Lakota Winds (Zebra Historical Romance) (42 page)

Shouts of "E.!" and "Eeh.!" were sent forth, relating the tribe's
agreement with that decision.

Only Sroka scowled in rage. He stiffened himself in sullen silence,
as arguing with them would be useless at this time. But soon they would
be willing and eager to ride the warpath against the Red Shields and
all Da-kkoo-tee, ready to take back this vast territory which had belonged
to their ancestors long ago; he would make certain of it. He was convinced
the men who rode in his band concurred with him, but they would
not speak against their chief's and people's wishes at this time. There
were sly ways they could provoke the Red Shields to attack them, and
his tribe would be forced to defend itself.

Unnoticed by the Crow, an old woman and a wolfish dog observed
the scene from a hilltop not far away. Her shoulders were slumped, her
hair was a grayish white, and her sun-darkened skin was wrinkled. Yet,
she was strong, and wise, her mind and gaze, clear and sharp. The
survival of her Dakota people was her reason for living. She wore the
only garment she possessed, and carried no weapon or supplies. She
teased the thick ruff on her companion's neck and scratched its ears in
love and respect. She smiled as he looked up into her serene face and
licked her hand in response. "We must go, my friend," she murmured
to the loving creature. "Our task here is done and we have much work
to do in our camp."

Shortly after Chumani and Wind Dancer reached the campsite, the
others arrived and dismounted with haste. War Eagle hurried forward
and embraced him, and Red Feather did the same.

"It is good to look upon your face again, my brother."

"It is good to look upon yours, War Eagle. I am happy you returned
from the Crow's reach in safety," Wind Dancer told the four people.
"It stirs my heart to know you would risk all to save me."

"How did you do such a large deed, Dewdrops?" Zitkala asked. "When Cetan brought your husband's arrow to us, we feared to trust
our eyes."

As if speaking his name summoned him, the hawk swooped down
and landed on a branch nearby and sent them a shrill greeting. Chumani
smiled and praised him, and the bird extend his chest and lifted his
head in pride. "I did not free him from our enemies," she began her
astonishing revelations. The others stared at her in amazement, then
asked questions and made comments after she finished the stirring tale.

"Surely the Great Spirit watches over us, guides us, and protects us."

"That is true, Zitkala. Now, my husband will tell you of Sroka's
attack and what he saw and heard and endured in the Crow camp."

Wind Dancer related those incidents and sufferings, increasing his
friends' awe. "I do not know if they were flesh, blood, and bone or if
they are spirit helpers. She did not speak, but her touch was real. She
gave me powerful medicine in water to drink and poured it over my
body; it gave me the strength to flee the camp and to travel here."

"Your body says Sroka's tribe was cruel to you, mitakola. "

"That is so, Red Feather, but it will heal. Dewdrops tended me with
her medicine bundle when we stopped to rest. I was to be slain on this
sun, but I live and ride free with the help of my wife, brother, two
friends, Wakantanka, and the old woman and her dog. I will prove
myself worthy of such good deads and love."

"You have done so many times on past suns, my brother. I strive on
each new one to be a great warrior and wise leader as you are."

Wind Dancer smiled at War Eagle and nodded his gratitude for those
words. "We have not seen Crow following us, but we must put more
distance between us; there is much sunlight left for us to do so."

"It is strange, mitakola, but the Crow do not come after us, not even
a small band," Red Feather disclosed. "After the hawk flew your arrow
to us, we watched their camp for a time with Dewdrops' magic eye to
be certain we grasped its message. Their scouts were summoned and
they break camp to leave that place. We do not know why, but they
do so in a hurry, as if evil spirits or a powerful force drives them away
from it."

"Perhaps the old woman and her dog did bad magic there and
frightened them. Surely they are good spirits sent by Wakantanka to
help us."

"What is the magic eye you possess, mitawin?" Wind Dancer asked
instead of remarking on Chumani's previous speculations.

"Your wife will show you, my brother," War Eagle said, and retrieved
it from his bundle.

Chumani told him where and when she had gotten the fieldglass and
from whom her father had received it. "This wasicun gift is good, for
it helped us to watch their camp. That is why Wakantanka sent the
hairy-face to us long ago, to prepare us for this sun."

