The Princess and the Wolf

by Karen Kay

  At present, both High Wolf and Shining Arrow seemed to have little need for her, as they attended to the formality of opening the council, and glancing once more about the lodge, Sierra took even greater stock of her environment. Amazingly, she was pleased by what she saw.

  Mandan lodges were certainly clean, she decided—which was a welcome relief from the rotten stench of Fort Clark. The floor of this lodge—as well as that of the dwelling of Bear-that-runs—had been swept clean and was matted down from perhaps so many feet treading over it, that it practically gleamed. In truth, she doubted if white linen would have come away dirty, even if trailed over it.

  Here and there, to her right and left, were objects of work, which were placed neatly against the sides of the lodge, away from the fire. Indeed, the effects of Indian life lay all around her. And if it could be said that the condition of the possessions of a people indicated their emotional state, she had to admit this lifestyle, then, should lend itself to a pleasant, happy life.

  And why would it not? Was it not free from the restraining force of propriety, from the ever constant scrutiny of public life? Was it not a life with no worry over tomorrow, no rush for the golden coin? In truth, why would anyone want to live differently?

  Perhaps this was why the trader and the trapper—even the scholar and the occasional prince—who, once having tasted the free life—never wished to leave. Or if they did do so, they forever lamented their loss.

  No, this was a land of living legends, a land of freedom, a land where a man could make the most of himself.

  And yet once upon a time, High Wolf had been willing to leave here, to give it up. Why? For her?

  Was that possible?

  She frowned and was so lost in her own thoughts that when the old man spoke to her, she barely registered his voice.

  But Shining Arrow indulged her, and repeating his advice, said, “Ne megosh, etta hant tah.”

  But Sierra didn’t understand the words or the signs, and not until High Wolf said, “Shining Arrow says that you are seeking the wrong man.”

  Wrong man? Aloud, she said, “High Wolf, you can’t be speaking to me.”

  “But I am.”

  “And this is what this old man had to say to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I fail to understand what he means. Is it possible that you might ask him to elaborate?”

  “Yes,” he said, and High Wolf, now acting as translator, relayed her question.

  The two men spoke on and on and Sierra listened intently, wishing she had taken the time to learn the sign language that all these Indians seemed to use. But wishing did not make it so, and she had no choice at present but to wait impatiently, while High Wolf and the old man conversed.

  At length, High Wolf settled back and said to her, “He says that the man you seek is the man who has placed the curse on you.”

  Curse? Sierra sat stock-still. Although after a long moment, she queried, “What…curse?”

  “I have been trying to determine that, Princess. But I have no more information to give you than what I have already said.”

  “A curse?” she spoke softly, and mostly to herself. “Surely there has been some mistake.”

  “There is no mistake,” said High Wolf. “It is why Grandfather has wished to speak to you personally. Perhaps if you ask him a more specific question, he might be able to tell us more.”

  “Yes,” said Sierra. “Oh, yes. Please ask him if he can tell me if I am the only one cursed. Is it a curse passed down from my family?”

  And nodding, High Wolf turned toward the elder, whereupon a lengthy conversation followed between High Wolf and Shining Arrow. At last, however, High Wolf turned back to her and said, “He says that you alone carry the curse—from a man who is living, and it is not something that originated with your family. You were specifically cursed, and he assumes you and I are traveling together so we may discover its source and break it.”

  Sierra could barely breathe. She had often heard that Indians were a superstitious people, but until this moment, she had never been close enough to their culture to observe it.

  She had just done so.

  She cleared her throat, saying, “Tell him that I have no conception of what he speaks. I am here to find my husband, if he is still alive. That is all. It has nothing to do with a curse, or being cursed.”

  Again, she awaited the translation, this particular interlude seeming to take longer than the others.

  But then suddenly, the talking ceased, and High Wolf didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t do anything except sit beside her silently. In truth, he seemed at a loss.

  What was wrong?

  At length, however, High Wolf said, “Grandfather says he does not know why you are here, except to break the curse. If you are here for some other purpose, you are on the wrong path. The curse must be broken, he says, before happiness can be found.”

  Again, Sierra had little option but to stare at High Wolf dumbfoundedly. “I know not of what he speaks.”

  “Grandfather also wants to know why, if you are married, you have taken me as a husband, as well. And he wishes to know if women in your culture may have more than one husband.”

  If it hadn’t been for the seriousness in the old man’s face, Sierra might have laughed. But glancing upward, she could see that Shining Arrow was completely serious.

  “Did you tell him,” she said, “that we are not married?”

  “But we are.”

  “No, we are not.”

  High Wolf frowned, and leaning toward her, he whispered, “We have lain together. In my country, that makes us man and wife.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, glancing down toward the floor. “That’s right.”

  Again the old man spoke, and once more, he and High Wolf spent some minutes in conversation.

  At last, however, the old man motioned toward her, and High Wolf, turning to her, said, “I have explained that you think your husband is dead and that you are trying to determine if this is true or not. I have also told him that you and I were in love long before you married the prince. He says that you must determine the truth or the untruth of this before you take another husband. To do otherwise you stir up rancor between brothers.”

