Walks the Fire (19 page)

The line of march was forming and Jesse noted with dismay that all the other tepees were down. She moved quickly to pile their bundles in proper order on the litter, forming a snug nest where Old One could ride in comfort.

It was Prairie Flower who brought the news of the accident. She came running across what had been the center of camp, her braids flying out behind her. Jesse felt a rush of relief, thinking that she had come to help with the tepee. Then, something in Prairie Flower’s expression caused the greeting to die in her throat. Prairie Flower paused, dust swirling about her feet, leaving a light coating across the beadwork on her moccasins.

“Rides the Wind…” she began, then stopped, not knowing how to continue.

Jesse’s heart thumped wildly. The sounds of camp faded away, and she stood staring down at Prairie Flower’s moccasins, noting a missing bead. Unconsciously she reached up to touch her own thick braids—the braids Rides the Wind had decorated for her only that morning. Jesse became aware of Talks a Lot sitting mutely on his pony just behind Prairie Flower. “I will take you to him,” was all he said.

Jesse nodded and turned to mount Red Star. But Old One was already seated on the litter strapped to the mare. Jesse hesitated. Talks a Lot beckoned to her and pulled her up behind him on his pony.

Prairie Flower told her, “You go, Walks the Fire. I will see to the tepee—and to Old One. She will be with me when you return.”

Jesse nodded, clutching tightly to Talks a Lot’s shirt. She found herself praying desperately. No verses came to mind to comfort her, but a phrase repeated itself in cadence with the pony’s stride:
Be not afraid… Be not afraid… Be not afraid…
When had this happened before? Jesse remembered another horse from long ago, and the same rhythm of the words, the smell of war paint, the unfamiliar sway of a body she must press against lest she fall.

The pony lurched to a halt. Jesse slid to the ground and saw Wind, his head twisted back and impaled on the horns of the massive buffalo that lay atop him. The huge, dark mass completely covered the once swift pony’s body. Only the noble head and a few wisps of tail could be seen.

Talks a Lot led her around this grotesque scene, and she saw that the hunting party had erected a makeshift shelter to protect Rides the Wind from the sun. War spears held up a ragged blanket. One edge had come loose and fluttered in the breeze.

A cry of grief died as Jesse saw with relief that Rides the Wind’s chest rose and fell. But then a spasm of coughing and a yelp of angry pain ended her joy. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and his left hand clawed the air as if trying to push aside the waves of pain. His right arm lay useless, and as she knelt at his side, Jesse saw that the right side of his jaw was crushed.

Jesse looked up at Talks a Lot. Sadly, he explained, “He was beneath the buffalo. We pulled him out, but…” He shrugged and looked away.

“Walks the Fire.” A voice said it, but it was not the well-beloved voice. This was a whisper from deep in the chest, gurgling out between clenched teeth, ending as if cut off not by choice, but by a knife that cut the sound from the throat.

“I am here. I am here, best beloved.” Jesse heard the sing-song reply and realized she must have said it, and yet she could not recall making the effort to speak. Lost in the scene about her, she seemed to be watching what was happening rather than living it.

Rides the Wind opened his eyes and stared up at her. A light gleamed in his eyes, but the damaged face lay still. His left hand reached up and touched her red braid, traced along the edge of the cheek, fell into her lap, and lay still.

Jesse clasped the hand, groping for self-control, mute with fear. Tears rolled out of her eyes, dripping onto his hand. Weeping openly, she raised it to her lips and held it there, tasting the salt of her own tears as she kissed the open palm.

Feeling the warmth of her breath on his hand, Rides the Wind once more made an effort to speak, but before he could utter a sound, he inhaled sharply and began to gasp for breath. He struggled to rise, but barely lifted his head from the earth.

