Lakota Winds (Zebra Historical Romance) Read online

  Chumani put aside the gifts and followed them to observe the action when Tall Elk and Sees-Through-Mist joined the four men who were standing there, sweaty and almost breathless from an apparent swift ride. Their attention focused on the chief's only son as he spoke first, and members of their band gathered around them.

  "Great evil walks in the white man's village, Father. It came on the boat which breathes fire and smoke. All who went near it or tended those who became sick fell prey to its power. We did not go to trade, so we camped a short distance from the post and waited for our friends to return. After they became too weak to ride or walk to our campfire, we did not go near them. One of the hairy faces warned us it was certain death to touch those whose bodies spewed forth watery evil. The hairy face said it was the same danger even after their spirits left their bodies, so we could not bring them home with us. We must not go near the white man's village again."

  "What Fire Walker says is true, my chief," Gray Fox concurred. "Many of the whites and those of other bands and tribes were struck down by the evil. The hairy face said any man who returned to his camp while sick would spread death among his people. We camped a sun away until we were certain we did not carry the sickness with us, for the hairy face said the sickness rears its head in one to three suns. We are fortunate to be untouched by it."

  "Many seasons ago, the white man brought another sickness to many bands," the shaman reminded everyone who had gathered around to listen, "a sickness which brought forth ugly marks upon their skin. This is a sign to us to avoid the white-eyes or they will bring more evils to us. Long ago, the whites were few and offered us friendship and trading. With each new season, more come, and those who do will never leave our lands unless we drive them away. Those who call themselves trappers, traders, peddlers, soldiers, and homesteaders roam our lands and claim them as their own. Our grandfathers and fathers allowed many to hunt and trap and travel our land; it was wrong and foolish, for they hunger to stay, for more land and furs. They make paths they call roads across our hunting grounds. They cut trees in our forests. They shoot buffalo, deer, and elk. They dig into the face of Mother Earth to plant seeds to grow their strange foods. They make wooden tepees with trees lashed together around them; they make villages they call trading posts and forts for soldiers. They bring weapons which spit fire and thunder. They bring water which burns the throat and steals a man's head and causes him to act foolish and to fall asleep. We grow smaller and weaker from attacks by our Crow enemies and this white man's evil while our two enemies grow stronger and larger."

  While the shaman continued to speak, Chumani recalled the fierce Crow attack two summers ago when she lost her husband and son. Now, the Bird People were leaning toward becoming allies with the white men, which would make a great force against them. If the Great Spirit had chosen her to help defeat either or both forces, she was ready and willing to do so, eager for revenge, especially upon one particular Crow whom she would recognize if she saw his face again. If Wakantanka heard and answered her prayer, she would be guided to him. But why must she take another husband, she wondered, and who would that man be? There was none among her people who caused her heart to sing and her body to warm; nor had her first mate. Surely she deserved such happiness this next time.

  "When Grandmother Earth was a young maiden and Wakinyan, the Thunderbird Spirit, was angered, he hurled great thunderbolts across the sky and made rips in it. The rains came for many seasons until the world was almost covered with water by a great flood. The two-leggeds and four-leggeds fled to higher and higher ground, but could not outrun the waters. The People perished; their flesh and blood created the sacred red stone from which our sacred pipe is made. When the waters flowed to the edge of the world and mourning songs were sent skyward, the Great Spirit sent a giant eagle to pick up a special maiden who was trapped on a tall peak. He carried her to the last tree on the highest peak, to the Center of the Hoop of the World. There, he changed into a mighty warrior and protected her until the waters returned to the banks of their streams and rivers. Then they left the mountain and gave birth to our nation. Wakinyan is angered again by the coming of the white man and the attacks of our enemies. He has the power over life and death to people, creatures, and the land, but he does not wish to destroy all who live upon it. We must seek a way to defeat our enemies so the sacred hills will not shake with the thunder of his voice again."

  "How will we defeat such powerful enemies, Wise One?"

