Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (72 page)

 
          
 
She stirred the stew, glancing at him from the
corner of her eye. "This is not my country. My land is high, what is the word—mountains?
The trees are different, and air is clear and cool. The colors are brighter,
even the dirt. From the mountains, I can see forever, the way Tarn Apo and
eagle see.''

 
          
 
He rolled onto his stomach, gazing up at her.
"What was it like, growing up in a place like that?"

 
          
 
She tasted the rich stew and laid the ladle to
one side. "My father. High Wolf, he let me do things the other children
couldn't. I like to think he saw something special in me, but it was probably
just because I was his favorite. He let me hold his sacred things, and listen
to their voices, even though I was a girl. Since he was a great puhagan, no one
said anything."

 
          
 
"He wanted you to be a medicine man,
too?"

 
          
 
''No. At least, he didn't really encourage me.
But I wasn't strange, or anything."

 
          
 
"What do you mean, Strange? Sometimes,
when Power lives in a person, he acts Strangely. You can see it. A hollow look
in the eyes. The head cocked, listening to spirit things other people can't
hear. As a child. I was like the other children. 1 played among the rocks and
trees, seeking out brother marmot and hunting rabbits. As children, we would
build little mountain-sheep traps. The littlest children got to be the mountain
sheep and the older children drove them into the trap and threw blankets over
them. I was always hard to catch." She grinned at him, the memories fresh
in her soul.

 
          
 
His eyes twinkled, as if imagining her as a
child. "It sounds like tun." He idly twisted the grass into knots, 'i
never played much. I didn't have many friends."

 
          
 
"
Boston
is not full of children?"

 
          
 
"Oh. Yes, full of them. I just didn't get
out to play much. Father was always so busy. Jeffry and the other slaves took
care of me. Mostly I read books. They were my friends."

 
          
 
She wondered just what a book was, Ritshard
talked of them so much. "This way you lived, it doesn't sound good,
Ritshard."

 
          
 
He shrugged. "It was all I knew. How
about you? Did you see your father often?"

 
          
 
"Every night." She looked up at the
trees, the branches lit by firelight. "After we ate, Father would play
with us. Sometimes he was Coyote, and chased us around trying to eat us. But
when he caught us, he just tickled us until our bellies hurt. He told us the
stories about the beginning of the world, and how Tarn Apo made things. Mother
would nod at all of the important places. Then, when I started to fall asleep,
Father would carry me to the robes and tuck me in."

 
          
 
"How lucky you were." He frowned,
still toying with the grass. Finally he asked, "What did you want out of life?"

 
          
 
She lifted an eyebrow. "Want out of
life?"

 
          
 
"What did you think you'd be doing? I
mean, what did you dream of being?"

 
          
 
She paused. She'd only told High Wolf, and
then, only once. A woman did not speak of such things. But Ritshard was
different, and the honest interest in his eyes overcame her reserve. "I
wanted to be a puhagan, just like my father. I wanted to know all the things he
knew. To cure, to sing, and to seek Tarn Apo." She hesitated, unsure of
herself. "I do not talk of these things, Ritshard. They are between us and
no one else."

 
          
 
"Why?" He cocked his head.
"Your people wouldn't approve?"

 
          
 
She looked around, then bent down close to
meet his eyes. "Among my people, women do not seek puha. It is said to be
dangerous, that a woman might not be strong enough, that she would damage the
Power and use it for evil."

 
          
 
"Like a witch?"

 
          
 
"What is this word?"

 
          
 
"A woman who uses magic—uh, power—for
evil. To kill and inflict disease."

 
          
 
''Witch.'' She sounded out the White word.

 
          
 
''Did your husband know you wanted power?''

 
          
 
''A little." She backed away then,
averting her eyes.

 
          
 
''Did ... did you love him?"

 
          
 
''Yes." The memory stung her. And I
couldn't save him in the end. To avoid more hurt, she asked, ''Did you ever
love, Ritshard?"

 
          
 
He shrugged, lips parting as if to speak,
hesitated, and said, ''I didn't do well with girls. They just didn't ... I
couldn't talk to them. Do you understand? They weren't interested in
philosophy, in ideas. They just wanted to be pretty and admired."

