by Gayle Rogers
“I know,” Maria said sadly.
“Think of the woman who wanted the past instead of her lover and her son. She had created the first star of the earth, but she wanted her grave instead.”
Maria smiled and looked up at him tenderly. “I love you and there is no grave in this world for me,” she said.
He caught her hand and put it to his lips. “I hope not!” he said with feeling.
“I will trade all that I am, to be your wife.”
“I hope that you can,” he said seriously, and mounting Kutenai, disappeared among the shadowed tipis.
Maria laced the doorflap tightly closed. She hummed softly to herself as she undressed. Atsitsi’s great bulk was silent. For once she was not snoring. Maria felt a sudden pang for the old woman, who had never known a love like hers. How dismal it would be, how desolate, to live a life without Nakoa for a lover!
Soberly, she stretched out upon her couch. She prayed more deeply than usual. As she thought of her blessings, she thought of Ana who had never known a lover. She thought of her mother and her father, and of how they must have grieved at their separation. Pain that she had ever condemned her father for anything at all made tears run down her cheeks. But when she thought of Nakoa and remembered the feel of him and how he kissed her, warmth flooded her soul and her grief went off somewhere, a quiet whisper.
Chapter Seventeen
Early the next morning the camp criers announced the erection of the Sun Dance pole and the building of the Medicine Lodge. The blood bands sent young men of the tribe to bring in trees. Nine forked trees were needed for the lodge poles, branches for rafters, and green boughs to cover the lodge sides. The Mutsik went forward as a war party to bring back the center pole, counting coups as they cut it and broke off its branches. The pole was dragged back to the village by lariats and a travois.
Sikapischis had already purchased the Sun Dance Bundle and now in the lodge of Isokinuhkin, Chief Medicine Man, it was transferred from the former Sun Dance Woman to her. For the first time the village saw their Sacred Woman, now in her fifth day of fasting, as the ceremony of transferring the Sun Dance Bundle was witnessed by everybody who could crowd into Isokinuhkin’s lodge. Sikapischis was still painted with sacred red, and she was dressed in ceremonial clothing of deer and antelope skins; singing in unison, her women attendants placed the sacred headdress upon her head. Then they put an elkskin robe upon her shoulder and sang the elk song, and those listening outside knew that it was time for Sacred Woman to emerge from the lodge.
The Medicine Lodge was yet unfinished, but a temporary shelter had been built for Sikapischis and Isokinuhkin. Maria watched her friend and the Medicine Man move toward it. Sikapischis was weak and could not stand without the help of a staff; leaning heavily upon it, she moved slowly toward the Medicine Lodge, faltering twice. Isokinuhkin waited for her in her failing, staying reverently behind her; she gained new strength and walked on, her eyes fixed upon the earth. In the ritual, it was not yet time for her to face the sun. Toward the unfinished lodge she walked, east to south, following the course of the sun through the sky, and finally she and Isokinuhkin entered the shelter.
Offerings were now brought to her from many warriors, and then women came, bringing their collections of sacred tongue. One woman came to Sikapischis, and faced with her the setting sun. “Father Sun,” she said. “Hear my words, and pity me in my pain! I have lived straight, and I have been always a clean woman! I bring this tongue that my husband might live, my husband Wunnestou, messenger to the great Mutsik.”
A strange look came to Sikapischis’s face. She stopped looking at the sun and looked instead at the wife of Wunnestou. The woman became flustered, and bowed toward the sun. “You bow, when your words do not,” Maria heard Sikapischis say softly. “Will you speak again?”
“Yes,” the woman answered. “In pain I ask that my husband may live.” Sikapischis nodded, and the woman departed. Natosin, head chief, entered the shelter, and with Sacred Woman and the Medicine Man, faced the sun. “It is time now for the raising of the Sun Dance pole.”
Warriors already selected and dressed for the ceremony raised the pole with ropes; chanting, four lines of warriors raised the Medicine Lodge rafters. Green cottonwood boughs were placed against the lodge sides, and, in the deepening dusk, the Medicine Lodge stood completed. In a circle so large that its outer fringes were not within sight of the ceremony, the Pikuni sang the tribal hymn, and on its last notes, the crowds dispersed.
