Nakoa's Woman

by Gayle Rogers

  In time, he stopped. His own blood now covered his shirt and his leggings. Breathing deeply, he turned toward the outer tipis. The drum was still beating.

  Natosin gave sign that the lodge was to be cleared, and except for the high chiefs, the crowd went out into the rain. Natosin then spoke softly to his son. “You did not finish your words of earlier this evening.”

  “I will speak them now,” Nakoa replied. “When the white woman is moved to my lodge she will be my wife. I alone will speak for her presence. I will move my lodge from the circle of the high chiefs and never seek to live there again.”

  “The woman may yet die,” Natosin said.

  “I have still taken her. I will move out of the circle of the high chiefs.”

  “You can never follow me as head chief.”

  “I have accepted this.”

  “There are no more words to be said?” the old man asked softly.

  “There are no more on this subject, my father,” Nakoa answered, his face suffering.

  “Then so it will be,” said Natosin. “Kenny aie ki anetayi imitaiks,” he said in traditional sign the feast had ended, and then his voice broke, and he did not go on. Silently the chiefs departed, but Nakoa remained.

  “My father,” Nakoa started with great tenderness, but Natosin raised his hand for silence.

  “I have accepted your words,” Natosin said. “I do not want to hear them again.”

  “All right, my father,” Nakoa said with emotion, and left the lodge.

  Sacred Drum continued to beat. The old man put his head into his hands and wept. As the fire died, his shadow grew along the council wall. The wind had stopped and the village was silent except for the beating of the Medicine Drum. Natosin listened to it beat-beat-beat, and then the thing lying so grotesquely at his feet shuddered in its last coldness, and kicked out convulsively at the glowing embers.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Limping heavily, and bone weary, Anatsa walked slowly toward the lodge of her husband. It was not far from daylight, and the storm was clearing. Esteneapesta, the thunder maker and voice of many drums, had stilled, and to the east a false light gleamed. In her tiredness, Anatsa thought it to be the sun, and she stopped walking, and crossing her arms over her breast, faced it. The Medicine Drum still beat, caressing the night.

  Tears slid uncontrolled down her cheeks. Maria had not died, but an awful emptiness enveloped Anatsa. She touched the gold locket at her throat. She saw Maria’s face, smiling and happy, and then she saw it haunted and tear-streaked when she could not accept Nakoa’s marriage. Then she saw Nakoa as she had just left him, sitting with head bowed at her couch. Beside him was the beautiful face beaten and swollen, the thighs bruised and mutilated, the body that stopped bleeding, only to start again. Every movement brought fresh blood and new agony to Nakoa, and it was his suffering and not Maria’s that had driven her from the lodge. “Napi, Napi—help them both! Help them both!” she whispered to the glimmering sky. “Whatever it may be for them—whatever it may be—help them both!”

  Sadly she moved on.

  And as she moved on, the evil thing, the insane thing that had followed Maria to where Siksikai had waited, moved out from the burial grounds and crossed the river near which it had already taken two lives. In the smoky gray of ending night it thought of the silent tipis and the dozing horses tethered to the lodges of the Pikuni Mutsik.

  Anatsa walked on, and as she did she imagined that the drum weakened. Ahead she could see Apikunni’s lodge, and his warhorse picketed to it. She thought of her husband and of her marriage, and unbearable pity for Maria smote her. She had so much. She had everything, and now Maria struggled even for her life. Once more she halted, and faced the eastern sky in position of prayer. She spoke aloud:

  Father, the Sun,

  hear my words.

  You know that I have lived straight,

  that I have been pure.

  Hear my words, Father, the Sun.

  If the white woman lives,

  I will for you become Sun Dance Woman.

  I will starve my body of food and drink.

  I will suffer my body,

  if this white woman lives!

  Father, the Sun, Behold me! Hear me!

  Let the white woman walk a long path filled with happiness and love.

  Let her have strength of body and heart,

  and for you I will humbly make sacrifice!

