Feather in the Wind

by Madeline Baker

  He Wonjetah took the feather from his son’s hand. “How did she come to have Wanbli’s sacred feather?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Ask her.”

  “Su-nan-nah?”

  She looked up at him, her expression apprehensive. She didn’t have to understand Lakota to know that Black Wind’s father was less than thrilled with her presence.

  Black Wind smiled at her reassuringly. “From where did you get the prayer feather?”

  “An Indian gave it to me.”

  “What Indian? What was his name?”

  “I don’t know.” Susannah licked her lips, wondering if he would believe what she was about to say. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “Tell me then.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Do not be. I will let no one harm you.”

  “My home is far from here,” she said. “Far in the future.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “The future. Do you know what year it is?”

  He frowned at her, then shook his head.

  “The white men number the passage of time in days, weeks, months and years. This is the year 1870. I come from the year 1997. That’s over a hundred years from now.” She frowned a moment. “A hundred summers from now,” she explained, recalling that the Indians counted their time in moons and summers instead of months and years.

  Tate Sapa shook his head. “That is not possible.”

  “I know. I don’t believe it either, but here I am. I don’t know how I got here, and I don’t know how to get back where I belong.”

  Tate Sapa stared down at her. He understood her words, but was such a thing possible?

  “You said you saw me in a vision.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see anything else?”

  Brow furrowed, he recalled the vision. At the time, he had not considered the other things he had seen; he had had eyes only for the woman who had captured his likeness on a piece of paper.

  Now, other things came to mind.

  “There were many women milling about, strangely dressed.”

  “They were romance authors. Women who write books. That’s what I do. What else?”

  “Long glass tubes hung from the ceiling. Light came from them.”

  “Those are fluorescent lights,” Susannah said. “People in my time don’t use candles or oil lamps anymore. We have something called electricity.”

  “How can this be?”

  Susannah sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “The feather, where did you get the feather?”

  “I went to a POW WOW to look around and I saw it hanging from a pole. It really is yours, isn’t it?”

  Tate Sapa nodded. “When my mother was killed, I left it at her burial place.”

  Susannah looked at He Wonjetah. She knew suddenly why he looked familiar. “The Indian who gave it to me looks very much like your father. Maybe he’s one of your descendants.”

  “Perhaps. Prayer feathers are lila wakán. Very holy.”

  “That’s what the Indian who gave it to me said. He told me to be careful how I used it.”

  Tate Sapa nodded. “Wanbli’s feathers carry strong magic.”

  Strong magic, indeed, Susannah thought, if it could carry her back through time.

  Black Wind glanced at his father, who was waiting patiently for an explanation. He could not tell his father what Susannah had told him, could not expect his father to believe such a story. He could hardly believe it himself.

  “So,” He Wonjetah said. “What did the white woman say? How does she come to have the feather that was left at your mother’s burial place?”

  “She says an Indian gave it to her, but she does not know his name, or from where he obtained it.”

  She listened as Black Wind translated her words for his father.

  The old man studied Susannah, his expression thoughtful. After a time, he shook his head. “I fear our young men will no longer follow your counsel if you keep this woman in your lodge. She may be winyan wakán, but I fear their hatred for the wasichu may prove stronger than their respect for you, my son. Think carefully on what you do; for, once done, some things cannot be undone.”

  “I hear you, Ate.”

  “Does she cook?”

  Tate Sapa grinned wryly. “No, but she will learn.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Susannah had never liked being the center of attention, and she liked it even less now. Every time she went outside, people stared at her, pointing at her skin, which was pale next to theirs, gawking at her curly hair, her curious clothing. She was pretty certain the Indians had never seen a woman wearing men’s pants before. At first, she stuck her nose in the air and tried to ignore the looks and whispers. She knew they didn’t mean to be cruel, knew she was an oddity in their midst but the curious looks, the gestures, the laughter all took their toll.

  She had been in the village almost a week when she stopped going outside except early in the morning and late at night to answer nature’s call. Squatting in the dirt behind a bush made her long for home as nothing else had.

  Black Wind treated her kindly enough. She knew the warriors taunted him and made crude jokes when they caught him gathering fire wood or drawing water from the river, tasks that were clearly women’s work. His father accepted her in his lodge with stoic resignation.

  She had often heard the term “a fish out of water”. Now she knew what it meant. She didn’t belong here, in this place, with these people; she would never belong here.

  If Black Wind knew how unhappy she was, he didn’t remark on it. He hunted their meat and prepared their meals, asking only that she wash their dishes and tidy the lodge.

  They were not tasks that required a great deal of time or effort, which left Susannah with many hours to fill and nothing to fill them with.

  Sometimes she stood in the doorway of the lodge and watched the people of the village. For all that everything was strange to her, she could see that daily life in an Indian village was much like life anywhere, even though the means to the end were vastly different. The men didn’t go to the office and bring home a paycheck so their wives could go to the store; instead, they brought the meat home whole and the women skinned it and butchered it and cooked it.

