Savage Illusions

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Savage Illusions Page 28

by Cassie Edwards


  ''Daughter?" Brown Elk sa­id as he ca­me to Jole­na out of the dar­k­ness, his fa­ce still pa­in­ted black with mo­ur­ning. "You wa­it for yo­ur fat­her in the cold?" He ca­me to her and pla­ced a hand to her el­bow, us­he­ring her away from Spot­ted Eag­le's dwel­ling to his own.

  Jolena ex­pec­ted to find his te­pee cold and wit­ho­ut the frag­ran­ce of fo­od, but so­me­one had kept the fi­re bur­ning and had ma­de su­re fo­od awa­ited his re­turn from his long ho­urs of mo­ur­ning. She ex­pec­ted the one who was so tho­ug­h­t­ful and kind was Mo­on Flo­wer. Her kin­d­ness was spre­ad aro­und, it se­emed, to ever­yo­ne who ne­eded it. Even whi­le she mo­ur­ned for Two Rid­ges, she was put­ting her fe­elings se­cond to ot­hers who mo­ur­ned even mo­re de­eply.

  Brown Elk nod­ded to­ward his co­uch, which was cus­hi­oned with many plush furs. "Sit," he sa­id, hel­ping her down on­to it. "We will talk af­ter I re­mo­ve the mo­ur­ning pa­int from my fa­ce."

  "You must be star­ved," Jole­na sa­id, wat­c­hing him as he po­ured wa­ter from a jug in­to a wo­oden ba­sin, then be­gan splas­hing his fa­ce with the wa­ter. "The stew smells de­li­ci­o­us. Whi­le you wash yo­ur fa­ce, I will dip so­me stew in­to a bowl."

  "Dip stew in­to two bowls," Brown Elk sa­id, scrub­bing his fa­ce with his hands, wat­c­hing the wa­ter turn black with the dis­car­ded pa­int. "Am I right to think you ha­ve not eaten eno­ugh to ke­ep yo­ur strength? Yo­ur he­art is tro­ub­led too much to enj­oy the tas­te of fo­od on yo­ur ton­gue?"

  "Yes, so­met­hing li­ke that," Jole­na sa­id, mar­ve­ling over how he co­uld me­asu­re her mo­od so well. She lad­led stew in­to two bowls and set them asi­de un­til he ca­me and sat down be­si­de her.

  She didn't he­si­ta­te to eat on­ce he be­gan, not ha­ving re­ali­zed that she was so hungry un­til she got that first bi­te bet­we­en her lips. She ate ra­ve­no­usly, then set her bowl asi­de as he scra­ped the last mor­sel of car­rot from his bowl with his fin­gers.

  Brown Elk then set his bowl asi­de and tur­ned his dark eyes to Jole­na. "It is writ­ten on yo­ur fa­ce that too much wor­ri­es you," he sa­id. He pla­ced a gen­t­le hand to her sho­ul­der. "Do not fret over yo­ur whi­te brot­her. Spot­ted Eag­le will re­turn him to you. And do not worry over Spot­ted Eag­le. He is bra­ve but ca­uti­o­us, and he has strong me­di­ci­ne. So­me say that he is re­la­ted to the ghosts and that they help him."

  "Truly?" Jole­na sa­id, her eyes wi­de.

  Brown Elk drop­ped his hand to his lap. "You see, my da­ug­h­ter?" he sa­id, chuc­k­ling. "This wi­ze­ned old man knows what to say to draw a da­ug­h­ter out of her­self." His eyes twin­k­led in­to hers. "The me­re men­ti­on of Spot­ted Eag­le did not do it, but the won­der of what I sa­id abo­ut him is what hel­ped draw yo­ur tho­ughts away from that which tor­ments you."

  "Do pe­op­le truly say that he is re­la­ted to ghosts and that they help him?" Jole­na as­ked, her eyes still fil­led with won­der.

  "Perhaps," Brown Elk sa­id, shrug­ging. "It was just so­met­hing that ca­me to me that I tho­ught might draw yo­ur at­ten­ti­on. it wor­ked, did it not?"

  Jolena la­ug­hed softly, now re­ali­zing that what he sa­id was not at all true, but it had se­emed so­met­hing that might be. Spot­ted Eag­le se­emed the sort to be ab­le to do an­y­t­hing and to be an­y­t­hing he de­si­red.

