Feather in the Wind (29 page)

“It’s not that. She’s kind of old-fashioned.” That was putting it mildly, Susannah mused. No doubt her mother would faint when she found out her only daughter was living with a man and was going to have a baby.

Susannah sighed. She loved her mother, she really did, but they hadn’t gotten along since Susannah turned fifteen. Nothing Susannah had ever done had been right as far as her mother was concerned. She had hoped Susannah would become a doctor or a lawyer, something that would, in her mother’s opinion, “contribute something worthwhile to the world”. She did not consider writing romance novels worthwhile.

“What is old-fashioned?”

“She thinks girls should get married before they get pregnant.”

“We are married,” Tate Sapa remarked. “You are my woman.”

“I know.”

Susannah wrapped her arms around Black Wind’s waist and smiled up at him. She was a big girl now. She didn’t need her mother’s permission to fall in love; she no longer needed to earn her mother’s approval.

And then Black Wind bent his head and kissed her. He might not feel at home in the twentieth century, Susannah mused, her thoughts melting like butter in the sun, but he certainly knew his way around her heart. He deepened the kiss, stoking her desire, making her knees go weak.

She melted against him, everything else forgotten in the joy that engulfed her as he swept her into his arms and carried her to bed.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Tate Sapa stood at the window in the living room, staring out into the darkness beyond.

With a sigh, he watched the cars pass by, marveling again at the wondrous machines the white man had created. He had learned much in the past few days. There seemed to be nothing the
wasichu
could not do. He had great ships that crossed the oceans, airplanes that soared through the skies, cars that traveled long distances faster than he had ever dreamed of going. The white man’s weapons were far more deadly now than the rifles and cannons they had used to make war against his people. Susannah had told him of bombs that could destroy thousands of people in a matter of moments, missiles that could sow destruction in lands thousands of miles away. The
wasichu
were still trying to conquer the world, he thought bleakly, never content with what they had, where they had been born, always wanting more.

He lifted a hand to the window, feeling the smooth cool glass beneath his palm. There was nothing in this time that was familiar to him, nothing save Susannah. He spoke her language, yet there were many words he heard that he did not understand, words that had meant one thing in his time and now conveyed a different meaning. Every fiber of his being yearned for home, for the vastness of the plains, for the sound of his native tongue, for the taste of food and drink that was familiar. He missed the scent of roasting buffalo meat, of sage and sweet grass. He longed for the freedom of riding across the vast sunlit prairie, for the stillness of the Hills when snow lay heavy upon the ground.

Feeling as though the pale-blue walls were closing in around him, he went into the bedroom, noting that his footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet. He plucked the prayer feather from the nail beside the bed and slipped the loop over his wrist. For a moment, he gazed down at Susannah, who was sleeping soundly, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Resisting the urge to reach down and touch her, he left the house.

Outside, he drew in a deep breath, and then he began walking. The concrete was hard and cold beneath his moccasins and he moved off the sidewalk onto the grass that grew along the edge of the cement, wondering why the
wasichu
avoided walking on Mother Earth.

A full moon hung low in the sky. Street lamps made small pools of pale-yellow light at intervals along the sidewalk. Walking briskly, he passed one house after another. Now and then, dogs barked at him. Occasionally, a car drove by, the growl of the engine breaking the silence of the night.

He walked faster and faster, until he was running, his footsteps muffled by the thick grass along the parkway. He ran for miles until he came to a large expanse of grass and trees. A few benches were scattered about. There was a small grassy mound beneath a weeping willow.

He made his way to the rise and sat down. Staring into the darkness, he wondered how he would ever fit into Susannah’s world. There was nothing for him to do here, in Susannah’s time. There was no need for a warrior; his skill with bow and arrow and lance were useless. Men did not hunt for game in this place; she had no enemies for him to fight, no need for his protection. How long would she love him, respect him, when he was no better than the coffee coolers who hung around at Fort Laramie, hoping the
wasichu
would give them whiskey?

He ran his fingers over the smooth spine of the eagle feather, felt it grow warm in his hand.