  Sees-Through-Mist glanced at Chumani and smiled before he replied to her brother, "Soon, Fire Walker, Wakantanka will give us a sign to guide us to that path. It will come like the morning mist which blankets the face of Mother Earth on a new sun. Long ago, when the Great Spirit painted the flowers and they lowered their heads and asked where they would go when the White Giant came from the north and they were slain by his cold breath, Wakantanka said they would travel to the Happy Hunting Ground on the rainbow which steals some of their colors in passings. If we do not follow His message to us, we, too, will travel that beautiful trail. Return to your tepees and work, my people, and prepare yourselves for what lies ahead while we await the sign from the Great Spirit."

  Chumani headed for the forest to finish gathering wood with her mother, her best friend, and other women. As they worked a short distance away from the others, she whispered with Zitkala about what the shaman had said and given to her, as the two shared even the innermost secrets in their hearts. "What if I fail in my dream task, my friend?"

  "You will not fail, Dewdrops. Your skills are as great as any warrior's. Your wits are keener than those of most men. Wakantanka would not have chosen you if you are unworthy of your challenge."

  "But what of the man I must bond with soon? I do not wish to take another husband not of my choosing. Why must others pick them for me?

  "This time, Wakantanka does the picking, Dewdrops," Zitkala reminded. "He knows and sees all; He will not make a bad choice for you."

  "I hope not, my friend. Would you not feel worried in my place?"

  Zitkala laughed softly. "No man has touched my heart in such a way. That is good, for no man wants me and I am happy to remain alone on my sleeping mat and in my family's tepee. Since I have no brothers, my father and mother need me there to hunt for them and protect them."

  Chumani knew why her friend believed herself undesirable to men: Zitkala was quite masculine in appearance and manner. Yet, beneath that misleading outer shell, she was very much a woman. Surely, Chumani reasoned in hope, a great warrior would come along one sun to steal Zitkala's heart, just as Wind Dancer had-No, Dewdrops, you must not think of him! She chided herself.

  "Soon, we must go to Mato Sapa so you can hang your son's hairlock upon a prayer tree there; it is time to say a final farewell to him and the past, for a different destiny shines before you."

  Chumani's fingers touched the leather-bound hairlock she had worn around her neck since her son's death. She vowed to never part with it until his slayer was dead by her hand. How could she ever forget a child she had carried within her body and reared to two winters old, a son she had loved with all her heart despite a lack of similar emotion for his father? Was it time to place this remaining reminder of him in the hands of the Great Spirit? That was a decision to make later, but for now a visit to Bear Butte to make offerings and send up prayers was good.

  Their chore finished, Chumani looked at her other companion on the branch of a pine tree. "Home, Cetan," she instructed the hawk. "Night approaches." As does my destiny.

  Wind Dancer and Nahemana sat cross-legged in the sweat lodge which had been constructed by their helpers and protectors, Red Feather, War Eagle, and Strong Rock. Perspiration poured from their bodies, clad only in breechclouts and moccasins. No fresh air entered the turtleback-shaped dome made of thick buffalo hides thrown over the bowed limbs. It was stuffy and oppressive in there, but neither man complained about the ritual which would purify their bodies in preparation for their impending visionquests. For the prev
ious two days in their small camp on the northern side of Bear Butte, they had fasted and prayed before entering the sweat lodge. Their three helpers-without talking and in a reverent manner-heated rocks in a campfire outside, exchanged them with chilled ones in a shallow pit in the initipi, and poured water over the new additions which sent forth sizzling steam inside the darkened enclosure.

  Soon it would be time to sit upon a high location in Wakantanka's view, eat the sacred peyote, and allow the Great Spirit to speak to them in separate visions. They would remain there-exposed to the elements-until their task was completed. Afterward, they would purify themselves again, partake of food and water to replenish their strength, rest for a while, and return to their camp. Once back with their people, either their visions would be kept secret in their hearts and minds, or would be shared with others if so commanded by Wakantanka.

