The Princess and the Wolf

by Karen Kay

  “Mr. Kittridge, did you see that?”

  The proprietor looked around quickly. “What?” He pulled his rifle into his grip.

  But Sierra brushed the gesture away, and said, “’Tis not dangerous. Only that the person over there to my right,” she whispered. “She had blond hair…and there’s another with golden hair, with brown, with…Mr. Kittridge, that youngster over there has a full head of gray hair.”

  But Kittridge only smiled that odd gap-toothed smile. “I told ya the Mandans was a strange people. You’re also goin’ ta find that many of the Mandans have blue and green and gray eyes, as well as brown. Yep, Your Highness, they sure are a peculiar people.”

  “Indeed.”

  “But don’t make the mistake of thinkin’ they are any less savage because of their hair color, light skin and light eyes.”

  “But how do you account for it? Do any of the other Indian tribes have these characteristics?”

  “Nope. None that I’ve seen, Your Highness.”

  “How bizarre.”

  “Yep, that it is.”

  At that moment, they came to one of the earth lodges, and as Sierra looked up, she realized the immensity of these earthen huts, for she felt quite small in comparison.

  “How big are these lodges, Mr. Kittridge?”

  He shrugged and frowned. “Well now, I reckon they might be anywhere from forty to seventy feet in diameter, Your Highness, dependin’ on the family. A moment, please, while I see if Bear-that-runs is home.”

  “Yes. Please.”

  She turned away, while Kittridge scratched on the entryway, and she glanced around the village. On the tops of these earth lodges sat groups of people, the roof of the hut affording them a bird’s eye view of the rest of the village, and perhaps of the prairie, as well. And such a wild group of people she had rarely seen.

  Children, chiefly naked, rushed through the village, laughing, or riding ponies; men stood in dignified poses with their colorful robes wrapped around them and their heads adorned with eagles’ feathers or plumes. Women passed by in groups, whispering, giggling, many of the young women quite pretty. And everywhere about her were shades of blond and golden hair, as well as a startling number of young gray-hairs.

  And as she gazed out at all this strangeness, she became aware that there was one who didn’t seem so unusual; one who stood apart, watching her; one very beloved.

  High Wolf.

  He was probably some fifty yards away from her, but his face, his person, so dear to her, stood out from the rest.

  Ah, how her heart reached out to him. In faith, at this moment, espying him, she felt as if she might burst, so strong was her adoration. And there, amidst the wildest of possible environments, amidst people so strange, time ceased to exist, for her, for him, too, perhaps. There were only the two of them. No space. No time. Nothing.

  She smiled. He returned it. And though neither made a motion to move, it was understood that each was content with simply staring at the other.

  And on that thought followed another: Somewhere, somehow, they two would be together. Yes, though seemingly impossible now, somehow…

  “Your Highness.”

  Sierra didn’t hear, didn’t understand.

  “Your Highness, this way.”

  She felt a pressure at her elbow, and sighing, Sierra realized that, indeed, the world around her still existed. More’s the pity.

  Reluctantly, she broke her gaze with High Wolf, and turned toward Kittridge.

  “Yes?”

  “Your Highness, Bear-that-runs is ready to receive you. Best you come this way, now.”

  “Yes, Mr. Kittridge. Thank you.” And turning away, Sierra started to enter the lodge as requested, but before she did so, she glanced back, over her shoulder.

  And there he was. Still standing motionless, still watching her, still smiling.

  She grinned back at him. And she knew at that moment that she had never loved anyone more, and probably never would again. They were irrevocably intertwined.

  She rocked back on her feet as the realization hit her. How was she ever to leave this man?

  Chapter 21

  The here and now dissolves and we’re alone,

  A world’s created that we call our own.

  Excerpted from a poem by David Ziff

  “Sonnets to a Soul Mate”

  “My friend,” signed Running Coyote. “Look there. Have you ever seen such a sight?”

  High Wolf, who had been watching the archery games off in the distance, turned in the direction that Running Coyote indicated.

  That’s when he saw her. Standing in the middle of the village, she looked a vision in green and white, her beauty stunning, even amid the Mandan village of pretty women and colorful dressing. And High Wolf stopped where he stood, for the moment enthralled by her.

  “Is that your woman?” asked Running Coyote.

  High Wolf’s first inclination was to answer in the affirmative, to stake ownership of her at once. But he stopped himself short, recalling that, while in the village, he was supposed to remain separate from her—a condition he had imposed.

  Saaaa. What had he been thinking? Had danger blinded him to his own need? Caused him to be out of his mind?

  Or had he grown complacent? Certainly, Sierra’s charms had been hidden beneath the disguise of mud and a wolf skin. But his love for her had transcended all that; these past few days with her had drawn him to her in a way that was not tied to the physical. In sooth, he had come to appreciate her character, her companionship, her gentle humor; the physical side of her appearance becoming unimportant.

  But seeing her here like this, a radiance amid people whom he admired, impressed a point upon him. And he stared at her as though he might never be able to satisfy himself with her.

  And then she turned toward him, and looking up, her gaze caught his.

  And in that moment, something happened. Something strong and powerful.

