Nakoa's Woman (34 page)

“Six notes of a gambel sparrow, a song of neither earth nor air.”

“Why do you say this?”

“This is how she saw her life. She knew that she would die soon. She said she would rest in the burial grounds before her time.”

“She rests not. She parted the skies for me and brought the sun to my soul.”

“I am glad that she did this. She loved you so.”

“Loves,” Apikunni corrected. “Death is an illusion. She has changed the world for me twice. When I first saw her at the glen and we rode back to the village, the afternoon became golden and shimmering. This afternoon she showed me that there is no death. When we do not see with our heart, we walk in terrible blindness. What do you see ahead, Maria?”

“What do I see—where?”

“Ahead of us, upon the trail.”

“I see untouched snow, white beneath a sky that is darkening with the coming of night. I see a day ending in sadness.”

“I see snow that will be touched by us, that will yield to the hoofs of our horses, our lodge and the warmth of our fire. I see snows that will melt even in the light of a winter sun. I see change. I see growth when the snows melt and nourish spring grass.”

Maria watched him closely. The wind sighed behind them. The sky had become overcast, and a light snow fell, and the horses walked softly through it, their manes blowing forward. Suddenly the setting sun broke through the clouds. Gleaming particles drifted brilliantly against the somber pines and then the light faded and they became pure white once more.

“You see,” Apikunni said, “even the falling snow takes the color of the sun.”

“What are you saying to me, Apikunni?”

“You have mated with Nakoa. You at least have reflected light.”

“Then I live with just reflected light.”

“I asked you before, in the lodge of your husband, have you ever thought of life without the sun?”

“You are saying that without Nakoa I am nothing.”

“I am saying that without rebirth you are nothing. Anatsa did not come to comfort only my grief. Anatsa loved you as her blood sister; Anatsa loved Nakoa. I have love for Nakoa, as close to me as blood brother, and I have love for you. Let our love be joined. Love is the true circle of our creation.” He stopped talking, overcome with emotion. “I do not grieve,” he continued, “I want you to see beyond your vision. I want you to see with your heart!”

“I have felt with my heart. I have suffered so from the pain in my heart.”

“There are so many worlds, Maria. The pain in this world is a shadow that skims across the prairie to bring rain to the parched earth.”

“Pain has made me die many deaths,” she whispered.

“Then rise nourished from your suffering. See that this world and everything in it is a child’s toy. See that whatever is a part of you can never be torn away, any more than you can pluck out the heart of your body and expect it to live. If you deny a part of your soul, the vessel for the Great Spirit is cracked and cannot give you sustenance.”

“Nakoa told me this. This thought is part of your religion?”

“No, this is not a part of our religion. Anatsa revealed this to me. She is a part of my soul and we were once one, and will never be separated now that we have mated. What was once one will seek itself through all eternity, and if you destroy this part of your spirit, the seeking goes on and on.”

“Only the spirit of man and woman rejoined can seek the Great Spirit?”

“We all seek the Great Spirit because we are of the Great Spirit and seek our source. Only man and woman joined are His children.”

“I do not understand.”

“You say you have died many deaths with your grief at losing those you love. Be born again and see with your heart.”

“The world is so dark and cold. The clouds hide the sun.”

“The clouds hide the sun, but the sun is there. After every night the sun is there. Anatsa’s body lies in the burial grounds but she did not remain still with a knife in her heart. She did not sleep in peace without knowledge of my pain or sorrow for my suffering. The eyes are blind, Maria. Hear my words.”

“I hear, but what can I do?”

Apikunni stopped his horse, and signaled for the two men behind them to make camp. Maria’s horse huddled close to his. Dark had fallen and in the coming night the snow particles above them still drifted, white and untouched.

“Here, Maria, the trail divides.”

Maria looked ahead and saw that a path led below and another above them.

“The path that we are to take in the morning leads down to the prairie, and to the place of our circle camp. It goes through the burial grounds. Here, Maria, you can sit still. You can remain with the dead and seek those who did not seek the ghost trail.”

“I do not want this… I want to go back to my own land.”

“It is the same.”

“And where does the other path lead?”

“It goes to your husband. It goes to the valley where Nakoa is camped, and where he has erected a lodge for the winter.”

“I cannot go there.”

“You cannot travel toward the sun?”

“Apikunni,” she sobbed, “why do you do this to me?”

“Because Anatsa brought me warmth through even the ice of my grief; through my deepest blindness, she brought me sight. Go to Nakoa, Maria, and meet yourself.”

“I must go home! I must go home!”

“You have broken into the white man’s tongue. You cannot say these words of refusal in the language of your husband.”

