The Spirit Path

by Madeline Baker

  She was unaware that Veronica had entered the room until the older woman tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, you in there?” Veronica queried, one eyebrow arched in concern. “I asked you three times what you want for lunch.”

  “Oh, I don’t care,” Maggie said. “Whatever you feel like fixing.”

  “Sandwiches okay?”

  “Fine.”

  She went on with the lesson while Veronica prepared lunch. She tried not to stare at Hawk as he picked up the thick roast beef and Swiss cheese sandwich Veronica had made. He studied it for a moment, sniffed it before he took a bite. A slow smile curved the corners of his mouth. “Wasté,” he said, nodding his approval.

  Maggie nodded, charmed by the look of pleasure on his face. He quickly ate his sandwich and she gave him half of hers, pleased that he found contemporary food to his liking.

  They went back to the lesson after lunch. She was trying to explain the difference between a noun and a pronoun when Shadow Hawk laid his hand over hers, his thumb lightly stroking the back of her hand.

  Maggie’s breath caught in her throat and she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. His touch was so unexpected, so filled with warmth and tenderness, that it caught her completely by surprise.

  Without thinking, she jerked her hand away, confused by her overwhelming response to such an ordinary gesture, and then she stared at him, mute, knowing she’d hurt him. He didn’t say anything, only sat there watching her.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I…” Oh Lord, she thought, what was he doing to her? Why did he look at her like that, as if he were lost and she was the only one who could save him?

  She felt a sudden urge to take him into her arms, to cradle his head against her breast and tell him everything would be all right. Instead, she placed her hand over his. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  He smiled at her and then, in a fluid movement, he stood up and walked toward her. Pulling her wheelchair away from the table, he lifted her in his arms.

  “What are you doing?” Maggie exclaimed.

  “I wish to go for a walk.”

  “I can’t walk.”

  “I can,” he said simply, and headed for the back door.

  She started to protest that she didn’t want to go outside, that she was too heavy for him to carry. Instead, she twined her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder.

  It was a beautiful day, clear and warm with a gentle breeze. He carried her as if she weighed no more than a child, telling her of his youth and of the days he had spent in the Black Hills.

  “I was born here, in the Paha Sapa in the year when we stole the arrows from the Pawnee,” Hawk began. “My father was a mighty warrior. He counted many coup against the Crow and the Pawnee. He was killed in my twelfth summer while defending my mother and two small children from a grizzly bear.”

  Maggie nodded, understanding the things he did not say. That he had been his mother’s protector and provider since his father died.

  “It was here, in the shadow of the Paha Sapa that I learned to be a warrior. Heart-of-the-Wolf taught me to hunt, to track the deer and the elk, to find food and water. He also taught me what he knew of plants and herbs.

  “It was here that I fought in my first battle, and here that I killed my first Pawnee.”

  Maggie listened, mesmerized by the sound of his voice. In her mind, it was so easy to picture him as the boy he had been, tall and lean and strong, eager to learn, excelling at all he did. She did not like to picture him killing anyone, yet it made her heart skip a beat as she imagined him riding to battle, his blood running hot, his face painted for war.

  “Heart-of-the-Wolf prepared me to seek my vision, and to participate in the Sun Dance. We came here each summer to celebrate the Sun Dance with our brothers, the Cheyenne. Those were good times, filled with days of feasting and games, and nights of dancing and storytelling. And always, lurking in the back of your mind if you were going to take part in the dance, was the shadow of the Sun Dance Pole.”

  “Were you afraid?” Maggie asked, staring at the scars on his chest. She had read numerous accounts of the Sun Dance ceremony and thought she understood, at least a little, the significance of it, yet she could not help feeling repulsed by the ordeal.

  “Afraid?” Hawk frowned thoughtfully. “I was not afraid of the pain. I knew it would hurt and I think I was prepared for that. I was afraid of failing, of not having the courage to see it through to the end. Mostly, I was afraid of bringing shame to my mother and to Heart-of-the-Wolf.”