  Love bloomed. Alas, she was his; he was hers.

  Despite what the world around them might think, might do, he realized that they were a perfect match for each other, she being his other half. And he knew in that moment that for the rest of his life, if he were to live without her, he would be only half alive.

  His eyes felt curiously wet, for indeed, this was a truth that he had not fully realized.

  And then suddenly she smiled at him, and a multitude of stars suddenly lit up his world. His stomach dropped. And he wondered, had anyone ever had more cause for happiness?

  He returned her smile, of course. How could he not? And truth be told, at that moment, he felt as though he were an adolescent again, enraptured by first love.

  It was an intense moment, for he knew he was caught up in her spell. A spell he had willingly submitted to.

  And more. He wanted to give her all of him that there was to give. It was odd, because less than a few weeks ago, he had thought he’d reason enough to act out his frustrations on her, as though having once loved her gave him that right. In truth, he had even heard others swear that this was love.

  But in a quiet moment of sanity, he knew that this was simply not true.

  No, love desired to give. He desired to give. Love, he thought, induced a man to become all he could be…because of her. And love strove to master one’s baser impulses, that he might make the other person happy.

  And so, still staring at her, he silently vowed to himself, and to her, that he would do everything within his power to make her happy.

  Yes, this was love; and this was what he and the princess had once shared, long ago. Moreover, this was what they would have again in the future.

  He vowed it would be so.

  Somehow…

  When High Wolf realized where James Kittridge intended to escort the princess, it had required little effort to gain an invitation to the lodge of Bear-that-runs. And with this now accomplished, High Wolf seated himself around the fire with the others, although truth to tell, his attention was c
entered not on his host—as manners dictated it should be—but upon her.

  Because of her notoriety, the princess had been given a seat within the council of men, a novelty in itself. Sitting with her legs to the side—as naturally as Indian women did—with her long, full skirts puffed out around her, she appeared to be the embodiment of beauty, floating in a sea of green and white.

  And High Wolf, despite himself, could hardly keep his eyes from her.

  And of course, amidst a people adept in the art of perception, this was not something that could long remain a secret. And soon, Bear-that-runs brought the subject to a head, speaking and signing to High Wolf at the same time, “Perhaps you should take your woman to your lodge. Have you been long separated?”

  Although High Wolf might have been surprised by the directness of the question, he denied nothing, and said, “We have been apart ten years, and yes, perhaps it would be best if we were to leave, but not to be alone. In truth, Shining Arrow has requested we both visit him, for he wishes to speak with the princess.”

  “Humph,” said Bear-that-runs, making the sign for “good.” And he continued, “Then you should take her there while the sun is still high, for to my knowledge, Shining Arrow’s habit is to retire early.”

  High Wolf nodded. “Yes, perhaps that is best.”

  But Bear-that-runs grinned, saying, “And if there are any lingering moments, maybe you might have a moment or two to be alone with your woman.”

  High Wolf returned the smile. “Yes,” he said, still using the language of sign. “Perhaps we might. Forgive my ill manners in being so obvious.”

  But Bear-that-runs merely widened his smile. “There is nothing to forgive. Seeing you thus reminds me of my youth, brings back memories of my own anxiety to be alone with my woman—each one of them. Ah,” he said, “Those were happy days.”

  “Haa’he, yes,” said High Wolf. And then turning toward Sierra, High Wolf said in English, “There is a man of some worth amongst the Mandans who has asked to see you. He has requested that I bring you to him. Bear-that-runs has agreed that we may leave his counsel in order that we seek out this man.”

  “Has he, now?” Kittridge spoke up before the princess could say a word.

  For a moment, High Wolf did nothing but stare at the other man. In truth, he had practically forgotten that Kittridge, the man the Indians called “Dirty-beard,” had brought the princess there, that he still remained; and that, despite Kittridge’s many encounters with the maidens in the village, he might feel he had a right to stake a claim on Sierra. But this attitude was not something High Wolf could easily indulge.

  And though he wished to warn off the other man with threats if need be, courtesy dictated that he say simply, and in English, “Yes, he has given us leave. This man who wishes to see us is Shining Arrow, and as you know, he is a man of some wisdom and knowledge.”

  But Kittridge, seemingly intent on arguing, countered, “How’d he know the princess is here, since she only just arrived?”

  At this, High Wolf could barely resist raising a sardonic brow, as he said, “Need you ask? Have you not been amongst these people long enough to realize that many men know of things, of happenings, long before their event?”

  A long silence followed the question, both men apparently intent on pressing their point.

  And when it seemed that tensions might deepen, a soft voice spoke up, saying, “Mr. Kittridge.” It was the princess. “I see your concern over my welfare, but do not worry yourself over this. This man High Wolf and I are well acquainted, having met one another first in Europe. And as you know, he saved my life when I was aboard the steamship, and brought me here. I trust him completely.” Her gaze—soft, intent—lingered not on Kittridge, but on High Wolf.

  And then she smiled at him, a heavenly, tender affair.

  And High Wolf took heart. It was as though, with these words, with her look, she uttered a vow, as though she were saying: The past be damned. She would place her trust, her very life upon his integrity…much as she had in the past. And High Wolf was not unaware of the immensity of the honor she paid him.