The lodge had been erected. Still weeping, Maria entered it and Apikunni remained outside alone. A cold wind blew against him steadily; next to the new moon a single star shone in brilliance, and Apikunni stood still in deep silence and watched it.

Chapter Thirty One

The snow continued to fall gently throughout the night. The clouds came and went. The sky would momentarily clear and the stars would shine through the smoke hole and then more clouds would come, bringing more snow. The west wind rose, pushing against the tipi and the creaking lodge poles. They had eaten, and now the three men slept, but Maria could not sleep, and lay still and listened to the wind high in the snow-covered pines.

Back at the circle camp she had heard the wind mournfully reach out from the burial grounds. Never had she heard such a sad song, this eternal seeking after itself. She thought of Apikunni’s words. Was going home a search for the dead? Among the whites her mother was dead; the old farmhouse was either empty or inhabited by strangers. The same lamps would not be burning in the windows; the same foods would not be cooking upon the stove. The cellar might be empty of apples or cool cider, and her mother’s orchard would now be barren against the sky. In the softness of civilization could there be another man for her?

She sat up and covered her face with her hands. Nakoa had said that their souls were once joined and now she knew it to be true. As Anatsa had entered Apikunni’s heart, Nakoa had entered hers, and eternity without him would be an agony of desolation.

She rocked back and forth in the silence of the tipi. Nakoa would never taste milk or toil in the fields. Nakoa would never sleep under a white man’s roof and smell the scent of lavendered sheets.

Maria got up and dressed warmly and left the tipi. The clouds had vanished and the new moon shone in the sky. Tears touched her face again. Then it must be good-bye to the feel of silk, the taste of salt, and milk cooled in running water. Go then the lamps shining behind windows, the sound of the violin and church bells tolling on Sundays. Go then the Christian marriage, and come my love to me, for the night is beating in beauty!

Above her on the dimly lit trail he camped. In his hidden valley, his new lodge stood, and around them the first snow had made the land bridal white. This was the night of her dream, of her marriage, and now no power on earth could keep her from going to him.

Apikunni joined Maria by the lodge door. She reached up and kissed the side of his face. “Tonight I will seek the path leading to the sun,” she said. “I do not seek the burial grounds. I want the dead to sleep and wail for me no longer.”

He took her hands and held them warmly within his own. “You are going to him tonight,” he said.

“Yes. Tonight. Now!”

Apikunni went to the horses and led back the bay. She mounted him and tenderly looked down at Apikunni’s face. “I love as Anatsa loves,” she said.

“Yes, Maria,” he replied. “And that is the difference between us and the animals we hunt for meat. We touch the sun, and in their dumbness they do not, and so we feed upon them!”

“Apikunni, I feel blessed.”

“I know,” he said softly.

“We will meet in the spring when the circle camp forms again. Think, Apikunni,” she said in wonder. “I might be carrying his child!”

He reached up and touched her hands again. “I hope it will be,” he said, his face suddenly haunted.

“Good-bye, Apikunni,” she whispered.

“He is not too far upon the trail that leads back up the mountain. Do you want me to take you to him?”

“No. I will find him. Wherever he is, I can find him. Tonight I do not need the vision of my eyes, for I see with my heart.”

She nudged the bay, and waving to him in farewell, set out upon the smooth white snow.

The trapper rode cautiously along the trail. His cache had delayed him a week in leaving the mountain, and though he was a good distance downslope from the Blackfoot, he still felt uneasy. He did not know what had happened to his two companions, and he didn’t care. They had probably screwed the squaw and lost their hair for it.

He was cold and sleepy, but he kept riding. He would stop and make camp at daylight, well hidden, in case any Blackfoot were out hunting. While he was still in their land, he would continue to sleep days. Then he’d cut east, over to Crow territory where a white man could breathe a lot easier. He had the forest to himself, and it was a good thing since the snow had fallen. During the storm his tracks had been covered, but now nagging fear persisted that there might be someone following them.

The trail ahead led into complete shadow. His horse went leisurely on, sensing nothing strange. The trapper glanced at the silver thread of the moon before it was hidden by the thickness of the trees. He remembered how as a boy he had told a girl he loved her under just such a moon, and now even with all the years in between, the same sight brought her to his thoughts. It was not just the girl he felt nostalgia for—it was the excitement of first love, youth, the first stirrings of manhood. All women were that young girl to him, for she was the only woman he had known intimately.

Suddenly, deep in the total darkness before him, he sensed movement. Then a shadow came toward him, and in his terror his vision widened and he saw the vague outline of a tipi. Without another thought he fired his gun. It was a goddamned Indian! He kicked his horse wildly and the animal left the trail and careened down the powdery slopes. He ran the horse until he reached the prairie, and light was threading into the eastern sky.

