Walks the Fire

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  There was no miracle in the answer to this prayer, but still, an answer came. Hardened by the countless hours of running with his friends, Two Mothers was strong. He covered the ground efficiently, his moccasins beating a steady rhythm as he ran toward the village. He watched carefully for cactus, leaping over those that came in his way. His breath came hard, and his legs ached. Still, he ran on. The blood on his cheek dried and crusted over. Tears of fatigue came to his eyes. Still, he ran on. Back there, on that ledge, lay his father. The picture of the crumpled body, the empty eagle’s nest, the dead birds, haunted him. And he ran on.

  How long he ran, he did not know, but when he thought his heart would burst and his legs would crumple, he staggered into the village, shouting for help, pointing the way, and finally crumpling into a heap just outside Medicine Hawk’s tepee. Jesse heard the disturbance and peeked outside. She saw men mounted on ponies charging out of camp.

  Just then, Two Mothers was carried to her. A deep gash had reopened along his cheekbone and bled freely. The marks of the attack of some animal were everywhere. Her heart lurched. Where was Rides the Wind? He would never have allowed this if he were safe. No, I must not think that. If I think that, I will panic. I must not think it. Dear God, don’t let me think it. I must help Two Mothers. Oh, God, let them find him… bring him back to me.

  “Call Medicine Hawk,” she screeched to the women who huddled nearby. She held open the tent flap for the men to carry her unconscious son inside. They laid him by the fire. Old One darted about the tepee, carrying water to wipe the wounds, scrambling for her healing herbs.

  Jesse knelt helplessly by her unconscious son. Old One touched her arm.

  “Wash the wounds, my daughter.” Jesse moved to obey. She was numb with fear, but she obeyed. Two Mothers’ eyes opened. Through the opening above he could see that it was still daylight. Slowly, he moved his head to look about him. Home. I am home. Gentle hands were washing his wounds, and he saw the red hair of his mother as she bent low to tend his wounds. Old One held a compress to his cheek, clucking in sympathy as she occasionally removed the compress to check the wound. “We will need to sew it shut,” she muttered to herself. “And there will be a scar.”

  Two Mothers saw tears sliding down his mother’s nose. She worked quickly, but her hands shook, and she looked often at the doorway.

  Two Mothers croaked, “My father?”

  Jesse started at the sound of his voice. Her voice trembled. “They have gone for him.” It was all she could say.

  He struggled to explain. “The eagles… the storm…”

  Old One interrupted him. “Hush. This cut on your face must be held together before you talk more.” Already, she had her finest sinew and her smallest needle ready. Even as the last word was spoken, she took the first stitch. Two Mothers flinched, but pressed his lips together and did not cry out. In the set of his mouth, Jesse saw Rides the Wind. She finished cleansing the wounds of her young son and sat back to watch as Old One skillfully sewed up the gaping wound on her son’s cheek.

  “Will he be all right?” she asked anxiously.

  Old One nodded, “We will apply healing salve. I will show you how to make it. He will have a scar, but we will keep it clean, and he will be fine.” Her eyes, too, looked toward the door.

  It was not long before they came, bearing Rides the Wind. Jesse’s legs would not carry her to him. She sat beside Two Mothers, frozen with terror. Rides the Wind was pale, and his head was thrown back, showing a horrible gash on the side of his neck. Tendons were bared, and the wound still bled. The braves lay him before her and scuttled away. Medicine Hawk carefully pressed the neck wound shut, bending to listen to the chest, which seemed still. Other horrific wounds gaped open, and it seemed to Jesse that Rides the Wind was bathed in his own blood.

  Two Mothers raised himself up on one elbow to watch. He saw his mother’s white face. Never had he seen such an expression of desperation before. The air in the tepee felt heavy. The tinkling of the bells from Medicine Hawk’s garb filled the air. Old One finished her ministrations to Two Mothers and moved to Rides the Wind.

  “More water!” she shouted to Prairie Flower, who watched from the opening to the tepee.

