Savage Illusions

Savage Illusions Page 37

by Cassie Edwards

  Then he ga­zed slowly aro­und him at his rapt audi­en­ce. "My wi­fe not only ga­ins a hus­band to­day, but al­so a new na­me!" he sa­id, his vo­ice ec­ho­ing ac­ross the land, thro­ugh the fo­rest, and in­to the hills and mo­un­ta­ins. "She is now cal­led Fawn!"

  There was a mo­ment mo­re of si­len­ce, then the drums we­re be­ating aga­in and ever­yo­ne was chan­ting, the chants so­on tur­ning in­to songs as the wo­men, most dres­sed in ga­la dres­ses em­b­ro­ide­red with rib­bon work, be­gan brin­ging gifts to Jole­na and Spot­ted Eag­le, la­ying them at the­ir fe­et. Many of the pre­sents we­re dri­ed me­ats, pem­mi­can and ber­ri­es, and items of clot­hes such as black moc­ca­sins, han­d­so­me he­ad­bands, and be­a­uti­ful nec­k­la­ces and bra­ce­lets.

  Moon Flo­wer sto­od in li­ne, pa­ti­ently wa­iting, and then she step­ped in front of Jole­na and held her gift out to her, in­s­te­ad of la­ying it on the gro­und.

  "Fawn, this gift I gi­ve you to­day was ma­de by my gran­d­mot­her's hands," Mo­on Flo­wer sa­id softly. "It is with much lo­ve for you that I hand this spe­ci­al gift over to you for yo­ur wed­ding pre­sent."

  Jolena was to­uc­hed de­eply by the ge­ne­ro­sity of this yo­ung wo­man who had re­cently lost so much, yet still fo­und gi­ving so easy. "It is so lo­vely," she mur­mu­red, as she sta­red down at what was eit­her a blan­ket or rug. "Are you cer­ta­in that you wish to part with it?"

  "It wo­uld ple­ase Mo­on Flo­wer very much," Mo­on Flo­wer mur­mu­red. "It is the best that Mo­on Flo­wer has to gi­ve."

  Jolena re­ac­hed her arms out and al­lo­wed Mo­on Flo­wer to dra­pe the lo­vely gar­ment over them. And as tho­ugh Mo­on Flo­wer had re­ad Jole­na's tho­ughts, she ex­p­la­ined the me­aning of the gift to her.

  ''This is a pra­yer rug," Mo­on Flo­wer mur­mu­red, kno­wing the many ho­urs it had to ha­ve ta­ken her gran­d­mot­her to ma­ke the rug from a de­er­s­kin. She had first tan­ned the skin and then sof­te­ned it using the bra­ins ta­ken from the skull of the ani­mal. She had then pla­ced her de­signs and symbols on it, so­me with pa­ints, ot­hers with shells and be­ad­work.

  "See how it is so in­t­ri­ca­tely or­na­men­ted with symbols and pra­yer tho­ughts ador­ning the skin in ce­re­mo­ni­al co­lors?" Mo­on Flo­wer sa­id, stret­c­hing the rug out so that it co­uld be mo­re easily ad­mi­red. "See the whi­te clo­uds and whi­te flo­wers, the sun god and the cur­ve of the mo­on? Abo­ve it all zig­zag li­nes run thro­ugh the blue of the sky to de­no­te the lig­h­t­ning by which the chil­d­ren abo­ve sent the­ir dec­re­es to the earth chil­d­ren who ro­am the pla­ins. It is for you to use, my fri­end, as you send yo­ur da­ily pra­yers to the sun, mo­on, and stars."

  Tears flo­wed down Jole­na's che­eks. "Thank you," she sa­id, gat­he­ring the rug ac­ross her one arm so that it ga­ve her ro­om to hug Mo­on Flo­wer. "I shall che­rish this rug, fo­re­ver and ever."

  Moon Flo­wer re­tur­ned the hug, then ges­tu­red with a hand to­ward the fe­ast that had be­en pre­pa­red for the ce­leb­ra­ti­on. "I know that you did not sle­ep last night, nor did you eat to­day," she sa­id in a mot­herly to­ne. "It is ti­me now to sit down and eat yo­ur fill." La­ug­hing softly, Jole­na nod­ded. "Yes, mot­her," she te­ased.