He found shelter for himself and his horse. There was no sign that he had been followed, but cold sweat still stood upon his face. He would have to hit Crow land in a hurry, for a war party would soon be upon his tracks. He was certain that when the Indian had come to him, he had shot the bastard right between the eyes.

The trail wound ahead untouched, unmarked by any sign of man. An owl hooted softly from the trees above her, and a soft flurry of snow fell suddenly to her shoulders. Maria brushed it free. There was no sound except the plodding footsteps of the bay.

Around a bend, gleaming somewhere ahead, would be his lodge. There would be the warmth of fire, the touch of her husband.

I will love the hands that touch my breasts, and when the hands are gone, I will love the breasts still.

The love and the pain,

The sunlight and the rain,

I accept.

The mystery was unfolded, the flower of my creation. Deeply I would know him, to drink deeply of myself. His hands brought me from the farthermost shadow.

The day and the night,

The blindness and the sight,

I accept.

Sleep my mother and my gentle little sister, I am humble. I am the cup to bear His wine.

The love and the

glory, The end of the

story, I accept.

Across the virginal snow her father spoke.

“Maria, do you take this man for your wedded husband?”

“I do.”

“Then walk to the altar.”

Maria looked ahead, but saw only the gleaming trail. The bay walked on, pricking his ears in curiosity and moving his head from side to side.

Suddenly a woman in white appeared. Shimmering, she moved phantom-like, not touching the snow. Another woman waited for her by the side of the trail, hanging her head in deep sorrow. Her long black hair covered her face.

“Who are you?” the bride asked her.

“I am your father’s mistress,” came the answer, and Maria saw that when she raised her head, her breasts were naked.

The bride touched the suffering face. “I am glad that you could accept my father when I could not,” she said, and walked on.

Now she was struggling, for the snows had deepened. Her veil became torn, her skirts became shreds and clung wetly to her legs. She was hiding her face. She did not want to look up, for ahead of her stood a tall man in shadow. It was Siksikai. “You can only pass me in nakedness,” he said.

“I will be naked only for my husband,” the girl replied.

“Your husband is in me. We are all of each other.”

“For my husband within you I will be naked,” the bride said, and took her clothing and cast it from herself. Siksikai bent in agony, and upon the snow he melted and became nothing. The bride then turned and faced Maria without shame, and Maria looked upon herself.

Atsitsi stood by them both with her hands upon her fat belly. “Now where big Maria from?” she asked sarcastically.

“Our Mother, the Earth,” Maria said proudly. “I know my father, but I am of my Mother, the Earth!”

Atsitsi grinned and vanished.

The bride had vanished too. Maria bowed her head and wept. Living and dying were never apart. The eye of final wisdom was the circle.

Nakoa came to her, not from the lodge but from the side of the trail where he had gone when he heard the sound of her horse.

“Maria,” he said, reaching up and touching her face.

“I came to you in my dream of white moonlight,” she said.

In his old way he tenderly brushed the hair back from her forehead. “From out of your dream of mists you have come to shame all the waters to silence.”

She leaned toward him, and they kissed deeply. “With my body and soul, I thee wed,” she whispered.

He lifted her from the horse and held her tightly. “East is west, for the wind touches both and knows neither,” he said.

Tears of joy coursed down Maria’s cheeks. “Nakoa, Anatsa returned to Apikunni. There is no death. And when you are mated, there is no separation.”

He smiled tenderly, tears touching his own eyes. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

She put her head against the clean buckskin smell of his breast. “Nakoa, I don’t want this moment to end. I want the stars to stand still.”

He drew away from her and cupped her face between his hands. His warmth was the warmth of all of the suns. “Maria,” he said softly, “we just said that when lovers have met there is no time.” Then like all the other phantoms, he vanished.

“Oh, no,” Maria protested. It was too much to lose him even in a dream. She urged the bay on, terrorized that she would not find him. She had become sick with fear when she saw the dim outline of his lodge. The fire in the fire pit had sunk to its last embers. She was cold, bitterly cold, but she had reached him. She held the bay in and savored the night. A little animal bounded swiftly over the trail, disappearing in the black and white patterns wrought by the moon. Above her the highest branches of the trees were frozen white, gleaming palely against the twinkling of the stars. It was the most beautiful of all nights. “Nakoa!” she called out and leaped eagerly from the bay. Over the smooth snow she ran to him; from east to west, from paved streets to meadow grass, past Meg, past the innocence of Ana, past the burning wagon train, past the little girl crying for sugared candy, and every good-bye was the beating of her triumphant heart.