Lakota Dawn (31 page)

A few feet away, Chumani knew her edge was in a mixture of her opponent’s annoyance at being the one to battle a female while his friend challenged an elite warrior, of his arrogance in underestimating her skills, and of his belief he could defeat her quickly and easily. That he could not win quickly and was receiving cuts from her blade and blows from her left fist and feet visibly increased his vexation and made him careless during his ensuing attacks. Her gaze never left his, as she knew his next move and the timing of it would be revealed there first, a lesson Fire Walker had taught her well. She also had learned that even a brief delay in reaction could cost her her life. She kept her feet apart, her arms and hands controlled, and her knees bent.

As the enemy lunged at her, she dodged his approach and whirled to send her blade into his heart from behind. The Crow arched his back, grunted, and fell to the ground, soon dead from the lethal blow. She withdrew her knife and gazed at his body, her generous heart unable to pray for his departing spirit after what his people had done to hers two seasons’ past. Unlike the Crow war party who had attacked her people, she and her band did not slay women and children, even for revenge. For every Crow warrior slain by her or another, she wondered if he was the one who had taken the lives of her loved ones.

Chumani forced her anguish aside, retrieved her other weapons, and hurried into the forest. She dared not take victory prizes with her or reveal this glorious incident upon returning home or the men in her family would refuse to allow her to leave camp alone again. To do so was a rare action for her, but her best friend had been busy with other chores when the urge to roam the forest had overwhelmed her.

Now she recalled how the Crow’s knife had almost nicked her arm when she was startled by Wind Dancer’s sudden arrival and her brief distraction by him. It was unlike her to lose her wits over a man and to allow her attention to stray at a perilous moment, but, indeed the Oglala warrior had stolen her thoughts
for a time. She could not stay to thank him, even if she should; to do so would compel him to escort her home, and that would expose the peril she had encountered. Shielded by trees, she paused to take one final look at him. Though annoyed with him and his unwanted assistance she could not help but admire his looks and respect his great prowess. She frowned and scolded herself for allowing herself to linger, then left to find her beloved Cetan and return with him to camp before darkness blanketed the land.

Wind Dancer cautioned himself to be patient and vigilant, as a lack of those qualities often meant defeat. Sweat glistened on his face and dampened his garments, as the air was unusually mild for this time of year. His breathing was ragged, but his energy was heightened by the excitement of the battle and the coup awaiting him. He realized the Crow’s stamina was lagging. He ducked as the Crow tried to ram him in the chest to knock him off balance. He licked his lips in anticipation of impending triumph and with a few more clever strikes and evasions, the man lay lifeless on the ground.

He turned to look at the woman, knowing her battle was over from a brief glance toward her earlier, but she was gone. His keen senses scanned the surrounding area, but he neither sighted nor heard anything to indicate her location or direction of retreat.

Wind Dancer walked to the third slain enemy and let his ebony gaze examine the man’s injuries. The woman had fought with amazing skill, strength, and cunning—and had won. He could not imagine why she had sneaked away or why she had not thanked him. And she had taken no prize of her glorious victory, which astonished him. He selected those possessions of the slain warriors he wanted, summoned his horse, and loaded them. He concealed the bodies of the Crow with rocks and thick brush, a few branches in the shade still dusted with the last of the rapidly melting snow. He did not want them found before Mother Nature could dispose of them.

After everything was prepared for his departure, Wind Dancer left his horse there and followed the woman’s trail until it, too, vanished as she had. Her tracks on the soft earth simply
halted and no hint remained of where she had gone—no leaves, rocks, or limbs were overturned or moved or broken. He knelt and studied the damp surface with confusion. His troubled mind filled with questions. Who was she? Why had their paths crossed two times in one sun? Where had she gone? How had she vanished without leaving a trail? Was she the “morning mist” as she had told him?

Chumani observed Wind Dancer from high above him in the tree. She made certain to remain silent and still. She did not even flinch when a bug crawled over her hand and bit it. She prayed Cetan would not return from his hunt and give away her position or attack Wind Dancer. She remained there until the bewildered man shrugged, took a deep breath, and returned to the clearing, where he mounted, took the tethers of the Crow horses, and rode away, out of her life forever.

When she was assured he was gone, she scampered down the tree with the agility of a squirrel. She walked to where her horse awaited her, with Cetan perched on a nearby branch, watching her with his keen eyes.

“There you are,” she murmured to the beloved hawk she had kept since she was ten winters old. “Come, Cetan, we ride for camp,” she said, holding out her arm with a wide leather band now secured around it. After the bird settled himself there with his tawny gaze on her, Chumani reprimanded in a playful tone, “I may have needed your help if Wind Dancer had not appeared and rescued me from our enemies. But it was not a good sign to meet him up close, Cetan, for he stirs strange feelings within me. I must make certain our paths never cross and our eyes never meet again.”