  "Yes, it wor­ked," she mur­mu­red. "And I ap­pre­ci­ate it. I am con­cer­ned over Spot­ted Eag­le and my brot­her's wel­fa­re. Both are pre­ci­o­us to me."

  "Then I was right ear­li­er to as­su­me yo­ur fe­elings for Spot­ted Eag­le are tho­se that a wo­man fe­els for a man when she wis­hes to spe­ak vows of fo­re­ver with him?" Brown Elk sa­id, le­aning over to push anot­her limb in­to the flesh-war­ming fi­re.

  "Yes, I ha­ve many won­der­ful fe­elings for Spot­ted Eag­le," Jole­na sa­id, fin­ding it easy to talk with this man who un­til a few days ago had be­en a stran­ger to her. She was so glad that the Blac­k­fo­ot of this vil­la­ge had as­so­ci­ated eno­ugh with whi­te pe­op­le that they co­uld spe­ak her lan­gu­age. If not, she wo­uld ha­ve felt li­ke a stran­ger in a fo­re­ign co­untry!

  "And I ap­pro­ve," Brown Elk sa­id, set­tling back down on­to his co­uch aga­in. He fol­ded his arms com­for­tably ac­ross his chest. "He ne­ed not pay me a lar­ge bri­de pri­ce for you, for I can see that he al­re­ady has you loc­ked wit­hin his he­art, as he is loc­ked wit­hin yo­urs."

  Jolena mo­ved from the co­uch on­to to her kne­es be­fo­re Brown Elk. "Fat­her, it is so stran­ge how it hap­pe­ned," she mur­mu­red, her eyes spar­k­ling in­to his. "I saw Spot­ted Eag­le in my dre­ams be­fo­re I ever met him fa­ce to fa­ce! When I told Spot­ted Eag­le this, he ex­p­la­ined the im­por­tan­ce of dre­ams to the Blac­k­fo­ot. I fe­el so bles­sed, Fat­her, to be Blac­k­fo­ot and to be he­re to le­arn ever­y­t­hing that a Blac­k­fo­ot wo­man sho­uld know."

  "You will le­arn easily," Brown Elk sa­id, smi­ling at her. "Alre­ady you know much."

  "And how do you fe­el abo­ut my dre­ams?" Jole­na sa­id an­xi­o­usly. "And that they for the most part co­me true?"

  Brown Elk fra­med her de­li­ca­te, cop­per fa­ce bet­we­en his hands. "I, too, am gif­ted with dre­aming," he sa­id, his vo­ice low and com­for­ting. "You see, my da­ug­h­ter, I dre­amed of you of­ten be­fo­re you ca­me to me in the flesh."

  "You did?" Jole­na sa­id, gas­ping. "Truly you did?" "It is true that I did," Brown Elk sa­id. "But you see, my da­ug­h­ter, un­til you ca­me to the vil­la­ge and sho­wed yo­ur­self to me, when I dre­amed of you I tho­ught the dre­ams we­re of yo­ur mot­her! Now I know they we­re, in truth, of you!"

  He drew her to him and crad­led her clo­se. "This fat­her mis­sed you," he sa­id, his vo­ice bre­aking. "You are so li­ke yo­ur mot­her, my be­a­uti­ful bri­de, my re­ason for bre­at­hing. But you are re­al and de­ar to me, fo­re­ver­mo­re, Ni-tun, as my da­ug­h­ter. Yo­ur mot­her is just a swe­et me­mory that I ha­ve tuc­ked away now in­si­de my he­art."

  "Would you mind ter­ribly tel­ling me abo­ut my mot­her?" Jole­na as­ked, easing from his arms. "If you wo­uld rat­her not, I wo­uld un­der­s­tand. You ha­ve just a short whi­le ago left yo­ur pla­ce of mo­ur­ning, whe­re you mo­ur­ned a son. I wo­uld un­der­s­tand if it is too so­on to talk of so­me­one el­se for whom you ha­ve sung yo­ur mo­ur­ning songs."

  "It wo­uld ple­ase me to ac­qu­a­int you with yo­ur mot­her," Brown Elk sa­id, his vo­ice tra­iling off in­to si­len­ce as he ga­zed in­to the fla­mes of the fi­re.

