The Angel and the Outlaw (20 page)

That night, after all the people had gone to their lodges, the shamans blessed the dancing area.

Tasina Luta had told her that the medicine men would go up on a nearby hill the morning of the last day to greet the Sun, that they would pray for a blue day and invoke the powers of the Sky to give strength to the dancers. They would ask Bear for wisdom.

Brandy pondered all she had learned as she went to bed that night. Her last thought was for J.T. as she prayed that he would have the strength and the courage to endure the pain that was to come.

* * * * *

J.T. stood in a line with the other candidates, waiting his turn. Four days of preparation stood behind him, and he waited patiently, his hands curled into tight fists.

He took a deep breath as Wicasa Tankala drew up in front of him. The old shaman offered him a slight smile and then, chanting softly, he painted J.T.’s hands and feet red and blue, then painted blue stripes across his shoulders. And then the medicine man painted a red fox, symbol of J.T’s spirit guide, on J.T.’s chest.

When all the dancers had been prepared, Wicasa Tankala left the lodge carrying a decorated buffalo skull. The candidates followed him from the sacred lodge along a marked trail to the site of the Dance Arbor. Inside, Wicasa Tankala placed the buffalo skull on an altar facing the Sun Dance pole.

Now the people began to gather around. Brandy hurried toward the Dance Arbor, her gaze searching for J.T.. She found him near the end of the procession. Like all the dancers, he wore a long red kilt, arm bands and anklets of rabbit fur, and a fur necklace with a symbolic sunflower medallion. He carried a spray of sage in his right hand; there was a wreath of sage on his head.

When all had entered the Dance Arbor, Wicasa Tankala brought harmony into the lodge by lighting and passing the pipe to all assembled, while his assistants made a fire of buffalo chips on the altar, to which they added sweet grass to purify the lodge.

Each dancer was given a blue willow hoop which symbolized the Sky, the emblem of the four directions, and an eagle wing whistle wrapped in porcupine quills, the tip of which was decorated with a feather of eagle down.

J.T. nodded at his grandmother, then fixed his gaze on Brandy’s face as Wicasa Tankala came to stand in front of him. He held his breath as the medicine man took hold of the muscle over his left breast and pierced his flesh.

Quick images and snatches of sound burned themselves into J.T.’s mind: the compassion and encouragement in Brandy’s eyes, the red of his blood as it dripped down his chest, the songs of defiance that rose from the lips of the other candidates. J.T. longed to give voice to his own pain, but he kept it locked up inside.

He flinched as Wicasa Tankala pierced him a second time. Agony burned through J.T. as the long wooden skewers were inserted, and then he was a part of the sacred tree, tethered to the Sun Dance pole by a long length of braided rawhide.

Wicasa Tankala signaled for the singers to begin the slow, measured music that opened the dance.

J.T. glanced at Brandy for a long moment, and then be began to dance, his face turned upward, toward the sun.

He was an infant again, helpless, vulnerable. The tether that bound him to the Sun Dance Pole was the umbilical cord that bound him to his mother, the Sun. He stared into her face, lost in the golden warmth of her smile. He danced to please her, begging forgiveness for his sins. In all his life, he had never belonged anywhere, but the earth beneath his feet belonged to him now. His sweat watered it and his blood nourished it, and he was no longer a wanderer.

Gradually, he became aware that the music had stopped. During a brief intermission, Brandy came to attend him. She wiped the perspiration from his face and chest with wisps of sage, surreptitiously offered him a small sip of cool water. Her eyes smiled at him, she gave his arm a squeeze, and then she returned to the sidelines.

When the music began again, the tempo was faster, stronger. J.T. pulled against his tether, trying to tear the skewers from his flesh. It was time to be free of the womb, time to face life on his own.

J.T. stared into the sun. Perspiration sluiced down his body, stinging the wounds in his chest. His heart pounded in rhythm to the drum, which was like the heartbeat of the earth, pulsing with life.

Pain sliced through him. Blood dripped down his chest. Lifting the whistle to his lips, he gave voice to his agony, the bittersweet notes of the eagle bone whistle drifting away on a passing breeze. And like a tender caring mother, the Sun enveloped him in her arms, her warmth soothing his pain.