  Jesse jumped at the sound of the order, leaped to her feet, grabbed the waterskin from its place on the ridgepole, and fled to the creek. As she ran the short distance, she was aware of a great weight that pressed against her ribs. She could not catch her breath. Her mind filled with the sight of her son and her husband who lay dying in her tepee.

  With the skin full of water, she ran back to the tepee, heedless of the women who had gathered outside. As she ran past, they offered encouragement,

  “He is strong, Walks the Fire…”

  “He is a great hunter…”

  “Old One is a good nurse…”

  “It will be all right…”

  “We will celebrate their hunt…”

  Jesse didn’t hear what they said as she ducked inside the tepee again, but the sight before her calmed her nerves. Two Mothers sat by the fire, surveying his wounds with something approaching pride. And Rides the Wind lay, motionless, but breathing. The medicine man had stopped the bleeding and Old One was ready with soft deerskin to cleanse the wounds.

  Seeing his chest rise and fall brought Jesse back from desperation, and she knelt by the unconscious man and began to gently wash his body. There seemed to be no place left unscathed by the animals.

  “What did this to you?” she finally asked.

  “Eagles… we were hunting eagles,” Two Mothers whispered.

  “You are too young for hunting eagles!” she snapped.

  Two Mothers was quiet. Respectfully, he answered back, “My father did not think so.” Just as he began to try to explain, a party of braves entered the tepee and silently laid the carcasses of the four eagles by the fire. They shot admiring glances at Two Mothers and Rides the Wind, but one look at Jesse and they left without saying what shone in their eyes.

  “I don’t want to hear it!” she almost shouted, “I want…” she worked steadily as she began to cry softly. All the anger was gone from her voice when she spoke again. “I only want you to be well. And I want your father… to live.”

  Rides the Wind stirred, pushing her away with his arm. Medicine Hawk muttered, “He still fights the eagles…” and leaning over, he said to Rides the Wind, “Stop fighting, my brother. You have won. The eagles are no more. Two Mothers is safe. You are back with the people.”

  Rides the Wind’s arm dropped to his side. He took a deep breath, but he did not open his eyes. The wounds were cleansed and sewn up and then dressings were applied. The medicine man sang a song of healing before leaving the tepee. Two Mothers forced himself to stand.

  Crossing the tepee, he had grabbed two of the birds by their legs before Jesse said anything.

  “My mother, I want only the feathers. I must finish what my father and I began.” Jesse stayed with Rides the Wind. Two Mothers’ friends—indeed, every man in the village, watched with open admiration as the boy plucked the feathers he would need from the bodies of the great birds, painted their heads red, placed a bit of meat in the beaks, and laid the bodies on a beautiful white buckskin outside the tepee. He was too weary to do the rest, but the next morning Two Mothers rose early to return the bodies of the eagles to the foot of the cliff where the struggle had taken place.

  “Great Mystery, God of my mother, whatever your name— I humbly thank you for the gift of these eagles. Now, I return them to you.” He turned to go, but then once more faced the cliff and added, “And I ask that it may be in your plan to make my father well.” With that, he returned to the tepee where Rides the Wind still lay motionless.

  Two Mothers was exhausted. He stayed beside his father on his own buffalo robe until the sun stood at its highest point. His father showed no signs of awakening. Walks the Fire redressed his wounds, moistened his lips with fresh water, and hummed softly. She left his side only to prepare meals.
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  Watching her anxious vigil, Two Mothers was tempted to be jealous, but just when he had decided that she blamed him for everything, she seemed to awaken.

  “My son, I have been praying for wisdom,” she said. “I do not understand why the eagle was so important. You are young, and you have many years to prove yourself to the people. But I am proud of what you have done. You have saved your father’s life. And,” she looked warmly at him and smiled, “I am grateful to God that you are all right. Losing either one of you would bring me such pain—I do not think my heart could endure it.”

  A familiar voice whispered into the silence between mother and son. “Does my son have his eagles’ feathers?”

  Two Mothers looked quickly at his father’s face. A familiar half smile curved up the corners of the mouth.

  “He does, my father.”

  “Then we must hold a celebration.” Jesse protested, but he silenced her by laying a hand on her knee. “But the celebration must wait a few days so that Rides the Wind can attend. We must call Medicine Hawk to cry out the news. And I think that I must give away one horse for every eagle.”