The village waited for the Sun Dance. Men were purified in the sweat houses; women had offered their sacred tongues; the Sun Dance Woman had mortified her flesh, and the next day could eat and drink. The boys who would become men ate that night in silence. The time for their suffering and their testing was at hand, and all of them knew the agony of its touch.
Caught in the crowds, Maria looked for Nakoa. She had not seen him all day; yet he had said that during this time of the Sun Dance ceremony, he was free. She had not seen Anatsa since her marriage, and of course she could not talk with Sikapischis. Walking to Atsitsi’s lodge, Maria felt lonely. The happiness that had lulled her to sleep the night before had vanished. She felt impending doom and death, and worked to shake both from her mind, but could not.
Atsitsi was eating when Maria arrived and looked as gloomy as Maria felt. Atsitsi bit into the meat, and Maria put her face in her hands and looked sadly into the fire.
“Why not eat?” Atsitsi asked.
“I don’t want food.”
“Nakoa leave you alone?”
“Nakoa will never leave me alone.”
“Natosin stronger than Big Maria!” Atsitsi snapped.
Maria’s head turned. There was a sound outside of the lodge. “It is Nakoa,” she said happily to Atsitsi. “I said he will not leave me!”
“Man cannot keep pretty bird song or cloud in sky,” Atsitsi growled, her face glistening with grease, and laced the door closed as Maria left.
Nakoa was outside, and the camp was light enough that Maria could see that he was smiling as they walked toward the circle of high chiefs. Many lodge fires burned, and the camp was almost as bright as day. They came to a group of boys dancing around a burning pine trunk. Two men with long poles scraped the burning wood, so that showers of sparks fell to the bare backs of the boys. They were being burned painfully, but not once did their circle break, nor did their singing or dancing stop. “Why do they do that?” Maria asked, repelled and shaken.
“They are preparing for the last day of the Sun Dance, and the pain they will meet.”
“What will happen to them then?”
“You will see,” he said quietly.
“I don’t want to!”
He took her hand, and grasped it. “You must, and without pity.”
Maria shuddered. “Is it that bad?”
“It is hard for the women to bear. They do not drift in the mists of pain, and they see.”
“Did you do this?”
“Of course! You know that no boy becomes a warrior, or takes a woman, who has not borne the torture of the Sun Dance!”
Maria bowed her head. “Do any die?”
“Some have.”
“I will not watch it!”
“Yes. You will be my wife. If I could endure the pain, you can endure the sight!”
“Oh, dear God!”
“It is done with reason. I have told you this.”
“Is it just to test the ability to bear pain?”
“There is the thought of suffering for our Father, and maybe to some, of sacrificing.”
“And being protected in turn.”
“It might be. But the ceremony of this last day was first decreed so that the established warriors could pick new ones, so that men could be chosen among the boys.”
“It is still terrible!”
“A part of everything is terrible. A part of every life is terrible.”
“Birth is terrible,” Maria said, thinking of Edith Holmes. “I saw a
woman bleed to death having her baby, but her baby was never born. It came partly, and then could come no more. She just bled—and suffered—and bled—until she was like a pale rag doll—a doll with grass stuffing!”
He looked down at her. “You are strong,” he said gently. “You will not die in birth.”
“Edith Holmes was strong. That is why it took her so long to die.”
He stopped, and caressed her shoulders with his hands, holding her still. “I would not let you die in this way. If you so suffered, I would take the child from you. I would take the son that I want with all of my heart in pieces before I would let you die!”
His solemn voice had carried, and a shadow stopping near them heard his words. Feeling the gaze, Maria and Nakoa turned toward him.
“Is it now that when I want words with my son, I have to seek him out?” Natosin asked quietly.
Nakoa said nothing. His father was looking at him sternly. “Were you and your white woman going to ride the camp circle again tonight?”
