by Jenna Kernan
The wife he wanted, she thought. Just not her. Sorrow filled up her heart until it ached. He took her in his arms and kissed her fiercely on the mouth. She stiffened and then wrapped her arms about him and deepened the kiss. At last he drew back and set her aside.
“I must go to the council meeting.”
He left her there, mouth dropped open and the tingling excitement of his lips still on her own.
Sky had to press her hand over her chest in a vain attempt to stop the squeezing grip of sadness. He might want her only with his gut and with his head, but Sky found to her deep sorrow that she wanted him with her heart.
She watched him go, knowing that she would never feel for another man the way she did for Storm. She cradled her hands over her flat stomach, lifted her face to the sun and prayed.
When she opened her eyes, she knew what she would do. To go on like this was to fall more hopelessly in love with him. Sky’s throat ached as she walked back toward camp.
Chapter Eighteen
The scouts returned and Red Corn Woman told Sky they had found no evidence of more raiders. The raiding party from the Black Lodges had formed and they were preparing now to depart. Red Corn Woman and her daughters joined the women of the Black Lodges to bid farewell as the raiders rode along on parade.
Night Storm led the group, mounted on his warhorse, Battle, a strong black-and-white pinto with long legs and a powerful chest. Storm wore his finest war shirt. Sky had never seen it before and, when he appeared with the others, she was struck speechless by his splendor. But she could not see them, for she had eyes only for Night Storm.
His mother laughed at Sky.
“Look, daughters, she is blinded by his beauty.”
And it was true. He wore his moccasins and new leggings, but these leggings were so heavily fringed that the twisted strands pooled on the ground. His shirt had been dyed a rich blue on the bottom. It was a color that came only from traders and was called indigo. The white-and-black beading that swept down his wide chest in two vertical bands only added to the imposing figure he made. Over the shirt he wore a breastplate of elk, leather and wide white beads, punctuated with blue and black along the center. At each shoulder he had painted a medicine symbol of lightning on a black sky. A night storm, she realized. She lifted her gaze to see that the elk skin sheaths that covered his braided hair held many eagle feathers, each carefully wrapped in blue trade cloth and tufted with the soft underfeathers of the eagle, then tied with strands of cascading white horsehair.
She stood beside Red Corn Woman, feeling suddenly as plain as a female mallard duck beside her iridescent mate. He was so striking a figure she could only gawk.
He spotted her and smiled. Across the way a woman shouted his name and she saw it was Beautiful Meadow rushing to Storm’s horse. She held up something and he took it with words of thanks, then looped the beaded red trade cloth sash over the front of his saddle. His future wife had made him an ornament showing to all her skill and talents.
“Don’t look so glum,” said Fills a Kettle. “She can’t even remove a splinter without getting dizzy.”
Red Corn Woman clapped her hands. “See how beautiful that sash is with his blue shirt. And so many feathers,” said his mother. “More than his father had at his age, I can tell you. This one will soon be on the tribal council. I know it.”
The raiders paused before their chief, who stood with his council, including Storm’s father. What would his father, the leader of the Black War Bonnet society, say to his son if he knew of his visions?
Many Coups stepped forward wearing a headdress with so many feathers that he might have been chief. About his neck were multiple strands of white beads from which hung the tails of mink, taken in winter so the fur was snow-white and tipped with black. His war shirt was not dyed, but instead of fringe, the arms were also hung with the tails of mink. From shoulder to wrist lay a thick beaded band so complicated that Sky’s mother might have made it. Beneath his war shirt he wore a double-beaded apron showing a geometric pattern in red and green and in his hand he held a feathered plume.
Night Storm’s name was spoken and Broken Horn summoned Night Storm. Storm dismounted and came forward to be presented with an eagle feather by the chief. Lone Horn told the gathering this was for saving the women of the Black Lodges from capture. He extended the mark of honor in two open hands to Sky’s husband. Storm took it and touched it to his forehead, bowing to his chief. Then he raised his feather to the gathering and they cheered. As the cheers died away there came a howling, hooting cacophony of sound. Heads turned, people stared; some gasped and others laughed as someone made their way through the gathering.