  The women didn’t take the MasterCard and shop for a new dress—they tanned the hide and cut the skins and sewed the pieces together. The men hunted and protected their families; the women cooked and cleaned and sewed. Children were loved and cherished. Grandfathers taught their grandsons how to make bows and arrows; grandmothers taught their granddaughters to make moccasins. Aunts and uncles and cousins were all involved in the rearing of a child. Often, a grandparent lived with one of his grandchildren.

  A lodge was like a big one-room house with no walls, which made Susannah wonder when Indian couples managed to find time to be alone. The movie Dances With Wolves came to mind again, and she recalled how the couple in that movie had made love while surrounded by two other adults and their own sleeping children. No wonder Lakota families were small, she thought with a wry grin. There was no way she could ever make love with someone else lying three feet away!

  The Indian people worked hard during the day and then, often, played at night. There were dances and games, feasts to celebrate the birth of a child.

  And always, she was on the outside looking in.

  Now, it was late at night and she was sitting on a rock overlooking the river. She had visited her favorite bush and then, seeing how beautiful the night was, with the moon shining like a lighthouse beacon on the water, she had decided to stay out a little longer.

  The river looked like a sheet of black glass, reflecting the full moon and the stars, the silver-barked trees that grew along the banks. It was quiet, she thought, so quiet. And so peaceful.

  Thoughts of home flitted through her mind. Home. She would probably never see her family or her friends again. Turning slightly, she gazed at the lodges behi
nd her. The village made a pretty scene in the moonlight, reminding her of a Leanin’ Tree birthday card she had once seen. Firelight cast dancing shadows on the lodgeskins. Horses stood silhouetted against the night. She heard a baby’s soft cry. The sound of laughter drifted on the breeze.

  With a sigh, she turned her gaze toward the river again. She couldn’t stay here. If she had to remain in the past, then she wanted to do it in a big eastern city where they had least had a modicum of civilization. In the east, there would be shops and libraries and museums, places that were familiar, a lifestyle more like the one she had left behind. They might not have movies, but there would be operas and plays and music. She could get a job somewhere, maybe writing for a newspaper or teaching school. She would be able to speak the language, dine in a restaurant, bathe in a tub with hot water and soap…

  There was nothing for her here…except Black Wind. With a sigh, she rested her head on her bent knees and closed her eyes.

  Black Wind. His father had been right. The warriors would not listen to him now. They scorned him for taking a white woman into his lodge. If she went away, he could lead his people again. He could marry Wakinyela, although why any man would want to marry that sharp-tongued shrew was beyond her.

  The thought of Black Wind holding another woman, any woman, sent a sharp stab of pain through her heart. Just thinking of him filled her with happiness. He looked at her, and she found herself wondering if staying here would be so bad…

  “Su-san-nah.”

  As if she had conjured him from her thoughts, he was there beside her. Clad in only a breechclout, he looked dark and dangerous and wild. Her insides seemed to melt like chocolate left too long in the sun as his gaze met hers. He held out his arms in silent invitation, waiting…

  Why fight it, she thought, and slid off the edge of the rock into his waiting arms.

  Contentment washed over her, warm, peaceful, as he drew her close. His skin was smooth and warm beneath her cheek. A long shuddering sigh escaped her as she wrapped her arms around his waist and lifted her face for his kiss.

  Fire and honey flowed through her veins as his mouth claimed hers in a kiss that scorched her lips like a brand and sent fingers of flame shooting along every nerve. And she knew in that moment that, no matter what the future held, she was his, always and forever his.

  She lost track of time as his hands and his lips drifted over her until she was floating on a sea of sensation, every nerve ending quivering and alive, aching to be touched. His hands slid down her bare arms, making her shiver with delight. She moaned softly as his tongue caressed her neck, the sensitive place behind her ear. He dropped featherlight kisses on her eyelids before returning to savor her mouth in another long, lingering kiss that made her heart race and her toes curl with delight.

  Somehow, they were lying on the grass, arms and legs entangled. Her hands explored his back and chest. The taut muscles in his arms quivered beneath her questing fingertips, she heard the sharp intake of his breath as she slid her hand over his flat belly. Like satin over steel. She had read that phrase in a book once. Now she knew what it meant.

  “You are truly winyan wapiya,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “Only a woman who possesses great magic could have bewitched me so completely.”

  Susannah smiled at him. “Are you bewitched, Black Wind?”

  He nodded. “What kind of wihmunge do you wield that binds me to you?”

  “Wihmunge?” she repeated. “What’s that?”

  “Witch medicine.”

  “Are you calling me a witch?”

  “You are offended?”

  “Well, where I come from, it’s not usually a compliment.”

  “I only mean that I am under your spell, Su-san-nah.” Being called a witch was a serious thing. Witches were feared, and were killed when discovered.

  She ran her hands over his chest. “Are you complaining?”

  “Have you truly come from the future?”

  “I’m afraid so. Does it matter?”

  Slowly, he shook his head. “Tell me you will not leave me.”

  “I will not leave you,” she replied quietly.

