Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 04 (6 page)

G
RANDMOTHER WALKS ON WIND
was appalled at the condition of the child. She grabbed Cynthia around the waist and started peeling off the mud and sweat-soaked clothing as she carried her toward the river. By the time the old woman reached the sandy bank, Cynthia was naked, squirming like a fish, her arms and legs flailing in every direction. As Walks on Wind held her out over the water, she thought for one terrified moment that the woman meant to drown her. It seemed unfair to be taken all this way just to have it end so cruelly and suddenly.

But that wasn’t what the old woman had in mind. Letting Cynthia down rump first into the water, she kicked off her moccasins and waded in after the girl. Grabbing her by one arm, as if to reprimand her, she collapsed into a sitting position and started scooping water with one hand. Gently, trying to avoid contact with the worst of the cuts, she washed away most of the dirt, then moved into deeper water.

The river felt cool, its water taking some of the sting from her body and making the deepest of the scratches sting even more. The old woman’s hands were rough, but not unkind. Her no-nonsense approach quelled whatever impulse Cynthia might have had to resist, and when the woman crooked a finger at her and nodded her head downstream, Cynthia followed.

Leaving the girl in water to her chest, Walks on Wind moved toward the shallows, bent over as if looking for something lost in the current. Finally, spotting what she sought, she moved to the shore, her arms pumping, doing something Cynthia couldn’t see. When Walks on Wind turned around, she had both hands full of some sort of plant. She was already crushing the leaves and stems as she started back to where Cynthia stood shivering as much from the cool water as from fright. She started to smear the pulpy green mass over the child’s head and face. The smell was pleasant, and as the woman’s hands worked, a thin lather started to appear, trickling down over Cynthia’s forehead and into her eyes. It didn’t sting like her mother’s soap, but she knew it was meant to cleanse her matted hair.

Forced under for a moment, she came up spluttering. Picking her up under the arms, Walks on Wind hoisted her overhead until only her toes were tickled by the current. Turning her this way and that, the old woman
made sure her new charge was clean, then grunted, let her down and held out a hand. Not knowing what else to do, Cynthia took the offered hand, letting her fingers rest in the callused palm.

Walks on Wind turned then and started toward the riverbank, tugging the girl in her wake. Cynthia felt embarrassed, naked in front of a thousand pairs of savage eyes, but Walks on Wind didn’t seem to notice. When they reached the shore, she picked up the girl, rested the weight on one hip, and started back to her tipi.

Once inside, Walks on Wind turned her attention to the scratches and cuts. She rummaged in a basket in one corner, found what she was looking for with some difficulty, then moved close to the small fire at the center of the tipi and patted her lap as she sat down. Cynthia understood and walked close, enjoying the feel of the soft buffalo robe beneath her bare feet. Some sort of greasy ointment was applied to her cuts, and Walks on Wind, whose eyes were not the best, kept leaning forward, gesturing for the girl to turn so that she could scrutinize every square inch of ravaged skin.

Satisfied that she had missed nothing significant, the old woman then moved into the dim light at the edge of the tipi once more, returning with what appeared to be a ball of skin. Only when she shook it out was it revealed as a
buckskin dress. She held it up, shook it again, then brought it close to Cynthia. The firelight played on an elaborate beadwork design on the front as the old woman moved it this way and that.

Then, handing it to the girl, Walks on Wind mimed donning the dress. Grateful for a chance to cover herself, Cynthia wasted no time slipping the soft leather over her damp hair and tugging it down. It was too large, but that was no wonder. Walks on Wind measured the fit with a long-practiced eye, then pinched the dress here and there, suddenly a seamstress.

Once more, she moved away, this time returning quickly, a pair of moccasins in her hand. They, too, were too large, but close enough to a proper fit that they would stay on her feet as long as she didn’t move too quickly. Then it was time for her hair. Even wet as it was, it was much lighter than the old woman’s hair, which was thick and black, and hung over her shoulders in a thick cloak, decorated with beaded bands.

Using her fingers to get out the tangles, Walks on Wind worked swiftly and expertly, then took a bone comb and raked the long tresses into a thick cape that hung down over Cynthia’s back. The fingers moving nimbly fashioned braids, then tied them off with pieces of buckskin. Finally, satisfied that her transformation had done as much as it could, Walks on Wind sat back, holding Cynthia at
arm’s length and turning her once, then again to admire her handiwork.