As soon as those words escaped her lips, Chumani frowned and scolded herself once more for having such forbidden feelings and thoughts. She kneed her mount and headed southward to her village.

As Wind Dancer approached his people’s winter encampment the next day, the shaman of their tribe halted him before he reached the numerous tepees which were set up amidst tall
green pines and still-barren hardwoods in a northern sheltered valley of the Paha Sapa. He smiled at his mother’s father, as he loved and respected the wise and powerful man. Despite the clouds within his grandfather’s eyes, which whitened more with every circle of the seasons, he noted an odd gleam in them and an unusual expression on the old man’s heavily creased face.

Nahemana rested a wrinkled hand on the warrior’s muscled thigh, locked gazes with him, and said, “Remember the past sun, he who dances with the wind, for your feet have touched the path to your destiny.”

“I do not understand your words, Grandfather. I have battled and defeated Crow many times. Their horses are a gift to you for trade. Their belongings will be given to those with loved ones slain by our enemy.”

“Your heart is good and generous,
micinksi.”
Nahemana praised Wind Dancer, calling him “my son,” since he had helped rear this man as was the people’s custom. “Wakantanka will reward you on the hunt and in battle. Soon, the words the Great Mystery put within my head will become clear to Nahemana; this is not the sun for Him to reveal their meaning or for us to speak of them. Walk with me,
micinksi.
Tell me all your hands did, your ears heard, and your eyes saw since you left camp on the past sun.”

Wind Dancer was eager to go to his family’s tepee to show them he had returned safely. He also wanted to share his exciting news with his best friend, Red Feather, and his younger brother, War Eagle. Yet, he always obeyed his grandfather, so he slid off his horse’s back, secured four sets of leather thongs to bushes, and followed the slow-moving shaman to a small clearing surrounded by black boulders. As with Nahemana, he sat on the ground cross-legged, facing him and with little space between them.

“The air grows warmer each sun,
micinksi,
but a strange coldness attacks within me.” Nahemana revealed his concerns in low tones. “I have not felt such trouble in my heart and mind since my firstborn daughter vanished many seasons ago. I fear danger rides toward us at a fast pace and great suffering
lies ahead for our people if we do not find and defeat it. My daughter’s safe return was a great victory over our enemy, but soon we must seek an even greater victory over them.”

Wind Dancer remembered the painful time when all believed his mother was dead for two circles of the seasons. That had been twenty winters past when he had lived to four marks on a growing stick. It was during that tormenting time when his father had felt and shown his only weakness, but that was not something either he or Nahemana wanted to recall. It was strange, he reasoned, that the number
two
played another agonizing part in his life, for two winters’ past, it felt as if his heart had been torn from his body when his son and wife were slain by a Crow band. At times, Wakantanka worked His will in mysterious and cutting ways, yet an honorable man accepted those challenges, without anger and a loss of faith in Him. “When will you seek answers about me and our danger from the Great Spirit, Grandfather?” Wind Dancer asked.

From his grandson’s expression, Nahemana knew his mind had visited the past once more, and silently grieved with him for a while. “I will do so on the next full moon,” he finally answered, “as He told me in a dream when I last slept. The ice which chills my thoughts and body comes from the direction of the rising sun and from where the winter winds are born and blow toward us.”

“You speak of two different perils, Grandfather?”

“Yes,
micinksi,
but the two threats will melt into one force as the ice arrows on the trees melt into a stream and mix with its waters. If we do not control it and keep it within its banks, the new water has the power to flow over us and destroy our people and camp.”

Wind Dancer felt his own heart chill and his spirit tremble at the use of the number
two
again. “Do not worry, Grandfather,” he tried to assure the shaman, “we will keep it within its banks.”

Nahemana’s weakened gaze locked with Wind Dancer’s. His grandson’s eyes contained a contradictory mixture of confidence and uncertainty, as did his own heart. “That task will be yours,
micinksi,
for you also walked in my dream when I
last slept. You have been chosen as the Great Spirit’s weapon against our enemies. As has another who is a stranger to us, but will become our ally and your helper. I will pray for your courage and skills to help you walk the path He will set before you.”

Wind Dancer wondered who that “ally” and “helper” would be and when he would come. “What words must I speak and what deeds must I do to save our people and our land, Grandfather?” he asked with great curiosity.

“The Great Spirit did not allow me to hear and see them at this time. Soon He will speak them in a loud voice for my old ears to hear and He will uncloud my eyes so I may see them and reveal them to you and others. I will go to Mato Paha for my vision-quest on the next
Wi minbe.”

Wind Dancer’s heart filled with anticipation and he prayed he could meet the unknown challenge which loomed before him. But what, he wondered, did his coming duty have to do with what had taken place on the past sun? Did his task and destiny involve the fallen Apsaalooke warriors, or the spirit woman who still haunted him, or both? He had no choice except to live through twenty-one suns until the next full moon at their sacred Bear Mountain where his grandfather, their shaman, would be granted his answers.

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