Sky could not see the individual clearly. All that was clear was that this person had painted half his face white and half black and seemed to have a live duck tied to his head. Children began to laugh and chase after the man who stepped into the circle at last. He was painted yellow, or mostly yellow on his bare chest. Her smile died as she realized who this was.
Her father.
“I am Falling Otter of the High Mountain people.”
Of course, there was no High Mountain people, but instead of saying he was from the Low River people, which was proper, he said the opposite.
“Do you know him?” asked Fills a Kettle, leaning in to be heard over the crashing sound of her father beating the iron lid of a kettle with a stone war club.
Sky could only nod. “My father.”
The duck objected to the din and wriggled free of its tethers, then used Falling Otter’s head as a takeoff platform, pushing hard against his nose as it flapped away.
The group howled with laughter.
Sky tried and failed to sink into the earth.
“I have another feather for you,” said Falling Otter, casting away his pot lid and dancing in a very good imitation of the woman’s coming-of-age dance. This shocked some of the women who now looked disapproving at the goings-on.
Her father stopped before Night Storm.
All about them, the people strained to see. Sky wondered how a man with a duck on his head had managed to slip past the sentries and into their midst.
“Here is your feather, my son.” Falling Otter held out a beautiful white feather.
Of course, Night Storm was not his son.
Night Storm reached for the gift and then paused as he noticed the distinctive ruffled edge. Sky knew that only one bird had such feathers as that one. Her blood chilled and the hairs on her arms and neck lifted as the shudder rolled through her. An owl feather, the very mark of the spirit world, ghosts and all things unseen.
Storm’s hand had stopped moving forward and remained fixed over the object as if suddenly frozen.
It was the shaman who put an end to the drama by striking her father’s arm with his staff and so knocking the feather to the ground.
It was a very disrespectful way to treat a heyoka and Skylark started forward. But Red Corn Woman stopped her by gripping her arm.
“That is no fit feather for a warrior,” said Thunder Horse.
“It is for this warrior,” said her father.
“What feather?” asked Broken Horn.
Thunder Horse pointed a bony finger at the feather. A claw hung tied to the end by a cord. A second cord held a small skull with huge eye sockets.
No, she thought, pressing her hand to her chest. How could her father even have suspected?
But there it was, the small skull of an owl, the talon of an owl and the snowy white feather of an owl.
“Owl feather,” said the shaman.
The gathering backed away as the taboo feather lay in the center of their gathering. No one knew what to do. Such an object could bring all sorts of trouble and this heyoka had brought it right into their midst.
“Pick it up,” ordered Thunder Horse.
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��No. It is for him,” said her father.
“Pick it up, I say, and take it away.” Thunder Horse’s voice cracked, revealing his fear.
“If you are so powerful, then you can touch it.” Falling Otter waited. But when Thunder Horse shrank back, Falling Otter began to laugh, showing all about him just how upset he was.
Then he turned in a circle until he found her and waved.
“Daughter! You should come home.”
Her smile fell. Why did he want her to stay?
“I must find another duck,” he said, and hopped to the edge of the circle as if his legs were suddenly bound together. The crowd parted and he disappeared.
When she turned back toward the center of the circle, it was to see Thunder Horse glaring at her. Her husband stooped and lifted the owl feather from the dust, placing it with the eagle feather. The gathering breathed a collective gasp. Then Storm mounted his horse and led the raiders from their midst.
Chapter Nineteen
Night Storm moved through the darkness with his favorite raiding horse, Shadow, who was small and fast and black as the dark side of the moon. For night raids, Shadow was the best choice. The men had removed their war shirts and finery and left them with their second horses back at their camp. Also at camp was Frost. He could not bring the dog among the enemy’s herd without spooking the horses and alerting the sentries to their approach.
