Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  "The little one?" Sakote frowned in concern and clenched his arms around his bent knees. Hintsuli was his responsibility. At least, Sakote felt that way. If the boy had done something wrong... "Does he offend the old ones? I’ve tried to teach him the way, but he’s young. He’s curious, like Raccoon, and there are many new things in the world to—“

  His mother interrupted him with a soft chuckle. "He is like his father, full of dreams. But he’ll grow and learn. One day his heart will yearn for another, and she will calm his spirit. Then he’ll find his place." She rolled the heating rock through the basket of mush with her looped paddle. "But it isn’t the little one I speak of."

  Sakote lifted his head to meet her eyes.

  "I worry about my first son."

  He rocked back on his haunches, confused. He scanned the village quickly to make certain no one listened. The elders talked amongst themselves before the kum, the sweathouse. The children played with a buckskin ball. The women stirred mush and turned the roasting trout.

  He leaned forward to murmur, "Why does my mother worry about her first son?"

  She dipped a finger into the warm mush to test its flavor, then continued stirring.

  "His heart is divided like a tree struck by lightning. His spirit walks in two worlds."

  Sakote rubbed his thumb across his lip. "The Great Spirit will lead him down the true path."

  She was silent for a long while. The soft crackle of fire, the murmur of old men’s voices, the scuffle of pine needles beneath the feet of shrieking children all receded into the distance. He heard only the slow, rhythmic stirring of the paddle through the mush basket.

  "He is like...that other Hintsuli," she finally said, ignoring Sakote’s startled intake of breath. It was dangerous to speak of his dead father. He stared at her, stunned silent, until she let the paddle rest against the side of the basket and returned his direct gaze. "He must make his own path."

  Sakote thought about her words all through supper. Afterward, while his father’s brother told the tale of Turtle and the beginning of the world, he thought about her words. And even when the elders gathered before the fire to discuss the Kaminehaitsen, the Feather Dance to come with the next moon, Sakote could think of nothing but what his mother had said.

  When he slept that night, he dreamed again of the white, green-eyed eagle and the two eggs, of leaving his home and following the eagle north. But when he awoke, he was no closer to understanding either the dream or the destiny words of his mother.

  Hintsuli occupied most of his morning. The boy was excited about the Kaminehaitsen, for he would see his brothers of the neighboring villages, some he hadn’t seen since the last Feather Dance. He was as pesky as a yellow-jacket, wanting his own wololoko, a splendid headband of feathers, so he could impress his Konkow brothers. Of course, Hintsuli was too young to wear a wololoko. He wouldn’t be stolen by the elders for his yeponi ceremony for many years.

  But his little brother needed something, some symbol that he wasn’t the same boy they’d met last year. Sakote had a long, slender piece of basalt he’d been saving to make a hunting knife. Perhaps he’d give it to Hintsuli.

  They worked all morning together. Sakote flaked bits of rock from the blade to make it sharp but strong, carved the wood handle and sealed them together with hot pitch. Hintsuli cut an old piece of deerskin into a long strip to wrap the handle. By the time it was finished, the boy beamed with pride, and the sun was high and hot on the earth.

  As Hintsuli ran haphazardly off through the woods to show his friends his new prize, Sakota yelled after him to be careful.

  He’d planned to snare a few squirrels today for the evening stew, but he’d left his hunting pouch at the waterfall. He frowned. He’d hoped to avoid places that would remind him of the white woman. But he had to retrieve it. The deerskin pouch was a gift from his father, and the tools in it—the snares, the knives, the mountain hemp line—would take days to replace.

  So with a parcel of dried deer meat and a promise to his mother that he’d bring back some woodpecker feathers for her husband’s wahiete—his ceremonial crown, Sakote set off for the waterfall.

  The pouch was where he’d left it, beside the great boulder. But he couldn’t help searching the wet banks of the pool, looking for some sign of the woman who’d come here with him. There was nothing. She’d left behind no scrap of cloth, no scent, not even a footprint.

