Nakoa's Woman

by Gayle Rogers

  “Tell me, my father. Tell me what I already know.”

  “You are Indian. She is white. You have walked different paths.”

  “This will not end our marriage. You feel anger in your heart, my father, because I do not walk in your way.”

  “I feel sorrow, but no anger. I feel age, and coldness, but not the heat of anger. There is sadness because I have to speak to you of this before the council of high chiefs, because you would not let me speak to you of this thoughtfully and quietly, as father to son. Take this woman, then, but in taking her you will not take from others! Walk your own path, but it will not be one that will bring fighting and killing to your people!”

  “I know what my father’s words will be, but speak them, my father, so the others will know, and will understand why I say here and now that I am no longer high chief of the Mutsik.”

  The lines upon Natosin’s face deepened. “Or head chief of the Pikuni,” he added. “Or head chief of the Pikuni when I am gone, and my body is dust.”

  “Or when my father is gone, and his body is dust.”

  “All for this woman?”

  “All, for Maria, my woman.”

  Natosin bowed his head, and then he looked up at his son, and then the high chiefs. “My son’s woman is white,” he said quietly. “The white man enters Snake land and crosses the prairie in growing number. More and more of the white wagons will come and then the buffalo will go, and the prairie will be fire between the red man and the white man.

  “My son’s woman came from wagons burned by the Snakes. There were many whites in those wagons, killed and already grieved for by their blood bands back in the land of the rising sun. In their mourning they might hear of my son’s white woman, for news of her capture has already traveled on the winds, and they will come here to seek her. There will be many, for many will hear, and all will think that this white woman is of their band. The Dahcotah who came to our Sun Dance saw the white woman, and the white man’s drink makes the Indian talk, and the white man’s warriors will learn of her, and then fire will come to Pikuni land. White warriors will come for my son’s woman.

  “And I will meet them alone. I will not spend another man’s blood for a woman living in my lodge!” Nakoa’s voice was as quiet as his father’s.

  “The woman by being here will make the Blackfoot land become fire!”

  “I cannot see what lies ahead, my father. But if I am not chief, no man will have to follow my path. When I see the white men come, then I will speak to them, and if my wife has accepted her marriage to me, so will they.”

  Father and son looked at each other.

  “Then so it will be,” Natosin said quietly. “Is there any one among us who would speak?”

  “I speak,” Onesta said. “When Nakoa no longer leads the Mutsik, he walks his own path.”

  “Nakoa will marry the white woman, and I will be silent,” said Itamipai.

  Ninaistako spoke, “Nakoa walks alone. He chooses his own path.” When the third high chief had spoken, a long terrified scream came to them all from the direction of the burial grounds.

  “Weekw?” someone asked.

  It came again and again, chilling, and something in the quality of the voice struck Nakoa, and he felt a violent coldness, and a strangling. “Maria!” he said. “Maria!” he shouted, and ran from the lodge.

  The chiefs looked after him in long silence. There was not another scream, but they all listened intently as if there would be. Soon thunder rolled out strongly from the mountain.

  “The voice of Esteneapesta is loud tonight,” Natosin said tonelessly, and looked into the fire. Quietly, all of the chiefs assented to the marriage of Nakoa to the white woman and the relinquishment of his leadership of the Mutsik. There was a long silence, and at last Natosin spoke. “Then, so it will be,” he said, and continued to look into the fire. Without another word spoken the high chiefs left him alone.

  The fire flickered and burned. It seemed as if a wind had come up. Natosin looked at the west wall of the tipi that lay toward the burial grounds. Painted upon it were all of the coups of his son. Now the little stick figures moved to the dancing fire, moving and suffering and bleeding again, fighting and killing again, all for this night when their courage and agony would be traded for a white woman.

  When she could, Maria turned to see her assailant. “Siksikai!” she gasped. “You have done these killings!”

  “No,” he replied. “Someone walks these grounds wearing the moccasins of Sokskinnie to make our graveyard more feared. I did not kill Kominakus and Siyeh.

  “Then why are you here?” Maria asked.

  “To make you keep your promise of the Kissing Dance. Nitanna told me where to stake the horse and that you would come to it.”

  “She meant you to kill me. She knows what you are,” Maria said. “What am I?” he asked, gripping her chin and turning her frightened face to his.