  I will make sacrifice, Father,

  I—will—make—sacrifice!

  She finished her words and shuddered, shivering and cold. The coming day seemed to bring strange light, the yellow suffocation she had felt in the mountains with Apikunni, and at the river before Kominakus had been killed. The Medicine Drum beat, and now she knew that it would not stop, and even with the yellow sky a serenity came to her. She smiled, and smiling reached Apikunni’s lodge. Because she had stopped to pray, she reached it the same time as did the Crow who had hidden for so long in the burial grounds.

  She did not wholly grasp his presence. She saw the strangeness of his deerskin bleached white, of his long hair, of one forelock cut and trained to stand erect in a most terrifying manner. “Aween?” she whispered. “Who is it? Why are you dressed in the manner of the—Sahpo!” She cringed. Quickly she raised her arms before her, but he stabbed her in the breast, and she looked at him in amazement. He stabbed her again, and as she doubled over he cut the thong that held Apikunni’s horse picketed, and rode away.

  She tried to straighten, but couldn’t. Some unbearably heavy force pulled her to the earth. A man in shimmering white had stabbed her, but it was poor Maria who was cut and bleeding, not she! She smelled fresh rain on the wet earth, gentle rain that she had always loved so much.

  “Apikunni! Apikunni!” she called, and to her amazement, he was already with her. From far off she heard the beating of horse’s hoofs. Death had ridden out of a yellow sky after all. All of her coldness had not been wrong.

  “Anatsa! Anatsa!” her husband moaned, and gently tried to move her. Her chest, white hot with pain, stabbed her again in mortal agony, and he put her down, and pillowed her head with his hands. Tears from him touched her face, for surely she was not crying!

  She clenched and unclenched her hands. “I will not die!” she whispered, but she saw in her husband’s face that she would. “I did not even reach you,” she said, mourning that she had not even reached the lodge and lain with him in their bed. “I—did—not—reach you,” she said again, with great effort, for now she was too tired for talk.

  “You reached me!” Apikunni answered, and then great silence began to grow between them.

  In silence she smelled the rain of the earth again, and skipped through warm meadow grass to the glen. There Apikunni waited by the pink swamp laurel, and she was whole and beautiful, and her breasts were warm and full for him. They walked into the autumn of smoky mists, and then into the frozen winter, and clasping hands they sat before the council fires with flames crackling red and orange. Outside, spring bands from the sky were driven away in summer wind. The glacial fields had melted, the snow crept silently into streams and rivers, and on the new earth their son walked ahead of them, and shafts of the sun came through the trees and caressed him with light. The circle was completed, and the world at last lay whole and beautiful.

  Upon the twenty-first day of her marriage, Anatsa lay quietly in death, her face more beautiful than it had ever been in her life. Her husband released her still hands. In agony he looked to the eastern sky where the sun was beginning to show. Above it a star shone steadily, and involuntarily he watched it, for it was as if she were already there, lost to him as he stood bound to earth, and frozen forever as a part of the great and final silence of the skies.

  Beat—beat—beat, sounded the drum, and the moon, full that night, moved reluctantly across the prairie, as if it would stay in its full beauty. Two women had lain sorely wounded, and one had lived and one had died, and the new day came tenderly, with the la
st of the storm clouds gone.

  The sun shone warmly upon the refreshed land, cooled and comforted by the summer storm. Women went to the river for wood and water. Cooking fires were lit, and smoke from them curled lazily into the blue sky. Someone found Apikunni and his dead bride. Someone carried her slight form away from him. Wailing then came from the lodge of Apeecheken, the long Indian lament for the dead, and more fires were lit, and in the afternoon sun the dogs fought lazily over discarded meat.

  Apeecheken would shun all public gatherings, all dances, and all religious ceremonies of any kind. She would wear old clothes and not paint herself, and shun the wearing of ornaments. She would do this, and then when slow time had moved, she would give birth to a new son, and in his growing, and in her love for him, the thought of her sister would come less and less, and Anatsa would be a memory absorbed without grief.