She reached into a basket and handed the girl a cheap mirror with a wooden back. It was old, its silver crazed and laced with a network of oxidized veins, but it was still good enough for the girl to see herself, clouded in the glass and, even if the mirror had been perfect, all but unrecognizable.

But she smiled.

The old woman grunted again, took the mirror and tucked it back into the basket, and stood up. Her ancient knees cracked in the silence, sounding like logs on a fire, and she was breathing heavily, as if the morning’s work had drained her. Holding up a finger for Cynthia to stay put, she went outside, and returned a few moments later with strips of dried buffalo meat, which she held out, smacking her lips, telling Cynthia she should eat. The girl took the offered food reluctantly, even though she was famished. Chewing greedily, she downed the meat, then bent to wipe her hands on the dirt near the fire, smacking them together to clean them.

She could hear voices outside now, one deep and curt, the other, a woman, higher pitched and impatient. Then a shadow darkened the open entrance flap and a young woman entered. She said something to Walks on Wind, and then moved closer to the girl, circling her and the fire at the same time. She kept shaking her head, and
Cynthia noticed that her cheeks were wet, as if she were crying.

One brown hand moved up to wipe away the dampness, and she moved close to the girl with the suddenness of an attack, gathering her in her arms and nearly crushing the air from Cynthia’s lungs.

She sat down then, still holding onto Cynthia’s hand. “Name … “

It sounded odd, like the Stebbins boy, who wasn’t right in the head, and mumbled a pidgin English that was somewhere between human speech and animal grunting. It sounded almost as if the words were stuck in her throat, coated with thick phlegm and refused to come out.

Again, the newcomer said, “Name …?” This time, it was apparent that it was a question, and Cynthia, her own lips trembling, said, “Cynthia Ann Parker. I want to go home….” Then, in spite of her resolve, she started to sob.

The woman reached out to her, but Cynthia turned her back. She felt hands then, tugging at the hem of her buckskin dress, and the old woman moved in front of her, placed her hands on the child’s shoulders, and pushed, gently but firmly, until the newcomer’s lap caught her when she stumbled.

She looked up then, and saw that the woman was crying once more, this time making no effort to wipe away the tears. “Black Feather,” she said,
less tentatively, tapping herself on the breast. “Black Feather.” Then, one quivering finger reached out to touch Cynthia’s nose and the woman smiled as she said, “Cynthia Ann Parker.”

Cynthia nodded. Black Feather pointed to the old woman and said, “Walks on Wind. … “

“Walks on Wind?” Cynthia said.

The younger woman nodded her head. “Name,” she said. “Walks on Wind. She is your mother, now.”

“No, she’s not my mother. I want my mother, my real mother.” It was nearly a scream, the voice shrill, sharp, the words almost enough to slice the tipi walls to ribbons, but Black Feather held her tightly and said, “Walks on Wind is mother now.”

Walks on Wind leaned over her and reached down. Cynthia took the old woman’s hand, and followed her out of the tipi, Black Feather right behind them. As soon as they were out in the open, children gathered around, the girls rushing in close, the boys, perhaps shy, hanging back a bit. A hum started then and soon Cynthia realized the whole village had gathered to see her. She felt almost proud and a little bit like a prized heifer as the old woman led her around, pointing things out rapid fire, and turning each time to Black Feather, who had to rummage around in the misty attic of her English to find the right word or words, then giving Cynthia the Comanche equivalent.

Walks on Wind was determined that Cynthia’s education would be rapid and comprehensive. The girl wondered that the old woman’s legs didn’t give out as she darted here and there, jabbing a crooked finger at a horse or a tipi or a bow or shield. Half the village, mostly women and children, trailed like a comet’s tail in the wake of the trio. The Comanche words were difficult for her, some of the sounds being totally alien to her. But she was quick-witted, and seemed to realize that if she were to get along, she would have to go along, until such time as a chance for escape presented itself.