  Moon Flo­wer to­ok the pra­yer rug. "I will ta­ke this to Spot­ted Eag­le's lod­ge which is now al­so yo­urs, for sa­fe-ke­eping," she sa­id, then wal­ked in a skip­ping fas­hi­on away from Jole­na.

  "She se­ems so happy," Jole­na sa­id, ga­zing up at Spot­ted Eag­le as they sat down on a blan­ket. The­ir fat­hers sat to­get­her ne­arby, chat­ting and al­re­ady eating.

  "I know her well," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, as One Who Walks With A Limp ser­ved Jole­na, then Spot­ted Eag­le, a bowl of ste­aming gre­ens, lit­tle cor­n­ca­kes dri­ed in oil from sun­f­lo­wer se­eds, and pi­les of me­at co­oked in va­ri­o­us ways.

  Spotted Eag­le nod­ded a thank-you to the el­derly wo­man, then con­ti­nu­ed spe­aking with Jole­na. "Yes, I know Mo­on Flo­wer well and she may ap­pe­ar happy, but in her eyes I see much sad­ness," he sa­id, nod­ding his he­ad.

  "Well, I must find a way to re­medy that," Jole­na sa­id, glan­cing over her sho­ul­der as Mo­on Flo­wer ca­me wal­king back to­ward them. "So­me­how."

  Her eyes brig­h­te­ned when she saw Do­ub­le Run­ner step from the crowd and of­fer Mo­on Flo­wer a tray of fo­od. When Mo­on Flo­wer smi­led up at him and ac­cep­ted the tray and sat down with him so that they co­uld eat to­get­her, Jole­na con­c­lu­ded that she did not ha­ve to worry too long abo­ut this be­a­uti­ful, slight wo­man. Even tho­ugh she was preg­nant, what man­be­si­des her brot­her Kirk, who co­uld not see past his pre­j­udi­ces­co­uld not see the worth of a wo­man such as Mo­on Flo­wer? Jole­na le­aned clo­se to Spot­ted Eag­le. "I think we ha­ve not­hing to worry abo­ut," she whis­pe­red. "Mo­on Flo­wer is too lo­vely not to ha­ve a fat­her for her child well be­fo­re it is born."

  Then Jole­na la­ug­hed softly. "I will be su­re to ha­ve a dre­am that will ma­ke that pre­dic­ti­on co­me true," she sa­id, then be­gan eating the me­at with her fin­gers, con­ten­ted thro­ugh and thro­ugh.

  When the ti­me ca­me for ga­mes to be pla­yed among the war­ri­ors, Do­ub­le Run­ner ca­me to Spot­ted Eag­le, his eyes gle­aming mis­c­hi­evo­usly.

  "My fri­end, you ha­ve won the chal­len­ge of fin­ding a wo­man of yo­ur de­si­re, but can you to­day win the chal­len­ge of the it-se-wah?" Do­ub­le Run­ner ta­un­ted. "Or is yo­ur mind only on one thing? Hai-yah! Ok-yi­co­me! Jo­in the ga­me!"

  Spotted Eag­le ga­ve Jole­na a wa­ve­ring glan­ce. When she nod­ded and smi­led, gi­ving her si­lent ap­pro­val, he jum­ped to his fe­et and fol­lo­wed Do­ub­le Run­ner to a le­vel, smo­oth pi­ece of gro­und that had be­en se­lec­ted for the ga­me. At each end a log and two bows and qu­ivers of ar­rows had be­en pla­ced.

  Jolena sto­od among the crowd of Blac­k­fo­ot who we­re go­ing to watch the war­ri­ors gam­b­ling with a small whe­el cal­led the it-se-wah. It was abo­ut fo­ur in­c­hes in di­ame­ter and had fi­ve spo­kes, on which we­re strung dif­fe­rent co­lo­red be­ads ma­de of bo­ne.

  Spotted Eag­le and Do­ub­le Run­ner to­ok the­ir pla­ces at each end of the co­ur­se. Jole­na lo­oked an­xi­o­usly aro­und her as the men who we­re not pla­ying be­gan to bet on the si­de, so­me cho­osing Spot­ted Eag­le as the win­ner, ot­hers cho­osing Do­ub­le Run­ner.