He stared into the golden depths of the Sun’s all-seeing eyes, and he saw a red fox walking down a dusty road. The creature paused when it came to a snare.

The fox glanced over its shoulder and J.T. saw a vixen hiding in the shadows. The two creatures gazed at each other for stretched seconds and then, deliberately, the fox put its head in the snare and allowed itself to be caught so its mate could escape.

J.T. groaned deep in his throat as he felt the fox’s sadness and pain, and then he saw a dazzling white light encompass the creature.

“No!” J.T. lurched backward, away from the vision, gasping in pain as the skewers tore free from his flesh.

“No, no.” He sobbed the words as he fell to his knees.

Brandy was there, beside him, cradling him in her arms. “It’s over, J.T.,” she murmured soothingly. “It’s over.”

There was a great deal of rejoicing when the last dancer freed himself from the sacred pole. Relatives came forward to congratulate those who had participated in the Dance. Gifts were given to those who had taken part in the ceremony.

Tasina Luta presented J.T. with a doeskin shirt. Bleached almost white, it was as soft as velvet. Long fringe dangled from the sleeves and the hem; there was a small red fox painted on the right shoulder.

Later, alone in their lodge, Brandy treated J.T.’s wounds. He had been strangely silent since the conclusion of the Dance. She had attributed it to the pain he must be feeling, but now, studying his face as she cleansed the blood from his chest, she wondered if there was something else troubling him.

“J.T., are you all right?”

He grunted softly, his expression distant.

Chewing on the inside of her lower lip, she spread the healing salve Wicasa Tankala had given her over J.T.’s wounds, then wrapped a length of soft cloth around his chest. That done, she offered him a cup of willow bark tea.

Sitting back on her heels, she watched him drain the cup and set it aside.

“J.T.?”

“I think I’ll turn in,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

Brandy nodded. She tried not to be hurt by his refusal to talk to her, but she couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help feeling that he was keeping something from her.

Her gaze moved over his long, lean body as he slipped, naked, under the buffalo robes.

She was staring into the fire, feeling strangely melancholy, when she felt him watching her.

“Brandy, I…” J.T. held out one hand. “Come here, love.”

She went to him quickly, eagerly, sliding under the blankets to lie beside him. Tears burned her eyes and she blinked them back.

J.T.’s arm curled around her, holding her close.

“Can’t you tell me?” Brandy asked softly. “Can’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”

J.T.’s arm tightened around her. “Not now.”

“I love you,” she said, a hint of desperation in her voice. She wanted so badly to help him, but, not knowing what was troubling him, she could think of nothing to offer him but the assurance that she loved him.

“I know.” His lips brushed her cheek. “I know.”

She remained awake long after J.T.’s even breathing told her he had fallen asleep. Staring into the darkness of the lodge, she felt her heart swell with love for the man lying beside her. Images of her husband flashed through her mind:

J.T. standing tall and straight while Wicasa Tankala pierced his flesh, his blood dripping down his chest like crimson tears. J.T. dancing around the sacred Sun Dance pole, his feet churning up little puffs of dun-colored dust, his muscles taut, his skin glistening with perspiration. She had felt the pain splintering through him as he pulled against his tether, had felt the heat of the sun beating down on his head, smelled the blood, the dust, the sweat.

In her mind, she heard his anguished cry as he freed himself from his tether and dropped to his knees and she knew, deep within her soul, that he had seen a vision, and that whatever he had seen had torn that anguished cry from the depths of his heart.

* * * * *

The camp returned to normal the following day. The ceremonial circle was broken, and during the next two weeks, the people began to disperse, the various Lakota bands going off to their favorite hunting grounds for the autumn hunt.

Wicasa Tankala’s band was the last to leave. To Brandy, it seemed as though the hallowed pole, still bearing its bright red banner, was waving a sad goodbye as they rode away from the campsite. Tasina Luta had told Brandy the Sun Dance pole was always left behind, to be blown down by the winter winds.