Only think of home, wish to be there, and I will take you back.

He heard the words clearly in his mind and knew that the power to go back to his own people, his own time, rested in his hands. He pictured the majestic beauty of the
Pa Sapa.
The Lakota called the sacred hills
Wamakaognaka E’cante
, the heart of everything that is. It was the burying place of his ancestors, whose bodies turned to dust, returning to the earth from whence they came, making the ground holy. His people never lived in the Hills, but camped on the plains. They cut their lodge poles from the trees that grew in abundance on the mountains, always leaving an offering to the gods in their place, never taking more than was needed.

In the hills to the south was a placed called the Wind Cave. Sometimes, if a man listened carefully enough, he could hear the soft sound of Mother Earth breathing through the cave. An old Indian legend claimed that the first buffalo had been born within the womb of the cavern.

The
Pa Sapa
was the home of the Thunder Beings, who brought rain and thunder and lightning to make the earth green and fertile. He wondered if, in this time and place, his people still climbed the sacred mountains to pray.

To the north of the Hills, standing apart from the
Pa Sapa
but still a part of them, was Bear Butte, another place that was sacred to the Lakota. Its rocks and pines rose high above the plains in lofty splendor. The leaders of his people had often gone there to seek the guidance of the Great Spirit.

But it was the memory of the
Pa Sapa
that symbolized all he was, all he had loved and lost, all that he yearned for. He thought of his people, of the young men who had been eager for war, of his father’s wisdom, of Mato Mani’s reverence and power. All were dead now, yet he knew if he returned to his own time, he would find them as he had left them, alive and on the brink of war with the
wasichu
.

And then, like a fox returning to its den, his thoughts turned to Susannah. He could not leave her now, not when she was carrying his child. The very thought of her bearing his son or daughter filled him with awe. There was nothing he could do to help his people. Their fate had already been determined. He would stay with Susannah until the child was born and then he would go back where he belonged. He only hoped Susannah would not hate him for his decision. It humbled him to know she was stronger than he was, that she had been able to adjust far better to his time than he could to hers. But he feared he would never belong here, in this place. He was a warrior in a time that had no need of warriors.

He felt the mystic power drain from the feather as he made his decision. Heavy-hearted, he left the park and retraced his steps back to Susannah’s lodge, wondering if, in deciding to remain in Susannah’s world, he had forever lost the ability to return to his own.

He heard her voice as soon as he stepped into the living room.

“Black Wind, is that you?” She stood up and turned on the light beside the sofa. “I’ve been so worried.”

“Su-san-nah, it is late. You should be sleeping.”

“How could I sleep? I woke up and you were gone. Are you all right? Where have you been?”

“I could not sleep.”

“Is something wrong?”

He shook his head, wondering how to explain it to her. The bed was too soft. The sounds of the night were unfamiliar. He missed the sighing of the wind through the cottonwood trees, the occasional bark of the camp dogs, the snuffling of the war horse he had kept tied outside his lodge, the company of his father, the camaraderie of the young men.

“Can’t you tell me?”

He shrugged. “The bed is too soft. The night is filled with strange sounds.”

“Give yourself some time to get used to things. It’s only been a few days.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist, wishing she could think of a way to make him feel more at home in her time, thinking, again, how much easier it had been for her to go back in time than it had been for him to come forward. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“Su-san-nah, are there no Lakota in your world?”

“Of course there are.”

“Where are they?”

“Gee, I don’t know. I suppose most of them are on reservations in South Dakota or Montana, I’m not sure which. Maybe when I get this book finished, we could take a trip there.”

“I would like that.”

“I’ve never seen a reservation,” she replied slowly, “but I’ve been told they aren’t very nice. There’s a lot of poverty…that is, most of the Indians don’t have very much. A lot of them are alcoholics…” Susannah frowned, knowing he wouldn’t understand the word. “They drink too much whiskey because they don’t have a way to support their families. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Tate Sapa nodded. In his time, there had been warriors who drank too much of the white man’s firewater, men desperate for drink who had sold their women for whiskey, thereby bringing shame and disgrace to their families.