  “A monster!” she cried. “You rape and you kill!”

  “Yes!” he said. “Yes. But as long as you satisfy me—you will live. I want you to scream—cry. I want your pain.” His face was wild. His eyes were as hollow and as black as the eyesockets of a skull.

  This was the escape Nitanna had arranged; this was the way in which Maria was to be kept out of her marriage! Maria shuddered, for already Siksikai’s hands had gone to her breasts, hurting. If she were raped, how long could she live? It would not be the rape but the knife. Would she still be alive by morning? Could her trail be followed or ever found? Her mind raced on and on frantically, and she struggled against the pressure of his hands.

  “Don’t fight me,” he gritted. “If you struggle, I will kill you—first.”

  I will bear it, Maria thought. Dear God, let me bear it! Already he was inside of her, plunging like a wild animal, and the pain, repeated and repeated, was an explosion against everything tender and female that she had ever been.

  “Cry—cry!” he panted, but Maria bit her lips in agony and remained still.

  “You tricked me once when I started to do this—trick me now!”

  He would never be through—he would never be through. Impaled beneath him she saw a flash of lightning rend the sky, and the searing light didn’t end there, but reached the earth and cut burning into her flesh. “Cry!” he repeated, pulling her hair back from her face until she thought that he would pull it out of her head. He bit into her breasts and when she screamed, he withdrew from her and watching her convulsed body, straightened her out and entered her again in maniacal fury. Now she moaned and could not stop, and did not know the rain that began to beat strongly against her face.

  His lips covered hers, bruising them, and then over her lips she was startled to feel the pounding of his pulsing throat. With violence equal to his own, she was determined that he should die. Summoning strength she had never known before, she bit deep into his throat. He cried out and beat her face with a rain of blows. In mud, rain, and blood they struggled, and soon he forgot his pain and exulted in her struggling. With her arms held behind her back he forced her legs apart again and held his knife in his free hand and cut deep into the already outraged flesh. “Now enjoy Nakoa!” she heard and then she had had enough and spun away into unconsciousness.

  The rain was steadily falling. It was a cold dreary rain that beat upon her mother’s grave.

  The rain was gently falling; it was a tender sweet rain and beat against the lodge of her husband, upon this, their wedding night. A fire burned low in the firepit; even in its last embers she could see the gentle line of his lips.

  But there had been a bloody god who had straddled her and raped her and then gone back to an orange sky. No, he was the lightning who had seared her and burned her so that she could not enjoy a man. She was not to enjoy a man. She was not to accept her husband upon this their wedding night, when a summer rain beat against the lodge skins so softly. “I am sorry,” she said with bruised lips, her hair wet and dark in the mud.

  What had she done? She
was sorry and in the flowing of her tears and in the scarring of her body she could not think of what awful thing she had done. She would remember later. She might come back to the pale form lying inert in the rain and remember.

  Of course, she was Earth Woman. The sun had brought to her womb Star Boy but she wept for the way of her past. Lover and son were in the skies above her and she tried to open her eyes to see them; why had they suffered her to choose her own grave? Why did she have to remain and feed the crawling things of the earth?

  Serenity returned, the spring wonder of the rain blessed her spirit. She was not consigned to the earth. She was of no distance, no time. Joy permeated everything like the most brilliant of sunshine. She departed, but was called back in doubt. Hovering over the still white face she wailed in denial, “Dear God, who am I?”

  Nakoa found her lying upon the wet dark earth. Her flesh was naked and cold; he could feel no sign of life within her. Lightning lit the sky, and he saw the extent of her bleeding.

  “Maria!” he called in terror. He covered her with his shirt, and wept over her inert form like a child. The wind howled over them both, the pines brushing the unholy sky, the rain slashing the unblessed earth. “Maria! Maria!” he called hopelessly. This was not what should have been. This was their marriage night. On this night she was to find his love and protection; he was to love her tenderly, to cherish her and make her forget all past grief. Gently he lifted her and placed her upon Kutenai. Holding her in his arms he rode slowly back to the village.

