by Karen Kay
He said, “I must go.” Before he left, he brushed his fingers over her lips, gently, softly. “Thank you for that, my wife. Soka’pii.” His gaze softened while his fingers branched out to skim down her hair to a ripe, waiting breast. “And now I hope that you know that there can be no annulment between us. You, sweet Kali, are well and truly married. I wouldn’t want you to forget.”
“No,” she said, somewhat in a daze, unsure if she meant no, she needed no reminder; no, she wasn’t married; or no, she wouldn’t forget.
“You have seven to ten days. If you’re not in my village by then, I’m coming to get you, even if I have to cross a country to do it. Understand?”
Kali nodded.
“Don’t overlook that I’m trusting you to your word.”
“I won’t.”
He smiled at her, and with nothing more to be said or done for the moment, he strode to the door. Before he went through and vanished, he turned to her and said, “Think what you will, believe what you will, but I did not hold Gilda in my arms that night.” And opening the door, he was gone.
Kali stared at that door momentarily. And though she said the words to nothing but empty space, she asked, “Then who was it?”
Chapter Twenty-One
I now look back with the deepest pleasure upon the freedom of that life, the delight of living and of working in that exhilarating mountain atmosphere.
—Walter McClintock, The Old North Trail
Ah, the last photograph.
Kali picked up the tongs, dipping them into the chemical bath, and grabbing hold of the print, pulled it out of the pan, barely giving the picture a glance. One more bath to go. She had the next pan of chemicals ready and waiting.
Ah, she thought, this is going to be a good picture. All the right things were there: the exposure had been exact, the lighting perfect. Why, the images were practically jumping out. Images of people, Indians, dressed in buckskin clothing…
Buckskin clothing?
Odd. Kali looked at the picture more closely.
Most of the reservation Indians clothed themselves in dresses, trousers or shirts made of cloth—usually cotton. Of course those in the Medicine Pipe ceremony would have been wearing their regalia, which might have been made of buckskin…
Funny that she didn’t remember that.
Frowning, Kali stared at the picture as though it were a foreign object. It wasn’t yet fully developed; the images weren’t completely clear. Yet there was no mistaking the audience—the buckskin-clad audience—seated in a circle. Nor could she pretend she’d never seen the old man who had been caught standing in the middle of the circle. Nor the figures of two people positioned directly in front of him, their profiles caught and held still by the camera.
A shiver ran up and down Kali’s spine. She didn’t remember taking this picture. In truth, she couldn’t have taken it. She was in it.
Her breathing became shallow. It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be. Such things as this didn’t happen in everyday life…were merely part of legend and superstition.
Yet there she was; there was Soaring Eagle; there was the old man, the Sun; and beside him, his wife…
The dream…
It had been real. Real.
Kali gasped and sank to her knees, which had suddenly gone weak. Soaring Eagle had been right all along. The spirits had truly joined them.
Why?
A tear rolled down her cheek. She brushed it away, angry at the emotion.
Why were these things happening to her?
As though in answer, something Soaring Eagle had once said stirred at the recesses of her mind: Your ancestors care… I’m not certain you are completely white…
What did that mean? That she might have Indian ancestry? Would her father know?
Somehow Kali doubted her father would be able to shed light on any of this. In a way she couldn’t understand, it seemed the problem was between her and…this land…
Her eyes lit. That was it. The land.
All this had started that night several weeks ago. That night when she and Gilda had camped atop Chief Mountain.
Had the spirits confused her with someone else? Was it that simple? Perhaps she had camped there at a time when the spirits were looking for someone…perhaps the Star Bride.
Was that what this was all about?
Soaring Eagle had been there, seeking a dream; she had been there, innocent, trusting. Gilda had told her of the legend. Kali admitted that at the time, it had all seemed so mystical, so magical. It was no wonder that the spirits were confused. After all, she had awakened to the singing, had arisen in the middle of the night, had sought out Soaring Eagle…
“You will know him by his song…” a voice whispered in the back of her mind.
It was something Gilda had told her. Odd that the voice, the accent, didn’t sound like Gilda.
Kali drew her brows together.
Well, there was only one thing she could do; that is, it was what she had to do if she wanted to solve this mystery She was going to have to go back to the Indian encampment, find Gilda and ask some hard questions. And she was going to have to talk to her father, perhaps bring him along with her. Did he know anything about this?
Possibly, although again Kali doubted it.
Head bent, thinking, Kali set her mind on her next course of action. And as she sat there, trying to recall other events that might help her to weave together the mystery, a peace settled over her, one she hadn’t felt in a very long time…
“Father, I know you and Mother once came West.”
“Hmmm.”
“And I know that it wasn’t a research trip, that you were here for Mother’s health, right?”
William Wallace made a few clicking sounds to urge the team of horses into a quicker pace. Without looking at her, he answered, “Right. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, mere curiosity,”
Kali looked out toward the road ahead of her. As she had speculated, she had been able to talk her father into making another trip to the Blackfeet reservation, and at present they were both seated on their wagon, en route.