  Chumani and Zitkala approached the southern side of Mato Sapa which sat upon the face of Mother Earth as a tall tepee, a short distance from the Black Hills. Both knew that the Cheyenne, and most Indian tribes, viewed the site as a spiritual one. Noavosse in the Cheyenne tongue was where Sweet Medicine and Erect Horns of the Cheyenne received their Maahotse-Four Sacred Arrows-the power of Esevone- the Sacred Buffalo Hat-the Sun Dance, the war shield, and other rituals and commands. People of many tribes, bands, and nations visited Bear Butte to pray for guidance and protection, to give thanks for their blessings, and to present offerings to Wakantanka. Even some white men had encroached on this peaceful and powerful setting over a hundred winters past and continued to do so on occasion. Yet, rarely did an Indian attack another Indian, as most believed it was bad medicine to battle and slay on sacred ground or to interrupt a sacred ritual. For that reason, the females felt safe in journeying together and being there without the presence of men.

  The women dismounted and made their way up a gently rising slope to where other short trees and bushes were decorated with bits of cloth, feathers, beaded objects, and leather pouches of special belongings. Some areas were barren rock and others were dotted by evergreens and small hardwoods and various grasses. Two steams crossed the surrounding Plains near the base of two of its sides, opposite of each other, and provided water for weary and thirsty travelers. The first flowers of the new season mingled with verdant grass, their colorful heads and the numerous blades swaying to and fro in a strong breeze. The day was exceptionally warm, the sky was clear and blue, the sun was sinking toward the heart of Mother Earth, and all snow had melted. Birds, animals, and insects now flourished and feasted and roamed upon the new growth. Those sights and sounds and smells filled the two women's hearts and souls with the serenity of the Hoop of Life.

  Zitkala-her hair secured by two thick braids with leather thongswas attired in a buckskin shirt, breechclout, and leggins, but, Chumani wore a fringed dress. For her communion with the Great Spirit, her garment was simple and unadorned, and she wore no beaded wristlets or choker. Even her long black hair was unbound and held no decorative ties or rosettes.

  After praying to Wakantanka to keep the spirit of her lost son close to His side, Chumani removed his leather-enclosed hairlock and secured it to a branch. She closed her dark brown eyes and said a final farewell to him. As she reopened them, her gaze locked upon the two scars on her left arm from cuts made there during the mourning of his death. Those were two memories-one representing each winter of his lifeshe could never remove. The thought of joining with another man and bringing forth another child was both elating and frightening to her. It would be wonderful to hold another son in her arms, but it would be an even worse torment to lose him to an enemy. Since her child's death and her return to her parents' tepee, she had lived from sun to sun without giving thought to any changes in her life.

  Now, Chumani admitted, since her talk with the shaman and her meeting with Wind Dancer in the forest, her thoughts roamed continuously to that matter. She told herself she should be concentrating only on the words of Sees-Through-Mist from his contact with the Great Spirit and on practicing her skills to be ready to meet that unknown challenge, yet, dreams of that enchanting warrior haunted and distracted her. There was no way their paths would ever cross again, at least not as they did in her dreams. Soon she would be compelled to join to another man, so she must forget him. Besides, he did not seem to like or respect her and he would not make a compatible mate for her. If the son of the Red Shields's chief did not already have a woman in his tepee, which was doubtful at his age and rank, he would want one who was silent, modest, and obedient; not someone like her. If she joined to a man like that, she reasoned, it would not take long to be swallowed up by him and to lose herself completely and forever, which did not appeal to her.

  Chumani took a deep breath. "Come, my friend," she said, "let us go before my heart begs me to defy the will of Wakantanka."

  "What do you mean, Dewdrops?" Zitkala asked in astonishment.

  Chumani revealed what she had been thinking and her best friend empathized with her fears and doubts. "Do not be afraid or uncertain, Dewdrops. The Great Spirit will guide and protect you."

  "Yes, but into the arms and tepee of a man I do not and cannot love."

  "Perhaps Wakantanka will place love in your heart for him."

  How can that be when another man already lives there? Chumani's troubled mind refuted, for the first time not sharing an important worry with her best friend. "Come, let us return home and await His will for me.