  Of course, that didn’t mean her spirit was gone. She lingered here still—in the gurgle of water over the stones, so much like her laughter, in the verdant depths of the pool, like her eyes, and in the heat of the sun upon his shoulder, reminding him of the warmth of her arms around him.

  "Damn!" There were no words of anger or frustration in Sakote’s language, so he borrowed the curse from the white man.

  It didn’t matter what the elders said, what the dream tried to tell him, how tempting Mati was. He must follow the old ways, the ways of the Konkow, or they would be lost. The white woman showed him another path, a dangerous path, a path he must not take.

  The sun continued to blaze upon his back, and he knew a quick swim in the pond would cool his blood. He took off his moccasins, freed his hair, and loosened the thong around his breechcloth, letting it fall to the ground. Climbing to the crest of the boulder, he took a full breath and dove into the shimmering midst of the pool.

  The bracing water sizzled over his skin as he plunged deep through the waves. The chill current swept past his body, swirling his hair like the long underwater moss, washing away his thoughts.

  He broke the surface and shook his hair back, then swam for the waterfall. It pounded the rock like a kilemi, a log drum, and made a mist that hid the small cave behind the fall. He climbed out onto the slippery ledge and stood up, easing forward into the path of the fall, where it pummeled him with punishing force, driving white spears into his bent back and shoulders. The pounding awakened his body and challenged him. He slowly raised his head, braced his feet, reached toward the sky with outstretched arms, and withstood the heavy fall of water with a triumphant smile.

  Unfortunately, the loud thunder of the fall prevented him from hearing that he was no longer alone at the pool.

  Mattie’s jaw dropped. Her breath caught.

  After sketching miners all morning, she’d decided to make a few drawings of the waterfall. She remembered the way there, and though she might have hoped the Indian would return, she didn’t really expect him. The fact that he had indeed come back, and in such bold display, couldn’t have amazed her more.

  What in God’s name was he doing? He stood at the foot of the waterfall, as bare as the day he was born, letting the water beat him within an inch of his life and grinning all the while.

  She thought to yell out to him, to reprimand him for such indecent behavior, such outrageous liberties, such flagrant...but then the artist came out in her. She realized that what she beheld was beautiful, that he was beautiful. Watching him in all his naked glory was like witnessing the birth of a god.

  She perched on a rock wedged between two trees, hoping the lush foliage and her drab plaid dress would conceal her. She found an empty page and set to work sketching.

  He couldn’t remain there long, she knew, or else he’d be pounded into the rock. She had to work quickly, penciling in the bare bones and trusting the rest to memory.

  Sure enough, just as she finished the roughest of renderings, he brought his arms down through the fall like great white wings and dove into the middle of the pool.

  His naked body slicing through the water sent a rush of delicious fire through her. Her pencil hovered over the page. It was wrong, what she did, spying on him and sketching him in his altogether without his knowledge. And yet, she thought, patting a cheek grown hot with impropriety, it felt so right.

  He bobbed up and flung his hair back, spraying droplets of water across the rippling surface.

  Mattie pressed her pencil against her lower lip.

  He swam forward, glidin
g through the waves as smoothly as a trout. Then he wheeled over onto his back and floated on the surface, boldly facing the midday sun like some pagan sacrifice.

  Mattie’s teeth sank into the pencil.

  She could see everything—the naked sprawl of his limbs, the corona of his long ebony hair, the dark patch at the juncture of his thighs, and its manly treasure, set like a jewel on black velvet.

  He was Adam. Or Adonis. He was Icarus fallen from the sky. Hera cast into the sea. As innocent as an angel. As darkly beautiful as Lucifer.

  Mattie blushed to the tips of her toes. She most definitely should not be witness to this...this...she had no word for his wanton display, but she was sure it was completely indecent. Still she couldn’t tear her eyes away. He was utterly, irrefutably perfect. And looking at him left her faint with a mixture of emotions as dizzying as whiskey and as unstable as gunpowder.

  She slid the pencil from between her lips, flipped to a new page, and began to draw. Despite her rattled nerves, her hand was steady, for she captured every nuance of shade, every subtle contour, each flash of translucence, as if the water lived and moved upon the paper. And the man... He was so true to life that she half expected the figure to lazily pitch over and swim off the page.