  Exhausted by the effort of the speech, Rides the Wind fell asleep again, but as he dozed off, he was aware that his hand had been lifted to meet a soft cheek dampened by tears of gladness.

  Two Mothers and Rides the Wind rested several days. When Rides the Wind was able to sit up and eat, the celebration was announced and preparations began. Jesse finished a new dress and spent long hours with Old One and the village women gathering what would be needed to prepare a great feast.

  On the day of the celebration, Rides the Wind walked on weak legs out of his tepee and climbed stiffly onto the back of Wind to ride to his herd and select the ponies that would be given away.

  Returning from that task and a visit to a nearby tepee, his eyes twinkled with pride as he offered a tiny rawhide pouch full of elk’s teeth to Jesse. She caught her breath. Only two teeth were saved from each elk, and to be able to decorate an entire dress with teeth would put her in a position of envy in the tribe. “How long have you been saving these?” she asked.

  “I am a skillful hunter… it is nothing,” came the proud reply. “I only had to get them back from Running Bear. He has been keeping them for me.”

  Jesse worked all afternoon to add the elks’ teeth to her new dress. She scolded herself for her pridefulness, but when she and Rides the Wind attended the celebration, she could not contain her happiness at the admiring glances that came her way. Rides the Wind could not have said what made him prouder—the wife he believed to be beautiful or the brave son who had earned the name Soaring Eagle.

  Sixteen

  … the Lord gave, and the LORD hath taken away.”—Job 1:21

  Rides the Wind and Soaring Eagle’s adventure had earned Soaring Eagle a place with the hunting parties. His friends admired him and tried not to be jealous. Rides the Wind often reminded his son to bear the new name with dignity and humility. “Never forget that God sent the winds that bore up the eagles. He is the one who saved you. You cried out to him, and he heard. It is by his strength that we still live—not by our own.”

  Month followed upon month, and the routines of life continued in their familiar cycles. The Lakota worried over the endless stream of wagons that crossed their lands. Farther west, bands of the people united to fight the white men and won a great victory.

  Jesse was affected little by the momentous political affairs involving the land in which she lived. Rides the Wind’s band was inclined to avoid conflict and tried to stay far to the north, away from the roads the wagon trains followed. Jesse was grateful, content to care for her family.

  However, their dependence upon nature eventually forced her band to move farther south. A drought had ravaged the countryside the previous year, and the threat of hunger weighed heavily on everyone’s mind. The scarcity of buffalo forced them to range farther south.

  Rides the Wind and Soaring Eagle had been gone with a hunting party for several days when word finally came that a small herd had been located and the camp could move. The village was jubilant, and as the women began breaking camp, Jesse watched the horizon for the hunting party to return. She expected Rides the Wind and Soaring Eagle to be among the first hunters to ride back, and she wanted to pack quickly and be on the way to meet them.

  She knew she could fit the travois to the pony without help, but taking down the huge tepee alone was a concern. Old One’s age had begun to affect her mobility, and the size of the tepee made it difficult for only one woman to handle it. It was considered “women’s work,” but Rides the Wind didn’t care. He was usually nearby to help. Now, it seemed she would be left to herself as the others busied themselves packing their own households.

  Jesse fed the long poles through the sling across Red Star’s back. The litter was formed and ready. “Come, Old One, sit and I will do the rest,” she urged. Old One panted with the exertion of packing and seated herself gratefully.

  The line of march was forming and Jesse noted with dismay that all the other tepees were down. She moved quickly to pile their bundles in proper order on the litter, forming a snug nest where Old One could ride in comfort.

  It was Prairie Flower who brought the news of the accident. She came running across what had been the center of camp, her braids flying out behind her. Jesse felt a rush of relief, thinking that she had come to help with the tepee. Then, something in Prairie Flower’s expression caused the greeting to die in her throat. Prairie Flower paused, dust swirling about her feet, leaving a light coating across the beadwork on her moccasins.

  “Rides the Wind…” she began, then stopped, not knowing how to continue.

