by Karen Kay
Haiya, haiya, have pity on me, Old Man, Naapi.
Haiya, haiya, time grows short, and my people await their freedom.
Haiya, haiya, is there not some clue? Some spirit guide who will help me?
Haiya, haiya, have pity on me, Old Man.
Haiya, haiya, haiya…”
Red Hawk’s voice droned on and on. Always he asked the same thing. Always there was no answer, no sign to point him toward the right path.
Was A’pistotooki, the Creator, listening? It was a difficult thing to determine, for in all these many years, there had been nothing to guide Red Hawk, nothing to show him the path he must take, if he were to aid his people and end their curse. In this quest, Red Hawk was floundering.
Still, the cloudy morning beckoned, and though he meant no dishonor, Red Hawk’s mind wandered off the matter at hand. Perhaps the morning vapors were at fault, for it seemed to him at times as if the mist itself were pulling him in a certain direction.
Where was she? What was she doing?
Had the girl married by now? Did she have young ones? Did she love her husband?
“Ehh-fee,” he said her name aloud.
He had never seen the girl after that one day, though he had stayed by the pool, waiting for her to return. But she had not come back, and he…he had a mission of importance to attend to. Besides, the elders had awaited him. There had been more counseling to be done, rituals to be adhered to, plus there had been Grandfather’s needs to placate. Alas, when the sun had advanced beyond the midday point, Red Hawk had left their lagoon.
Taking in a deep breath, he tried to drag his attention back to the present moment, and looking forward, he smiled, as though she stood before him. Sometimes, the mist simply had that effect on him.
Hunching over, he began to prepare for his daily bath, and he drew off his moccasins and breechcloth that he might stand naked, trusting, before the Creator. Opening his arms in welcome to the early morning fog, he started to sing:
“Thank you for the new day, A’pistotooki,” his voice rang out, though this time he spoke his prayer. “Thank you for your wisdom. But I would ask your pity. I come to you humbly, for you see before you a desperate man. I have but one full winter remaining to discover the way in which to end my people’s curse. And, A’pistotooki, I have no better knowledge as to how to end this enchantment now than I did when I was but twelve years old. As you know, I have sought out the enemy in fight after fight. Always have I shown my foes mercy. I have even abandoned my desire to revenge myself against the Thunderer.
“A’pistotooki, I have little to offer you. My needs are simple. I ask only this. I seek a helper, A’pistotooki. Some sign as to what I must do. Will you not take pity on me and hear my plea?”
Red Hawk paused, but when nothing happened, he continued. “Creator, why do my prayers go ignored? Why is it that in all this time, there has been no sign to guide me, no vision, no teacher pointing me in the right direction? Have I not done all I could? Have I not continued on this path alone? Creator, I am but a simple man. I would ask for a helper, a sign, anything.”
However, as always seemed to happen, there was nothing but the silence of the countryside to respond to him.
“A’pistotooki,” continued Red Hawk, “is it because I was the last choice as a champion? If this be so, I ask your patience. For whether my people desired to have me as their defender or not, I am yet here, and I am doing all I can to help my grandfather’s people. I would see them again, I would be reunited with Grandfather if I could. I yearn for his wisdom. I ask only this: Send me a message, a messenger, anything, so that I might learn how to end the curse of my people. That is all.”
With this said, Red Hawk wasted no time, and he executed a dive out into the middle of the stream, the water little more than shoulder deep. One strong stroke after another, and he could sense the blood beginning to flow within him. At last, he reasoned that he was warm enough to stand on both feet. He reached down and picked up a bit of sand from the riverbed to scrub his arms, face and neck.
This done, he felt clean, and expecting nothing more than a good rinse, he dove underwater, his strong legs kicking out to propel himself forward. On he swam, out toward the deepest part of the river. It was then that it happened.
Suddenly, he stopped mid-stroke.
It was she. There before him.
Using his hands to keep himself beneath the water’s surface as well as to hold him steady, he stared.
What was this? A vision at last? Or was she here with him now? Smiling at him, tempting him?
Ehh-fee? He mouthed her name, watching as a bubble of oxygen formed. He rubbed his eyes. But when he gazed forward once more, no one was there.
His spirits sank. However, a deep voice spoke up from behind him. “Seek out the water being. Seek what the water being seeks.”
Red Hawk spun around in the water.
Who was it that addressed him? He looked outward, then swam forth gently.
“Seek out the water being. Seek what the water being seeks.”
Red Hawk rubbed his eyes yet again.
Was it a fish or a monster that confronted him? If it were a fish, it was the largest one he had ever seen, bigger even than he was. If it was a monster, it might be one of the sea dogs that were rumored by the Blackfeet to exist. Whatever it was, it was about seven feet long from head to tail.
Mouthing the words, Red Hawk asked, “Are you my helper?”
But the monster/fish didn’t answer. It said instead, “The Creator has given you many clues, but you have not recognized them.”