Occasionally her mind would wander, and she wondered whether John were in some other village, getting the same treatment. He would be terrified, so much younger than herself and with no one to turn to. She found herself being grateful for the presence of Black Feather, but started to wonder how the woman had come to speak English. The more curious she became, the closer she watched her interpreter, and it began to dawn on her, not only how she had come by the language, but why she had been crying—she was a captive, too, Cynthia thought. Just like me, she had been taken from her home and forced to learn the Comanche ways, the Comanche language and, with her skin sun-bronzed and her dark hair, seemed almost to have become a Comanche herself.

And now the reality of her future began to gather in her mind, a storm cloud far off on the
horizon, blackening, thickening, growing more and more turbulent as if rushed unopposed into the center of her consciousness. Black Feather had been here a long time, years, maybe even most of her life. And if that were true of Black Feather, it would likely be true of Cynthia herself. She began to cry then, letting the water seep from the corners of her eyes, but soundlessly, trying not to call attention either to her tears or to herself.

She wanted to go home, and she kept seeing that awful image of Granny Parker pinned to the ground, Grandpa John dead, and Uncle Ben a bloody pincushion with glazed button eyes, and she knew she would never see home again.

Black Feather kept one hand on Cynthia’s shoulder, squeezing it from time to time to reassure her, but it made no difference. Nothing would make a difference, nothing would ever be the same again, and she let the truth wash over her like a huge wave, not struggling against it, but letting it sweep her along. Her eyes darted every which way, following the sharp jabs of the old woman’s finger, and she tried to take in the words, but it was all just a buzz now, a distant hum, as if some hive of great bees were getting angry, beginning to swarm out and defend itself. It rose to a roar until she could barely hear the words of the white woman who was a Comanche, and when she could hear them they sounded as if they had come from a great distance,
maybe under water, sounds without meaning.

And bow, arrow, lance, and shield surrounded her on every side. Tipis stabbed the sky, the children swarmed like gnats and all of it was just a blur through the waterlogged slits her eyes had become. She stopped paying attention to the words altogether because she didn’t want to know anything, thought that knowing how things were here, what things meant would make it all the harder for her to go back.

Then, a shadow spilled over her and she opened her eyes wide. She looked up into the face of a man who stood smiling, one hand hidden behind his back. He squatted down in front of her, reached out to tickle her under the chin. She pushed the hand away, but it kept coming back, hovering like a hummingbird just out of her reach.

He looked familiar somehow, but she wasn’t sure why. Then imaging the scrubbed and gleaming face striped with red and yellow paint, she understood. This was the man who had stolen her away. And now he wanted to be friends, as if he had done no more than take her for a walk in the park. He was teasing her, playing with her, the way an uncle or grandfather might.

And she hated him. She flew at him suddenly, her small fists pounding on his chest. The suddenness of the onslaught had taken him by surprise, and he fell over backward. In an attempt to keep his balance, he had brought out the hand
that had been hidden, and she saw something in it, stared for a moment, suddenly powerless to move.

The people all around were laughing, saying things that made the man smile broadly. Slowly, he brought the hand close to her, and she saw that he held a small doll, an animal, probably a buffalo. He held it out, shaking it once or twice until she understood that it was for her.

She turned away, and he said something that made the others laugh. Then, looking at Black Feather, she asked, “What did he say?”

Black Feather smiled. “He said you have the heart of a panther.”

“What does.

“Take the doll,” Black Feather said. “He wants you to have it.”

“I don’t want it!”

But, in spite of herself, she turned back. Once more the buffalo was dangled in front of her. “I want to see my brother,” she said.

“I’ll take you,” the woman answered.

Then, slowly, Cynthia Ann reached for the gift. She stopped with her fingertips just grazing the stiff hairs of the doll. Then, gently, he pressed it into her hand. Her fingers closed reluctantly. And then it was hers.

And she knew that in that moment she had turned a corner. Life would never be the same.

C
YNTHIA WOKE UP EARLY,
as she had been doing for as long as she could remember. Leaving the tipi, she walked to the top of a hill behind the village, enjoying the chill in the predawn air. It made her shiver, raised little bumps on the skin of her arms and legs. Even in the chill, the air was heavy with the smell of hollyhock and lupine, their blossoms just masses of charcoal against the darker mass of the hill. It was too early for the bees to be about, and passing through the tall flowers, she allowed them to swish against her. Once or twice, she bent to sniff deeply of one of the blossoms, letting the cool dew tickle the tip of her nose.