  Jolena crept back on­to her co­uch, fe­eling aw­k­ward in this si­len­ce. She sto­le a glan­ce at her fat­her's fa­ce and no­ti­ced aga­in its tex­tu­re, then no­ti­ced so­met­hing new sin­ce he had lost a son­t­he sag­ging lo­wer lids of his le­vel, as­su­red eyes. Yet not­hing had chan­ged abo­ut his un­com­p­ro­mi­sing, self-wil­led mo­uth.

  After a long mo­ment of pe­ace­ful si­len­ce, Brown Elk be­gan to talk. "The­re are many win­ters in this old man," he sa­id. "But on­ce I was yo­ung, and I had a yo­ung wi­fe. Her na­me was Swe­et Do­ve, the most be­a­uti­ful wo­man of the Blac­k­fo­ot, Cree, Crow, and Sna­ke tri­bes of the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory. When she ag­re­ed to be­co­me my wi­fe, I ga­ve a ce­leb­ra­ti­on that las­ted for many days and nights."

  He swal­lo­wed hard. "We spent many nights sha­ring blan­ket warmth, and then she told me she was with child," he sa­id, gi­ving Jole­na a pro­ud smi­le. "Ne­ver was a Blac­k­fo­ot war­ri­or as happy as when that an­no­un­ce­ment was ma­de to me. I pam­pe­red my wo­man, and every night I spo­ke to my child thro­ugh the walls of my wi­fe's sto­mach. I told my child that this fat­her al­re­ady lo­ved her very much."

  He lo­oked qu­ickly away as te
­ars be­gan sil­ve­ring his eyes. "Yes, even then I saw the child as a da­ug­h­ter," he sa­id, his vo­ice tra­iling away. "And then ca­me the day for this child to be born. Fo­olishly I al­lo­wed my wi­fe to go from this vil­la­ge to ha­ve the child alo­ne, as Blac­k­fo­ot wi­ves do. Ne­ver did the li­fe of my child se­em thre­ate­ned, nor that of my wi­fe. Swe­et Do­ve was he­althy and strong. But not strong eno­ugh, it se­ems."

  Brown Elk res­ted his fa­ce in his hands and be­gan sha­king his he­ad back and forth mo­ur­n­ful­ly. "She must ha­ve suf­fe­red much be­fo­re she re­le­ased the child from her womb," he sa­id, his vo­ice drawn. "The blo­od… the­re was so much blo­od when she was fo­und…"

  Jolena mo­ved to her fat­her and to­ok his hands from his fa­ce and le­aned in­to his arms. "No mo­re," she cri­ed. "Ple­ase don't say any mo­re. It isn't fa­ir of me to ask you to go thro­ugh this aga­in, as tho­ugh it we­re to­day in­s­te­ad of eig­h­te­en sum­mers ago. Ple­ase say no mo­re, Fat­her."

  In her mind's eye, Jole­na was trying des­pe­ra­tely to block out the sight of her mot­her lying in a po­ol of her li­fe's blo­od wit­ho­ut fe­eling to bla­me, even tho­ugh she had be­en a me­re ba­be, in­no­cent of ever­y­t­hing as she had la­in be­si­de her dying mot­her, who had gi­ven her li­fe to gi­ve birth to her. She was so glad that her Blac­k­fo­ot fat­her did not see her as the ca­use of his wi­fe's de­ath.

  Jolena clen­c­hed her eye­lids clo­sed, ha­ving le­ar­ned so­met­hing from this ex­pe­ri­en­ce. She knew that whe­ne­ver she was he­avy with child, she wo­uld most de­fi­ni­tely bre­ak away from the old tra­di­ti­on of go­ing from the vil­la­ge to gi­ve birth to the child alo­ne! She wo­uld want her be­lo­ved Spot­ted Eag­le at her si­de du­ring her ti­me of la­bor and bir­t­hing. She wo­uld not let his­tory re­pe­at it­self.

  Her eyes flut­te­red open, re­ali­zing whe­re her tho­ughts had just ta­ken her! She was mar­ve­ling at how she co­uld think that far ahe­ad and con­si­der chil­d­ren with Spot­ted Eag­le when she wasn't even yet his wi­fe!