“What clues?”
Again, the sea dog did not answer, except to say, once more, “Seek out the water being. That which you must find is that which the water being seeks.”
“Water being? Is that you?”
“Four golden images, when all in a row, slaves your people will be, no more.”
“I don’t understand. What images? All of what in a row?”
“Seek out the water being. That which you must find is that which the water being seeks.”
Red Hawk’s lungs were almost at the bursting point, and he knew he required air soon. But he was unwilling to surface. Not yet. He mouthed again, “I don’t understand.”
But the sea dog had nothing more to say, and with a flip of its tail, it spun around and swam away.
The water being? Who was the water being? He knew of no water being.
What else was it the sea dog had told him? That the Creator had already given him many clues.
What clues? Red Hawk was aware of no earlier hints given him that would indicate what he must do. Unless…
Could it be that the early morning mists were the Creator’s way of giving him help? It was certainly a time of day that he loved most, for always it reminded him of her.
Could that be the sign for which he hungered? If it were, he had been foolish, indeed, to have ignored it these many years.
He carried his conjectures further. Pretend for a moment that the mists were the Creator’s way of speaking to him, what would they have shown him?
That the mists raised his mood? That they allowed him to feel closer to…something. To her, perhaps?
Was she the water being? What if all those years ago, the Creator had sent the young girl to him on the very day he had been picked as champion? What if she had been more than a girl whose company he enjoyed? If she were his vision come to him in the flesh?
At last Red Hawk’s lungs protested too much, and the need to breathe blocked out further thought. He surfaced at once, gulping down the life-giving air. But his attention was as far removed from concern over his physical wellbeing as if his body no longer existed. Instead, he heard again the words of his spirit protector, who appeared to be a sea dog:
“Seek out the water being. That which you must find is that which th
e water being seeks.”
Ehh-fee.
Could it be? Had he not thought at first that she was part fish? Had not their entire encounter occurred in or near the water?
Effie. All at once, as though struck, he was certain of it. It was she.
Odd, how the realization calmed him, until another thought struck him: Where was she?
It was seventeen winters since they first met…a long time in which to have gone their separate ways. She could be anywhere.
Treading water to relax his muscles, Red Hawk closed his eyes, letting his mind drift, searching, if possible, a spiritual connection with this girl whom he had never forgotten. With his mind, he asked, “Where are you?”
No response.
He inhaled deeply, then again, silently, he asked, “Where are you?”
He waited, then, faintly, came an answer. “I am here.”
Red Hawk’s heart lifted.
It was good. Time and distance faded. They were, at this moment, as attuned to each other as though their time together had been yesterday.
Perhaps it should be said here that one, in another culture, might express doubts, wondering if this were all Red Hawk’s imagination, that he only thought he heard her speak because his was a desperate soul. But then one would not be taking into account that such things as conversations with the spirits, with the Above Ones and with all of creation, were commonplace to the American Indian’s heart.
“Where is here?” thought Red Hawk.
No answer, except to say, “Here.”
Short. Sweet. Nonetheless it was enough.
Red Hawk smiled, for she had answered him in the best way possible—with a vivid image of her exact location. What was more, it was a place he knew vaguely.
Opening his eyes, Red Hawk realized it was time to bring his meditation to an end, while at the same time beginning his journey. With this purpose in mind, he swam toward the shore.
Though life might have thus far handed him a good bit of disappointment, Red Hawk was at this moment happy. Effie had returned to this country.
He would go to her.
Chapter Five
Click!
Effie’s eyes flicked open.
The room was dark, but she knew she was no longer alone.
Fear shot through her instantaneously. She froze, fright taking its toll.
After a short while, her mind began to function and reason asserted itself. Though panic leapt through her, she realized she could not give rise to it. She must stay calm. Slowly, so as not to make any sound, she turned her head on the pillow.
A figure in black stole through her room. It was a slender man. What did he want?
The artifacts. Someone had broken into her room to steal the artifacts. It was the only thing that made sense.
But how would anyone know of them? Let alone that she carried them on her person. The only people who even knew of them were in her crew.
“You will not discover them here.” Perhaps she was insane, but Effie found herself speaking to the intruder as though she might, with simple words, change his mind. “Do you really think I would be so stupid?”
The figure faced her, even advanced toward her, but he said nothing.
“Who are you?” asked Effie. “How do you know of them?” She didn’t name what it was she referenced, certain they both knew exactly of what she spoke.
Silence.
Timidly at first, she sat up in bed, picking up an object that always stayed close to her. “I should warn you,” she spoke as though with ease, “that I sleep with a gun. I have done so since I was a child.”
Holding the weapon with both hands, she cocked the pistol to give emphasis to the fact. The sound of the catch was loud in the otherwise silent room.
She continued, “I have this pretty little Colt revolver pointed at your head. If I were you, I would leave as silently as I came. For if you don’t, you will soon not have the means to do so.”
