoulders. Though his warriors claimed victory, said that the spirits had driven off their enemy, Hawk Eyes knew the truth: there had been no winner in yesterday’s battle. All had lost. Casualties had been intolerable on both sides.

  Angrily, he picked up a large stone and tossed it as far as he could into the river. He heard it splash, saw the wide ripples before the flowing water again calmed.

  Like yesterday’s battle: a few ripples and then all was the same. All for nothing.

  “My husband.”

  Hawk Eyes stood and held out his hand to his wife. Seeing Eyes came to him. He led her to a large boulder. She sat.

  “Our son?” he asked.

  “He is with the other children,” she answered. Her eyes were sad. “We must leave. There is danger here.” Her eyes looked unfocused.

  Hawk Eyes knelt before her. “What is it? What do you see?”

  She glanced at him, worried. “I see violence. A red battlefield. And I see our son.” Her voice dropped.

  Hawk Eyes took her hand. “I will not allow anyone to harm our son,” he vowed.

  Tears streamed down Seeing Eyes’s face. “You cannot control everything, husband. We are all in danger.”

  “Then we will leave. I will move our camp again, then return to meet the enemy.”

  Seeing Eyes seemed inconsolable. “I wish this all to stop. Let it go. Let there be no more deaths between us and them. Too many have already died for something that happened long ago.”

  Hawk Eyes bowed his head. “I tried to make peace. But I cannot allow to live a tribe that will come after you and my son. This must be finished. Swift Foot must be finished.”

  Seeing Eyes rose slowly, her sad eyes again unfocused. “Then follow the voices of the spirits. She will come and lead the way.”

  Standing, Hawk Eyes opened his mouth to speak, but his wife cut him off.

  “I do not know more than that.” With slow steps, she walked away.

  Hawk Eyes followed slowly. In the camp, he was met by a group of warriors with various cuts, gashes and bruises. They were led by Many Horns. “When do we attack again?” the young brave asked.

  “Have not enough died?” Hawk Eyes asked wearily. He knew he had sworn to carry this through, but the bravado in the other man’s voice had drained him of his fury.

  Many Horns drew himself up. “We are not cowards. We will fight. We will protect y
ou and not allow the treacherous Swift Foot to harm you or your son. That is our creed.”

  The reminder that his son’s life was threatened bolstered Hawk Eyes’s sagging strength. “We will do nothing for now. There are dead to be laid to rest, injuries to heal and strength to be regained.”

  Many Horns spoke up. “I will go and find our enemy, learn where they hide.”

  Ready to deny the younger man, Hawk Eyes paused. Many Horns had been able to track the enemy and report on its locations and numbers. And while the peace missions he’d been sent on had failed, he had been able to find out valuable information, including the wedding. It wasn’t the warrior’s fault the weather had not been in his people’s favor, and that the last battle had gone so calamitously for all.

  “I will send you and two others,” he decided.

  Many Horns shook his head. “One travels faster and blends with the land.”

  Hawk Eyes nodded. That was true: one man could often achieve what many could not. Too bad he couldn’t achieve peace. “Go as soon as your wounds are healed.”

  Drawing himself up, Many Horns shook his head. “I will go now.”

  Hawk Eyes watched the young brave depart. He wished he could just let the past go, just leave honor to sort itself out and stop all the killing forever. But pride, anger and the fate of his son made that impossible.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tossing and turning after a long day of trying to rebuild his tribe, Swift Foot relived one of his greatest days—the one on which he’d exchanged a child’s name for that of a mighty warrior. When he was troubled, the memory stole into his dreams to remind him of what and who he was.

  One day you will be a great warrior, his uncle proclaimed to all at the ceremony. Already you are cunning. Charging Bull held up two pieces of rabbit fur. Mastinca is fleet of foot and endures on long journeys; he is clever and cunning. When he bolts down his hole, he always escapes. Learn his ways and his secrets. Listen when he speaks to you, and carry his powerful medicine with you always.

  Charging Bull tied the bands of rabbit fur around his young nephew’s upper arms, then turned to his people. From this day onward, the son of my brother shall be called Swift Foot. In times of danger, his ability to think fast and run as the wind shall carry him from danger.

  Newly named, Swift Foot threw back his narrow shoulders, feeling as big and important as any warrior present. In his hand he held an eagle feather—his first. By touching and wounding the enemy with just his hands, he’d counted coup and earned it. Though the tribe still mourned its dead, Swift Foot’s victory was being celebrated and acknowledged. Out of death came the birth of a warrior.

  When Buffalo Medicine Man shuffled toward him, waving his rattles, Swift Foot held his breath.

  The elder lifted his hands. “For there to be life, there must be death. From death comes new beginning. The courage and bravery of a child will bring our people peace someday.” The shaman then turned his back and held out his hand to the young brave named Wind Dancer.

  Swift Foot’s eyes widened when he had seen a tall lance—taller than himself and the same size used by grown warriors. Dangling from the top of the lance, a leather thong with a piece of prized white rabbit fur, along with bits of fluffy eagle down fluttered in the cool breeze. Was it for him?

  “You have earned the right to take your place among the warriors, and to ride at the side of our chief. One day you will become a great leader.” Buffalo Medicine Man put his hands on Swift Foot’s shoulders, and turned him to face his tribe.

  Though his people had cheered, their recently ravaged, grief-stricken faces cut into him with the same stabbing pain as an arrow or an ax blade. In his sleep, he tossed. They’d been wrong! Death was not only a new beginning; it could also sometimes be senseless. And more lives would be lost, with Swift Foot powerless to prevent it.