  Someone crying just out­si­de the te­pee drew Jole­na and Brown Elk apart. They both rus­hed to the­ir fe­et and went to the en­t­ran­ce. Jole­na wat­c­hed an­xi­o­usly as her fat­her lif­ted the flap, gas­ping when she fo­und Mo­on Flo­wer the­re, trem­b­ling and crying.

  "I ha­ve be­en ba­nis­hed from my pa­rents' lod­ge," Mo­on Flo­wer sa­id, sob­bing as she ga­zed from Jole­na to Brown Elk. "Whe­re can I go? What am I to do? My pa­rents di­sown me."

  Brown Elk re­ac­hed qu­ickly to Mo­on Flo­wer. He pla­ced an arm aro­und her wa­ist and drew her in­to the te­pee. "Tell us what has hap­pe­ned to ca­use such tro­ub­le bet­we­en yo­ur­self and yo­ur pa­rents," he sa­id, hel­ping her down on­to the co­uch cus­hi­oned with many pelts.

  Jolena fol­lo­wed and sat down on one si­de of Mo­on Flo­wer as her fat­her sat down on the ot­her si­de of the dis­t­ra­ught yo­ung wo­man.

  Moon Flo­wer bu­ri­ed her fa­ce in her hands, her who­le body sha­king as she con­ti­nu­ed crying. "I told my pa­rents that I was with child!" she cri­ed. "I as­ked for the­ir pity and… told them that a child born to me now wo­uld be born of a da­ug­h­ter still un­mar­ri­ed!"

  "You are with child?" Jole­na sa­id, trying to ke­ep the alarm that she was fe­eling from her vo­ice. She knew of Mo­on Flo­wer's lo­ve for Two Rid­ges. The child co­uld be no­ne ot­her than his!

  "Yes, and I am pro­ud, not as­ha­med!" Mo­on Flo­wer sa­id, gi­ving Jole­na a de­fi­ant lo­ok. "Had Two Rid­ges not di­ed, he wo­uld ha­ve mar­ri­ed me! I… had not fo­und the co­ura­ge yet to tell him abo­ut the… child."

  She lo­we­red her eyes and wept aga­in. "And ne­ver shall I be ab­le to!" she wa­iled.

  "You did not ha­ve the co­ura­ge al­so to tell yo­ur pa­rents un­til now?" Brown Elk sa­id, re­ac­hing a hand to Mo­on Flo­wer's brow, smo­ot­hing so­me fal­len dark locks of ha­ir back in­to pla­ce.

  "I did not want to tell them un­til I had ex­c­han­ged vows with Two Rid­ges and then the preg­nancy wo­uld be le­gi­ti­ma­te in the eyes of my pa­rents and my pe­op­le," Mo­on Flo­wer sa­id, snif­fling as she wi­ped her no­se with the back of a hand. "I had tho­ught to run away af­ter his bu­ri­al and stay away un­til I had the child. I did not think my pa­rents co­uld turn the­ir backs on a da­ug­h­ter who was of­fe­ring a tiny child to its gran­d­pa­rents for lo­ving and un­der­s­tan­ding. But to­day I co­uld not be­ar the tho­ught of le­aving, nor co­uld I be­ar the tho­ught of car­rying this bur­den wit­hin my he­art any lon­ger. I re­ve­aled the truth of my con­di­ti­on to my mot­her and fat­her, and ne­it­her em­b­ra­ced the kno­wing. Both are as­ha­med and they po­in­ted to the do­or and or­de­red me to le­ave."

  Knowing that Two Rid­ges had ne­ver had any true fe­elings for Mo­on Flo­wer, Jole­na was torn in her fe­elings abo­ut kno­wing that the child Mo­on Flo­wer was car­rying was his.

  Now a part of this hor­rib­le man wo­uld be ali­ve fo­re­ver!

  Yet she co­uld not shun this wo­man who­se li­fe had be­en al­te­red fo­re­ver by Two Rid­ges' ne­ed to con­qu­er as many wo­men as he co­uld to pro­ve his pro­wess.

  This wo­man had not be­en as lucky as Jole­na­to find a man who was ho­no­rab­le in every way!

  Also, this un­born child was in part re­la­ted to Jole­na! She wo­uld be the child's aunt!

  She glan­ced at her fat­her, se­e­ing how he wo­re this know­led­ge he­avy in the depths of his eyes­to know that a son had fat­he­red a child and had not wed the wo­man first!