When she reached the hilltop, she sat down, tucking her legs primly beneath her, even though there was no one about. She watched the village, heard a dog bark, and the distant nicker of a nervous horse. Where once such sounds would have
raised the hair on the back of her neck, they were so much a part of her life now that she found them comforting, for reasons she could not explain.

She was worried about Walks on Wind. The old woman seemed almost indestructible, but Cynthia, now called Naudah for so long she barely remembered her old name, couldn’t shake the feeling that she was beginning to slow down. Her hair had whitened in the last couple of winters, and the hands which had been so strong that morning so long ago when Naudah had first been taken to her, now trembled so much that beadwork was no longer possible for her. The simplest things seemed to give her trouble, things she had done almost as long as she lived, which, as near as Naudah could figure, had to be about sixty years, maybe even older.

More and more, Walks on Wind looked to her to do things. Almost all of the skinning, except on those very warm days in the middle of the summer hunt, when every hand was necessary, now fell to Naudah to do. And even when Walks on Wind tried to help, she often spent hours on a single hide, trying to conceal her frustration and the inevitable tears it prompted. Walks on Wind was a proud woman, and she hated for anyone to see the weakness that was catching up to her.

As often as not, even the cooking fell to Naudah. She didn’t mind. In fact, she even took
some pleasure in it. It was one of the few things she felt comfortable doing. So much of what Walks on Wind had taught her had come with difficulty. She tried, partly because she knew it would make her life easier, and partly because she took pride in doing things well, but she suspected that deep inside her was a frightened ten-year-old unable to get out.

On her solitary walks, she would try to remember how things were before her life had been turned inside out, to imagine what they would be like if that one horrible day hadn’t happened. She didn’t blame the Comanche anymore. She had seen too much to do that. Their lives were hard, suspended between the earth and a heavy stone that might at any moment fall, crushing them like so many bugs. But she felt cheated.

Lying back in the tall grass, feeling the beads of dew seep into the collar of her dress and send shivers down her spine, she closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, the sky above was full of fireflies, hard, white points that seemed to shimmer. Once, a blade of brilliant yellow lanced across the black skin of the night, so fast she thought she might have imagined it. But it was there even when she closed her eyes, and lingered for several seconds, slowly fading. Only when it was gone, did she open again, as if to see whether it would come back.

Looking down on the village, the place she
now thought of as home because it filled the vacuum in her heart left by the loss of her real home, she saw a dark figure moving away from the tipis. For a split second, her blood went cold. The thought crossed her mind that it could be an Osage or an Apache. But the figure was walking too easily, unconcerned whether or not it was observed, and a warrior scouting for a war party would never have been so casual.

She relaxed then, watching the figure as it left the camp circle behind and reached the bottom of the hill on which she sat. It was a man, but she could not tell who. He came up the hill then, his steps tentative, as if he weren’t sure he wanted to make the climb. Probably someone restless, maybe River Walker, who had a fight with his wife that evening, one that made everyone laugh, which only succeeded in making River Walker still angrier. Maybe he had been unable to sleep and come out for some quiet thought. Or maybe his wife had thrown him out. Naudah smiled at the thought.

As he drew nearer, she started to worry that he might see her and, worse yet, that someone else might see the two of them and jump to the wrong conclusion. Only when he reached the crest did she recognize him. Peta Nocona. This time, she closed her eyes again and refused to open them. He was a chief now, no longer just the subchief who had wrapped an arm around her and carried her away.

She knew that he worried about many things, and that he seemed hardly ever to sleep. But why was he up here? she wondered.

She didn’t want to say anything, partly to keep him from knowing she was there and partly because he intimidated her. Not that he was ever rude or abusive. But there was something about him, some majestic chill that seemed to insulate him from the rest of the people. She wondered whether it was like that for all chiefs, whether kings and queens were as isolated on their thrones.

“You couldn’t sleep?” he asked. Just when she thought he hadn’t noticed her.

At first, she debated whether to answer. Perhaps she could pretend she was sleeping, and he would not speak again, leaving her to her dreams. But she couldn’t do that.

“No,” she said, her voice cracking, almost catching in her throat.

“I couldn’t sleep either.” He wasn’t looking in her direction, and the words were soft, almost inaudible, not like the terrible thunderbolts he delivered when around the council fire.

