White Dove

by Susan Edwards

Leaves darted across the ground and his hair blew into his face. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned into the wind, feeling empty standing out in the deserted yard. A loud screech above his head made him look up to see an owl circling. Alone. Like him.

  He strode toward the barn, toward the happy laughter. He thought back to his conversation with Jessie there two days ago and knew he was right. It was time to move on. Trouble was, he didn’t know to where. For the same reasons he couldn’t stay here, he wouldn’t return to Oregon. His brothers had their own lives. He needed his. He’d hoped to have found his place—with Dove. But he’d failed to win her heart and in just a few days she’d be gone, back to her people, where she belonged, truly leaving him alone.

  He stopped when he saw White Dove leaving the barn with the children surrounding her. Had he been expecting too much in his pursuit of her? Maybe she was right. They were too different. She couldn’t live in his world, and he hadn’t been invited to live in hers.

  She headed toward him. His heart sped up. After their hay fight in the barn—her first playful act toward him—and the passion their kisses had unleashed, he’d hoped that she’d softened toward him. Seeing her now, she seemed even more determined to avoid him. When she reached him, she handed the twins over.

  “Here. I have to help the children pack and get ready.” Without meeting his gaze, she left and entered the schoolroom behind him. The children followed, talking excitedly.

  Jeremy sighed. That morning’s kiss left him convinced beyond a shadow of doubt that she was the one for him. He wanted to marry her, to have a family with her, to share his life with her—but he might as well accept the fact that he’d lost. How could he compete with her notion of greatness? Sighing, he knew he couldn’t. Though his heart felt like lead, he tried to force cheer into his voice as he called to his niece and nephew. “Come on, monsters. How ’bout we go see the horses?”

  Juggling them up and down to their delight, he headed for the corrals. The rest of the day passed in a blur. Night fell. The Lakota children took a long time to settle as they were too excited to sleep. Jeremy, awake in his bed, heard Dove come in and climb the ladder. He listened to her move around as he had every night for the last four months. Then there was no movement, no sound. She’d fallen asleep. Despair kept him up most of the night.

  * * *

  At the crack of dawn, the excited yells of children woke Jeremy along with the others. Feeling as though someone had dumped a bucket of sand in his eyes, he went to wash. When he returned, the Indian youths were dancing and hopping with glee, each dressed in his best buckskin garments.

  During the winter, the children had the choice of dressing in either their native attire, or in the white man’s clothing sewn by the girls as part of their schooling in both cultures. Unsurprisingly, most of the children preferred their own clothing, for it allowed much more freedom of movement.

  The two eldest boys had been given the honor of riding out to stand watch for their people. When they rode into the yard, shouting, everyone assembled in front of Wolf and Jessie’s cabin.

  Jeremy grabbed Sarah and hurried out to the porch. He stood beside Jessie and when Wolf joined them, he handed Sarah over to her father then waited. Glancing at the children he found it odd that, just moments before, the yard had been filled with their chatter and laughter. Now they stood silent and still in a straight line in front of the house. They stared at the sheltering line of trees planted by Wolf’s grandfather to hide the house from wandering trappers.

  A low hum of excitement filled the air, radiating from the children. Runs Slowly got out of line and came to stand in front of Jeremy. The children moved to accommodate him. He stood on tiptoe. “We go home, Jer-m-ee.”

  Bending down, Jeremy hugged the boy. “Yes, Runs Slowly. You are going home.”

  “Jer-m-ee go home, too?”

  Jeremy winced. Home. With Dove. He wished. How wonderful that sounded—and impossible. “Afraid not, kid. I have to stay here.”

  Pouting, Runs Slowly looked as though he were about to protest when a soft chant filled the air.

  Straightening, his hands resting lightly on the boy’s shoulders, Jeremy stared at the trees. As if part of the very land upon which they walked, the first of the Sioux emerged through the pines, their numbers growing. To his delight, amazement and awe, the tribe arrived in grand procession, filing into the clearing between the house and barn, taking up all available space around the corrals, making the penned horses snort nervously.