  A fern tickled her nose, and she brushed it back, and then leaned forward to put the finishing touches on the portrait—a few more branches dabbling in the waves, a leaf floating by his head. She decided on the title, scribbling it at the bottom beside her signature.

  Just in time. The Indian knifed under, a flash of sculpted buttocks and long legs, disappearing beneath the surface and into the emerald depths.

  Sakote saw the movement of branches from the corner of his eye, but gave no indication. If it was a deer, he didn’t want to frighten it from its drinking place. If it was a bear, his splashing would scare it soon enough. If it was a willa, he’d have to be clever. He floated a moment more, letting the waves carry him gently toward the deepest part of the pool, watching for sudden movements through the dark lashes of his eyes. Then he gulped in a great breath and dove to the bottom, where the water was cold and shadowy.

  He came up silently on the concealed side of the big granite boulder and eased his way out of the water and around the rock until he could see what hid in the brush.

  Mati.

  She wore another ugly brown dress with lines of other colors running through it like mistakes, and her hair was captured into a tight knot at the back of her head. She bit at her lower lip and leaned out dangerously far between two dogwood saplings, shielding her eyes with one hand, searching the pool for him.

  Sakote didn’t know what he felt. Joy. Or anger. Relief. Dread. Or desire.

  Worry wrinkled her brow, and she leaned forward even farther, bending the saplings almost to the breaking point.

  "Oh, no," she murmured.

  Her words were only a breath of a whisper on the breeze, but they carried to his ears like sad music. Mati edged between the two trees and took three slippery steps down the slope. Meanwhile, Sakote moved in the opposite direction, up the rise. While she scanned the water, he crept behind her, stopping when he found the sketchbook on the ground, frowning when he saw the figure floating on the page.

  Now he knew what he felt. Fury. He glanced down at his naked body, at his man’s pride, shrunken with cold to the size of an acorn, then at its perfect duplicate drawn on the paper. And he felt as if he would explode with rage.

  He must have made a sound, some strangled snarl of anger, for Mati turned. And screamed.

  CHAPTER 13

  Sakote reached for the sketchbook. He was tempted to throw it into the water, but instead used it to shield his man’s parts from her view. To his satisfaction, the white woman began stammering and blushing, and when he took a step toward her, she almost tripped backwards into the pool.

  "What is this?" he demanded, tearing the page violently from the book and shaking it at her. "You make such pictures to shame me?"

  Her chin trembled and she blinked many times, but he was certain she wouldn’t cry. No, she was like Hintsuli when he got caught using Sakote’s yew bow. She knew what she’d done was wrong. She knew she deserved his anger.

  He grunted, and then dropped the sketchbook to give his full attention to the page he’d torn out. With a determined scowl, he placed his fists together at the edge of the paper and began to tear.

  "No!"

  Her shriek unnerved him almost as much as her dive toward him. He had torn only a small rip in the paper when she either threw herself or fell to her knees before him.

  "Please!" she begged. "Don’t ruin it!" Her hands dug desperately at his thighs. "I’ll never do it again. I promise. Only don’t tear it."

  Sakote grimaced. Why did she plead so passionately over a piece of paper? And why did she have to touch him like that? Son of Wonomi! Her woman’s touch softened his anger and made him weak. He wondered if she knew the power she wielded, if she knew how close she was to arousing him, how only the thin sheet of her sketch stood between his awakening spear and...

  Her lips. They trembled, and her eyes shone like acorn caps full of rain. Now she looked as if she might indeed weep.

  His mouth twisted. Troublesome woman! Why did she want the drawing of him so badly? It didn’t show him hunting or dancing or making fire. It only showed him floating helplessly on his back like a leaf, twirled by the will of the water. By The Great Spirit, with his male parts shrunken by the cold, he didn’t even look like he’d grown to manhood. He wondered what insult she’d scribbled at the bottom.

  "What does this say?" He rapped the paper with his knuckle.