“I understand.” He looked thoughtful a moment. “You said an old man gave you the prayer feather. I would like to meet him.”

“Gee, I don’t know who he was. I met him at a POW WOW.” She frowned. “You’re not going to believe this, but he looked an awful lot like your father.”

“Can we go there?”

“It’s over now, but we might be able to find another POW WOW,” she said, seeing his disappointment.

“I must find the man who gave you the feather.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I do not know.”

“Well, we might be able to find him. I still have the ad from the newspaper. Maybe I can find out where they’ve gone.”

“Will you try?”

Susannah nodded, a heaviness born of fear for what he might find settling over her heart. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

As luck, or Fate, would have it, there was a POW WOW at the Orange County Fairgrounds the following weekend.

Susannah felt a strong sense of foreboding as she parked the car. She glanced at Black Wind. He was wearing a pair of jeans, a white t-shirt and his moccasins. The eagle feather was tied in his hair.

She felt a shiver of apprehension as they walked toward the fairgrounds. Did he feel it too, or was it only her own unspoken fears making themselves known? In spite of his clothing, there was no mistaking the fact that Black Wind was a full-blooded Indian. Even now, surrounded by other Native Americans, he stood out from the rest like a mustang in a herd of draft horses. There was an arrogance about him, an inherent wildness, that set him apart.

“I guess we may as well start at this end,” Susannah suggested. Several dozen booths stretched ahead of them, displaying the same types of crafts and souvenirs she had seen at the last POW WOW.

Tate Sapa nodded. It was exhilarating to be surrounded by Indians, to hear the sound of drums. Two men dressed in elaborate dance costumes walked by and he stared after them, astonished by the brilliant colors they wore, and by the sound of his native tongue.

Following Susannah, he passed booths filled with Navajo baskets, another that held a variety of Hopi Kachina dolls, some no taller than the length of his finger, others several times larger. There were eagle dancers and clowns and mud men. One booth displayed several bows and quivers of arrows, another had a half-dozen war shields, ceremonial pipes and bear claw necklaces.

He paused at a booth displaying a number of elaborately beaded vests, fringed leggings, belts and several pairs of moccasins. He lifted one, recognizing it as belonging to the Cheyenne. Another was of Crow design. They were all old, faded and worn.

“Can I help you?”

Tate Sapa looked at the man behind the counter, then glanced at Susannah.

“We’re just looking,” she said. “Thanks.”

“Those are genuine Crow moccasins, circa 1881. I can let you have ’em for, oh, a hundred and fifty dollars.”

“They’re very nice,” Susannah replied with a polite smile, “but we’re just looking.”

“Why would anyone want to buy old moccasins?” Tate Sapa asked as they turned away from the booth.

“Some people collect that kind of thing.”

Tate Sapa glanced down at his own well-worn moccasins and shook his head.

Susannah grinned at him. “Native American stuff is very ‘in’ now. Very popular. Books, movies…” She shrugged. “Lots of people are becoming concerned with the condition of the earth and have begun to have an appreciation for the way the Indians took care of the land.”

Tate Sapa grunted softly. Times had changed, indeed.

They passed several booths. He paused occasionally, his gaze lingering over familiar objects—a tortoiseshell rattle, a flute carved from cedar wood, a bone-handled knife, a buckskin medicine bag, a willow backrest. One booth displayed a buffalo robe. A wave of homesickness rose within him as he ran his hand over the shaggy hide.

Moving on, he saw other things that looked familiar yet different—dreamcatchers in brilliant shades of blue and red, orange and green, drums of all sizes, headdresses made of colorful feathers.

“Well, I don’t see him anywhere,” Susannah said. “Maybe he’s not here. Do you want to go watch the dancing?”

Tate Sapa nodded. Hand in hand, they turned away from the concession stands and made their way to the dance arena.