Jesse slipped her arm beneath his head and clutched him to her. Her body began rocking slowly, and as she did so Rides the Wind lay still again. His chest rose, the nostrils flared, and with great effort, he whispered through clenched teeth, “I will come for you.” Jesse wanted to cry out, to stop the words, to hold back his farewell. But she sat clutching him to her, rocking. “I will ask the Father. And I will come for you.”

A last gasp for air, a tightening of his fist about her hand, and he lay still.

For a moment Jesse clutched him to her, moaning. Then, from somewhere there was a whisper and a prayer,
Lord God, Lord God, HELP ME! Be my rod. Be my staff. Comfort me!
Grief washed over her. Jesse shuddered and cried. She rocked the motionless body gently, all the while groping for direction. What to do? What to do?

The answer came from the nights before the fire, reading the Book to Rides the Wind. One after another, the phrases came back:
“Sorrow not, even as others which have no hope… Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me… The LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away… Blessed be the name of the LORD.”

At last Jesse laid the body down and rose from the dust. She turned and walked to where the hunting party stood maintaining a respectful silence. Jesse approached Talks a Lot.

“I will need help to care for Rides the Wind.”

Seventeen

… God my maker… giveth songs in the night.
—
Job 35:10

Talks a Lot
gestured toward the approaching villagers. “We will do it. The people come.” As they neared, the cries of the mourners could be heard bounding over the prairie. The almost inhuman wails pierced the air until Jesse could stand them no longer. Running at them she screamed, “Stop it! Stop it!”

The women, amazed by her outburst, stopped wailing and watched as Jesse turned to rush back to the band of hunters. They had begun to erect a burial pyre for Rides the Wind’s body. Jesse tore the stakes from their hands. “No… No! I will not leave his body so. It must be my way!”

Jesse realized that she must seem demented. Her friends watched her without a word and waited for her to calm herself before proceeding. Catching her breath, she felt an unearthly calm returning. She knew what she wanted to do, and as the plan took shape, her breathing slowed, and she regained her dignity.

The women of the village stood nearby murmuring their disapproval. She was not, after all, one of them.

“Please, Talks a Lot,” Jesse said persuasively. “You were his friend. You know he read the Book. He believed in the one God and his Son, Jesus. Please… I want to bury him as my people bury those they love.” Tears began streaming down her cheeks again, but she wiped them away stubbornly. “Please,” she repeated, “I cannot leave him to the birds. I cannot.”

Talks a Lot came close and murmured, “But his spirit must be allowed to soar to the new hunting ground, Walks the Fire. The people will never understand.”

“His spirit is already with the Father. That is what the book we read together teaches. I must do this last thing for Rides the Wind.” She turned to look down upon the body. “I
will
do
it!” Her eyes flashed as she hurried away to repeat her words to the elders who had assembled. Then she ran to her own litter where Old One sat.

“Old One,” Jesse said, dropping down to look up into the aged woman’s clear eyes. “Will you help me bury him?” The old woman sat still for a moment, considering this request to turn against the traditions of her people. A moment passed, then another. The village watched and listened. Then the aged hand reached out to cup Jesse’s chin in a gesture of tenderness. “This I will do—for you, my daughter.” The villagers muttered their disapproval, but none moved to stop the two women as they carefully unwrapped Rides the Wind’s regalia.

With loving hands, the two women dressed Rides the Wind, placing his ceremonial headdress on his head, his hands across his chest. They wrapped the body in buffalo robes.

Jesse hesitated.
How could she dig a grave?
The people had no need of shovels. It would be grueling work, but she knew how. Reaching into her leather pouch for her digging tool, she dropped to her knees beside Rides the Wind and began to scrape the hard earth. Old One knelt beside her, and together they worked. The tools designed only for digging up the roots and tubers they used for stews made hard work of the task, but the two kept on scraping the earth.

The women of the village began to look about, wondering what should be done. The leaders huddled silently. None of them approved of Jesse’s actions, yet they did not move to stop her.