  "What?" She was startled by his question. "It’s...it’s a name."

  "What name?"

  She seemed reluctant to tell him. "Ne-, Neptune."

  "That’s not my name."

  "No."

  "Who is this Neptune?"

  She didn’t answer, and he prepared to tear the page again.

  "Wait!" she relented, blushing like poison oak in fall. "Neptune is a god! He’s the god of water."

  God? It was the last thing Sakote expected. Fool maybe. Drowning Baby. Or Crazy Mr. Indian Who Calls Himself a Man. But God? He was simultaneously pleased and horrified.

  A drop of water eased down his dark thigh and over her pale finger. His will, too, seemed to slip as easily from him. How could he deny the fragile, golden-haired angel who named him god? Especially when she looked up at him with wide green eyes as moist and innocent as a doe’s? Those eyes could steal his soul from him, he knew, and when his gaze dropped to her mouth, the memory of her lips, sweet and yielding upon his own, sent a lethal rush of warm blood through his veins. He wanted to taste her again. He wanted to bury his hands in her gold-dusted hair and nuzzle her soft cheek, to press his mouth against hers and feel her breath slip between her lips.

  "Why do you call me god?" His voice sounded strange to his ears, like the hoarse whisper of the wind, and like the wind, his words rushed out with a will of their own. "My name is Sakote."

  Silence hung between them like fog, and he began to wonder at his own wisdom. Why had he told her his name? A man’s name was for kin or close friends, not for willa women who would cast it about carelessly.

  "Sakote," she murmured.

  Like that, he thought, and yet he didn’t flinch. His name sounded right on her lips, like the soft rattle of the instrument for which he was named. He wished to hear it again upon her tongue.

  An escaped spiral of hair lay upon Mati’s cheek. He longed to take away the pins and let all the curls tumble like a waterfall. And that wretched dress...it was like the thorny covering of the gooseberry, concealing all the sweetness. Yet Sakote’s heart quickened, remembering the graceful curve of her waist and the small flower buds of her nipples. He was so close to her, in arm’s reach. Close enough to see her heart beating in the column of her throat. Close enough to feel the faint breeze of her warm breath upon his river-cold skin. Wonomi help him, he longed to d
o far more than kiss Mati now. His heart pounded, and his body filled with need.

  But he couldn’t play courting games with her. It wasn’t right. She hadn’t asked for his touch. And Sakote wasn’t like her willa husband, to force himself upon a woman. No, he was Konkow, and this was one of those dangerous ways from which he must turn.

  With a grunt of regret, he surrendered the drawing to her unharmed. His only consolation was her startled squeak as he stood newly revealed before her, no longer shrunken with cold, but like a warrior roused for battle. Scowling, he turned and trudged down the embankment to find his breechcloth before that determined warrior could betray him completely.

  The Indian was halfway down the slope before Mattie could suck air back into her lungs. Even then, she couldn’t breathe properly. His naked backside gleamed tan and taut as he scaled the hill, and the thought of what graced his front side, the proud member that had loomed inches away just a moment before, left her jaw lax and her body boneless.

  For a time, obsessing over her sketch, she’d almost believed he was a god—distant, perfect, untouchable. But when she’d seen him on the embankment, dripping from the stream, his brow furrowed, his eyes snapping, all flesh and blood and muscle, the truth struck her like a thunderbolt.

  He wasn’t a god. He was a man. And he was far from untouchable.

  In fact, if he’d remained before her one more moment, she feared she might have proven that without a doubt. Wicked thoughts had run through her head and did still, thoughts of running her fingertips along the smooth bands of his stomach, of lapping up the drops of water that trickled down his chest, of hurling herself into his savage embrace to seal her passion with a breathless kiss.

  But he’d escaped. Now he donned his breechcloth and tied it up with a decisive jerk of the thong. Mattie struggled to her feet, slipping on the leaves. He paid her no mind, but pulled his moccasins up over his heels. She glanced at the drawing still clutched in her hand. It was beautiful. He was beautiful—savage, proud, and pure. And he was fast eluding her.