White Dusk (5 page)

“Enough,” Makatah ordered. “This is a happy time. Do not ruin it with your mean-spiritedness.”

Standing tall, Moon Fire glared at her. “You call the truth mean-spiritedness? You are fools if you believe that there will be an easy peace. This war will not end until all the spawn of Runs with Wind are dead!” She pointed to Small Bird. “If you marry Swift Foot, you will bring death to our people.”

A heavy silence fell. Small Bird held herself proudly. “I do not let my people down,” she said, forcing confidence into her voice. “This is what
must
be.” Even at the cost of her own happiness. Even if she could no longer count on her own foolish dreams and desires—like one day seeing love grow in her husband’s eyes. This
was
what was best for the tribe. She knew that.

Moon Fire backed away. “You are a fool,” she said, then stalked off.

Small Bird closed her eyes and fought down fear of the future. Was her cousin right? Was she condemning her people to death? Was she blindly following an instinct that would mislead her? Doubts flooded in.

The blurry image of that nightmarish day in the past came back to her: the horse of the enemy bearing down as she clung to the young Swift Foot. Running. That scene haunted her dreams still. Though she’d been young, she’d known death rode after her. With her arms wrapped around Swift Foot’s neck, and her legs tight around his waist, she’d watched in terror as the enemy gained on them, coming so close—she still saw the warrior’s features twisted in anger. His hatred had been so great. The Miniconjou warrior had been killed by Swift Foot’s uncle, but his image was forever burned in her memory.

Yet as horrible as that image was, what had also stayed with Small Bird year after year was the way Swift Foot had comforted her afterward. For two weeks she’d followed him everywhere, as if he’d become her big brother that day. He’d ignored the surprise of his peers. During that confusing time of laying the dead to rest, and those days of wailing and lamenting, Swift Foot had taken the time to hold and reassure her—something remarkably mature for a boy his age. Which in part had led to her belief that he’d known of the importance of that day to their future. Since then, she’d seen him only at the end of summers, when hundreds of tribes came together for the Sun Dance. But she dreamed of him, and of the day when he would come to claim her.

Foolishly, it seemed. So what now? Canceling the wedding was not an option, yet going into a marriage with a man who clearly did not want her didn’t hold much appeal either.

“Ignore her,” Makatah said softly of Moon Fire, reaching out to touch Small Bird on the arm. “You know she seeks to cause trouble.”

Small Bird gave her cousin a grateful smile. “I know.” She shook off her doubts and fears of the future. Continuing to grind chokecherries into a fine powder, she reminded herself it was out of her hands. This was her destiny.

Sighing, she shifted until she sat back on her feet, her heels turned outward. It would have been different had Moon Fire truly acted out of concern for
her
safety or even the safety of the tribe, but Small Bird knew better. Her cousin’s concern ran only to herself.

Needing reassurance from her family, her best friends, Small Bird kept her eyes on her task as she said, “If I do not marry Swift Foot, I would be no better than Runs with Wind, Swift Foot’s father. If he had done his duty and married the mother of Hawk Eyes, as promised, there would be no war between our tribes.” Small Bird thought of Swift Foot’s father, who’d chosen love over duty and, in so doing, had caused years of misery and bloodshed.

Makatah reached over and gripped Small Bird’s hand until they locked gazes. “We cannot change the past. You of all people know that.”

Small Bird forced a smile and a bright tone to her voice. “Forget it.”

The subject was dropped. Silently Small Bird listened to her cousins discuss plans for the days of feasting to come. Absently she scanned the skies. The sight of several soaring eagles in the distance brought back her earlier fears: there was trouble ahead.

Willow Song settled herself on her thick bed of furs. Wincing at the bruise forming on her hip, she shifted, then let her breath out slowly. Beside her, Kills Many Crows watched anxiously.

“I will deal with those boys,” he said, clenching his fists at his sides.

Reaching out to take her brother’s tense hand, she stared at her own scarred flesh. Kills Many Crows was strong, brown and unmarred beneath. “No. Do not,” she said. “They did not know.”