  Her screams had been heard by the village, and the news of his riding to the burial grounds had raced among all of the tipis. Crowds lined his path. Impervious to the rain they watched him silently as he carried her home. Her face was beaten beyond recognition; blood came from her nose and mouth, coloring his naked chest so that it looked as if he, too, were bleeding. Those who could see her clearly bowed their heads in sorrow; their hearts were touched. Above the storming clouds the full moon shone serenely, but the prairie knew it not.

  At Atsitsi’s, Kutenai halted, and the old woman came quickly outside and helped Nakoa take Maria from the horse. Anatsa appeared, and followed them inside. They placed Maria upon her couch, and taking away Nakoa’s shirt, they saw in the bright firelight what Siksikai had wrought.

  Nakoa looked at her and began to tremble, as if in convulsion.

  “She will die, like the Snake woman,” Atsitsi said.

  Isokinuhkin came into the lodge with Sacred Drum, his herbs, and hands of healing. With Anatsa’s help he attempted to stop the bleeding. Nakoa held the cold hands and never took his eyes from the swollen face.

  “We cannot stop the bleeding!” Anatsa said, bursting suddenly into tears. She left Isokinuhkin’s side and began to sob helplessly. Atsitsi joined the medicine man, and the two of them worked without words.

  The fire burned silently, consuming all of the wood. When it had sunk into embers, Anatsa put more fagots into the fire pit. Pressing her hands against Maria’s locket, she rocked back and forth in agony. She could not look at the still, tortured form and she could not bear to watch Nakoa’s suffering.

  “We cannot help her,” said Atsitsi.

  “Yes, we can,” replied Isokinuhkin. “We can!”

  Nakoa watched her labored breathing, too frozen from himself to pray.

  The wind howled, sucking at the skins of the lodge, and sending a scurrying of sparks up the smoke hole.

  “She is my wife,” Nakoa said. “She cannot leave me!”

  “She still breathes,” replied Isokinuhkin.

  “She cannot leave me!” Nakoa repeated.

  The new fire began to die too. All of the shadows in the tipi grew and moved helplessly with the changing caprice of the wind. In time Isokinuhkin removed the robe that covered her and examined her closely. “The bleeding has stopped,” he said in triumph.

  Nakoa made a strangled sound and went to the door. “I am going to kill Siksikai,” he said. He looked back at Anatsa. “None of you leave her.”

  “Yuh,” Anatsa replied, turning away from him in embarrassment. He looked as if he might weep and never in her life had she seen a man cry.

  In the driving rain Nakoa walked to the inner circle of the high chiefs, where he knew Siksikai to be. He passed his marriage tipi and new pain almost smote him to the ground. He saw Maria as she had been in the moonlight of his marriage to Nitanna, begging for him with the petals of a white flower trembling in her hands. He saw Maria’s tear-streaked face, and he looked up at the storming sky in agony.

  He had been raised upon acceptance. He knew the night must come, the darkness and grief of sorrow beyond any hurting of the flesh. But where were the gods now to give their strength to man? How dared the clouds hide the moon when she loved it so? How dared the stars move in the sky when she might never look upon them again? He saw Maria in her Indian wedding dress, with bone pendants flashing from her ears, and as he walked on, Maria’s face begging for him was all that he could see. Every thrust that he had made inside of Nitanna had brought the knife into Maria. Napi, Napi, where was the strength of acceptance?

  He walked on, pushing against the wind that was raging against him. He heard the Medicine Drum begin its sacred beating to keep that beloved heart alive. Over the howling of the wind he strained every nerve to hear it. Maria was clinging to the rainswept earth, and he knew how feebly she grasped it.

  Beat-beat-beat, then thunder rolled out from the skies and in panic he couldn’t hear the drum. Napi, my Father, the Sun—but the beating had not stopped, and in the falling rain, he began to sweat. He had put on his shirt, and some of her blood still clung to it and to his leggings. Crowds began to follow him; every male in the village wanted to see him kill Siksikai. Ahead, blurred in the wet night, Nakoa could see the fires of the Council Lodge.

  Beat-beat-beat, but the drum beat more feebly. Without her he would not know the secret of union. Without her he could enter every woman in the world and find only emptiness. He looked frantically back at Atsitsi’s lodge.