  But it was not so with Apikunni. And it was not so with Maria. She heard the drum too. It throbbed and beat against her suffering flesh, an anvil pinning her to pain. With the drum she heard Nakoa’s voice. “Culentet,” he said. Little white bird; he called her little white bird, as he had done when he had first kissed her outside of the Indian village. Nakoa, why did you do that? Why didn’t you just take me then—as you did later? What did you do to me?

  Hurt! Hurt! Hurt! She became suddenly rational, and saw him. He was trying to still her agonized thrashing. She looked up into his black eyes. “Hurt!” she screamed. He gently touched her face. “I am,” he said quietly, and she was off again, linked to him only by that awful drum.

  Ana, Ana, help me! “We are all dead now,” she sobbed and in her moving, pain stabbed her so deeply that her face became wet with perspiration.

  But the drum wouldn’t stop. The awful drum wouldn’t stop.

  Ana, this is a Blackfoot village. See all of the tipis with their black bands at the bottom and the top, and the little white circles did you know everything is a circle? I want you to meet Nakoa. Isn’t he handsome? Ana, I love him, but he wanted that dirty Meg! Anatsa, were you really Ana all the time?

  Look at those Shawnees, all ragged and dirty. The poor miserable Indian! But Father, the Blackfoot are different! Look at the land. It is wild and savage; only a strong people could live here! All right, Father, let me present Nakoa. He is the man I love. He is my husband already. Why is Nakoa dressed like a white man? He would never do this—walk the path of a woman! Father, make Meg get away from him! Dear God, I have to leave! Where is the white horse Nitanna said would be in the burial grounds?

  She tried escape again. She sank into darker waters; she saw shadows weaving against the sky above her. Great hands came into the waters after her. Great hands held her pinioned against the hot dry air. There was no way she could escape him. Upon the seventh day after Siksikai had mutilated her, Nakoa brought her back from death. Around her now was the warmth of the sun. She opened her eyes and knew only him. “We had such a beautiful wedding,” she whispered. “Nakoa, why did you take me to give me such pain?” His hand gently covered her lips, stopping her words.

  Apikunni refused to burn the lodge they had shared together. In this way he broke tradition. He also carried Anatsa to the burial grounds himself, and he placed her upon her burial platform, gently putting all of her sewing and tanning instruments by her side. He held her cold hands, and kissed her serene lips, and then he left her alone in shadow under the summer sky. For eight days he disappeared, and remained neither at their lodge nor near her body.

  When he returned to the village, the Medicine Drum was silent, and he knew that Maria had died, or was no longer close to death. Insulated from the world, he made no effort to find out which it was, for he was still apart even from the man as close to him as blood brother. Instead he went silently and unnoticed to his and Anatsa’s lodge, and sat upon their couch, and for minutes was crushed by inner desolation and emptiness.

  The belongings that he had not placed with Anatsa had been removed. He looked at the ashes still in the firepit; she had started the last fire that had burned there. She had brought warmth to their lodge, and now it was lifeless and cold. He wanted to kneel and touch the ashes, to bless them as a part of her, but he could not. He could not slash himself, or cut his hair; his grief had to be silent. And so he painted his face in the fashion of the Indian for killing, and he marked his new warhorse, and in the next dawn, when the sky was red with sunrise, he left the Pikuni tipis and followed the long trail to Crow land.

  He left silently, but a blind old man unable to sleep sat outside his daughter’s lodge and heard him pass. He knew that the warrior rode toward the rising sun and that the warrior was Apikunni who would ride until he found his warhorse picketed outside a Crow lodge. And then he would kill the murderer of his bride. The old man dropped tears upon the flute that had been silent in his hands since Siyeh’s death.

  In time he heard the passing of another horse. Another warrior followed Apikunni. It could be no one but Nakoa. So the white woman would live. Fresh tears came and ran down the old man’s face. He wept for both the dead and the living.