  Jeremy craned his neck, his gaze scanning from one side of the crowd to the other as room was made for each family. He’d never seen a full tribe before. Back at Fort Laramie when Wolf’s family and warriors showed up, there’d only been a handful. It had been the same when the children had arrived at the end of last fall. He’d expected the same number of warriors to come and fetch the kids back to the tribe. Enthralled, he watched, eager to see and experience.

  Nearby, a door slammed as Rook and Sofia moved to stand behind him and Wolf. Sofia leaned forward. “What are they saying?” she asked Wolf. The chanting grew louder, making the children beam with happiness.

  “We come to claim our children,” Wolf translated, pulling Jessie and Sam into his embrace.

  The beating of Jeremy’s heart leaped to the rhythm of the drums several older men were pounding on with fingers and padded sticks. His gaze settled on a line of warriors on either side of the family groups. They each held tall wooden sticks in one hand, and shields of different shapes in the other. Long quivers stuffed with arrows were slung over their shoulders. Bows were either held or slung over shoulders. Never had he seen such an impressive sight.

  Oh, to be a Lakota warrior. To Jeremy, this seemed the ultimate adventure, the challenge of a lifetime—to live a life where each day held something new. The months spent on the ship that had brought him back from Oregon two years ago had been exciting, a once-in-a-lifetime experience, but this…

  Once more, he scanned the crowd with awe. He knew from Jessie that the tribe was considered good-sized, with over thirty conjugal families called a tiyospaye or clan, but it sure looked like more than that to him. Off to one side of the house, through a break in the trees, he spotted a large herd of horses. “They brought their horses too?” The words were spoken to no one in particular.

  “My people travel with all they own.” Wolf indicated the travois attached to many of the horses and dogs.

  Indeed, poles, furs, folded tipis were all lashed to two long poles attached to a harness. Small children perched on top of the loads and some of the elderly were also strapped to travois. He watched as they were helped down and led to furs on the hard, cold ground. The feeling of unity, of oneness, surrounded the tribe.

  At last, the drums and chanting fell silent. Still, no one moved or spoke. “What are they waiting for?” Jeremy asked, impatiently, keeping his voice low. It sort of unnerved him to be surrounded by so many people wearing no expression, though a few of the women had tears running down their faces.

  “Watch.” Wolf indicated four warriors on horseback who broke away from the crowd. They eased their magnificent mounts forward. Painted symbols gave testimony to the respect and regard each owner had for his horse, as did the blankets flapping against their sides and the feathers dangling from their manes and tails, which became toys for the playful fingers of wind. The warriors stopped ten feet from the children.

  Like their horses, all bore slashes of paint across their faces and bare chests. Lances and shields completed the dress of a plains warrior. Behind them, the remaining tribal members moved slightly to fill in the gap.

  “My people honor us by arriving wearing their best,” Wolf murmured beside him.

  Jeremy glanced down at his simple homespun trousers, faded cotton shirt and worn leather boots. He quickly removed his old, dusty hat, feeling shabby in comparison. He clamped th
e hat behind his back. Now he understood why all the children had rushed to change their clothes and braid their hair or comb it and adorn strands with small feathers and beads. A quick glance at Rook and Sofia made him feel somewhat easier. They hadn’t changed clothes, though Jessie and Wolf had.

  So far, not one of the children lined up in front of the steps to the porch made as if to run to their families. Filled with curiosity and wonder, Jeremy tried to take it all in, his gaze sweeping from the warriors lined on either side to the silent men standing before them.

  He recognized two of the men: Golden Eagle, father to Striking Thunder, Wolf and Dove, and the other was Striking Thunder himself, chief of the Miniconjou. Both father and son dismounted. Each wore a feathered war bonnet. Small, fluffy, downy feathers at the base of each long golden eagle feather ruffled in the wind, and the long tails swayed with each movement of the men’s heads. When Golden Eagle turned completely, Jeremy stifled an appreciative whistle. His headdress with twin tails of feathers nearly reached the ground. Striking Thunder’s reached halfway down his back.