The figure made no further movement. However, the sound of another pistol being cocked shot through the room.
Effie’s heart leapt into her throat. Summoning her courage, she kept her voice steady as she said, “My father always encouraged me to expect the best in people and to give fair warning, and so I will with you. I will give you only until I count to ten, and if you are still here then, I promise that I will shoot you. One…two…”
The black figure crept closer.
“Three…four…five…”
The figure darted to the side, but in doing so, had come one step closer to her.
“I am not pretending a skill I do not have,” Effie elaborated. “I may be a woman, but I have no reservations about shooting you. Six…seven…”
The man in black leapt forward but was still too far away to reach her.
Shocked, but with the gun held steadily in front of her, she counted down more swiftly, “Eight…nine.”
A blast filled the room, but not from her revolver. Her assailant’s bullet must have hit the bedding close by her. Feathers flew everywhere.
Pretending a calmness she was far from feeling, Effie said, “You missed. Ten.”
Effie pulled the trigger, and the sound of the explosion was deafening.
Had she hit her target? She peeped around the bedpost.
No. But then what should she have expected? She had not aimed to kill, only to hurt, to disable.
But the intruder, as though a mere shot had taken away his boldness, turned, and executing a rather classical pirouette, opened the door and disappeared beyond it.
Gun still clutched with both hands, still pointed toward a now absent “guest”, Effie sat quietly in the aftermath. She let out her breath, hardly able to account for the fact that someone had to know what treasure she carried. Indeed, someone had to know what her project intended to do.
How had this happened? How had this news leaked out to society’s unsavory element?
A few moments passed, and Effie became aware of the sounds of people—probably other hotel guests and her crew—who were on the other side of her door. However, it was beyond her ability to move, let alone speak or explain what had happened. Briefly, she was glad they were out there, not in here.
She was unnerved. True, she slept with a gun. True, she knew how to use one.
But never had she been forced to take action against another human being with one. She found the experience far from pleasant.
Gradually, someone opened her door—it wasn’t, after all, locked. Not anymore. One of her colleagues, Carl Bell, was followed immediately by another one of her associates, Henry Smith. Then came the rest of her crew, Lesley and Madeline, who were followed by a few others Effie didn’t know. As people began to filter into the room, it occurred to her that the worst thing that could have possibly happened to the project just had.
Not only were the artifacts no longer safe, neither was she.
I… We need protection.
On this thought, she steeled herself to explain, as best she could, what had transpired only a moment earlier.
The very next day the man she had hired as their guide quit, stating that she had misinformed him of the exact sort of danger her project entailed.
“How on God’s green earth did my guide hear about the raid on the project? On me? And so quickly?”
“Bad news travels fast, ma’am.”
“Within hours?” Effie stared at the gentleman who called himself Sheriff Hopkins, the only law in this town. He was seated before her in his office, his booted feet propped up on his desk.
“This is a very small town, ma’am,” said Hopkins, whose mustache was so long it appeared as if he had no upper lip. “Who was the first person you told about your nightly visitor?”
“There were several people staying at the hotel, Sheriff, including my crew. All were awaken
ed by the shots. And of course I had to make a report to the manager of the hotel. I believe he said his name was Mr. MacDermitt.” Effie swept her full, blue-striped silk dress in front of her as she advanced farther into the room. On her head was perched a little hat with a plume that hung down over her chignon in back. Because there was still a chill in the fresh Montana air, she wore a shapeless peplum over the dress. “But I only told him of it first thing this morning. There was no manager on duty last night.”
The sheriff raised his shoulders as if to say, Well, that explains it. Meanwhile he lit his pipe.
Effie exhaled, exasperated. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”
Taking a few puffs on his pipe, Sheriff Hopkins extinguished the match then glanced up at her.
“Tell me, ma’am,” said the sheriff without answering her question. “Why is a pretty little gal like you here? All alone? And in a country that’s wild and unruly?”
“I wasn’t aware it was a crime to be here. And, for the record, I am not alone.”
“Now don’t go gettin’ all sassy with me. Just askin’.” The sheriff removed his boot-clad feet from the desk. “I’m tryin’ to understand the reason why some man would break into your room in the middle of the night.”
Effie shrugged.
“Jealous husband?”
“I’m not married.”
“Lover’s quarrel?”
“No.”
“Irate father?”
“I am over twenty-one.”
The sheriff drew a long puff on his pipe, set it to the side then slowly shifted his weight in the chair. At length he stood up, as if only now remembering his manners.
“Now, ma’am.” He skirted around the desktop. “I have to ask myself—and you—again, why is a pretty gal like you here? I know you said you was goin’ diggin’ in the mountains—”
“I’m an archaeologist.”
“Yes, miss, I heard you the first time, but any digger I’ve ever heard tale of didn’t look like you—young, pretty, even if a trifle overdressed.”
Overdressed? Effie pressed her lips together before she said, “Then I expect your experience is very limited.”