  Jesse’s heart thumped wildly. The sounds of camp faded away, and she stood staring down at Prairie Flower’s moccasins, noting a missing bead. Unconsciously she reached up to touch her own thick braids—the braids Rides the Wind had decorated for her only that morning. Jesse became aware of Talks a Lot sitting mutely on his pony just behind Prairie Flower. “I will take you to him,” was all he said.

  Jesse nodded and turned to mount Red Star. But Old One was already seated on the litter strapped to the mare. Jesse hesitated. Talks a Lot beckoned to her and pulled her up behind him on his pony.

  Prairie Flower told her, “You go, Walks the Fire. I will see to the tepee—and to Old One. She will be with me when you return.”

  Jesse nodded, clutching tightly to Talks a Lot’s shirt. She found herself praying desperately. No verses came to mind to comfort her, but a phrase repeated itself in cadence with the pony’s stride: Be not afraid… Be not afraid… Be not afraid… When had this happened before? Jesse remembered another horse from long ago, and the same rhythm of the words, the smell of war paint, the unfamiliar sway of a body she must press against lest she fall.

  The pony lurched to a halt. Jesse slid to the ground and saw Wind, his head twisted back and impaled on the horns of the massive buffalo that lay atop him. The huge, dark mass completely covered the once swift pony’s body. Only the noble head and a few wisps of tail could be seen.

  Talks a Lot led her around this grotesque scene, and she saw that the hunting party had erected a makeshift shelter to protect Rides the Wind from the sun. War spears held up a ragged blanket. One edge had come loose and fluttered in the breeze.

  A cry of grief died as Jesse saw with relief that Rides the Wind’s chest rose and fell. But then a spasm of coughing and a yelp of angry pain ended her joy. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and his left hand clawed the air as if trying to push aside the waves of pain. His right arm lay useless, and as she knelt at his side, Jesse saw that the right side of his jaw was crushed.

  Jesse looked up at Talks a Lot. Sadly, he explained, “He was beneath the buffalo. We pulled him out, but…” He shrugged and looked away.

  “Walks the Fire.” A voice said it, but it was not the well-beloved voice. This was a whisper from deep in the chest, gurgling out between clenched teeth, ending as
if cut off not by choice, but by a knife that cut the sound from the throat.

  “I am here. I am here, best beloved.” Jesse heard the sing-song reply and realized she must have said it, and yet she could not recall making the effort to speak. Lost in the scene about her, she seemed to be watching what was happening rather than living it.

  Rides the Wind opened his eyes and stared up at her. A light gleamed in his eyes, but the damaged face lay still. His left hand reached up and touched her red braid, traced along the edge of the cheek, fell into her lap, and lay still.

  Jesse clasped the hand, groping for self-control, mute with fear. Tears rolled out of her eyes, dripping onto his hand. Weeping openly, she raised it to her lips and held it there, tasting the salt of her own tears as she kissed the open palm.

  Feeling the warmth of her breath on his hand, Rides the Wind once more made an effort to speak, but before he could utter a sound, he inhaled sharply and began to gasp for breath. He struggled to rise, but barely lifted his head from the earth.

  Jesse slipped her arm beneath his head and clutched him to her. Her body began rocking slowly, and as she did so Rides the Wind lay still again. His chest rose, the nostrils flared, and with great effort, he whispered through clenched teeth, “I will come for you.” Jesse wanted to cry out, to stop the words, to hold back his farewell. But she sat clutching him to her, rocking. “I will ask the Father. And I will come for you.”

  A last gasp for air, a tightening of his fist about her hand, and he lay still.

  For a moment Jesse clutched him to her, moaning. Then, from somewhere there was a whisper and a prayer, Lord God, Lord God, HELP ME! Be my rod. Be my staff. Comfort me! Grief washed over her. Jesse shuddered and cried. She rocked the motionless body gently, all the while groping for direction. What to do? What to do?

  The answer came from the nights before the fire, reading the Book to Rides the Wind. One after another, the phrases came back: “Sorrow not, even as others which have no hope… Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me… The LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away… Blessed be the name of the LORD.”