  Sierra gulped. It was one thing to know this within the limits of her own heart; it was another to be told so by a man she had barely met.

  How did he know so much about her? And why would he care enough to tell her these things?

  Drawing a deep breath, Sierra said, “Please convey to the old man my thanks for his wisdom. It is a wisdom beyond my comprehension. Could you ask him how he knows of this curse?”

  High Wolf shook his head. “One does not ask a wise man his secrets.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said, “Then might you ask him, if you please, if he is aware of the identity of this man who has placed a curse upon me and what sort of curse it is.”

  High Wolf proceeded to do so while, again, Sierra waited.

  And quickly he turned back to her. “He says,” High Wolf began, “that the curse is to keep you from having anything that might make you happy. It uses your deepest fears, and acts to bring these about to your own detriment. He does not know the identity of this man.”

  Your deepest fears.

  It seemed to fit. She had feared losing her friends: one by one she had lost them. She had feared ruling the country without the prince, and yet this, too had come to pass.

  And she said, “You don’t suppose that if there is such a curse, that it might have contributed to our own troubles, do you?”

  High Wolf hesitated, his faced marred by a frown. At length, however, he said, “It is hard to know what to think. I believe that if Shining Arrow thinks this curse is worth mentioning, then it is strong enough to do most anything.”

  “I see.” She coughed. “And did he say how to break it?”

  High Wolf nodded. “He says we must stand strong and together in a time of much turmoil. He also says there are thre
e of us—”

  “Three? The prince?”

  “It could be.”

  “Then we must find him.”

  “Yes,” said High Wolf. “We must. However, if the prince is alive, you understand that there is yet another, deeper problem?”

  Of course she did, but she was loath to be the one to express it in words.

  And High Wolf went on, “Even in Indian country a woman is only allowed one husband. If he is alive…”

  “Please do not say it.”

  “And yet I must. You know it.”

  Sierra looked away from him.

  “If he is alive, I must let you go.”

  Of course. It would naturally follow. However, she couldn’t help asking, “Why? If the prince, as you have said, has not staked a claim in ten years—”

  “Because he is my brother,” said High Wolf. “And because Shining Arrow has reminded me that, while one might steal and marry the wife of a man from an enemy tribe, one must not do so to a man’s brother.”

  “But did you explain that—”

  “I did not. He is right. Prince Alathom is my brother, no matter what else he might be. If he is alive, I can no more take you for my wife than I could take his, yours or my own life.”

  “But—”

  “Grandfather reminds me that I have forgotten my duty as a scout. My honor.”

  He couldn’t have looked more serious, or more crestfallen, and Sierra didn’t know what to say, deciding that silence might be, perhaps, best in this circumstance.

  But the old man had something else to add, and thereupon followed another lengthy conversation between the two men. Sierra sat as though dazed, watching the flow of talk, the gentle and graceful hand motions, but she observed it as though from a distance; as though what was taking place had nothing to do with her.

  At last, the talking ceased, and High Wolf turned once again to her. And this time, his countenance was determined. And he said, “Grandfather tells me also that as I go to search for the prince, I must take you with me. In this search, we are of one mind, and my going alone would be as to enter into a marriage with oneself, alone. A silly proposition. He reminds me that our problems were forged together, and thus together we must solve them.”

  But on this account, Sierra held no qualms, and she said, “On this, he and I concur. I couldn’t agree more.”

  High Wolf, however, obviously did not share such sentiments. His manner, his whole being emanated it.

  And after a time, he said, “Grandfather has said all he has wished to say. Now we must give Grandfather something for his time and wisdom. I think a gift of tobacco would be greatly honored, if we might induce James Kittridge to part with some of his stock at the fort.”

  At this, Sierra smiled. “I think that can be arranged.”

  And upon these words, the old man emptied the pipe of its ashes, thus ending the council. But as they made to rise, the old man caught Sierra by the hand, and with High Wolf translating, said, “This man”—he gestured at High Wolf—“is your true love. But you must console the anger that troubles your spirit before you are free to be his. No man or woman can make his or her happiness upon a bed of hatred.”

  And with this, Shining Arrow nodded and sat back, indicating with a wave of his hand that their council was at an end. Thus Sierra and High Wolf, promising to bring tobacco in the morning, took their leave.

  Chapter 22

  Each boy had cut his wrist, and High Wolf, gesturing toward Alathom, invited the prince to place his wrist against High Wolf’s own.

  “This makes us blood brothers,” said High Wolf, who, although the younger of the two boys, was yet the taller.

  “Yes,” said the prince, his blue eyes shining, a striking feature since they were set against his dark hair. “From this day forward, we will be brothers.”

  And arms held high, they placed their wrists together, their lifeblood flowing from one to the other.

  “He is well remembered here,” said High Wolf, “and is known by the Minatarree people as Eyes-of-the-sky, or Blue Eyes.”

  Sierra grinned easily, that particular reminiscence of the prince a happy one. She had forgotten, completely forgotten how blue Prince Alathom’s eyes were.

  She said, “Were they able to tell you anything of him—whether he lives or is dead?”