  When the ga­me star­ted, Jole­na che­ered Spot­ted Eag­le on as she wat­c­hed, wi­de-eyed, to see how this ga­me was pla­yed. The whe­el was rol­led along the co­ur­se, and Spot­ted Eag­le and Do­ub­le Run­ner aimed the­ir ar­rows at it. Po­ints we­re co­un­ted ac­cor­dingly as the ar­rows pas­sed bet­we­en the spo­kes, or when the whe­el, stop­ped by the log at the ot­her end, ca­me in con­tact with the ar­row. The po­si­ti­on and ne­ar­ness of the dif­fe­rent be­ads to the ar­row rep­re­sen­ted a cer­ta­in num­ber of po­ints. The pla­yer who first sco­red ten po­ints won. Jole­na co­uld tell that it was a very dif­fi­cult ga­me and that a pla­yer had to be very skil­lful to win it.

  Spotted Eag­le was the vic­tor. Do­ub­le Run­ner em­b­ra­ced him, la­ug­hing and swe­ating. "You ha­ve won it all to­day, my fri­end," he sa­id, his eyes dan­cing. "You ha­ve much to ce­leb­ra­te to­night in yo­ur lod­ge."

  Jolena blus­hed, un­der­s­tan­ding his me­aning and an­xi­o­us to be a part of her hus­band's vic­tory!

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Fi­ve Ye­ars La­ter

  It had be­en a long and ti­ring day for Jole­na. She had go­ne with the ot­her wo­men of the vil­la­ge to dig up a go­od supply of ca­mas ro­ot whi­le it was still in its blo­oming sta­ge. A lar­ge pit had be­en dug in which a hot fi­re was bu­
ilt, and the wo­men had ba­ked the ca­mas for ho­urs.

  Now the sun had set and a co­ol spring bre­eze was blo­wing thro­ugh the camp. A ro­aring fi­re was bur­ning in the fi­re­pit as Jole­na sat be­si­de her fat­her in­si­de Spot­ted Eag­le's lod­ge. They had just eaten a de­lig­h­t­ful me­al of ca­mas, the fresh-ro­as­ted ro­ots tas­ting li­ke a ro­as­ted ches­t­nut, with a lit­tle swe­et po­ta­to fla­vor.

  Jolena ga­zed pro­udly over the fi­re at Spot­ted Eag­le as he was tel­ling the­ir son, Yel­low Eag­le, the dif­fe­rent ways to co­unt co­ups.

  Although only fo­ur, Yel­low Eag­le was an apt stu­dent of Blac­k­fo­ot lo­re and cus­toms, al­re­ady ab­le to ri­de a hor­se and sho­ot the small bow and ar­row that his fat­her had ma­de for him.

  Yellow Eag­le was just li­ke his fat­her in fe­atu­res, man­ner, and ha­bits. And this ma­de Jole­na very pro­ud and happy.

  The only thing mis­sing from the­ir li­ves now was Spot­ted Eag­le's fat­her. He had pas­sed to the ot­her si­de, over the mo­un­ta­ins in­to the ghost land, the Sand Hills. On the day of his bu­ri­al ri­tes, Spot­ted Eag­le had sto­od be­fo­re his pe­op­le and had spo­ken to them of be­ing the­ir chi­ef.

  The pe­op­le of his vil­la­ge had che­ered him on, lo­oking to him as a le­ader who wo­uld ke­ep them in pe­ace, for Spot­ted Eag­le to­ok pri­de in the fact that from his ear­li­est days ne­ver had he fo­ught the whi­te man.

  Now Spot­ted Eag­le was be­gin­ning to pre­pa­re his own son for the ro­le of chi­ef. "Long ago, my son, when I was a small child of three, my fat­her sat me down be­si­de him, as you are sit­ting with me now, and ta­ught me many things," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id.

  Spotted Eag­le stop­ped in mid-sen­ten­ce and eased Yel­low Eag­le from his lap when the so­und of hor­ses ap­pro­ac­hing out­si­de bro­ke the si­len­ce of the mo­on-sp­las­hed vil­la­ge.

  "Who can that be?" Jole­na sa­id, scram­b­ling to her fe­et.

  She jo­ined Spot­ted Eag­le at the en­t­ran­ce­way and sto­od asi­de as he lif­ted the buc­k­s­kin flap and pe­ered out­si­de. Then he step­ped from the te­pee, Jole­na fol­lo­wing him.