  She co­uld see a mix­tu­re of alarm and sha­me in his ex­p­res­si­on and was glad when he ope­ned his arms to Mo­on Flo­wer, su­rely re­ady to ac­cept this wo­man in­to his li­fe as he wo­uld his gran­d­c­hild on­ce it was born.

  "You ne­ed go no far­t­her than my te­pee," Brown Elk sa­id, em­b­ra­cing Mo­on Flo­wer as she clung des­pe­ra­tely to him. "I shall ta­ke over the du­ti­es of my son. You will li­ve with me. The child will ha­ve a pla­ce to li­ve. Yo­ur child will be de­arly lo­ved."

  "Oh, thank you, thank you," Mo­on Flo­wer sob­bed. "I pro­mi­se that I will find many ways to re­pay yo­ur kin­d­ness."

  "You ne­ed not worry abo­ut re­pay­ment," Brown Elk sa­id, pat­ting her back. "That you we­re ho­nest eno­ugh to re­ve­al the truth to me, the un­born child's gran­d­pa­rent, is pay­ment eno­ugh. Sho­uld you ha­ve left the vil­la­ge, ne­ver wo­uld I ha­ve be­en gi­ven the chan­ce to hold my gran­d­c­hild, nor to gi­ve it the lo­ve it de­ser­ves from a gran­d­pa­rent."

  He pa­used, then sa­id, "Yo­ur mot­her and fat­her will envy this gran­d­pa­rent when they see he holds the child up on the day of its birth for all to see!"

  Jolena wi­ped te­ars from her eyes, than­k­ful to ha­ve be­en a wit­ness to her fat­her's de­ep emo­ti­ons and com­pas­si­on to­night.

  This ma­de it easi­er not to be so torn bet­we­en lo­yal­ti­es whe­re fat­hers we­re con­cer­ned!

  She now un­der­s­to­od the depths of his hurt when she had be­en de­ni­ed him tho­se eig­h­te­en sum­mers ago and all the ye­ars sin­ce.

  She had so much to ma­ke up to him.

  And she wo­ul­din many lo­vely ways.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Although he had ho­ped that war­ring wo­uldn't be re­qu­ired to res­cue Kirk, Spot­ted Eag­le fe­ared not­hing and was al­ways re­ady to fight.

  He had put on a nec­k­la­ce of be­ar claws, a belt of be­ar fur, and aro­und his he­ad a band of fur. He was now re­ady for wha­te­ver the night ho­urs bro­ught him.

  The mo­on was high in the sky, cas­ting its sil­ver light down upon many glit­te­ring lan­ces and brightly po­lis­hed we­apons as Spot­ted Eag­le and his war­ri­ors mo­ved with the pre­ci­si­o
n of cloc­k­work and the pri­de of ve­te­rans thro­ugh the hills and ra­vi­nes so that they co­uld not be se­en.

  Spotted Eag­le had sent Do­ub­le Run­ner far ahe­ad to check on the Cree camp whe­re Kirk was be­ing held cap­ti­ve. When Spot­ted Eag­le spi­ed Do­ub­le Run­ner up ahe­ad, re­tur­ning, he sank his he­els in­to the flanks of his po­wer­ful ste­ed and bro­ke away from the ot­hers, ri­ding to me­et Do­ub­le Run­ner's ap­pro­ach.

  Each man re­ined his hor­se to a stop alon­g­si­de the ot­her.

  ''What news ha­ve you bro­ught back to me?" Spot­ted Eag­le as­ked, wary when he saw that his sco­ut was we­aring a frown in­s­te­ad of the lo­ok of ex­ci­ted wa­ri­ness that al­ways ca­me in­to Do­ub­le Run­ner's eyes be­fo­re go­ing in­to an enemy's vil­la­ge.

  "I fo­und the cam­ping pla­ce of the Cree war party de­ser­ted," Do­ub­le Run­ner sa­id in a low rum­b­le of a vo­ice.

  Spotted Eag­le's spi­ne stif­fe­ned. "And what of Jole­na's whi­te brot­her?" he sa­id, his eyes lit with a sud­den, angry fi­re at the pos­si­bi­lity that he had be­en du­ped by his enemy!

 

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