“Yes,” Nakoa said.
“You speak just one word, but in that word lies anger. Is this anger for me or for yourself?”
“I did not know the anger in my voice. It is not for my father. I always welcome the words of my father.”
“Then receive these. It is that you cannot ride the camp circle tonight in sign of courtship.”
“It is that I cannot?” Nakoa repeated quickly.
“Defiance will rest until I have spoken. The Kainah have arrived, and with them my friend as close as blood brother, and his daughter, your promised bride. Both father and daughter wait for you now, at my lodge.”
Maria’s heart sank, and she felt her hands grow cold. What she had dreaded had come to pass. Nakoa saw her stricken face. “Maria,” he said tenderly, “return to Atsitsi’s.”
“All right,” she said stiffly. He now would send Nitanna away, and she could not tell what resistance he would meet from Natosin. She looked up at him pleadingly. Have courage, my darling, she wanted to say. Then she remembered that she had taught him none of her words for endearment—darling, dearest, my love—and she wanted to weep because he would not understand them at all. Their eyes locked, and in his she saw strength and a will that would not bend. And in them she read his love, and it was upon all of his face for his father to see too. “Do not walk in the camp tonight,” he said.
“All right,” she answered.
“Do not walk alone until after we are married,” he pursued.
“All right,” she said again and turned to leave him.
He looked toward the outer circle anxiously. Few people were moving among the lodges. Most of the Pikuni had retired for the night. “I will take the white woman… Maria,” he corrected himself quickly. “I will take her to Atsitsi’s lodge.”
Natosin nodded in agreement, and left them. When he had gone, Nakoa took her cold hands and held them in his. “Why do you tremble?” he asked her.
“Because I love you,” she answered. “I am afraid of Nitanna.”
“Nitanna is nothing to me,” he answered, and they walked toward Atsitsi’s From a nearby lodge she heard the singing of the Raven
We fly high in the air,
Our power is strong,
The west wind is our medicine.
“I fly!” Maria answered to the song. “My power is strong, fresh from the mountains and the seas, for I am the west wind!”
He pressed the hand that he held as they walked together.
“Nakoa,” she asked him softly, “what does your name mean?”
“It means Morning Eagle. I was named after the Nitsokan of my father.”
Morning Eagle! How like a proud and untamed eagle he was. Oh, to marry him in a white man’s church, to stand with him in front of all relatives and friends. How proudly she would stand with him for, among any people, white or red, his majesty would tower, and beside his strength the white man’s cloth, the white man’s churches and houses would be nothing.
At Atsitsi’s they embraced briefly and parted without words. She watched his tall form until he vanished in the darkness. “Walk your own path, my beloved,” she said to him inwardly. “Go with your father, but walk your own path!”
Nitanna meant nothing to him, and he would send her back to her people. Maria felt a pang for Nitanna and her great loss in losing Nakoa, but her own ecstasy swelled within her heart and banished any thought of sadness away. She looked up at the beautiful glittering stars; this was still Sacred Night to her, and she felt as if she and Nakoa were already married, having left the church of her dream, and walking together down the long path of white flowers that bloomed upon the prairie.
At dawn the next day Maria listened to the camp criers summoning the village to the great Medicine Lodge. She watched the Weather Dancers. To insure clear weather for the ceremonies they walked ahead, stopping on their way to the lodge four times and chanting to the beating of three drummers who walked behind them.
The sky was clear and blue; not one cloud marred the touch of the sun. Maria wore her best dress, richly quilled in red, and she felt herself beautiful. She would marry a king, so she was queen, and she was proud that her body had ripened for his caress. She walked in grace and beauty and dignity; every eye followed her as she made her way to where the Sun Dance would begin
Sikapischis, still painted but no longer fasting, waited for them in her sheltered booth, and by her side stood Isokinuhkin, the chief Medicine Man. Then from the lower societies of the Ikunuhkahtsi up to the Mutsik itself came dances and separate rituals to the sun. For two days the praying and war songs went on, and amid the beating of the great drums Maria sat in new dignity. Not once did she see Nakoa. Not once did she see or even hear sign of his bride to be, Nitanna. Natosin and the girl’s father, Inneocose, sat side by side through all the ceremonies in majesty and pride, but they sat in no more majesty than did Maria. From the depth of her love she would make him proud.