It felt good to be astride a horse and in the company of men, but he worried about Skylark alone at camp. Her father’s antics had frightened his people. Even his fellow raiders did not like that Storm had touched the owl feather and still kept the offering.
He had tried to explain. It was given to him by a heyoka and so it was sacred. But it would mean the exact opposite. An owl feather from the hand of a heyoka would mean life instead of death.
His fellows urged him to leave it behind, bury it deep in the earth. It had not helped that they had heard the hooting of owls as they rode through the forest, reminding Storm of the vision where he saw his two closest friends killed. He had stopped the Sioux raid back at camp. Prevented the capture of their women. Could he also save Two Hawks and Charging Bull?
His unease grew as he wondered what was happening at the camp in his absence. He had asked both his father and mother to be vigilant and see that his wife was safe from both Beautiful Meadow and her uncle. He trusted them. But he did not trust Thunder Horse. Now that Thunder Horse knew Falling Otter was Skylark’s father, Storm thought his rage might be directed at her. It was one thing to help his niece. But it was another to defend his position among the people. Storm felt himself tugged in two directions and wished he had sent Sky home with her aunt and uncle. With a heavy heart, his horse moved forward, carrying him away from her and in the direction he had chosen.
There was no water here to attack him, but he knew the Sioux camp was situated on the river’s bend. His scouts had told him where.
They dismounted and each man now walked with his horse, to be sure their mounts did not whinny a greeting to the enemy’s herd. One of them would have the unenviable task of staying with the horses while the others slithered through the grass like snakes in an attempt to steal many horses. He knew he should be the one to take that duty. It was all he was good for, but if he fell and the horses escaped, then they would all die. It seemed he was not even fit for that.
One of his men drew up beside him.
“Why have we stopped?” Charging Bull whispered.
Night Storm had not even realized he had stopped. He should turn over the party to Laughing Jay. He was a good friend and strong leader.
Charging Bull pointed. “There,” he whispered. “The horses.”
Neither man could see or hear them, but the scent of them was strong. Night Storm called Little Elk to him and told him to stay back. He promised to soon return and relieve him of his duties so he could raid, as well.
Night Storm crept forward with the others. This raid would be silent. This time, they did not want to kill their enemy, only steal horses. Charging Bull moved to his right and then off on his own. Each man would slip into the guarded herd and then out with all he could take. The trouble was that the horses might give them away at any moment forcing them to flee. Storm watched the grasses move all about him as his men fanned out. He hoped Charging Bull was lucky, for he had ambitions to marry a pretty woman from the Wind Basin tribe and needed a dowry to claim her.
Night Storm realized with shame that he had stopped again. The herd of horses rested in a tight group. He could see the sentries closely spaced. But one of the sentries had left his place to go speak to another guard. The two men stood together, creating a larger gap between them and the next patrol. It was through the larger gap created by their conversation, through which Charging Bull slipped.
Storm watched him move past the Sioux scouts and into the herd. Some of the horses shifted but none whinnied or ran.
Still Storm watched. He wished he had brought Frost. Standing in the sliver of silvery moonlight Night Storm realized he had lost his confidence. Even if he did not fall, he now realized his secret placed his men—good, brave, worthy men—in danger. He was not fit to lead.
One of his men was already moving from the herd with two horses. He could not see which man as he walked between two mounts, each tied about the neck and nose with a single leather lariat. Another man emerged with three horses. Charging Bull, he thought, taking a risk to earn more of the bride’s price. They would be easy for the sentries to spot now. Storm moved toward the warriors, pausing close. He reached back and slipped an arrow from his quiver and notched it. As he had feared, the scouts noticed the movement of the horses from the herd. They could not see his fellows but they were not fools. Horses did not leave the herd, especially at night. Both men started in the direction of the horses.