  As long as he lived, the enemy would seek him and those around him. More would die. More would know pain. Peace. He wanted peace.

  “No,” he muttered. No more war. No more deaths.

  “Swift Foot,” a soft voice crooned. “Wake, husband.”

  No. If he woke, he’d have to face the truth. But the hands caressing his forehead were cool, the voice compelling. His battle-weary mind and bruised heart needed consoling. He opened his eyes.

  “You are dreaming.” Small Bird stared down at him, worry shadowing her eyes.

  Raking his hands through his tangled hair, he tried to turn away. “It is no dream.”

  The grief in the faces of the past had been replaced by the remembered faces of last night. The pride he’d felt so long ago had turned to sorrow and guilt. Where once he’d thought he could achieve anything and everything, today he admitted to being a failure.

  He’d tried hard to live up to expectations, but in his time as chief, he’d cost his people much.

  “Tell me,” Small Bird begged. Her soft voice was alluring, tempting him to share his thoughts and his heart. He closed his eyes against the past and the future. His jaw hurt from clenching it so tight. He could never admit to her or to anyone else how inadequate he felt. The faith of his people had been misplaced.

  “Go back to sleep,” he said, too weary to match wits or words with her. She’d been asleep when he’d finally returned to the tipi and though he’d longed to hold her, he hadn’t. Too many conflicting emotions rolled through him.

  “I want to help,” she said, sounding hurt.

  The rush of emotion that he sought to keep at bay battled for release. Yesterday, in his wife’s arms, he’d lost control. But everywhere else he’d buried all feelings. He’d been strong for his tribe, though it hadn’t been easy. Each grieving woman was a reminder of his guilt; each warrior, laid out and prepared, was a renewed stab of agony. And the innocence of his people… They were all caught in a cycle that had begun only because his father had been weak.

  But why wasn’t his father allowed to be weak? Why wasn’t he? Weren’t the leaders of men allowed to seek happiness also? Each injured tribesman that he’d gone to see had threatened his self-control. This was all his fault. By his living, others died. He’d wanted to shout in anger, to rant to the spirits about the unfairness of the world.

  But he hadn’t. What good would it do his people for him to lose control? Control, his uncle had taught him, was the attribute of a good leader. And strength. These were the mistakes his father had made, giving those things up. And tonight, if Small Bird touched him, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t make a mistake, too. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to contain the anger he felt. Tonight he was weak and vulnerable.

  He felt her resettle beside him. Relieved, he tried to lose himself in sleep, but too many thoughts raced through his mind. He closed his eyes and concentrated on tomorrow. Small Bird’s shallow breathing intruded. He’d hurt her.

  “I did not mean to hurt you, wife. I have had a long day. We both have. Rest now.”

  Small Bird twisted. After a long moment of silence, her voice broke the silence. “You still regret our marriage. You want her.”

  The pain in her voice drew him onto his back. He’d never wanted to hurt this woman, yet he seemed destined to continue to do so. “It is not thoughts of that other woman that trouble me.”

  “You said you loved her.” Small Bird’s voice sounded small and uncertain.

  Swift Foot sighed. At one point, thoughts of Emily would have taken his breath away. But now he felt nothing. Now, as the silence lengthened between himself and his wife, he realized that he no longer hungered for the white girl. Instead, he yearned for the time he’d spent away from his people, alone, wandering the maka. Then he’d been happy.

  With a start of surprise, he realized that his time with Emily had represented similar things: peace, little responsibility, carefree happiness. Their time together had been a time of freedom, a dream, for it had been as far from reality as possible. In a sense it hadn’t been real.

  Well, what he had felt for her was real. But the path he walked—the path
he’d always planned on walking—had made their love impossible. Unlike the love he could feel for one of his own people.

  “I did love her,” he admitted to his wife. He frowned into the dark then, saddened. He also tried to make sense of his sudden insight.

  Small Bird rolled onto her side. He felt her eyes on him. “Did? Do you not still?”

  Shifting, he faced her. Shadows hid her features, giving him the courage to bare his heart. “I loved her. Maybe a part of me always will. But it was not to be. She gave me something I needed at the time.”

  “What?”

  Swift Foot felt the warmth of his wife’s breath between them. It drew him closer. Reaching out, he traced her lips. “A safe haven. A world that wasn’t real. A world I controlled.” And that was the key, he thought. He’d been in control. Totally.

  “You are chief here,” Small Bird said.

  “But I cannot control all that happens.” His voice turned bitter. “As chief, I led our warriors into a battle that took many lives. Perhaps if my uncle—”

  Small Bird stopped him. “No. The outcome would have been the same no matter who led our warriors. This battle was an inevitability.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” he said.

  After a pause, Small Bird snapped, “You say your love with this white woman was not to be. I do not believe it. Everything happens as it is supposed to. What happened yesterday was also meant to be. We don’t know why, but perhaps it will pave the way to happiness. Perhaps everything will.”

  Swift Foot shook his head. It was too seductive to believe that. Too easy to accept the idea that he hadn’t been anything but a pawn of destiny. He wouldn’t release the guilt of dishonor from his shoulders. The deeds of his father were his to bear for all time. As was the guilt from his own mistakes. “What happened yesterday was a mistake. It will escalate the hatred. More lives will be taken. I have failed, though I know not what I should have done.”

  His wife inched closer. “Our world is a circle. You lost one woman, but you got me. You cannot have the good without the bad. There cannot be life without death. Everything renews. There must be balance.” Small Bird’s voice was a mere whisper.