“Does it matter whether they knew or not? Had you been one of our elders, bent with age and fragile of bone, would you accept ignorance as an excuse for their shameful behavior?”

Willow Song closed her eyes. “They would not have treated one of our elders in that manner,” she admitted softly.

This wasn’t the first time children from a different tribe, not believing the rumors of her double face, had tried to taunt her into revealing herself. The children of her tribe knew the truth. They steered clear of her.

“They are just children,” she murmured, fighting back tears. She loved children, ached to someday hold her own in her arms—but knew she’d never know that joy. Nor could she gain any comfort from cuddling another woman’s child. No one allowed her anywhere near their babies.

Kills Many Crows stood. He didn’t look appeased. “I shall bring you fresh meat after the hunt.” He paused, the muscles in his jaw taut. “And more wood for your fire.”

Willow Song gave him a grateful look. “Thank you, my brother.”

Staring down at her, he shook his head. “I do not understand how you are not angry. Or
bitter.
” His voice rose slightly.

“It does no good to place blame.” She rubbed her arms. “It changes nothing.”

“It is not right that you live alone. You are the daughter of our father, an honored and respected chief.” His anger was apparent. “And it is not right that our cousin becomes chief. It was his father who was responsible for the death of our mother, and for the grave injuries you suffered. Instead of rescuing you, he saved a child of another tribe. Instead of being blamed and shamed, he was made a warrior that day.”

“I am grateful to be alive,” Willow Song said.

“What kind of life is this?” Kills Many Crows waved his hands around him. “You, the daughter of a chief, cursed and forced to live alone, away from everyone like a
Winkte!
” His voice rose as with disdain for the men who dressed like women, acted like women and shared their mats with other
Winktes.

Willow Song held her tongue. They’d been over this ground before—especially since it became official that Swift Foot would take over the role of chief. She’d known that her brother held out hope all these years that their father and the council would pass the role on to him, but though he worked hard, he was not a good leader.

She’d never admit her feelings to him, though. It wasn’t his fault that life had been so hard on him. And Willow Song didn’t know how she’d have ever survived without his help and devotion. Weary after her ordeal with the children of the other tribe, she lowered herself back to her furs. “I am tired. Go now. You have duties to do.” She ran one hand over her eyes and rubbed at her aching temple, worrying that her brother’s bitterness would lead him to do something rash.

Kills Many Crows hesitated.

“I will be fine,” she reassured him tiredly. As much as she loved her brother, sometimes his overprotective nature and bitterness wore on her nerves.

His lips tightened, but he did not argue. “You rest.” With that command, Kills Many Crows strode out the door, closing the flap behind him.

Left alone in her tipi’s shadowy interior, Willow Song stared out the smoke hole to the treetops above. Her home was small but it usually suited her. Yet sometimes, like today, it felt more like a prison than a home. And in a way it was. Though she remained a member of her family and a member of the tribe and was afforded the same protection as the rest, essentially she was alone. She ate alone. Gathered firewood alone. Bathed alone. Spent each day, all day, alone. And she spent evenings and nights the same way.

Visits from her father were few and far between. And at no time was she allowed to set foot in the tipi she shared with her brother and cousin.

But Swift Foot came to see her often. She closed her eyes, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth. Her cousin’s visits were a treat to which she eagerly looked forward. Like her brother, Swift Foot brought food, water and wood. But more important, he provided conversation filled with humor, serious talk of life and simple everyday conversation. He offered Willow Song the chance to forget she was not like other women—and sometimes he even sought her insight. He made her feel useful and needed when he asked her opinion and took her answers seriously.

Sitting, she brushed her hair back from her face, her fingers caressing the smooth skin on one side, and the puckered, scarred flesh on the other. Frowning, she wondered if Swift Foot would continue to visit once he married.

Remembering Small Bird’s kindness when she’d fallen, Willow Song prayed the girl would show the same nature by not preventing Swift Foot from coming to see her. Though Kills Many Crows took care of her, he worried constantly—which didn’t allow either of them to relax. He refused to forget the past. Around him, Willow Song couldn’t either. But with Swift Foot she could sometimes be happy.