  Wind Dancer and Nahemana reached the location they had chosen for the next part of their spiritual journey, a place on the southern side of the butte away from the sight of their temporary camp and three helpers, a spot where they would face the setting and rising suns. As Nahemana spread out his own blanket, upon which he would sit in its center, Wind Dancer gazed out across the Plains and saw the woman from the forest mounting a horse, accompanied by a man. Their garments were unmarked, so there was no way to determine which tribe or band she belonged to, but he knew it was not to the Brave Hearts. Surges of desire and jealousy swept through his body and mind, already dazed by fasting and sweating. For a short time, he was tempted to race down the slope or to shout her name, but it was wrong to do either, for one person did not intrude upon the sacred rites of another, or halt his own without an important reason after his body and mind had already been prepared for his visionquest. He must put all thoughts of her and other earthly matters aside and dwell only on his purpose for being there in order for Wakantanka to speak to him. Yet, it was strange that she had appeared to him for a second time.

  Chumani did not know what force drew her gaze upward, but it was a powerful, irresistible one. She sighted Wind Dancer with an elderly man, both clad only in breechclouts and their dark bodies outlined against a vivid blue sky. It was the younger warrior who captured her attention and caused her heart to race with excitement as her gaze roamed over him. His raven-black hair was unbound and blew about his head in a brisk wind. His tall body was virile and enticing. His shoulders were broad, his Sun Dance-scarred chest was otherwise smooth and hairless. His arms were muscular, his waist trim, and his legs long and lithe. His stance revealed high rank and great strength and prowess. Never had she seen a more handsome man. His dark and potent gaze was fixed upon her, and she quivered despite the warmth of the late afternoon. But as quickly as she experienced that strange reaction of chillbumps splashing across her arms and legs, a fierce heat assailed her flesh. She felt her nipples grow taut and her loins ache. She knew she must break his visual hold over her and leave in a hurry, as he was a formidable temptation and forbidden desire. Yet, that seemed impossible. Perhaps the Great Spirit had brought him there so she could also say a final and necessary farewell to him.

  Zitkala's gaze traced the path of her best friend's and saw what held Chumani transfixed. She noted the flush on the other woman's cheeks and fretted over the hot desire clearly revealed, a fire which could never be fed and appeased, one which she must help extinguish. "Come, Dewdrops, we must leave before evil me
dicine attacks us," she suggested gently.

  Chumani looked at her friend and confessed, "It has done so already, but I will defeat it. Let us ride as swiftly as the deer flees an enemy."

  Nehemana had already consumed his peyote and his mind was reacting to its potency, but he noticed his grandson's distraction and asked, "Who seeks to steal your eye and wits, micinksi?"

  As he rubbed sweet sage and other ceremonial herbs over his upper body, Wind Dancer disclosed, "It is the woman from the forest, Grandfather; she who called herself Morning Mist and eluded my tracking skills. Is she flesh and blood or spirit, Wise One?"

  Nahemana squinted to study the woman, but his eyes were too clouded by age and his wits too ensnared by the peyote, along with her hasty retreat, for him to see her clearly. "I do not know, micinksi, but we must continue our quest. You must forget all else at this time."

  As Wind Dancer saw her ride away with her companion, perhaps her husband, he took a seat on the center of his blanket and placed the peyote in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed it, then awaited its effect. The last thing he remembered was seeing a hawk swoop down from the sky and land upon her outstretched arm as she headed for the Black Hills and out of his life once more. His swirling thoughts vowed, One day I will find you, beautiful mist of the morning, and I will make you mine, even if I must steal you from another and hold you captive.

  Nahemana sat on a mat in the tepee of Rising Bear to discuss his vision with the chief. Also present were his two grandsons, his daughter, his wife, and his thirteen-summers-old granddaughter. The three women-his mate, Little Turtle, his eldest daughter and the chief's wife, Winona, and his granddaughter, Hanmani-sat apart from the four men to observe the event. They, like all Indians, were firm believers in sacred visions. They were allowed to hear about matters which affected the family and band, but-as females-they would not participate verbally in the meeting.