 
          
 
''White women," she said sourly.

 
          
 
He chuckled uneasily. "Yes, white
women." Then his brow lined. "Oh, someday I'll have to marry, I
suppose. Father always expected it of me. Later, you understand, after I'd
proven myself, I'd be quite a catch, rich, capable of providing a good home. A
friend of mine has a sister. A very attractive young lady."

 
          
 
"And this lady will be pretty ... in her
house . . . and admired?"

 
          
 
"Yes. Just that." He studied her
pensively. "I could do a lot worse. Laura is a very charming girl."

 
          
 
Willow
watched him. "Is that what you want,
Ritshard? Charming? Or do you want Power, and truth, and all the pain it brings?''

 
          
 
He shrugged, looking away into the night so
that she couldn't read his expression.

 
          
 
Willow
dished out a bowl of stew and handed it to
Ritshard before tilling her own. She was becoming proficient in the use of the
little metal spoon. Why did her fingers suddenly seem so clumsy?

 
          
 
She said, "My father was disappointed
that I married a Ku'chendikani. I think he wanted me to stay with the
Du-kurika. But when I made my choice, he smiled and wished me well."

 
          
 
"How lucky you were." Richard blew
to cool the stew. "By the time I return, Laura will no doubt be married to
that irritating Tom Hanson, and I’ll probably end up with some blithering shrew
who faints all the time."

 
          
 
"I don't know all those words."

 
          
 
He waved it away as inconsequential.

 
          
 
''I think you have been lonely all of your
life, Ritshard. It should not always be so."

 
          
 
"Maybe not, but in
Boston
there aren't many women like ..." He
glanced away, swallowing hard.

 
          
 
"Like me?" Her souls began to stir
uneasily, like snakes twining around each other.

 
          
 
He started to nod, then shook himself.
"Some things, Willow..."

 
          
 
She waited "What is it, Ritshard?"

 
          
 
"Oh, life, the way people are. God, what
a sorry mess we are! I think your people are a lot smarter than mine."

 
          
 
"People should be who they are."

 
          
 
He kept sneaking glances at her.

 
          
 
''Ritshard, your eyes have changed. Now, you
look at me as a man looks at a woman."

 
          
 
He glanced down at his empty bowl. "I'm
sorry."

 
          
 
''You do not have to be sorry."

 
          
 
"A gentleman does not look at a lady that
way."

 
          
 
She bent down, staring into his eyes again.
"I am not White, Ritshard. I am Heals Like A Willow, a Dukurika woman. I
am not a lady."

 
          
 
His lips parted as he reached up to touch the
side of her face. "Lord God, what you just said. If you only knew how I .
. ." Then he shook his head. Rising to his feet, he said, "Thank you
for supper,
Willow
. Travis needs me. I.. . I've got to
go." And he hurried away into the darkness.

 
          
 
Willow
took a deep breath to settle her writhing
souls, and exhaled wearily. In silence, she watched the fire burn down to
glowing red coals.

 
          
 
"You been quiet all day," Baptiste
noted. "Got the Injun shivers?"

 
          
 
"No." Richard shook his head as he
led the string of horses. He'd had an odd dream the night before, as if he'd
floated over the land, draped in a misty white. He'd been seeking something,
unable to find it in the mist. And there at the end, he'd felt someone
watching, eyes staring at him out of the mist.

 
          
 
The whole day had been eerie. Walking along
with Baptiste, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling. Maybe Baptiste was right,
and it was nothing more than a case of Sioux-induced nerves.

 
          
 
The abandoned
Ankara
village they'd passed that morning hadn't
helped matters, either. The place consisted of nothing but big round
depressions, as if God's finger had dimpled the fiats. Timbers stuck out here
and there, most of them charred and splintered. A thick carpet of grass had
already reclaimed the town, but an occasional broken piece of clay pot, a
scattering of burned bone and beads, could be found. Open storage pits were a
hazard for man and beast.

 
          
 
Something about the old Ree town depressed the
spirit and dampened any optimism the morning might have had. Who had those
people been? Once, children had played and chased among the domed houses. Men
and women had smiled at each other, and built bright futures out oi dreams.