Storm let the first arrow fly. His enemy fell from his horse and before his comrade could disappear into the grass, Storm’s next arrow was protruding from his chest. The Sioux sentry turned and looked at Night Storm as he fell.
Two more ghosts to follow me with the owls, Storm thought, moving forward to lift the scalps and make certain that the spirits of these two men left their bodies and found their way to the spirit world. He did not take their fingers or disfigure them, as some did. It was good that an enemy was not whole in the spirit world. It would be one less enemy to face upon death. But he had no stomach for it. So, instead, Storm took their weapons and offered a prayer to soothe their crossing.
He knew in that moment that he would never be what his father had become. He could never earn enough feathers for a flowing warbonnet with a train that followed behind him when he walked.
He knew all he would not be. But he did not know what he would be. The path ahead was unclear and he felt like a young boy lost in the woods. He did not know his true path, only that the one he had intended to journey was gone. Storm reached into his pouch and drew out the talon, skull and feather ornament that the heyoka had given him.
He tugged at the cord holding a single snowy white feather and it fell free. Then he wrapped the cord around the bottom of his braid and tied it fast. If the owls wished to follow him, he thought, let them come.
Clouds now swept over the moon, racing like horses across the sky. He stared up at the flickering light and heard the ringing of metal on metal. He tried to look away, but he could not. What was he supposed to do? He tried to remember, but the ringing was so loud he struggled to think. His eyes. Cover them. His arms did not respond to his urging. But he managed to shut his eyes. The ringing went on and on but he kept his eyes squeezed tight. The ground bucked and his knees gave way. This time he felt the contact with the ground. He heard the ringing recede. His stomach heaved and he lost all he carried there. But still he kept his eyes shut. How had the moon taken him? The moon had not danced on waters and was small now, less than half-full.
But she was still powerful.
He regained his equilibrium first. His stomach was still bad, but he managed to stagger into the herd. He was clumsy and thick-witted. But the gap between sentries meant that even a boy could have stolen horses. He managed to take three, not really caring to select the best. Then he returned for Little Elk, relieving him of the duty of watching their mounts. This was bad, he realized. He had nearly fallen.
Storm scanned the herd for signs of trouble, his bow now gripped in his hand. Gradually his men began to emerge from the gathered herd, bringing away their prizes.
He would have to tell his chief. Sky had said so. She had tried to tell him. But how could he do it? How could he stand before all and admit that he was no longer a warrior?
Charging Bull returned as Little Elk disappeared into the tall grass. Storm followed to cover his escape and that of the other raiders.
One by one, the men returned. All came back and no alarm was raised. Storm did not wait and even though his headache was gaining momentum, he led them all to a safe distance before the party mounted up and galloped away, guiding their strings of ponies. They were not out of danger. The Sioux would pursue them like angry hornets the moment they discovered the missing horses and missing men.
But luck was with them, for they were well out of the Sioux territory before sunrise. Storm’s head continued to pound and his body trembled. When had he become as weak as an old woman?
They rested long enough for the horses to graze and drink and for his men to eat. Two Hawks told the others that the reason they had such success was because their leader had killed two of the sentries as silently as a puma and bragged that Night Storm would earn two more feathers for his bonnet.
Why did that not please him? He thought of Sky, working so hard to help the ill and injured to survive. Then he thought of the owl feather her father had offered him, calling him son, as if he, too, believed that he and Sky were husband and wife.
Perhaps he called him son because he somehow knew that Storm was not his son; that his daughter would not stay with her new husband. He wished he had never offered for Beautiful Meadow. The choice he made now haunted him like the owls. She was powerful but used that power to hurt Sky and reveal that she had a jealous heart. Should he blame her for fighting for what she felt was hers? Would he not do the same? He could not take back his promise without losing all honor and dignity. But in his heart he admitted the truth. He no longer wanted Beautiful Meadow. He wanted only Sky.