Hoping to put a good deal of the journey behind them by noon, they had left early in the morning, before the sun had yet made an appearance in the sky. The day was fresh, cool and exciting—seeming to match Kali’s spirits.
Kali had helped to hitch up the horses, had set aside provisions for the trip and, since the trip would take a few days, had remembered to pack a tent, blankets and of course the ever-present camera and tripod—just in case.
She asked, “Did you and Mother enjoy your trip?”
“We did,” William said. “But if I remember correctly, there was a little girl with us who might have enjoyed it more.”
“A little girl?”
“Yes, Kalifornia. You.”
“Me? I’ve been here before?”
“Yes, m’dear. Of course you were only a little thing at the time, about two years old, I believe. Must have been in 1874 or 1875. I forget which.”
“I—I see,” said Kali. “Why haven’t you ever told me this before now?”
Her father looked, if anything, a little embarrassed. He said, “I guess I forgot.”
“Forgot? After we made detailed plans to come here? After we arrived here?”
But if Kali had hoped to elicit any sort of response from her father, she was to be disappointed. He merely shrugged.
Well, this was certainly news. “Father, I can’t believe that you—”
He looked away.
And Kali, seeing the reaction, sighed. On a more gentle note, she said, “And what did you…we do when we were here?”
“Mostly we visited with the agent, m’dear.”
“Ah, the agent for the Blackfeet? It wasn’t Mr. Black, was it?”
“No, not at that time. Mr. Black and his wife are newcomers to the territory. Won’t be here long either, I would venture. Not unless his wife’s attitude changes.”
“Yes, I hope
you’re right.” Kali scowled, wondering if now was the right time to ask her father the questions she felt must be asked. Casting a glance heavenward and deciding it was now or never, she said, “Father, did you and Mother ever go into the mountains?”
He squinted, staring straight ahead of him, and he said, “Why, yes, we did, dear. Quite often, actually. Of course, we rarely brought you with us at that time; you stayed at the house with a nanny, an Indian nanny. Although, come to think of it, once we did bring you with us.”
“Oh?” She paused. Then, “Father, why didn’t you ever write about this trip? Even though it wasn’t one of your usual research trips, I would have imagined you would have been curious about the Indians.”
William Wallace sighed. “There wasn’t the time, Kali. I spent every minute of every day with your mother…there, in the mountains.”
“I see,” said Kali. “And you went to the mountains as often as possible?”
“We did. It was good for her health. Seems there’s something about the air here. Fresh, invigorating.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve noticed that myself. Tell me,” Kali continued. “Did anything strange ever happen to you while you were in the mountains?”
“Strange? What do you mean?”
Kali fidgeted uneasily. “Unusual, out of the ordinary, I guess.”
William Wallace appeared to think about this for a moment, although Kali noted that a sweat had broken out on his brow—and this on a mild, cool day. In due time, he said, “Nothing too terribly odd, m’dear. Although your mother did recover here. Truth was, she’d never felt better than when she was here. Had I known—” He stopped.
“Known what, Father?”
William Wallace cast Kali a quick glance, then looked away, his features, already hardened by the toil of his unusual life, becoming even more severe. Taking out a handkerchief, he rubbed at his forehead. “Sometimes it’s only in looking back that a man can see his mistakes more clearly. I’m sorry to say that I made one here.”
“You? Make a mistake?”
William cleared his throat, coughed several times and said, “I should have told you before now. I knew it was a mistake not to, but…”
“Told me?”
Once more William cleared his throat. “This is rather difficult for me, Kalifornia.”
Kali laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Father, but please go on. Believe me, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think this is important somehow.”
“I see.” He harrumphed nervously. “Your mother made friends easily. Of course, I never thought anything of it until one day she told me that she had befriended an unusual man.”
“A man?” Kali gulped. Did she really want to hear this? Were there some things best left covered?
It was too late to go back, the die was cast—her father was continuing as though, now that the subject had been broached, he couldn’t stop.
He said, “The man was a holy man. A medicine man. He gave your mother many things and asked that she stay in his camp.”
“He gave my mother things?”
“Yes, dear. It was what upset me the most, I think. At least in the beginning.”
“What sort of things did he give her?”
William sat still for a moment, lost in thought. At last he said, “He furnished her with a lodge of her own. One with the sun, moon and stars drawn on it.”
Sun, moon and stars? Hadn’t the lodge she and Soaring Eagle shared that night been painted thus?
“That’s quite a lavish gift, isn’t it, Father? It’s easy to understand why you might have been upset.”
“Is it? I have often wondered. Because, you see, she didn’t want to leave here. I forced her to go away from here, and we never came back, though she wanted to return many, many times.” There were tears in her father’s eyes. But stubbornly, he held them back and continued, “Her illness returned to haunt her shortly after we arrived back in the New England area, I’m sorry to say, and had I been more of a man, we would have returned. It might have saved her health. But…”
Kali reached out and placed her hand on her father’s leg. “You didn’t know, Father. How could you have known? You did what you thought was right.”