Tate Sapa stared in wonder at the dancers. Costumes from many tribes were represented, but he could not recall ever having seen bustles, feathers and fans in such vibrant colors—brilliant reds and yellows, bright orange and green, vivid shades of blue, a clean pure white.

The sound of the drum seemed to penetrate deep within him, echoing the beat of his homesick heart. He heard the sweet welcome sound of his native tongue as the singer began to sing, and for a moment, he was back in his own time.

He watched the women dance, their movements delicate and understated, the fringe on their long shawls swaying with the rhythm of their steps. Later, the men entered the circle, the tempo of the dance steps increasing with the beat of the drum. He was tempted to shake Susannah’s hand from his arm and yield to the urge to join in the dancing, to feel the excitement flow through him as he executed the intricate steps of the dance, to feel the heartbeat of the earth beneath his moccasins.

The drumming built to a crescendo, then ceased, and the dancers left the circle, going to join their friends and families.

Tate Sapa glanced at the spectators, surprised to see so many whites and Indians intermingling, and then he remembered what Susannah had said about the
wasichu
and their interest in Native American crafts and customs, an interest that had come a hundred years too late to help his people, he thought ruefully.

He was about to suggest they leave when his gaze settled on a man he recognized.

“Is something wrong?” Susannah asked, frowning. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Tate Sapa shook his head. “How is this possible?”

“How is what possible?”

“He disappeared five winters ago. He went on a vision quest and never returned. We thought he had been killed.”

Susannah followed Black Wind’s gaze, felt a cold chill slide down her spine when she saw the Indian who had given her the eagle feather. “You know him?”

“He is Hehaka Luta, my father’s brother.”

“That explains it then,” Susannah said. “I thought your father looked familiar when I met him. Now I know why. But how did he get here?”

“I do not know. There were some among our people who said
Wakán Tanka
had carried him away. Perhaps he is indeed a ghost.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Susannah said pragmatically. “Come on.”

Tate Sapa shook his head, his gaze fixed on the old man. Could this truly be Hehaka Luta’s ghost? But no, he was speaking to a young girl, nodding to someone passing by. Surely a ghost could not be seen, especially by the
wasichu
.

“Are you coming?” Susannah asked, puzzled. He had been anxious to find the old man only minutes before. Why was he hesitating now?

Slowly, Tate Sapa made his way toward the old man. “
Hau, ate
,” he murmured.

“
Hau, tunska
,” the old man replied, an enormous smile spreading over his face as he clasped Tate Sapa’s forearm, then embraced him. “So,
tunska
,” the old man said jubilantly, “you are here at last.” He released Black Wind and took a step back, his gaze running over the younger man from head to foot. “I had almost given up hope.”

“You have been waiting for me?”

The old man nodded. He looked at Susannah, including her in his smile of welcome. “I knew the woman would bring you to me.”

“Hello.” Susannah came to stand beside Black Wind. She smiled tremulously at the old man.

“So, we meet again. Did you enjoy your visit to the past?”

“How do you know about that?” Susannah exclaimed.

“We must talk,” the old man said. “But not here. Come,
tunska
, I have a trailer where we can speak in private.”

Tate Sapa’s mind was whirling as he followed Hehaka Luta across the fairgrounds to the parking lot and into a small trailer.

“Sit down,” Hehaka Luta invited. “Are you hungry?”

Tate Sapa shook his head. “No.” He sat down at the table, and Susannah sat down beside him.

Hehaka Luta pulled three cans of root beer from the fridge, then sat down across from Susannah and Black Wind.

“I have much to tell you,” Hehaka Luta said. He handed them each a can of soda.

“We thought you were dead,” Tate Sapa remarked. He looked at the can, then set it aside.

“I shall tell you my story, and then I will answer your questions. Shortly after the death of your mother and your sister, I went to the
Pa Sapa
to seek guidance. While I was there,
Wakán Tanka
spoke to me. He told me I must leave the People, that I would take a journey far into the future. He told me I was to prepare a place for the warrior who would follow me, a warrior who had been chosen to help our people, one who was brave and pure in heart, who would join me in the future. This man would learn the
wasichu
language so that he could record the history of our people while it was yet fresh within his mind. This man would go to the reservation and remind our young men what it meant to be a warrior. He would restore their pride in their heritage and teach them those things that have been lost.”