“You have been with us a long time, now, Naudah,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Ten winters.”

“Yes.”

“I have thought about it a great deal in the last few days.”

Emboldened by his candor, she was moved to ask, “Why?”

“Because I have often wondered whether it was the right thing to do.”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No.”

“I think it does.”

“You did what you do. It is what Comanche have always done, is it not?”

“Yes. Even when we were not Comanche but Shoshone. So long ago that no one remembers exactly when we stopped being Shoshone and became Comanche. But because a thing is always done, does that make it right? This is what I have been asking myself.”

“It doesn’t make it right, no. But it doesn’t make it wrong.”

“You lost family that day, people who were close to you, people who loved you and whom you loved. That was painful. I know that.”

“People say that Peta Nocona had a family once, too. That he lost them, just as I lost my family.”

“They were taken from me, yes. But they are dead. You don’t know whether your family is alive or dead.”

“My father and his brother are dead. My grandfather is dead. My grandmother is probably dead.”

“The old woman with white hair?”

“Yes.”

“She was a very brave old woman. She tried to save you from me.”

“Was it you who …?” But she stopped herself. She didn’t really want to know the answer.

“No. It wasn’t. But that doesn’t make the loss any less painful. It doesn’t mean …”He trailed off, his voice confused, as if he weren’t sure what it didn’t mean, any more than he knew what it meant.

“As I said, it no longer matters. I couldn’t go back now, not even if I wanted to.”

“Since that day, we have never taken a white captive into the Noconi village. Do you know why?”

“I wondered about that.”

“Because I realized that it wasn’t fair. War is one thing, but that was something else. If I were dead, I would want to know that my family was well cared for. But I could not stand to be alive and not know where my son was, whether he had enough to eat, whether he was cold in winter or thirsty in summer. I would hate not knowing.”

“So it was because of your son that … “

Nocona shook his head, the movement just a blur of shadow in the starlight. “No. It was because of you. Because of you and your family. We still make war with the whites because we have to defend our lands and because they make war on us, even though the old chiefs once signed a paper saying that there would be
no war. The Osage signed, too, and the Kiowa. The Kiowa are our friends, so we don’t make war on each other, but the Osage are our enemies still, and still they make war and we make war. It is like that with the whites. The paper means nothing. Not to anyone. It is just paper.”

“What, then?”

Nocona tapped his chest. “What I felt in here … that means something. And I feel that you have been done a great evil. For this I am sorry. I would undo it if I knew how. But … “

He sighed heavily, and Naudah felt bad for him, knowing that he meant what he said and knowing, too, that what he said was true, that it could not be undone. Even if she wanted it to be.

“I no longer blame you, as I once did.”

“It would be all right if you still did. I would understand.”

“But I don’t. Walks on Wind has been good to me. She didn’t have to be. In the beginning, Black Feather told me stories of what happened to some … captives. I was lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“It could have been worse. Much worse.”

“Yes,” he said. “It could have been worse.”

“I wonder about my brother.”

“So do I. But I have never heard word of him. Every time I meet someone from another band, I ask. Black Snake has too, and Black Feather. I don’t know what happened to your
brother. You may not believe that, but it’s true.”

“I have no reason not to believe it.”

“You think he is dead, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Nocona grunted. “I think so, too. I am sorry.”

“You are sorry about so much tonight. Maybe you should look at the stars and smell the hollyhock, and try to forget about things you can’t change.”

“Knowing that I can’t change these things doesn’t mean that I don’t want to.”

“I know that. But knowing you want to change them is enough. I don’t expect the impossible.”

“You are very wise, for … “

“For a woman?”

“No, I was going to say for one so young. I was not half so wise when I was your age.”

“One does not become a chief without being wise.”

Nocona laughed then, an arctic laugh. “And one who is wise knows not to become a chief.”

He looked up at the stars then, letting his gaze take in their vast sweep. “So many,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Goodnight.”

And without another word, he started down the hill. Naudah had the urge to race after him, thinking that she had been too direct, too critical, but he would see through any attempt to
change her words, and she thought it better to let them be.

When his shadow disappeared among the tipis, she got to her feet and started down the hill. The sun would be up soon, and there would be a lot to do. Just as there always was.