White Dove

by Susan Edwards

  White Wind turned away, her voice taking on an edge of anger. “If the two of you do not resolve this, I will be most unhappy. Stubborn. The both of you. Father and daughter cut from the same cloth, that’s what my pa would have said.” She stepped outside. Dove followed, but as there wasn’t anything else to say, she headed for the river.

  Realizing she’d forgotten the water bag and her pouch for carrying wood, Dove decided to just wander. She liked being alone, loved to follow the river, sit by a stream and just be one with her surroundings.

  Lost in her unhappy thoughts, she followed the curve in the river, went farther than normal. She found a place to sit and stared out at the rushing torrent. Her life felt as rushed as the river. Maybe her mother was right. Deep inside, she knew her father loved her and worried over her. With each of her siblings now settled raising families, he just wanted the same for her.

  Soon, for her mother if not for herself, she knew she would make peace with her father. She could not fault him for loving her too much.

  The sound of footsteps made her snap her head around. Jeremy and the cubs were coming toward her. She tried to hide her pleasure at seeing him with gruff words. “You still walk like a white man.”

  Jeremy eased himself down beside her. “Give me a break, woman. I ache everywhere.”

  Dove greeted the cubs, surprised at how large they’d become, then watched them scamper off to explore. “You should not be alone with me.” She was glad he was.

  He fell to his knees, then lay on his back. “Right now, I’m too tired to be any threat to your virtue. I thought ranching and driving cattle thousands of miles was hard work. I’ll tell you, trying to keep up with kids half my size and half my age nearly made me keel over today.”

  Dove gave him one of her knowing grins. “We are taught early to run for long distances—without tripping and falling.”

  Jeremy turned his head and scowled at her. “You heard.” He sighed long and deep.

  “No. I saw you fall.” When he shot her a startled glance, she laughed. “You did not see me but I was watching.” Normally she found great amusement in watching him train, but today her first reaction to his fall when he’d failed to get right up had been to run to him and make sure he was unhurt. And that bothered her, the continued need to be near him—even if he didn’t know she was there.

  “Bet you didn’t see that owl turn into a woman.” He rubbed the back of his head and winced.

  She lifted a brow. “What are you talking about?”

  Jeremy sat and wrapped his hands around his knees. Bruises from his fight with Speaks With Truth covered his thighs and shoulders, and several cuts still oozed blood. “Knocked myself out and had the strangest dream about a talking owl.”

  Ready with another sneering comment on his training, she gasped, forgetting to keep him at arm’s length. Turning, she stared at him. “Talking owl?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, pretty crazy, isn’t it? I dreamed an owl flew down out of the trees and turned into a woman.”

  Dove’s eyes grew wide. She rose to kneel. “Tell me about this dream.” She’d never had a vision, and the fact that he, a white man, had possibly been honored with one, filled her with excitement. Only warriors worthy of a vision were ever granted one.

  Jeremy rolled his eyes. “You’ll laugh.”

  “No. Visions are important.”

  He tossed a twig at her. “Come on, this wasn’t a vision. I banged my head when I fell and must have lost consciousness.” He furrowed his brows and glanced at her. “Funny thing is, it seemed so real.”

  Dove’s eyes widened. He didn’t know! He didn’t understand. A vision—he’d had one. She’d been there, had watched him, but none had known he’d had a vision! “Jeremy, listen to me. If an owl came to you as a woman, then it means the spirits granted you a vision! Tell me what you saw. Everything.”

  She held her breath and listened while Jeremy spoke of the Owl-woman and repeated her words. Chills ran up her spine. She’d never had any prophetic moments, had never gone on a vision quest. And here, Jeremy had been given one and didn’t recognize its significance.

  “The spirits spoke to you today.” Awe filled her voice. “You must tell our chief. He will take you to our shaman, who will tell you what it means.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” Jeremy glanced up, as if searching for the owl.

  “I would not joke about something so important. I told you that everything around us has a spirit. Those spirits talk to us. Rock, Wind, Sky, all animals, even the smallest insect. Trees, and plants, they all have spirits. Everything has a spirit.”

  She drew a circle in the ground with her finger. “The buffalo are our brothers, the birds our cousins. We are all related. All are part of the circle.” She waited until he looked at her, until she saw that he took her seriously.

  Dove studied Jeremy in confusion. What did this mean? He wasn’t a warrior. Yet. Hope took hold. Did this mean he would become one of them? Her heart raced at the thought. She leaned forward. “To be visited, to have a vision, is an honor. Many seek visions—we call it hanbleceya. Vision-seeking. Not all are given this gift. Those who have visions are called Dreamers. You are a Dreamer,” she breathed. “Your helper is to be Owl.”

  Jeremy seemed to be contemplating her words. “Does this mean that now you’ll take me seriously?”

  Dove watched the water rush past. How could she not? Yet he still had a long way to go, much to learn. Nothing had been proven, only hope had been given. Standing, she knew she had to pursue this in earnest. She had to know if Jeremy could possibly be the one her grandmother had foreseen. But the only way to be sure was to allow him to court her, and to wait and see.