Hehaka Luta paused, his dark eyes intent upon Black Wind’s face. “You are that one.”

Tate Sapa shook his head. “Why me?”

“You have always been a leader among our people. I have learned much since I have been here. There is tension between our people—contemporary Indians against those who hold to traditional ways, full-bloods against mixed bloods. Thousands of our people live on reservations. More than half have no way to earn a living. They drink too much. Babies are born sickly. Many die. Only a few years ago, the white man’s law would not allow us to practice our religion. Our children were forbidden to speak Lakota.”

“What can I do? I am only one man. I cannot right the wrongs that have been done.”

“You are young and strong and proud. If your heart is good for our people,
Wakán Tanka
will show you what must be done.”

Tate Sapa lifted a hand to the feather in his hair. “Was it my prayer feather that brought you here?”

“Yes.
Wakán Tanka
told me I must take the feather from the burial ground. He told me that a woman would come seeking Wanbli’s feather. He said I would know her when I saw her. He told me that her love for you would bring you here, where you are needed.”

Hehaka Luta smiled at Susannah. “You love my nephew, do you not?”

“Yes, very much.”

The old man looked at Tate Sapa. “And you love her?”

Tate Sapa nodded.

Hehaka Luta nodded, and then frowned. “But you are not happy here. You wish to go back.”

“I have thought of it.” At his words, he felt Susannah go suddenly still. He had never told her of the night in the park, when he had held the prayer feather in his hand, felt the power warm to his touch.

Hehaka Luta glanced at the eagle feather in Tate Sapa’s hair. “You have the power to return to your own time,” he said quietly. “But I warn you,
tunska
, should you choose to go back, you will not be able to return to this place.”

“I understand, uncle.”

“I know what you are thinking, what you are feeling.” Hehaka Luta took a drink of his soda, then smacked his lips. “
Waste
,” he remarked, grinning. “This is a strange place, nephew. Right now you think you will never belong here. But I tell you from my heart that you are needed here, that you can be happy here if you will let go of the past and learn to live in the white man’s world.”

“I will never be a white man. I am Lakota.”

Hehaka Luta nodded. “That is why you are needed in this place. Your heart and soul are Lakota. You must help our people understand that they can live in the
wasichu
world without sacrificing their pride in their heritage. You must help our young men and women find their way back to the true path, the life path. Many have strayed from it.”

“I will think on it, uncle.”

“I have a small ranch on the outskirts of Pine Ridge. It is in your name. Should you decide to stay, it is yours.” The old man sighed. “I have done what
Wakán Tanka
asked of me, nephew. The rest is up to you. I know you will make the right decision,
tunska
. Our people have always depended on your loyalty and your wisdom. I know you will not fail them now.”

Hehaka Luta stood up. “I must get back to my booth.”

Tate Sapa stood up and embraced his uncle. “
Toksha ake wacinyuanktin ktelo, ate
.”

The old man smiled. “And I will see you again.” He winked at Susannah. “Both of you.”

Tate Sapa stared after the old man. For five winters, they had thought Hehaka Luta dead and all the time he had been here, waiting.

With a sigh, he faced Susannah. “Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “I wish to leave.”

He was silent on the drive home, his thoughts turned inward.

Susannah kept silent as well, knowing that this was a decision he had to make for himself. The thought that he might leave her, that he might return to his own time, left her feeling cold and hollow inside.

She parked the car and started for the front door, stopping when she realized Black Wind wasn’t following her. “Are you coming?” she asked.

“I am going for a walk.”

She waited, hoping he would ask her to go with him. When he didn’t, she opened the door and went into the house. Kicking off her shoes, she went into her office and switched on her computer. One of the things she loved about writing was being able to lose herself in another world. Times when she was unhappy or blue, she could escape into her make-believe world where happiness was guaranteed and, sooner or later, there would be a happy ending.