  High Wolf shook his head. “He has definitely been living with a band of the Mountain Crow, though. There are three Crow warriors that just arrived here, and perhaps I might be able to discover something from them, if they will talk to me.”

  “Why wouldn’t they talk to you?”

  “Because I am Cheyenne, and the Crow and Cheyenne are traditional enemies. But because I am here in peace, they might be willing to talk to me…or perhaps to you.”

  “To me?”

  “The Crow and the Minatarree have long been friends of the white man. They might be more willing to give you the information that they would withhold from me.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Haa’he, I do. The Crow and Cheyenne have been enemies too long to give their trust to one another.”

  “Very well, then,” she said. “What must be done to call a council?”

  “Come,” he said, turning away from her to trod in the opposite direction, as though expecting her to follow—which, of course, she did. Over his shoulder, he called, “We will see if we might counsel with the Crow.”

  “Yes,” she said, and looking down at the sorry state of her clothing, she heaved a deep sigh. Both she and High Wolf had once more donned a wolf disguise to traverse the eight miles upriver to the Minatarree village. And though they had washed off their disguise to enter the village, Sierra longed for one of her morning dresses, perhaps one of lace. Better that than her corset and drawers. Of course, she had now in her possession a Mandan dress of white elk skin, and though it was comfortable, and was worn over her undergarments, she would have preferred her own clothing.

  Resigning herself to the feminine hardship, she exhaled, glancing around the village as she followed High Wolf. It was interesting to note how much the Minatarree village mimicked the Mandan town, though the people were as different as spring is from fall. Here were none of the European features, so prominent among the Mandans.

  There were no gray-hairs, no light eyes. In fact, these Minatarree people had an entirely different look about them, one that was even distinct from…well from that of High Wolf, for instance.

  A tall, proud-looking people, there was a distinguishing mark about them—a low receding forehead—that would immediately identify them, she decided. And the men—though very handsome and distinguished-looking—had a wild look about them, many of them cultivating their hair to great lengths, she noted, some with hair trailing the ground as they walked.

  But she digressed from her purpose, and noticing that she was lagging far behind High Wolf, she quickened her step, if only to keep the pretty, voluptuous women in the tribe from forming groups around High Wolf.

  Another problem. It seemed that the men of this tribe were constantly at war, making the numbers between the fair and the rougher sex rather disparate. Oh, how she wished she had her finery with her that she might at least compete on the same level with these beauties.

  Shrugging, she bemoaned her situation and rushed to High Wolf’s side.

  It had taken them little effort to reach the main Minatarree village, she remembered. This town was the largest of their three villages and sat high on a bluff of the Knife River, a small, winding tributary that fed into the Missouri. Occupying a high position, it overlooked their other two villages, which were located below and almost swallowed up by their numerous corn and vegetable fields.

  She and High Wolf had left the Mandan location soon after their council with Shining Arrow, and disguising themselves once again as wolves, had set out early in the morning, skulking along the shores of the river, unnoticed, unseen by the casual eye. Still, Sierra had been astounded to watch as, even miles from
the Minatarree village, numerous groups of men, women and children were out upon the water in the early morning, all to be seen in riotous play.

  Indeed, she and High Wolf had passed by bathers, children, even lovers. And throughout their journey, she saw the most rambunctious swimming, the Indians using a stroke that Sierra had never seen until only a few days ago, when High Wolf had taken it upon himself to teach her water safety.

  Instead of shooting the hands out in front of the body in a semicircle, and drawing the legs up to the body and out, as the Europeans did, the Indians lifted one arm out of the water at a time, their body perpendicular to the water, propelling themselves smoothly. And Sierra, watching them, longed to swim with them, for the spirit of play these people engendered was most contagious.

  Upon their arrival, Yellow Moccasin, a very ancient-looking chief, had kindly taken High Wolf and her into his home, welcoming them and inviting them to make his home theirs while they stayed. Curiously, upon learning that Sierra was white, he had asked after Lewis and Clark, calling them by their Indian names, Long Knife and Red Hair. It seemed that the two men had made Yellow Moccasin a chief of the tribe thirty years ago—a position he had held ever since.

  After he made them comfortable in his home, and passed around the ever-necessary pipe, the two men began to speak with one another, Sierra noticing that after a while, neither man deemed it necessary to use words, but rather continued conversing by way of hand gestures. Quick, fast and smooth, the motions held a sort of beauty, and Sierra soon found herself bewitched by the movements, deciding that it was like watching a dance of the hands, though she knew well that every gesture held a meaning.

  After a time, Yellow Moccasin waved toward one of his wives, asking her to come to his side, where he spoke quietly to her. Presently, she gave the old man a quick nod and disappeared, off toward a side of the lodge.

  In the meanwhile, High Wolf leaned close and said, “Yellow Moccasin says that he will invite the Crow warriors to his lodge, so that you may speak with them.”

  At first Sierra could hardly register the words, so caught up was she in watching the dynamics at play within the lodge. But when the meaning of the message—and the fact that she understood the words—took hold of her, she straightened up, looking toward High Wolf.