  “Was it as bad as you expected?”

  Hawk chuckled softly. “Worse. And better.” Maggie lifted her hand, wanting to touch the faint white scars on his chest, but lacking the nerve to do so.

  And then he took her hand in his and laid it over each scar.

  “It was you, Mag-gie,” he said, his voice suddenly husky. “It was your image I saw when I offered my blood and my pain at the Sun Dance Pole.”

  Maggie gazed deep into his eyes and she saw it all clearly, the Lakota encampment in the heart of the Black Hills, the sacred Sun Dance Pole made from the trunk of a cottonwood tree, the warriors dancing while the rest of the people looked on. She could feel the warmth of the summer sun on her face, hear the heartbeat of the drum, the shrill notes of an eagle bone whistle. She felt Shadow Hawk’s pain as the skewers that had been embedded in the muscle of his chest tore free, and she felt a new love and respect for the people who had lived here so long ago, for the man who held her in his arms.

  A short time later they came to a small stream. Still cradling Maggie in his arms, Hawk sat down on the grass, holding her in his lap.

  “You can put me down now,” Maggie said, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I must be getting heavy.”

  “You are not heavy,” he replied candidly, “and I like holding you.”

  Maggie blushed and looked away. And then she felt his hand move in her hair as he began to speak to her in Lakota.

  “Do you see that high mountain?” he asked. “My people believe the great thunderbird, Wakinyan Tanka, lives in his tipi on top of that mountain. There are four of them. The Wakinyan of the west is the most powerful. He is clothed in clouds. His body has no form, but he has giant wings. He has no feet, but enormous claws. He has no head, but a huge sharp beak with pointed teeth. His color is black.

  “The Wakinyan of the north is red. The Wakinyan of the east is yellow and the fourth is white. He has no eyes and no ears, yet he can see and hear. No one ever sees a whole thunderbird, though very holy men sometimes see a part of it in dreams and visions.”

  “Have you ever seen him?” Maggie asked.

  “No, but Heart-of-the-Wolf once saw his wings.”

  “Tell me another of your beliefs.”

  “You are not like other whites,” Shadow Hawk mused. “You speak our language, you do not frown on our ways. I think perhaps your heart is more red than white.” He smiled down at her, pleased that her eyes were no longer filled with unhappiness. “Have you heard the story of how the Lakota came to be?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “Long ago, when the earth was still young, Unktehi, the water monster, fought the people and caused a great flood. No one knows why. Perhaps Wakán Tanka was angry with the people. Maybe he let Unktehi win because he wanted to make a better kind of human being.

  “The water got higher and higher until everything was underwater except for one hill where the sacred red pipestone quarry now stands. The people climbed the hill to save themselves, but it was no use. The water swept them all away and everyone was killed. Their blood formed a pool and the pool turned to pipestone and created the quarry. That is why the pipe, made of that red rock, is sacred to our people. It is made from the flesh and blood of our ancestors; the stem is the backbone of those people long dead, the smoke is their breath.

  “After the flood, Unktehi was turned to stone. Her bones can be seen in the Badlands even today.

  “Only one girl survived the
flood, saved by a big spotted eagle. Wanblee Galeshka carried the girl to the top of a tall tree which stood on the highest pinnacle of the Paha Sapa. It was the only place not covered by water. Wanblee kept the beautiful girl and made her his wife. Soon she got pregnant and bore him twins, a boy and a girl.

  “When the water finally disappeared, Wanblee helped the children and their mother down from the rock and put them on earth and they grew up. After the mother died, he was the only man and she was the only woman and they married and had children and became Lakota Oyate, a Great Nation.”

  “It’s like Adam and Eve and Noah and the Flood all rolled into one,” Maggie mused.

  Shadow Hawk looked puzzled. “Adam and Eve?”