As the day went on, Brandy noticed that, as a man who had endured the Sun Dance, J.T. was now accorded a new measure of respect. The scars on his chest were a visible symbol of courage, marks of honor, a permanent reminder of his fortitude and selflessness.

On this day, as they embarked on the long journey toward the Black Hills, Brandy thought she had never seen a more beautiful sight in all the world than the man riding at her side. Dressed in a buckskin clout and the fringed shirt his grandmother had made him, and mounted on the big bay gelding, he was every inch the warrior, the epitome of what a Lakota male should be. His long black hair fluttered in the breeze, the afternoon sun caressed his broad back and shoulders. His profile was strong and proud.

He had changed since the Sun Dance. There was a new air of confidence about him that had been missing before, as if, at long last, he had discovered who he truly was, and where he belonged. His blood had watered the earth. He was a part of the land now, she thought, her throat swelling with emotion, a part of the People.

She had stopped fretting over whatever it was that had been troubling J.T.. He had not mentioned it again, and she had decided to let it go, telling herself that he would share it with her when he was ready.

The people traveled leisurely, stopping in one place or another for several days at a time. Occasionally, a group of men would go hunting, and then there would be a feast, with dancing and storytelling.

They spent a week cutting new lodge poles, and another week gathering vegetables and nuts. Tasina Luta showed Brandy how to make pemmican, how to dry venison and store it for winter use when meat might be scarce. With the old woman’s help, Brandy learned to cook deer and elk, porcupine and beaver. Wild potatoes, turnips, and onions were a welcome addition to a diet that relied heavily on fresh meat.

Tasina Luta taught Brandy how to cook fish in a small pit lined with leaves. She had her first taste of turtle soup, though she adamantly refused to even sample the squirrel stew that Tasina Luta served up one afternoon.

For Brandy, it was a whole new way of life. Living in Cedar Ridge had never been truly hectic, not when compared to the hustle and bustle of living in a big city like Los Angeles or Chicago, but there had been days when she felt as though she would never accomplish everything she had to do—days when she was so busy with teaching and meetings, with grading test papers and preparing class lessons in addition to finding time to do the cleaning and the shopping, that she hardly had time to find a moment to herself, to read a book, or simply sit and daydream.

How much more relaxed her life was now. There were no shopping malls or restaurants, but neither were there bills to pay, or phones to answer. There was no TV, but Wicasa Tankala had an endless supply of stories to tell. There was no stereo, but sometimes, late at night, she heard the plaintiff wail of a coyote, or the bittersweet notes of a flute as a warrior serenaded his lady love. Tasina Luta had told her that not just any flute would do. It must be a special instrument, prepared by one of the Elk or Buffalo Dreamers. The big twisted flute was especially desired. Made of cedar and decorated with the likeness of a horse, it was believed to possess the most power.

However, a flute alone was not enough to win a woman’s heart. It must be accompanied by the magical music of love, the notes of which the shaman received in a dream.

Tasina Luta had told Brandy how her husband had courted her, following her to the river in hopes of seeing her alone for a few minutes, nights when he had sat outside her lodge and played his flute, the sweet trilling notes telling her of his love, of his hopes for the future. How romantic, Brandy had thought wistfully, to lie in bed and listen to the man you loved serenade you in the still of a quiet summer night.

When she wasn’t learning the ways of the Lakota, or listening to Tasina Luta tell stories of the old days, Brandy often wondered what was going on in Cedar Ridge. Who had taken over her class? What had happened to her house, her pets? What did her parents think about her mysterious disappearance?

Except for worrying about her parents and her animals, she was utterly content to be where she was. Sometimes, it seemed as if she had always worn a doeskin tunic and moccasins, as if she had always lived in a hide lodge and cooked outside over an open fire, as if the Lakota language was her native tongue, as if the vast open plains had always been her home.

Caught up in her love for J.T., she was content to let the days slip by. There was much to learn, to see, to do. And always J.T. was there. J.T., whose dark eyes caressed her, who whispered words of love and passion to her in the middle of the night. J.T.. He had become the center of her life, her world, making each day more precious than the last.