  Behind them, the other two prepared to dismount. One was an old man, but the fourth looked younger than Jeremy, yet he wore an aura of confidence and greatness. Unlike Golden Eagle and Striking Thunder, he wore a beaded headband with three feathers dangling on long leather thongs down one side of his head.

  Fighting his own lack of self-confidence in the face of the strength radiating from the warriors, he kept an eye on the most fascinating man of all—the old one who dismounted with help from the younger warrior.

  The man hobbled toward the children with a tall walking stick clutched in a gnarled hand. Leather thongs hung from the top of the stick, which looked to be the mounted head of a hawk or eagle. Dangling from each thong, feathers, beads, claws and other objects hung, and over his head, the old man wore a large buffalo head with more feathers attached to the large horns.

  He wore only his breechclout, and age showed in his thin body. Various necklaces hung around his scrawny neck, so many that his shoulders were bent. Both ankles were encircled with leather strips strung with bear claws so long that they scratched the dirt with each step. His wrists also bore various charms. With every movement, the sound of clattering and jangling filled the hushed silence.

  The man had to be a hundred, judging from his leathery brown face, lined deeply with wrinkles upon wrinkles. Jeremy wondered if the man could even see; the skin of his eyelids drooped over his eyes. Yet when the man lifted his head toward Jeremy, Jeremy had the uncomfortable feeling he could not only see him, but could see through him. “Holy doggie!” he said. He gulped at the eerie sensation as the old man continued to stare.

  A jab to his side from his sister warned him to be silent. “That’s their shaman,” she whispered.

  The medicine man turned, taking two round objects from the young brave standing behind him. He shook them high over his head, chanted in a low, scratchy voice and turned in slow circles as he made his way up and down the line of children. Then he took a pouch and flung some sort of dried herb at the children’s feet. More chants followed, with the children joining in. Finally, he held his empty arms out to the side and turned to face his people. After another long silent moment, he walked away.

  Striking Thunder came forward, the fringe on his buckskin shirt and leggings swaying with each step. “Ake iyuskinyan wancinyankelo.”

  “I’m glad to see you again,” Wolf translated for those on the porch.

  For the next few minutes, Striking Thunder stopped to greet each child in Lakota, then proceeded to ask each a question in English. Answers were given in English to show their knowledge. When Striking Thunder came to Runs Slowly, the boy eagerly held up his prized possession: a mouth organ. He didn’t wait for his chief to ask a question.

  Dancing in place, his voice rose with eagerness. “I sing with this.”

  Striking Thunder smiled indulgently. “Show me what you have learned.”

  The boy put the instrument to his lips and rhythmically inhaled and exhaled air through the tiny holes. To the surprise of his chief and those watching, a sweet, clear tune burst forth. When the boy finished, he looked anxious.

  “What tune is this?” Striking Thunder asked, surprised and pleased.

  “It is Water speaking to Rock.”

  “So it is. You have learned well, child.” Striking Thunder straightened and looked from Jessie to Jeremy. He knew both brother and sister played.

  Jessie nodded toward Jeremy. “Jeremy gave him the instrument and taught him.”

  Striking Thunder reached over the boy’s head to clasp Jeremy’s arm. “You nurtured a gift none of us knew existed.”

  Jeremy shrugged, slightly embarrassed, but pleased. “The mouth organ is old but the boy is good and seems to enjoys it.”

  “We play tunes together,” Runs Slowly said. “Jer-m-ee taught me many songs.”

  “Then you and your teacher will play for us. In two days we will celebrate the return of our children with a feast.” The young chief turned to his people and lifted his voice. “From now on, Runs Slowly will be known as Makes Music. His music will appease the spirits and they will smile upon the Lakota.”

  Makes Music stood proud, though after a moment, he started fidgeting again. Jeremy stilled him with his hands when Striking Thunder faced the line of children once again. He made a sweeping gesture toward his people’s children.

  “You have made your families proud. Go. Find your mothers, fathers and grandparents.” He stepped to one side to allow the children to dash toward their loved ones.