He was young, but Soaring Eagle stepped out of the crowd and approached the council. He had been struggling to control his own grief, and now a new purpose helped him. Respectfully he addressed the elders. In the quiet, dignified manner of his father he began, “Walks the Fire is a good woman. She is white, but she has been among you for many years now. She was a good wife to Rides the Wind. She is a good mother to me. I remember your tales of how he hunted after she walked the fire to save Hears Not. When she was well, he held a banquet in her honor. You were all there to share his joy.” Coming from the mouth of a youngster, the short speech carried added weight. The elders murmured their agreement with what Soaring Eagle had said. His speech given, the young boy walked gravely to the travois and seated himself.

Talks a Lot spoke next. “For many years, Rides the Wind cared only for Walks the Fire. Together they read this Book she speaks of. My daughter has told me of this. Walks the Fire would tell the words in the Book. Rides the Wind repeated them, then he would tell how the words would help him in the hunt or in the council. Walks the Fire listened as he spoke. She respected him. She did as he said.”

As Talks a Lot spoke, the people remembered the years since Walks the Fire had come to them. Many among them recalled kindnesses beyond the saving of Hears Not. Many regretted the early days, when they had laughed at the white woman. They remembered Prairie Flower and Old One teaching her, and many could recall times when some new stew was shared with their family or a deerskin brought in by Rides the Wind found its way to their tepee.

Prairie Flower’s voice was added to the men’s. “Even when no more sons or daughters came to his tepee—even then, Rides the Wind wanted only Walks the Fire.” She turned to look at Running Bear, another elder, “Even when you offered your own beautiful daughter, Rides the Wind wanted only Walks the Fire. This is true. My father told me. When he walked the earth, Rides the Wind wanted only Walks the Fire. Now that he lies upon the earth, you must know that he would say, ‘Do this for her.’”

Jesse had continued to dig into the earth as she listened. When Prairie Flower told of the chiefs having offered his daughter, she stopped for a moment. Her hand reached out to lovingly caress the dark head that lay so still under the clear sky. Rides the Wind had never told her of this. She had been afraid that he might take another wife when it became evident they would have no children. Now she knew that he had chosen her alone—even in the face of temptation.

From the women’s group there was movement. Prairie Flower stepped forward, her digging tool in her hand. Defiantly she sputtered, “She is my friend…” and stalked across the short distance to the shallow grave. Dropping to her knees beside Jesse, she began attacking the earth. Ferociously she dug. Jesse followed her lead, as did Old One. They began again, three women working side by side. And then there were four women, and then five, and six, until a ring of many women dug together.

The men did nothing to stop them, and Running Bear decided what was to be done. “We will camp here and wait for Walks the Fire to do what she must. Tonight we will tell the life of Rides the Wind around the fire. Tomorrow, when this is done, we will move on.”

And so it was. Hours later Rides the Wind, Lakota hunter, became the first of his village to be laid in a grave and mourned by a white woman. Before his body was lowered into the earth, Jesse impulsively took his hunting knife, intending to cut off the two thick, red braids that hung down her back. It seemed so long ago that Rides the Wind had braided the feathers and beads in, dusting the part. Had it really been only this morning? He had kissed her, too, grumbling about the white man’s crazy ways. Jesse had laughed and returned his kiss.

A hand upon her shoulder brought Jesse back to the awful moment. She stared down upon her husband’s body and whispered a prayer.
“Sorrow not, even as others which have no hope.”
Jesse dropped her braid and put Rides the Wind’s hunting knife into her own belt.

The women lowered his body into the grave. The leaders might allow this to take place, but they would not help put their respected brother to rest as a white man.

Jesse pushed the earth atop Rides the Wind’s body. Even the women could not bring themselves to do this strange and awful deed. When it was done, Jesse sat, exhausted, looking about her. Once again the villagers watched in uncertainty. Then Jesse rose and began collecting stones, piling them atop the grave. The women helped her in this, and soon the grave was marked.