“Yet,” he said, his gaze caught on something, or perhaps nothing, off in the distance, “she never got better. Never.”
Her father’s implication was clear.
In reaction, Kali said, “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Wasn’t it? I’m not so certain.”
Kali paused, then said, “Father, sometimes these things happen. And I’m sorry that we both lost her. Truly I am, but you’re not any more to blame than I am.”
“Am I not? Sometimes I wonder if maybe this isn’t why I’ve never been able to stay put in one place for any length of time. Perhaps the guilt is too much for me.” He didn’t look at Kali.
“But, Father”— she grabbed his hand—“I’m sure you—”
“No, m’dear. It’s been many years now since I confronted my demons. I had a chance to make your mother’s life better, but instead of grasping at it, I chose to leave. Leave because of my own jealousy. I know now that there was never anything between them, your mother and the man. It was simply a friendship. But it took time and persistence on her part to help me to understand that. By the time I accepted it, it was too late.”
Kali bit her lip. Was there a lesson here for her to learn? And what, she wondered, did a daughter say to such a thing? How did she react?
With no answer imminent, Kali nodded, saying simply, “I’m sorry.”
William nodded. “I am too.”
Silence descended over them; then Kali asked, “Ah, Father, do you know if this man, this medicine man, is still alive?”
William shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him at the party that night at the agent’s house, or the other night when we were in the Indians’ camp, and I have been looking. He was an unusual-looking fellow, I’ll give him that. Long white hair, tall, straight posture. Your mother gave me an odd story of how she first met him. Said that the man first appeared to her as the sun.”
“The sun?” Kali sat up straight in her seat, her eyes wide.
“He gave her another present too,” William continued, “but I begged and pleaded with her until she gave it back.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, m’dear. It was a white buffalo robe; a beautiful robe, sewn with beadwork and colored porcupine quills.”
A white buffalo robe? Gilda had given Kali a white buffalo robe as a wedding present, and she in turn had presented the robe to Comes Running Bird.
“Your mother said the robe was special, for the white buffalo belongs to Sun, the Blackfeet god. She beseeched me to understand, told me there was no reason for my jealousy, but I wouldn’t listen.” He frowned. “No, I wouldn’t listen. Not only did I force her to return all the presents, but I took her away from here—here where she was healthy…and alive.”
“Please, Father, it does no good to berate yourself. You did what you thought best at the time.”
“Yes,” he said. “But best for whom?”
Kali gulped, having no answer to that, However, question after question filled her mind, and she found herself querying further, “The robe belongs to Sun?”
“Yes, dear. That’s what your mother told me. But there’s more.”
“There is?”
“You’re right, Kali. I should have told you this long ago, but somehow the right time never seemed to come to me. And I…I’m sorry.”
Kali nodded. “There’s more?”
William inclined his head and said, “Now, the man also wanted her to bring you to the village, that he might see you.”
“Me? He did? And did she bring me?”
“Yes, once, against my wishes. I’m sad to say, Kali, that this was the final straw. I thought your mother was too enamored with the man, you see, and I feared for you. But mostly I was afraid of losing her, and maybe eventually, even you, too. We left shortly
after that.”
Kali sat stunned. To think all this had occurred and she had no recollection of it, nor had either her father or mother ever mentioned it to her. Not even once. She said, “Father, you’re right. I think you should have told me this before we came here.”
“I’m sorry, Kali. I—I didn’t know how to approach the subject.”
Kali acknowledged with the bob of her head. Of course he hadn’t known what to say or how to say it. Would she, if their places were reversed?
He had loved her mother with all his heart. It must have torn him apart to think that the woman of his dreams might have shared her affections with another. And then to realize that his actions might have stolen away her health, her life.
William was continuing. “Your mother told me that the medicine man said that you were special. I think it’s time you knew that too.”
“He did? She did? Me?”
“And he begged her to leave you here.”
Begged? How odd. “He didn’t say ‘special’ in what way, did he?”
“No, my dear. He didn’t.”
“And Mother had never seen him before you came out West?”
“No.”
“And I was around two years old?”
“Yes. You are definitely my daughter, m’dear, in case you were wondering.”
Kali nodded. The thought had crossed her mind. At last she said, “And so our coming back here—”
“Has been my way of making it up to you, to her, I suppose. I should have done it a long time ago.”
Kali patted her father’s arm and smiled. “I understand, Father. I’m only sorry that you and my mother had to suffer because of this. Still, I think it’s good that you’ve told me. It makes some of the things that have been happening since I arrived here a little clearer.”
“Clearer? How’s that?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
He gave her a sharp look. “This doesn’t have anything to do with that young man you were with the other day, does it?”
Kali grimaced. “It has everything to do with him, Father. Here.” Bending, Kali pulled out a photograph from one of her bags. “This was taken the night of the Medicine Pipe ceremony, but it wasn’t taken by me.”