Wind Dancer nodded. "The Creator knows all things and has prepared us in many ways on past suns to meet our challenges." He looked
at his brother. "Soon you must leave us, War Eagle, and ride swiftly
to our camp," he said. "You must tell my Strong Heart brothers to
prepare the sacred cottonwood pole. I must submit myself to the Sun
Dance after I return."

"No, mihigna, you cannot do so! It is too soon to face such great
danger while you are injured and still weak. You will not survive it."

Wind Dancer caressed her flushed cheek. "Until I purify myself in
the sweat lodge and surrender to the Sun Dance Ritual, I am unworthy
of my duty as a Shirt Wearer and of my ranks as a Strong Heart and
future chief and Vision Quest rider, and I am unworthy to touch you
again."

Chumani struggled to quell her anxiety and to soften her tone. "That
is not true, my beloved mate. There is no loss of face and honor in
being captured while trying to save a friend's life and for yielding to a
foe to halt an attack upon your people."

"That is true," he admitted, but added, "I have been touched by the
enemy and am stained in body and spirit. I must cleanse myself of their
evil and I must give thanks to the Creator for saving my life. I must
prove to myself and others I am strong and brave enough to lead them.
If the Great Spirit was ready for me to join Him this season, I would walk with Him this sun. He did not call me to Him, for He has many
tasks here for me to do."

Chumani exchanged gazes with him for a short time as they spoke
without using words. With misty eyes and a troubled heart, she nodded
he was right and acquiesced to his intention, as it was their way.

Chumani sat on a rush mat and tried to quell her fears and doubts.
She stared straight ahead as her husband came forward to be prepared
for his perilous challenge, as defeat or death was a grim possibility; and
she knew he preferred the latter of those dark choices. Although she
was in a large gathering of their people and was positioned between his
parents and hers, she felt alone. Since their return to camp one and a
half suns ago, Wind Dancer had refused to even kiss, until he felt worthy
to do so again. She had needed that comfort badly, but understood his
motive and had to respect his decision. He had allowed her to tend his
injuries and they were healing more rapidly than she had imagined. She
wondered if that was a result of the old woman's medicine. Even so,
he was still weak from the abuse his body had taken from the Crow.

He had purified his body and readied his spirit in the sweat lodge
at dawn, which had drained him of more energy. Now he lay on the
ground awaiting the next step of the ritual. Usually it required four
days, but custom had been put aside to make it shorter. There had been
no ceremonial dancers with painted bodies to perform the preliminary
Buffalo Dance. No warrior had been chosen to select a cottonwood tree
to be sacrificed, and no women had chopped it down and debarked it:
those tasks were done by members of the Strong Heart Society who
also painted and carved the sacred symbols upon its smooth surface and
who would take turns dancing around it and blowing eagle-bone whistles
during the entire ritual to show honor to their leader and to give him
encouragement. No other man would participate in any of the many
levels-no dancing and chanting until one could no longer stand and
speak, and no offerings of tiny bits of flesh to be removed and placed
at the pole's base. Only Wind Dancer would perform the rite and at
the highest level of difficulty and danger, the final feat of self-sacrifice and endurance. Once he began, there was no turning back until he
either pulled free or yielded defeat or died trying; and Chumani knew
it would be the first or last of those three choices. She recalled what
Sees-Through-Mist had told her at sunrise: "Do not worry, Dewdrops,
for he will survive this great challenge." She prayed that was true, yet,
could not help but fear the worst.

Nahemana leaned over the prone warrior, smiled, and cut two slices
on the left side of Wind Dancer's chest, then did the same on the right
with a ceremonial knife. Blood seeped forth and rolled toward his
armpits. The shaman forced the sharp talon of an eagle's claw through
the sensitive underflesh. He pulled upward with the bird's leg to lift
the pierced section so he could pass a long thong through one opening
and out the other. He repeated that procedure on the other side. He
gestured for his grandson to rise, and the thongs were secured to a
rawhide rope attached to the cottonwood pole. Nahemana noted with
great pride and love that Wind Dancer never winced or flinched, only
kept his expression impassive, his tongue silent, and his body motionless.
He placed a peyote button in the participant's mouth, though Wind
Dancer would not chew it until later in the ceremony. Before stepping
away, the shaman fluttered an eagle feather over his entire body as he
chanted a prayer to invoke the attention and help of their Creator and
the forces of Mother Nature.