  “It is our belief that Adam and Eve were the first man and the first woman. God, the Father, put them in a beautiful garden and told them to multiply and replenish the earth. He told them they might partake of the fruit of every tree in the garden, save the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. But Eve disobeyed God and ate the forbidden fruit, and they were sent out of the garden.”

  Hawk grunted softly. “And No-ah?”

  “He lived in a time of great wickedness and God decided to send a flood to cover the earth and destroy all the children he had created. But Noah found grace in the eyes of Lord and he built a great ship called an ark and saved his family.”

  Shadow Hawk nodded, his gaze meeting Maggie’s, making her pulse begin to race.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” she said. “I mean, imagine two cultures as different as ours producing such similar tales.”

  She looked at the Black Hills, feeling their magic even as she felt the magic in the hand that rested lightly on her shoulder. She could feel Shadow Hawk’s dark-eyed gaze resting on her face, could feel the mysterious bond that had drawn them together growing stronger. Had her loneliness truly called to him across the years? Was that why he was here? And what would she do when he was gone?

  She could not, would not, let herself begin to care.

  Chapter Twelve

  Shadow Hawk was riding the black stallion in the corral the next day when Bobby climbed up on the top rail to watch.

  “You did it!” the boy exclaimed, his voice tinged with pride and a bit of envy.

  “But only after you took the edge off.”

  Bobby ducked his head, pleased at Hawk’s praise.

  “Come,” Shadow Hawk said, riding closer to the rail. “Try him.”

  “Maybe later.” Bobby took a deep breath and then blurted, “It’s hard to believe you’re from the past, I mean, it seems so impossible.”

  “It is hard for me to believe as well,” Shadow Hawk replied quietly. His gaze strayed toward the Black Hills. Soon he would go to the Sacred Cave and see if he could find the Spirit Path that would lead him back home, back to his own time, his own people.

  “Tell me, Bob-by Running Horse, what is it like to be an Indian today?”

  “Not so good, at least not for the people on the reservation. Many are sick in their souls and they look for answers in whiskey, or worse.”

  “Reservations,” Shadow Hawk muttered, his voice thick with disgust.

  “They’re worse than you can imagine. Our people are poor. Many are discouraged. I was lucky. Miss St. Claire gave me a job here and I have a good life. I send money home to my brother.”

  “Money?”

  “It’s what the white man uses to get what he wants.”

  “And he always gets what he wants. That, at least, has not changed. How is it that you did not grow up speaking Lakota?”

  “No one bothered to teach me until I came here. My mother died when I was very young. My father spends whatever money he gets on whiskey.”

  Shadow Hawk grunted softly. In his time there were Indians who could not leave the white man’s firewater alone, warriors who traded furs for whiskey, much to the shame of their families.

  “Tell me, what was it like in the old days?” Bobby asked, his dark eyes glowing. “Was it wonderful?”

  Shadow Hawk stroked the stallion’s neck, his expression thoughtful. “It was a good way to live. A man knew who he was.”

  “What was it like to ride into battle?”

  “To ride against an enemy tribe was a good thing. A man gained honor on the field of battle. It was a brave thing to count coup, to steal your enemy’s horse, to take his weapons. But the white man does not fight for honor. He fights to kill, and he does not care whether he kills a man or a child. To him, it is all the same. He has no respect for the land, or the animals, or the people.”

  “It is the same today. They are polluting the water and the earth and the sky. They destroy the forests and kill the animals.”

  Shadow Hawk nodded. Was this why he had been sent to the future, to see the destruction of his people, of the land the Lakota held sacred? He looked at Bobby, dressed in the clothes of the white man, and felt a deep sadness that a young man should grow up ignorant of the ways of his people, ignorant of their language.

  Bobby stared at Shadow Hawk, trying to imagine himself in the other man’s place. All his life he’d wanted to be a warrior, to live in the old way as his forefathers had lived, to follow the buffalo across the plains, to go to battle against the Crow. “Did you…?”

  “What?”