  The drum stopped. He stood still and waited for it to resume its feeble beating, but it did not. He saw Maria trying to save her sister with the yellow hair. He remembered her face as he almost raped her in Snake land. He saw her when she asked him to make love to her by the river, and then he saw her again upon his first wedding night, and he almost collapsed under the driving rain. “Live! Live! Live!” his thoughts raged against the night. She was his touch with the sun. But the drum remained silent. She was gone from him. She had left him. The only sound in the village was the howling of the wind.

  He had reached the door of the Council Lodge. He did not know that he was there. He was still crouched in agony.

  Natosin felt his son’s pain. Although the white woman had died and now his son could walk his path as head chief of the Pikuni, the old man would have traded all of his dreams and every moment left of his life to make the white woman’s heart beat again. How foolish he had been to speak against union. When one believed himself to be in the pit, then the Great Father had only to reveal greater agony to show the smallness of sight.

  Beat-beat-beat so softly that it seemed an echo, the drum began again. Beat-beat-beat, it went on, picking up strength.

  “Aio nochksiskimmakit! Nochkochtokit—” Nakoa choked, straightening and standing tall before them. Tears were streaming down his face. Flowers would bloom in another spring. The moon would rise over the prairie in beauty again.

  Siksikai sprang at him, his knife seeking his throat. Instantly a hand stopped his and held it still in a grip of iron. Siksikai looked into the enraged face of Apikunni. “Dog!” Apikunni shouted. “Woman! You would kill a man asleep?”

  “Nakoa is the woman!” Siksikai shouted back. “Look how he shakes before me with a woman’s tears upon his face!”

  Everyone around Nakoa was a stranger. His thanks to the Great Father flooded his soul and in his Father’s waters no hatred existed.

  Siksikai was lunging to be free, and Api
kunni pushed him toward the fire. “Nakoa,” he shouted. “Let me kill him!”

  Nakoa stood motionless, the woman’s tears still touching his cheeks.

  Natosin looked at his fine handsome son and thought, “He will be killed.” His son was a man asleep in his soul’s radiance. It seemed such a short time ago that Natosin had seen his son born in blood; must he see him die in blood too? “I am very old,” Natosin thought. “I cannot live through another winter.”

  The drum beat on. Natosin stared intently at his son. “Do not listen to it! Do not listen! Kill Siksikai now!” But the head chief of the Pikuni sat perfectly still, his tongue silent, and his face bearing no sign of anxiety.

  “Nakoa!” Apikunni was shouting again. “Let me kill him!”

  “No!” Nakoa said harshly, as if he resented any sound that muffled the beating of the drum.

  “Then kill him!” Apikunni said furiously. “Kill him now!”

  Siksikai sprang away from Apikunni and moved at Nakoa, his face a mask of hate. Murder was in his moving hands, circling like a snake about to strike. Nakoa appeared to be seeing him for the first time. “A woman’s tears are gone,” Nakoa said. “Now you will have no time to feel yours!” Nakoa drew his knife, and the crowd in the lodge moved as far away from them as possible.

  Siksikai lunged at Nakoa and drew some blood.

  Siksikai attacked again, and Nakoa retreated. “Omaciociccaak!” Siksikai hissed, and spat into his face. Another of his blows just missed its mark. Apikunni struggled against the hands that restrained him. “Nakoa is still asleep!” he shouted.

  Now, as head chief, I will stop this fight. I will raise my hand in sign for it to end, for I will not let a snake strike down my son when my son has no heart to fight. How could my own death have tasted so sweet when I choke upon the bitterness of my son’s?

  “Meqneken-Eekimaawisa!” Siksikai was taunting, his face shining with triumph. “Wekimaawiw!” Burning with boldness he came in close to Nakoa to lunge at his heart, and they all heard the sound of his knife as it bit into Nakoa’s shirt and down his leggings. They saw the blade draw an immediate path of blood, but in that instant, Siksikai’s knife was spent, and with his left hand Nakoa held it stilled. Fiercely, he looked into Siksikai’s face and whispered, “Here is a man who uses a knife upon a woman! Now he will have a knife used upon him!” Nakoa’s knife moved and Siksikai screamed and writhed in the shock of his own castration. “You will not have another woman!” Nakoa hissed, his face lusting at the agonized form that was convulsed at his feet. Siksikai screamed again, and Nakoa kicked at his mouth. He kicked the face again, and there was a gasp of horror around him, but out of control, Nakoa kicked at the face until all of its life and shape were gone.