  For five days Nakoa and Apikunni rode toward the eastern sky, and then they saw smoke rising from many wood fires. In front of a lodge they saw Apikunni’s horse picketed. Apikunni did not wait for the new day, but rode boldly through the village, stopping near his horse. The Crow left his lodge, and in front of his people, Apikunni killed and scalped him. Dogs awakened and barked frantically and a crowd began to gather around the dead Crow. Apikunni stood surrounded by his enemies, but before a Crow could issue a sign of challenge, Nakoa, painted for war and known to them all, rode out of the shadows. The Crow watched silently as the two Mutsik left the village, Apikunni leading his warhorse, the bloody Crow scalp dangling from his belt. Women and children watched them fearfully. Warriors followed at a distance, and when the Blackfoot had gone, there remained a respectful silence.

  For five days Nakoa and Apikunni rode back to their village, and when they reached it, they parted, Nakoa taking the extra horse to the herd. Apikunni rode directly to the burial grounds. On the trail to the river he saw her slight body ahead of him, and with a wild plunging of his heart he quickened his horse, but saw instead another maiden, another face.

  The river flowed strongly on, shining in the sunlight, winding its way into cool shade. She would never bring vessels to it again. Its empty waters would never reflect her image again.

  In the shadow of the dead, a light wind moved gently in the trees. He stopped his horse beneath her platform and looked silently up at her still figure. Her skinning knives were moving beneath her. With tears falling unashamedly down his face, he touched the scalp at his belt. It did not lessen his pain. “Anatsa,” he said sorrowfully, “this is all I could do!”

  She remained silent, deep in sleep.

  Apikunni bowed his head, and his horse pawed at the earth impatiently.

  He left her finally, and never again returned to the burial grounds. From the earth she had come and back to the earth she was returned. All of the elements would seek her, the four winds, the rains, the winged of the air; and together with the earth, each would take a part, until she again became one with them all.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  The first thing that Maria felt when she had fully awakened was the gold locket at her throat. She touched its cold metal, and knew that Anatsa was dead.

  She did not want to face this. Here then was one more death. She was a tree, and all of her loved ones leaves, and in the coming winter she was to be stripped of all of them and left barren and naked. Sunlight moved to her face and was warm and comforting. Still she would not open her eyes. Maybe she could drift back to long quiet sleep, and in a new awakening, Anatsa would be alive. She touched the locket again, and opened her eyes. Natosin sat near her.

  “Anatsa is dead,” Maria said painfully.

  “Yes.”

  “How? How?” Maria cried, trembling with grief.

  “She was killed by the Crow that had ki
lled Kominakus and Siyeh.”

  “When?”

  “When she returned from Atsitsi’s the night you were attacked.”

  “She had been caring for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, dear God!” Maria moaned. If she hadn’t been caring for me…”

  “She would have met the Crow upon another path.”

  Maria began to weep. “Where is Nakoa?”

  “He was always beside you until it was known that you would live. He slept by you. He, and not Atsitsi, has cared for you. You are his wife, my daughter.”

  “I need him now!” She struggled to sit up. The old man restrained her.

  “It is only eleven days since you almost bled to death again. Do not sit up now.”

  “I want Nakoa!” she said helplessly.

  “He is gone. He rode into Crow land with Apikunni. He will come to you as soon as he returns.”

  “Everyone—I—love dies!” she choked. “Everyone!”

  “My son will not. My son will live more suns than I have.”

  “Where is Nitanna?” Maria asked suddenly. “Where is your other daughter?”

  “She is back with the Kainah. She has returned with her father to her own people. My son sent her away.”

  “Why?”

  “In your sickness you talked of many things, and one of them was of the white horse that waited for you at the burial grounds. He asked Nitanna of this, and she said that she had meant you to be killed. My son said their marriage was ended. He could not have a woman for a wife that would kill another who was innocent.”