Upon the third day the Mutsik gave ceremony alone, and Maria watched them file into the lodge and sit in the prominent places reserved for them. Nakoa, their high chief, was absent. The dancing began and fifteen Mutsik re-enacted their coups of the war path. A fire was started before the Sun Dance pole, and the Mutsik danced before it, and with each coup counted a stick dropped into the fire. “Where is Nakoa?” an old woman asked. “Where is Nakoa to make the fire blaze higher?”
Maria looked quickly to Natosin, but he gave no indication of hearing the querulous voice. Still, a silence fell, and the dancing stopped. Eyes turned to Maria, but she gave no heed to them. “It is dark,” Natosin said, and he and Inneocose rose and walked from the lodge. Sikapischis followed, and then Isokinuhkin, the Mutsik, and, lastly, the spectators.
Outside, Maria felt the cool air of dusk and at approaching night was stabbed with loneliness. She would go to Anatsa. She had seen her every day, but they had sat apart at the ceremonies and had not talked. Now she had to have talk with her and be touched by her gentle eyes.
Maria walked to Apikunni’s lodge and standing by the door, called Anatsa’s name softly. Anatsa came out immediately, joy and pleasure shining upon her face at the sight of Maria. They clasped hands.
“Why didn’t you come sooner?” Anatsa asked.
“I didn’t want to intrude on the first days of your marriage,” Maria answered. “Tonight, I have brought you a wedding gift.” She unclasped a little golden locket of her mother’s that she had worn around her neck from the day her mother had died. “This is all I have to give you. My mother left it to me—and I give it to you in love.”
Anatsa took the locket and held it in her slender hand. She went inside the lodge and held it reverently up to the firelight. “It is beautiful,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I know the feeling you must have for it.”
“It is of white man’s gold,” Maria said, “but it carries the light and fire of my mother. I give it to you that you might have light and love in your marriage, and walk a long and h
appy path.”
Anatsa looked down at the shining locket. “It shines with your light, not your mother’s. I will wear it and never take it off, for it will carry your warmth.”
“Anatsa,” Maria said, “my heart is filled with such joy for you, for your love and happiness in a good marriage. Apikunni is worthy of your love.”
“If all of the days left to me were to be filled with agony, I could pay their price with my happiness tonight! Maria, now that Nitanna is here, when will you and Nakoa marry?”
A darkness came into the lodge. The fire flickered upon the wedding gifts, the new robes, the backrests, and parfleches that Apeecheken had given her little sister, and suddenly the fire itself was without life.
“You do not answer,” Anatsa said gently.
“I do not have a mother or a sister to bless my marriage,” Maria answered.
“I am your sister,” Anatsa said. “When is your marriage to be?”
“In eight days from now.”
“I am glad for you. Nakoa’s name is known in every Indian land, but he is gentle.”
“I know,” Maria said sorrowfully.
“Why do you grieve?” Anatsa asked.
Maria turned impulsively toward the fire, not wanting Anatsa to see the trembling of her lips. “Anatsa, why doesn’t he come to the ceremonies? Why hasn’t he sought me out? He said that he would be with me every night of the Sun Dance!”
“Nitanna is here. I have heard they are married.”
“No!” Maria said in agony.
“I do not believe this,” Anatsa said quietly. “They are too important to marry without ceremony.”
“Anatsa,” Maria said wildly, “we love each other so! Our worlds are one!”
Anatsa smiled. “I know.”
“He does not want Nitanna.”
“I hear your words, and I believe them.”
“He will not marry Nitanna. He is going to send her back the way she came, unmarried.”
Anatsa turned away, and put more wood upon the fire. Her face had saddened, and Maria felt new fear. “Maria,” she said, “shall I speak to you with a straight tongue?”