  Striking Thunder came up the four steps leading to the porch and greeted first his brother, then his sister, then Jeremy with formal nods. But when he saw Jessie, he embraced her, then set her back to study her rounded figure. “My sister is with child.” He sounded delighted as he glanced around, his gaze settling on Sarah and Sam. He held out his arms. “Where are my tonjan and tunska?”

  The twins, with a bit of reassurance and encouragement from their parents, toddled out to their uncle who turned and carried them, one in each muscled arm, down the porch steps. “Come. We will go see your unci.” He glanced back at Wolf and Dove. “Our mother is eager to see her children once more. She is with Old Moon Woman, who is ill.”

  Wolf, Jessie and Dove tromped down the step. Several women came forward to greet Jessie and the toddlers. They exclaimed over her pregnant state, reached out to touch the unborn child and greet the twins. Watching Jessie laughing and talking with the Sioux women, Jeremy knew he’d worried needlessly that Wolf’s people would not accept her.

  When he’d announced to his brothers his decision to return to the Nebraska Territory with Jessie and Wolf, they’d been relieved. None of them had wanted Jessie to be alone with no family of her own. But Jessie and the twins had been adopted into the Sioux family. Not only had they accepted her as Wolf’s wife, she was their daughter. Their sister. She was one of them.

  Leaning his forearms on the porch railing, he listened to his sister speaking in Lakota. He didn’t understand the language, just a few words here and there that the children had taught him. Now what? Should he join his sister and her family, or would he be intruding? Maybe he’d just head back into the barn to check on the cubs.

  Leaving the porch, his gaze sought Dove. Her long, gleaming hair, its fluid length, swayed loosely against her hips. Her hands flew through the air as she engaged in animated conversation, and her laugh, clear and sweet, rang out, tugging at his heart. He rested his back against the side of the cabin. He could watch her for hours, listen to the soft husky timbre of her voice forever.

  So controlled, so in command of her life she was. He envied her. She knew exactly what she wanted. She didn’t just dream of adventure. She lived it, and he yearned to share that. His life lay open like an old, forgotten, moldy book—boring, each day fading into the next with n
o noticeable event to brighten the pages or lure the reader on.

  When he’d left Westport for Oregon, it had been because he and his siblings had decided it would be a good move—new land, new opportunities. But Oregon hadn’t held any appeal for him. As long as he was there, living with one of his brothers, he was the youngest Jones boy doing whatever his brothers told him to; he’d remained an extension of them.

  Rebelling, he’d decided living the same lifestyle in a new land was not for him. It was time for him to seek his own life, find adventure. It was no secret that Dove had played a part in his decision to leave Oregon for the Nebraska Territory.

  With White Dove, he felt alive. Challenged. Unfortunately, she’d rejected him. Actually, she hadn’t even rejected him. He hadn’t been able to get close enough to truly court her. She’d kept him at arm’s length all winter, fueling his frustration, which led him to do stupid things to get her to notice, which had only earned him her scorn. It had been a vicious circle in which he was the loser.

  Now his time had run out. In a few days, she’d be gone from his life once more, leaving him with a bleak future: farming. Marriage to a girl who’d give him babies and little else. He didn’t bother to fool himself that Dove would return next winter. She’d have found and married her great warrior by then.

  An aching hollowness hit Jeremy in the belly. From a window behind him, voices rose in good-natured arguing as Rook and Sofia returned to the kitchen. Jeremy knew he wasn’t needed here; he’d only be in the way. Jessie had her family, and even the cubs in their stall wouldn’t need him for long.

  Straightening, he stared at his hands. They were big hands. He flexed them. Strong hands. A man’s hands. It was time for him to find his place. He didn’t know where, but wherever he went, whatever he did, he didn’t want each day to be the same dreary routine of rising, working and falling into bed.

  “I want to make a difference,” he whispered, curling his fingers into fists.

  There, he’d said the words aloud. He’d felt good when Runs Slowly—Makes Music—had earned praise from his chief. The boy had desperately needed something to call his own, something he was good at, and Jeremy had loved the feeling of discovering the boy’s talent.