  “Tonight. When it is dark, come to the tipi of my parents. Bring your blanket.” With that, she walked away.

  * * *

  Jeremy watched White Dove go with open-mouthed shock. He’d observed the courting methods of the Sioux in the two months he’d been with them. Joy flooded his heart and soul. Dove had just given him permission to openly court her—all because she believed he’d had a vision.

  He didn’t believe it, though. People who were knocked unconscious dreamed strange things. Those things weren’t necessarily visions. But if Dove wanted to believe that, who was he to tell her not to? Surely if she told her brother, he’d agree that this had just been the product of a blow to his head. But in the meantime, he had some courting to do.

  Excited, he jumped up, then groaned at the stiffness settling in his muscles. Despite his pain, he threw his arms high into the air, forming a vee. He shouted with laughter, his loud whoop echoing through the trees. Filled with a fresh burst of energy, he stripped down and waded out into the cold water to bathe, thanking the little Indian show-off who’d been responsible for the knock to his head.

  * * *

  Crouched behind a clump of bushes, Waho seethed with fury. He fingered his knife, pulled it from its beaded sheath. Once more his enemy was unaware. Staring at Jeremy’s broad back, he lifted his blade. It would be so easy. One throw and the white man would be dead. He’d float away far downstream.

  Tempting. Very tempting.

  He’d heard everything. It infuriated him that the white man had been gifted with a vision without ever going through the trials of hanbleceya. Once, as a young warrior, Waho had sought a vision as proof that he was to be a great leader in their tribe. For four days and nights he’d gone without food and water, but the spirits had played a cruel
joke on him. On the last day, on the edge of being conscious, he’d dreamed of Anog-Ite, the Double Woman who incites dissension, temptation and gossip.

  Even now that memory could shake him. Only women dreamed of that evil spirit with a face incredibly beautiful on one half, and the other so hideous, one could not look upon her. In fact, if a woman dreamed of her, she’d become crazy; she’d laugh uncontrollably and act deceptively, making people afraid of her. Men who went near her would become possessed. But everything that woman dreamer made would be beautiful, and none would be able to match her skill.

  But he’d never heard of a man who dreamed of Anog-Ite. He had not been able to even admit such a thing, or he’d have been considered a Heyoka, condemned to a life of ridicule until he proved his medicine to be helpful. Like Thunder Dreamer, who lived the life of a fool. It didn’t matter to Waho that Thunder Dreamer made powerful medicine like flutes for warriors to use during the Sun Dance; it didn’t make a difference that the man had gained the respect of their tribe.

  Waho wasn’t willing to take that chance. Not even if he’d dreamed of thunder would he have willingly taken on the life of a Heyoka. To admit to dreaming of the Double Woman was much worse, for he’d surely have been commanded to live the life of a woman. Instead, he’d borne the disappointment of his father for failing in his vision quest. He hadn’t taken the chance of seeking another vision since.

  Hating the white man not only for being given a vision but for making him remember his own, Waho was ready to kill him. The white man was bad. Evil. Would take what didn’t belong to him. He could not be allowed to court White Dove. Taking aim, the sudden swoop of an owl between him and Jeremy startled him. The owl let out a screech of warning, sending flocks of black birds into the air.

  In the water, Jeremy ducked down, only his head above water as he stared at the retreating owl and scanned the area. Moving quickly, he returned to the bank and reached out to grab his own knife.

  Waho glared at the owl who was still soaring overhead. If what he’d overheard was true, the owl had become the wasicun’s talisman. Moving silently, he resolved to wait. He didn’t dare kill the white man with the owl watching.

  Walking back to the ring of tipis, he paused near the one that belonged to Striking Thunder. Out in front, the white woman Emma—he refused to acknowledge her by her Indian name of White Flame—bent over a cooking pot. Sitting a few feet away, White Wind sat with the woman’s baby cradled in her arms.

  Whites. Tainted blood. His hands fisted. It didn’t matter to Waho that Striking Thunder’s mother had a Sioux father. To him she was as white as Emma, and each of her children also bore corrupted blood.

  When Striking Thunder came into camp to greet his family, Waho watched him lead his wife into their tipi. Moving along the back of the chief’s tipi, he paused to listen to soft laughter and deeper murmurs. Then came muffled moans.

  Knowing that Striking Thunder was rutting with his wife brought Waho’s own blood to a heated mass. The white woman should have been his to bed each afternoon, his slave. It had been Waho’s young sister, Striking Thunder’s first wife, who’d been murdered. That had meant the reparation should have been made to him. But Striking Thunder had claimed the white slave, then shamed Waho’s family by taking her for his second wife. In Waho’s eyes, Striking Thunder had committed a crime against his family.

  Also, he’d refused to kill the woman’s father, a soldier in charge of the fort. It didn’t matter to Waho that the soldier who had hired the Arikara Indians to harass the Sioux had died. He held the colonel in the white man’s army responsible. But the real insult had come when White Dove’s older sister had married the man, the colonel. Once more, the clan of Golden Eagle had taken from Waho’s family. They’d stolen not only his right to be chief, but they’d taken from him the need to avenge his sister’s death. And the presence of the whites only proved how weak Golden Eagle’s kin were. Soon, Waho would take what belonged to him.