  In response to her declaration, however, Kittridge muttered an oath, and with barely concealed resentment, arose and left. Such was the height of bad manners. But then, for good or for bad, the Indians were becoming more and more accustomed to the ill-behavior of the white man. And in response, not a word of censure was spoken.

  However, in Indian country, it was an oddity that a woman would speak up without invitation during a council of the men. But if Bear-that-runs were in the least disturbed over the lack of formality—or the familiarity in Sierra’s manner—he made no mention of it either in his address to her, or in his bearing. Instead, emptying his pipe, he indicated with his arm that their meeting was at an end. And as further proof of his goodwill, he said, “You are always welcome here—both of you.”

  “Thank you,” said Sierra, and rising, she followed High Wolf to the entryway.

  High Wolf took her arm as he led her through the village. And when he did so, even Sierra was aware that this show of affection was an unusual circumstance—since she saw no other men and women walking or even talking together. And she observed, “In Indian country, aren’t the women supposed to walk behind their men?”

  “You are not Indian,” he said.

  “True,” she agreed. “But I am here. And that being so, shouldn’t I follow the local custom?”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “But the custom arises from the need of the man to protect the woman when out on the plains, or when traveling. I see little cause for that here in the village.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Very well, then. And may I ask, where are you leading me?”

  “To the lodge of my friend Running Coyote.”

  “Ah, very good,” she said. “Is that the friend whom you have mentioned several times?”

  “Yes. We will wait there until Grandfather can see us.”

  “Grandfather?” she asked. “Your grandfather lives here?”

  He flashed her a grin. “Yes, he is here, and no, he is not my blood grandfather,” explained High Wolf. “To address a man as Grandfather means simply that the man is an elder of the tribe, and that he is helping you in some way—either to accomplish a dream or to impart some knowledge.”

  “Ah, I see,” she acknowledged, and then fell into silence. Although, after a time, she looked down at High Wolf’s hold on her arm, and observed, “If it is your intention to hide our relationship from ‘all eyes,’ sir, I fear you are going about it the wrong way.”

  He shook his head. “I was wrong to impose those conditions. How could my love for you harm our purpose? No, you were right to question me. I have no wish to hide our love beneath a stone, as though it were as slimy as the creatures that live there. On my honor,” he said, “were I to have my way, I would announce our attachment to each other from the tops of each Mandan lodge.”

  Sierra smiled, and despite herself, she practically beamed. “Really?”

  “Truly,” he said.

  Perhaps it was the way he spoke the words. Or maybe it was simply his intent. Whatever the cause, her heart pulsed erratically, and tiny sparks seemed to ignite all over her body. Inanely, she grinned up at him, only to discover him doing much the same.

  And gradually, so happy were they, they began to laugh. Alas, however, so caught up were they in each other, they passed by Running Coyote’s lodge without even realizing it.

  In the evening, before the sunset hour, the council among Shining Arrow, High Wolf and Sierra commenced. The place was to be Shining Arrow’s lodge.

  A courier had brought the message, and as soon as it arrived, High Wolf and Sierra had taken their leave from Running Coyote and his family.

  At present, the three of them were seated around the small fire that was lit in the center of the lodge. It was a cool evening, and the presence of the fire was most appealing, giving off its warmth to every part of the lodge. Inhaling, Sierra could almost taste th
e savory scent of the smoke and the sweet odor of sage, as well as a few other aromatic herbs. And a feeling of comfort, of being at home, came over her.

  Perhaps it was the soft feel of the robe beneath her, or perhaps it was the kindness that radiated from the old man before her. Whatever it was, Sierra suddenly realized she liked this place; she liked this man a great deal—without having yet spoken a word to him.

  It was strange, she thought, how a person could know so much of another by simply looking at him. And she wondered if Shining Arrow could do the same with her.

  Shining Arrow had lit a pipe, its fragrance adding to the already smoke-filled atmosphere. After sending the smoke in the four directions, Shining Arrow passed the pipe to High Wolf, then going so far as to give the pipe to Sierra.

  This was something unexpected, yet, with barely a pause, and with as much dignity as her position afforded her, she took a whiff. For a moment, she sat stiffly, with what was most likely a silly smile upon her countenance, willing herself not to cough.

  However, none seemed to realize her strife, and soon they all fell into silence. After a time, Sierra decided to take the moment and gaze around the lodge. At once, her glance alit upon Shining Arrow’s wife. He had only one wife, she had discovered from High Wolf after arriving here. And according to High Wolf, contrary to what written accounts might have one believe, the taking of only one wife was a more common practice among the Indians.

  At present, however, much to Sierra’s disappointment, Shining Arrow’s wife sat quietly off to the side of the lodge. Disappointed, Sierra briefly frowned. She would have appreciated the company of another woman.

  It was not to be, however, and so she brought her attention back to the matter at hand, wondering what this man had to say to her. It was, indeed, strange.

  However, truth be told, here in Indian country, as peculiar as things might seem, they were, nevertheless, complete reality to the people who lived here.