It was the first of October, the time of the year the Lakota called the Moon of Colored Leaves, that Brandy’s world turned upside down and Brandy realized that what she had only suspected was true.

She was pregnant. Only now did she realize that she hadn’t had a menstrual period for over a month.

She spent the next several days holding her secret close, trying to decide how to tell J.T., wondering what his reaction would be.

Two weeks later, she still hadn’t decided how to tell him. Had she been home in Cedar Ridge, she might have prepared a special dinner, complete with candles and wine and soft music. Since she couldn’t do that, she decided to improvise and that night she took J.T. on a picnic down by the river.

She spread a blanket near the water, and they ate venison and wild cabbage and berries. The water was beautiful in the moonlight.

“This was a good idea,” J.T. remarked, lying back on the blanket and drawing Brandy into his arms. “All that’s missing is a good bottle of whiskey and a cigar.”

“Sorry,” Brandy said, grinning, “but the local grocery store was all out of double bonded bourbon and Havana cigars.”

J.T. laughed softly. “You’re intoxicating enough for me, Brandy girl,” he murmured, his hands running up and down her spine. “I don’t need anything but you.”

She shivered as his lips slid along her neck, his breath feathering across her skin, making her shiver deep inside.

“Are you happy here, Brandy?” He kissed her shoulder, pressed his mouth to her breast.

“Very happy,” she murmured, suddenly breathless. “Are you?”

“You know I am.”

Brandy took a deep breath, and then said, in a rush, “Would you still be happy if I told you I was pregnant?”

J.T. went very still. “Are you?”

Brandy nodded, unable to speak past the lump of uncertainty in her throat.

J.T. swore softly. A baby. She was going to have a baby.

“How far along are you?”

“I’m not sure. About eight weeks, I think. Maybe a little less.”

Taking a deep breath, J.T. closed his eyes. It was mid-October. In his mind, he counted backward, then ticked off nine months. Assuming she’d gotten pregnant in August, the baby would be born sometime in… He swore softly. May.

“J.T.?”

May, he thought bleakly. He’d be cold in his grave by then.

“J.T., say something.”

“You asked if I’d be happy,” he said, slanting a glance in her direction. “What about you?”

“I’m glad about the baby,” Brandy said. “How can I help it? I love you. I want to have your children…” Her voice trailed off.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for just one,” J.T. remarked, an edge of bitterness in his tone.

“J.T., what can I say? What can I do?”

“Nothing.” He sat up and pulled her into his arms. “I’m happy about the baby, Brandy, really I am. I kind of like the idea that there’ll be a part of me left behind when I’m…when I’m gone.”

The tears came then and she buried her face in his shoulder, railing at fate. It wasn’t fair! It just wasn’t fair.

“Have you told my grandmother?”

“No.” She sniffed back her tears. “I thought you’d want to tell her.”

“We’ll tell her tomorrow, together.”

* * * * *

J.T. woke in the darkness of early morning, plagued by a sense of foreboding. For a moment, he stared at the small slice of sky visible through the smoke hole, wondering what had roused him. Brandy stirred beside her and his arm tightened around her. Brandy. His woman. His wife, pregnant with his child.

He closed his eyes, wondering how it was possible to feel such joy and such misery at the same time. She was going to have a baby, and he would not be there to share it with her. He would never see his child, never see it smile or laugh, or walk or talk. Never know what it was like to wrestle with his son, or tuck his daughter into bed at night.

He would not be there to share Brandy’s happiness, to lend her his strength in times of trouble, to comfort her when the sad times came. She wouldn’t have a husband to provide for her, to protect her and the baby. Brandy would have to be both mother and father to their child, solely responsible for providing food and shelter.

Ah, Brandy, love
, he thought,
forgive me. Please, forgive me…

A sound from outside, faint yet ominous, drew his musings back to the present.

J.T. bolted upright, suddenly certain that something was wrong.

“What is it?” Brandy asked, blinking up at him.

“I don’t know. Stay here.”

He pulled on his clout, grabbed his rifle, and headed for the door.