  Including Dove. He would not lose her to a wasicun. She would restore to him all that was rightfully his. Through her, and her greatness, he’d one day take his rightful place as chief. And when he no longer needed her, he’d take many wives and wipe away the white blood in his tipi, including any child Dove bore him.

  Cutting across the village, he entered the tipi of Small Woman. As he passed her, the widow rose and followed him inside. She closed the flap and greeted him with a smile. “It’s been long since Waho has come to visit.” She drew her deerskin dress over her head and laid out her sleeping pallet which she’d rolled up that morning.

  Waho stared hungrily at her narrow waist, flared hips and curved buttocks. Though she’d passed thirty winters, was nearly ten winters older than he, she was still pretty. Widowed several years before, she’d remained single, refusing to leave her friends to go live with her married sons. She chose instead to rely on the village’s warriors to provide her with food and furs. In return, she eased their needs and taught the youngest warriors how to pleasure a woman.

  Waho removed his breechclout and released his swollen and heavy manhood. He raged with need. As he plunged into Small Woman, he kept the image of Dove in his mind. Her young, supple body, firm, high breasts and the dark nest of curls that hid her womanhood would soon belong to him. Soon he’d get rid of the wasicun, then claim her as wife—before the Sun Dance, even if he had to threaten harm to her family to force her to agree. It was time to make it known to her just how far he’d go.

  With a loud cry, he plunged one last time and released his seed and his anger. After a few minutes, his body calmed. And his mind. Lying there, he allowed Small Woman to bring him food. He ate inside her tipi, alone, then dressed and left.

  Night had fallen. Waho gathered his blanket from his father’s dwelling, hung it from his shoulder and headed for the tipi of Golden Eagle. He pulled out his flute, played a couple of notes, then called out, refraining from staring at the occupants inside.

  When Golden Eagle came to the flap, Waho spoke formally. “I come to speak to the daughter of Golden Eagle.”

  Golden Eagle ducked back inside and when Dove came to the entryway, he stepped to one side to allow her to lean out. She would stand there, with her feet in the tipi, her body outside as they conversed in private beneath the blanket he’d drape over their heads.

  To Waho’s surprise, she was smiling, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. He puffed out his chest and held up his blanket, ready to throw it over their heads.

  Instead of stopping and turning to him, she left the tipi, walking past him as if he hadn’t been standing there. Turning, he spotted the white man sitting upon his horse a few feet away. In his hands the wasicun held the reins to a young mare adorned with flowers woven and twisted around the rope reins and dangling from her flowing mane and tail. Painted on her flank, a white dove seemed to hover in midflight. Dove stopped several feet in front of Jeremy. Behind him, Waho felt Golden Eagle move to stand beside him.

  Jeremy glanced past Dove to her father. “This horse will one day belong to your youngest daughter. I seek your permission to call on her and court her.” He sat taller. “I wish all to know of my feelings for your daughter.”

  Golden Eagle nodded. “The mare is a fine gift. If my daughter is willing, you have my permission.”

  “I am willing—”

  Waho stepped forward. “I have also come to speak to the daughter of Golden Eagle. I offer many horses for her, not just one,” he sneered. A crowd began to grow. The onlooke
rs waited, their gazes jumping from father, to Waho, to the white man.

  Jeremy tipped his head down, staring down at Waho. “I offer quality, not quantity. I will train this mare. She will make a fine horse for the daughter of Golden Eagle.” He turned to Dove and smiled. “Come. Meet White Blaze. Ride with me around the circle of camp. Let her feel the weight of her mistress.”

  “No. You must wait, as is the custom of our people.” Waho held up his blanket. “Was I not here first? I wish to speak to the daughter of Golden Eagle.”

  Jeremy shrugged and dismounted. “It is up to Dove.”

  Dove never even looked at Waho, did not acknowledge him as she stared at Jeremy. “I saw no other but Hunkuya Mato.”

  Waho couldn’t believe his ears. She’d dismissed him. Told all within hearing that he did not exist for her. The white man lifted her onto the mare, remounted and led the horse—and Dove—to the far end of camp. Murmurs rose. Not only had Dove gone with the white man, she’d allowed him to lead her. The women smiled and sighed. The warriors avoided his eyes. The fact that Dove allowed another to lead her spoke volumes.

  Behind him, Golden Eagle spoke softly for Waho’s ears alone. “Seek another. My daughter has chosen her mate.”

  Furious to have lost to a white man, Waho whirled around. “I offer much more for her.”

  “But she does not choose you.”

  “She has not chosen the white man! I have until the end of summer to prove I am the warrior who will rule your daughter.”

  Golden Eagle lifted a brow. “Rule her?”

  Waho shifted uncomfortably, hating the fact that he had to look up to the old chief. Like most Sioux, he himself was on the short side. Only a few were given Golden Eagle’s height. “I only meant that a warrior must be strong. It is he who is the leader of his family.” He held the old chief’s stare.