  Bobby gestured at the scars on Shadow Hawk’s chest. “You bear the marks of the Sun Dance. Did you also seek a vision?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you…do you think you could help me?”

  Shadow Hawk nodded. “If that is your wish.”

  “When?” Bobby asked, his voice rising in excitement. “Today, tomorrow?”

  “You must think about it. A vision is not something one rushes into. You must pray for guidance, and when you feel ready, we will have a sweat. And then you must go into the Hills, alone, and seek the Spirit.”

  “Pilamaya,” Bobby said, his dark eyes glowing with excitement. “Thank you! Wait ’til I tell Veronica!” Jumping off the fence, he ran toward the house.

  “So,” Maggie said, “Bobby says you are going to help him seek a vision.”

  She had been sitting at the window watching the two of them, her eyes drawn, as always, to Shadow Hawk. Now he stood before her, talking of sweat lodges and visions, things she had read about and written about. Things she had never truly believed in until a Lakota warrior entered her life.

  Shadow Hawk nodded. “It is a good thing, to seek the guidance of the spirits.”

  “Do you think he’ll get one? I mean, I didn’t think Indians did that anymore.”

  “If his heart is right, if he truly believes, Wakán Tanka will grant him that which he seeks.”

  Maggie nodded, remembering that Hawk claimed to have seen her in his vision. When he’d first told her that, she had found it hard to believe, but no longer. She felt a kinship with Hawk, a spiritual bond that she could not explain, and it frightened her.

  “I watched you riding the black today.”

  Hawk grinned, his pleasure in the horse obvious. “He would have made a fine war pony.”

  “He’s yours.”

  “Does he not belong to Bob-by?”

  “No, he belonged to me, and now he belongs to you.”

  “I have nothing to give you in return.”

  “Nothing is required.”

  “Why do you have a horse you cannot ride?”

  “I have several horses I can’t ride,” Maggie reminded him, “but I bought the black because I thought he was beautiful and I liked looking at him.”

  Hawk nodded. “Come,” he said. “I will take you for a ride.”

  “No.” She shook her head vigorously. Once she had loved to ride, but now the thought of being on a horse filled her with trepidation.

  “Yes.” He smiled at her as he lifted her from her wheelchair.

  Maggie thought again how powerful that smile was, how quickly it changed her “no” to “yes”. If she could only bottle that smile, she thought as she wrapped her arms a
round his neck, she could light up the world. And then, selfishly, she decided she wouldn’t share him if she could. She wanted to keep Shadow Hawk to herself, for just a little while, because too soon he’d be gone and she’d be in the dark again.

  While Shadow Hawk bridled the black, she sat on a flat-topped rock near the corral watching his every move. Veronica had bought Hawk a pair of Levi’s and a black T-shirt, but he continued to wear only his clout and moccasins, and she couldn’t help admiring the dark bronze of his skin, the way his muscles flexed as he lifted her effortlessly onto the stallion’s bare back, then swung up behind her, his movements as light and graceful as a dancer’s.

  She felt her heart quicken as his arm slid around her waist, and then they were riding toward the Hills.

  The air was fragrant with the scent of pines and earth, alive with the hum of insects, the song of a bird. The sky was a clear azure blue, deep enough to swim in. Off in the distance the gray mountain crags of the Hills rose in majestic splendor, the evergreen trees covering the slopes like a blanket of varying shades of green.

  Hawk lifted the stallion into a trot and Maggie let out a sigh of delight. She’d missed riding, missed the sense of freedom it had once given her. Most men never understood why so many girls loved horses, but Maggie knew it wasn’t just the sheer beauty of the animals that fascinated women, it was the feeling of power, of being in control of an animal that weighed ten times your weight, the sense of freedom and speed.

  Men loved fast cars, but cars were just chrome and metal, they weren’t living beings, capable of love and devotion.

  Moments later, Hawk urged the black into a lope and Maggie felt her heart soar with excitement. It was wonderful to feel the wind in her face again, to imagine that she could feel the surging power of the stallion beneath her.