  She slip­ped her arm thro­ugh Spot­ted Eag­le's as they awa­ited the ar­ri­val of tho­se who we­re ap­pro­ac­hing. The­re we­re ten hor­se­men, flan­ked on each si­de by Spot­ted Eag­le's sen­t­ri­es, who kept a con­s­tant vi­gil sur­ro­un­ding the vil­la­ge, to ke­ep ene­mi­es from at­tac­king.

  The mo­on was bright, and as the hor­se­men grew clo­ser, Jole­na re­cog­ni­zed mo­re than one of them as whi­te pe­op­le, not only by the­ir at­ti­re, but by the be­ards that so­me of them wo­re.

  "It has be­en many mo­ons sin­ce whi­te pe­op­le ca­me in­to our vil­la­ge, es­pe­ci­al­ly wit­ho­ut an in­vi­ta­ti­on to do so," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id. "I do not wish to sha­re a smo­ke with any of them. Too many are ta­king land that do­es not be­long to them! If ever I ma­ke war, it will be aga­inst them!"

  "Warring is not the way," Jole­na mur­mu­red. "I ho­pe that you will not be­co­me as the Si­o­ux, Sit­ting Bull, who is se­eking con­f­ron­ta­ti­on with the whi­te sol­di­ers. I ho­pe that you wo­uld still fol­low yo­ur own he­art, dar­ling, by ne­ver se­e­ing war as the only way to find jus­ti­ce for our pe­op­le."

  Spotted Eag­le ga­zed down at her. "It is al­ways go­od to he­ar you say 'our pe­op­le'," he sa­id, smi­ling. "Fawn, for so long you we­re not a part of us." He pa­used, then sa­id, "And do not worry abo­ut war­ring. I dif­fer from Sit­ting Bull. It is still my in­tent ne­ver to see the blo­od of our war­ri­ors spil­led ac­ross the land. If the­re is a pe­ace­ful me­ans to set­tle dis­pu­tes bet­we­en our pe­op­le and the whi­tes, I shall al­ways find it.'' "And what of the Cree, yo­ur ar­c­he­nemy?" Jole­na da­red to ask, glad that whi­le she had be­en mar­ri­ed to Spot­ted Eag­le the Cree had kept the­ir dis­tan­ce.

  Spotted Eag­le's eyes lit with fi­re at the men­ti­on of the Cree, and his jaw tig­h­te­ned. He cho­se not to res­pond.

  Jolena tur­ned her eyes to­ward the ap­pro­ac­hing hor­se­men aga­in. When she re­cog­ni­zed the le­ad ri­der, she grew cold in­si­de and swa­yed from diz­zi­ness.

  Kirk!

  It was Kirk!

  She had not se­en or he­ard from him sin­ce his de­par­tu­re tho­se fi­ve long ye­ars ago. Even when she had sent a mes­sa­ge from Fort Chan­ce to her fat­her and brot­her, she had be­en ig­no­red.

  A fe­eling of fo­re­bo­ding swept over Jole­na at the sight of her brot­her.

  She had mis­sed him, but she did not want him to com­p­li­ca­te her li­fe aga­in with talk of li­fe back in Sa­int Lo­u­is and the fri­ends and fa­mily she had tur­ned her back on.

  If he spo­ke of that li­fe aga­in, she wo­uld ab­so­lu­tely re­fu­se to lis­ten. She ne­ver co­uld ha­ve be­en as happy an­y­w­he­re as she had be­en the­se past ye­ars in the vil­la­ge of her true pe­op­le, mar­ri­ed to her be­lo­ved Spot­ted Eag­le.

  When Yel­low Eag­le ca­me in a rush from the te­pee and clung to the skirt of her buc­k­s­kin dress, Jole­na's fat­her fol­lo­wed him to stand at Spot­ted Eag­le's right si­de. Jole­na squ­ared her sho­ul­ders. Not­hing wo­uld ta­ke them away from her. But she co­uld not deny her an­xi­ety as Kirk swung him­self out of his sad­dle and wal­ked to­ward her. She had lo­ved him for so long, long be­fo­re she had ever tho­ught it pos­sib­le to li­ve with her true pe­op­le. She co­uld not deny the cla­im he had on her.