Wind Dancer summoned his courage, sent forth a prayer of his own
to ask for survival and victory, and began to dance around the pole as
he blew on his eagle-bone whistle. Often, he would pause to lean
backward to force the thongs to pull on his chest confinements. The
more times he did that, the more pain he experienced. Blood now ran
down his stomach and soaked the waist area of his breechclout, his only
garment. His secured flesh became raw and swollen, and sharp twinges
radiated through his entire torso, up his neck, and pounded agony inside
his head.

Soon, it hurt him even to breathe; and to blow on his whistle, part
of the ritual, became even more difficult. His throat was dry, as were
his lips. It was difficult to lift his now heavy feet to take another and another step on legs that trembled. His arms, hanging by his sides, felt
as if some unseen and strong force pulled them toward the ground, and
his fingers were going numb. Yet, he must continue until he pulled
free, as failure was not an acceptable alternative.

Chumani observed the arduous ritual in rising apprehension and
empathy. His suffering knifed at her heart and mind. Yet, great pride
and deep love and respect filled her at his awesome displays of courage,
prowess, and dedication to their Creator and their beliefs. He had known
what he must endure, as he had submitted to the Sun Dance long ago
and bore the scars of that ordeal. As Chumani watched the solemn
event, she prayed for a speedy end to it.

At last, one side was released from its torture, and the jagged ends
of Wind Dancer's torn flesh protruded from a bloody and gaping
wound. He was given encouragement and a burst of energy from that
first victory. He used a trotting dance step to approach the pole to
touch it with his open hands to elicit power from it, and to retreat to
the full length of his remaining tie to the revered cottonwood. Each
time, he flung himself backward to put a straining force on the thong,
but it refused to tear loose. The sun blazed down on him, causing salty
sweat to pour from his body and to sting his ritual wounds and those
he had received in the enemy camp. He knew his flesh exposed many
bruises, pricks, and cuts. Yet, the sweat lodge and the moisture flowing
from him now would cleanse him of all impurities.

Wind Dancer chewed and swallowed the peyote button with difficulty, for his throat had grown more parched with each minute. As
soon as he felt its first stimulating effect, he jerked backward with his
remaining strength, pulled the rawhide rope taunt, and pitted all of his
weight against the stubborn thong. He clenched his teeth and continued
his leaning and yanking actions as he blew rapidly on the whistle. Sweat
dripped from his body and blood flowed from the resistant spot.

I beg you, Great Spirit, the almost frantic Chumani prayed, accept his
great sacrifice and release him from more suffering. She sent forth another
prayer of gratitude as a divine response came rapidly as the bond suddenly
gave way and released him.

Wind Dancer almost fell to the ground, but managed to prevent it.
He let the whistle drop from his mouth, as it was suspended around
his neck. He lifted his hands and said, "It is done, Great Spirit, and I
thank you for my survival and victory."

Chumani did not leap up to assist him as she yearned to do, but
watched him as he walked to the Strong Hearts' meeting lodge to be
tended by its members and their shaman, as custom dictated. At last,
the perilous feat was accomplished. He was alive. He was freed of any
shame and weakness. He had proven his value to his people and to
himself. Now he could return to normal life and recover fully. Now he
would consider himself worthy to touch her, and she could hardly wait
for that special moment to arrive.

As Wind Dancer remained in the other tepee to rest and complete
the vision-inducing portion of the peyote, Chumani lay upon their
buffalo mat alone, missing him and recalling the events of the last few
suns. They had reached camp without confronting any trouble from
Sroka's people, other enemies, or nature's forces. They learned that
Raven had been replaced during their absence as a Sacred Bow Carrier
by Talks Little. Upon their arrival at camp, Raven's brother had gifted
Wind Dancer with a buffalo horse to replace the one slain during her
husband's attempted rescue of Raven. Later that day, Wind Dancer's
weapons had been purified of the enemy's touch by smoking them over
a low fire made of special herbs and grasses and sacred tokens. Their
people were awed by details of the stampede and the strange appearance
of the old woman and the dog, and the assistance they had given. Their
bands were jubilant to hear that Sroka's people were last seen loading
up to move, and everyone hoped their destination was far away.