Shifting her left leg from its odd angle before her, she rubbed the aching muscles of her thigh. Broken when the horse had run her down, it hadn’t healed properly, and still pained her.

Outside the tipi, laughter sounded. For a moment self-pity took over. Willow Song wished she could join the upcoming festivities, but she dared not. Glancing over at a colorfully quilled parfleche, she knew she shouldn’t even give Swift Foot’s bride the gift she’d made. Even though Small Bird seemed kind and caring now, soon the girl might treat her as did the rest of the women—with a combination of fear and dismissal.

Willow Song scooted to the doorway and pulled the flap open a bit so she could at least watch the preparations for the celebration. Lifting her good knee, she rested her chin on her fisted hand. The other hand held the tipi flap partially open.

An approaching tall figure startled her. Lone Warrior. He carried her sling in one hand—filled. Shocked, she realized he’d picked up her fallen firewood. Holding her breath, she narrowed the slit in her door and watched as he neared. Tall, broad at the shoulders and lean at the hips, he took her breath away.

A bittersweet smile crossed her lips. At seven, before her life-changing injury, she’d thought him the handsomest boy of their two tribes. At twenty, she still thought so. Especially after having seen him up close. A lump formed in her throat when she remembered that he’d been about to touch her in order to help her stand. He’d been the first male aside from her brother and cousin to touch her, and she’d panicked. She couldn’t bear to have him see her deformities so close.

She panicked now when his gaze found hers through the opening. As if speared, she dropped the flap and held her breath.

“Hau.”
The greeting came in a deep, vibrant voice.

Closing her eyes, Willow Song couldn’t answer.

“Cousin to our chief. I have brought you your wood.”

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. His kindness, mixed with the urge to see and talk to him, almost made her shove aside the flap. But she didn’t. There came the sound of something being set just on the other side of her door.

“Your wood. I apologize once more for the behavior of our boys.”

The noise of leaves crunching beneath feet faded as he left. Slowly, Willow Song pulled the flap open to see him disappear down the trail. From behind, the play of sunlight over the smooth expanse of his back, and the bunching of his thick thighs, spoke of his masculine form—as did the firm backside she glimpsed beneath his plain breechclout.

Unexpectedly, he turned and caught her gaze with his. He held it for a long moment, then continued away. Shaking, Willow Song closed her tipi’s flap and put her forehead on her knee. His kindness meant nothing, she told herself. It was pity. Guilt for the way the boys of his tribe had treated her. Maybe curiosity. Nothing more.

Men feared her less than women did. Women avoided her as they dreaded dreaming of her and becoming a Double-Woman Dreamer themselves.

Willow Song’s lips twisted. She was no dreamer—had never had such a vision—but Buffalo Medicine Man, the tribe’s old shaman, had never believed her. He’d labeled her a dreamer. Now, though his son Wind Dancer, the new shaman, believed her, it was too late. Looks alone labeled her
Anog-Ite.

Drying her eyes, Willow Song returned to her bed of furs. As she picked up a pair of moccasins she was making for her brother, her gaze fell upon a beautiful pouch with a small bird perched on the horn of a buffalo.

Getting back up, she took it into her hands and sat back down. Running her fingers over the quilled surface, she closed her eyes, tipping her head back. She opened her mouth, and her voice, soft as the summer breeze, lifted with the sweet melody of song. No one but
Tate,
the spirit of the wind, heard.

Swift Foot led the hunting party across dry grassland to where earlier, when he’d ridden out alone, he’d spotted a large herd of elk. At his side his closest friend, Night Thunder, kept pace. The rest of the hunting party followed respectfully behind.

“You seem troubled, my friend,” the other man said.

Swift Foot glanced over at him. Keeping his voice low so that no one else heard, he replied, “There is much to be done. Many more mouths to feed now.”

Giving him a sharp look, Night Thunder eased his paint pony close to Swift Foot’s midnight-black gelding. “I know you well my friend. We are like brothers.” He paused. “Small Bird will make a good wife to a powerful chief.”

“More so than a white woman, you mean.” Swift Foot’s voice deepened, pitched so low he barely heard the words himself.