  "Kirk?" Jole­na mur­mu­red, then ran to him and flung her­self in­to his arms and hug­ged him. "Oh, Kirk, why ha­ve you ig­no­red my mes­sa­ges? Why? And what of fat­her? How is he?"

  "Father is the re­ason I ha­ve co­me," Kirk sa­id, easing her from his arms. "Jole­na, he las­ted un­til only a few months ago. Then… then he just went to sle­ep. He di­ed wit­ho­ut pa­in."

  Jolena's he­art se­emed to stop be­ating for a mo­ment. In her mind's eye she saw her whi­te fat­her as she had lo­ved and known him as a child. She had sha­red her sec­rets with him. She had la­ug­hed and joked with him. Tho­se things she had mis­sed the­se past fi­ve ye­ars.

  "Kirk, did he die ha­ting me?" she as­ked, te­ars stre­aming down her che­eks.

  "No, sis," Kirk sa­id softly. "He knew from the mo­ment he to­ok you from yo­ur mot­her that you wo­uld one day le­ave him. It hurt, but he ac­cep­ted it. The­se past ye­ars he was happy, wri­ting his jo­ur­nals, and enj­oying yo­ur con­t­ri­bu­ti­ons to his but­terfly col­lec­ti­on."

  " My con­t­ri­bu­ti­ons?" Jole­na sa­id, her vo­ice drawn.

  "Yes, sis," Kirk sa­id, smi­ling down at her. "After I re­ac­hed Fort Chan­ce, I led a de­tac­h­ment of sol­di­ers back to the si­te of the ac­ci­dent. Whi­le they we­re bur­ying the de­ad, I fo­und se­ve­ral of yo­ur jo­ur­nals, as well as the but­terfly col­lec­ti­on that you had be­gun. The­re we­re eno­ugh cards left un­har­med to gi­ve our fat­her much ple­asu­re."

  He nod­ded to­ward his hor­se. "Sis, fat­her fi­nal­ly wro­te a bo­ok," he sa­id. "It's abo­ut but­ter­f­li­esand his li­fe. I've bro­ught you a copy."

  Jolena's pul­se ra­ced as she wa­ited for Kirk to go to his hor­se and lift the bo­ok from his sad­dle­bag. She to­ok the bo­ok and held it ten­derly wit­hin her hands as she ga­zed down at it. Se­e­ing her fat­her's na­me on the co­ver ma­de her very pro­ud.

  "Thank you, Kirk," Jole­na mur­mu­red, hug­ging the bo­ok to her chest. "You went to a lot of tro­ub­le brin­ging it to me. I shall al­ways che­rish it."

  Kirk lo­oked aro­und at the pe­op­le who we­re co­ming from the­ir dwel­lings to see who the la­te night vi­si­tor was. "Sis, I've co­me for mo­re re­asons than I've con­fes­sed," he ad­mit­ted, his ga­ze mo­ving from fa­ce to fa­ce, se­ar­c­hing for one in
par­ti­cu­lar.

  "And that is?" Jole­na as­ked, se­e­ing that he was stud­ying ever­yo­ne and sud­denly gu­es­sing why. She glan­ced over at Mo­on Flo­wer's te­pee, then he­ard his gasp as his for­mer lo­ve wal­ked slowly to­ward him, Do­ub­le Run­ner at her si­de, one child in his arms and anot­her in Mo­on Flo­wer's.

  Kirk pa­led and qu­ickly lo­oked away from Mo­on Flo­wer. "I sho­uld ha­ve known that she wo­uld be mar­ri­ed," he sa­id, ra­king his fin­gers thro­ugh his ha­ir. "I sho­uld've co­me so­oner."

  "If you lo­ved her, you sho­uldn't ever ha­ve let her go," Jole­na sa­id, re­mem­be­ring the day that Mo­on Flo­wer had re­tur­ned to the vil­la­ge, he­ar­t­b­ro­ken. "Do­ub­le Run­ner is a go­od hus­band. Mo­on Flo­wer lo­ves him very much. The­ir chil­d­ren are be­a­uti­ful, are they not?"

  Kirk glan­ced aga­in Mo­on Flo­wer's way, the­ir eyes mo­men­ta­rily loc­king. Then he shif­ted his ga­ze to the chil­d­ren. "They are lo­vely chil­d­ren," he mur­mu­red, bo­wing his he­ad.

 

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