  His gaze never left hers as he slowly shook his head. And then he kissed her again, a kiss of such gentle passion that it brought tears to her eyes.

  “Oh Tate,” she murmured, “I think you have some very strong wihmunge of your own.”

  He kissed her again, lightly this time. “Come,” he said, taking her hand and helping her to her feet. “We should go back.”

  “Back?” She blinked up at him, her senses still reeling from his kisses.

  “I am a warrior. I would not defile you, Su-san-nah, nor take advantage of you when you have no male relations to protect your virtue.”

  He slid on finger down her cheek. “When I plant my seed within you, you will be my woman, my wife.”

  “Wife?”

  Tate Sapa nodded. “You will marry me, Su-san-nah.”

  She was a woman of the nineties and as such, she was tempted to say, “Oh I will, will I?” Instead, she nodded her acceptance.

  Who was she to argue with Fate?

  * * * * *

  Wakinyela smiled to herself as she slipped away from her hiding place. She knew how to get rid of the white woman now.

  Tate Sapa himself had given her the idea.

  * * * * *

  Susannah woke feeling wonderfully refreshed the following morning. She smiled at He Wonjetah, and even offered to try to prepare the morning meal. Black Wind had performed some magic of his own, she mused as she stirred the ashes from last night’s fire, for she no longer felt like an outsider. He loved her, and it made all the difference in the world. If she put her mind to it, she could learn his language, his ways. Pioneer women had followed their men into the wilderness and managed to survive and be happy, and so could she.

  She glanced down at the corduroy pants and wool shirt Black Wind had stolen for her. Today, she would ask him to bring her a piece of doeskin so she could make herself a tunic like the Indian women wore. Granted, she had never been much of a seamstress, had hated sewing in high school, but if she was going to stay and make the best of things, it might be easier if she dressed like the other women.

  She sang as she prepared breakfast, thinking how outrageous it was to be singing “Heartbreak Hotel” while she knelt beside a firepit in a Lakota lodge in the heart of the Black Hills.

  She felt her heart leap with joy as Black Wind entered the lodge, felt the touch of his gaze clear to her toes.

  “Hihani washtay, Su-san-nah.”

  She looked at him askance.

  “It means good morning.”

  “Hihani washtay to you too.”

  He smiled, pleased at her use of his language.

  He Wonjetah grunted softly as he sat cross-legged on his blankets. He wrinkled his nose as he took the bowl Susannah handed him. For a moment, he regarded the contents as if he feared it might contain some kind of poison instead of broth and vegetables, then, with a heavy sigh of resignation, he tasted a spoonful.

  Susannah waited, hardly daring to breathe.

  He took another spoonful, swallowed slowly, then nodded.

  “Washtay,” he decided.

  “It means good,” Tate Sapa told her.

  Susannah let out the breath she had been holding, thinking that, at that moment, He Wonjetah’s praise meant more than the top spot on the New York Times.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “The word is pilamaya, Su-san-nah.”

  “Pilamaya,” she repeated.

  He Wonjetah nodded, then quickly finished his soup. He left the lodge a few minutes later, leaving Tate Sapa and Susannah alone.

  As soon as the door flap closed behind the old man, she was in Black Wind’s arms.

  “Su-san-nah,” he groaned, “what have you done to me? I can think of nothing but you.”

  “What have you done to me?” She slid her hands over his back and down his arms, unabl
e to keep from touching him. “I’ve never felt this way before.”

  His lips caressed her cheek.”You were in my mind when I woke this morning.”

  “I dreamed of you last night,” she confessed. A little moan of pleasure escaped her lips as his tongue stroked her neck.

  “What did you dream?”

  “That we made love by the river last night.”

  A slow smile spread across Black Wind’s face. “My dream was the same.”

  Susannah rested her head against his chest, the sure, steady beat of his heart the sweetest music she had ever heard.

  For a timeless moment, there was no one else in all the world, only the two of them, cocooned in the warmth of the love growing between them.

  “What will you do today?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” She glanced down at her dress. It was the only one she had, and it was badly wrinkled and soiled. “Try my hand at sewing, I guess. What will you do?”

  “My father wishes to go hunting. He has asked that I go with him.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice as she thought of spending the day alone.

  “Will you miss me?”

  “You know I will.”

  He smiled a decidedly pleased masculine smile, then bent his head and kissed her. “I will not be gone long.”

  A sudden commotion from outside drew them apart.

  “Wait here,” Tate Sapa said. He kissed her once more, then moved toward the door. Before he reached the entrance, the flap was thrown back and several warriors burst into the lodge.

  Tate Sapa glared at Mato Mani, the medicine man. “What is going on here?”

  The tribal shaman pointed an accusing finger in Susannah’s direction. “Wakánka!” he exclaimed.

  “What’s he saying?” Susannah asked, alarmed by the tone of the man’s voice.

  “He claims you are a witch.”

  A witch! Susannah took a step backward, inwardly flinching from the accusation in the medicine man’s eyes.

  Tate Sapa put himself between Susannah and the warriors crowding into his lodge. “Where did you hear such a thing?”