Authors: Susan Edwards
Thirteen years later
Standing beneath a young cottonwood near the Hunkpapa village, Small Bird leaned her head against its rough trunk, her head resting in a vee. High above, a golden eagle soared lazily across the crystal-blue sky, spiraling downward in an ever-tightening circle. The majestic bird spread the feathered tips of its wings, dipping one to glide on the dry breath of the summer wind.
The rich golden browns of the bird’s plumage stood out against the pale blue sky: a calm, soothing sight for Small Bird. Lower and lower it soared until it chased its own likeness across the mirror surface of the nearby sluggish stream.
Without warning, a covey of sharp-tailed grouse took flight. The eagle let out a cry and swooped after the smaller birds. Its sharp talons shot out and snagged its prey. With a sharp downward beat of its wings, the powerful hunter lifted its head to the sun, reversed direction and flew off.
Watching the powerful bird, which one minute gave the appearance of gentle beauty, then showed the powerful predator within, set Small Bird’s heart beating as fast as that of the eagle’s prey.
Around her, the spared grouse settled back into the treetops. Quiet and peace descended once more. But not in Small Bird’s heart. The sight of the eagle making a kill left her feeling edgy.
Wambli,
the spirit of the eagle, presided over war parties, hunters and battles; his appearance today, the day before her marriage to Swift Foot, did not bode well.
She closed her eyes, seeking comfort in the warm breeze, the soft rustle of leaves overhead and the soft chirps of birds fluttering from branch to branch. All creatures had to eat. Even the golden eagle. The killing had meant nothing.
She deliberately glanced around, finding beauty in the land. But the vision of the eagle remained a dark shadow in her mind, obliterating all happiness. Seeking strength, Small Bird dug her fingers into the deep furrows in the cottonwood’s trunk as she sought to anchor herself. To admit the truth of the eagle’s omen.
Death.
No. It could not be.
“It is a sign you must heed.” The deep, familiar voice echoed her thoughts.
Small Bird turned her head to the side. Her brother stared intently at her, worry darkening his eyes and lining his mouth. Neither sibling spoke. Both knew she understood the appearance of the eagle. She paid attention to details and listened to the spirits, and they guided the way. But this was one truth she wanted to ignore.
Regardless of her wishes, Lone Warrior voiced her fears and deepened her trepidation. Small Bird ran sweat-slicked palms down the sides of her deerskin dress. “It does not change anything.”
Lone Warrior stalked over to her. “It changes everything. The spirits warn of death.” Anger deepened his voice. “Do not do this!”
Small Bird kept her gaze locked to his. “
Wambli
is a great hunter.” She held out one hand to stop her brother from interrupting. “Swift Foot is also a great warrior and hunter. Perhaps
Wambli
came to remind me of this.” She didn’t believe her own words. Had that been the truth, the eagle would not have made a kill. He’d have just shown himself.
Lone Warrior’s eyes narrowed. He towered over her. “The eagle warns of death. Yours. Are you so foolish that you would ignore this sign? The enemies of Swift Foot will seek you out.”
Small Bird shrugged. She wasn’t so foolish as to discount entirely the warning of death. But arguing with her brother wouldn’t change anything—especially the union between her and Swift Foot.
Lone Warrior loves you,
she reminded herself.
He worries, and doesn’t understand that the past has shaped your future.
“There will be peace between the Hunkpapa and Miniconjou. I know this to be the truth. Are they not talking of peace? Many Horns of the Miniconjou brought many gifts to show that Hawk Eyes and his people wish to end the war.”
Disgust filled Lone Warrior’s voice. “It is a trick. They will attack and kill again. As the wife of Swift Foot, they will seek you along with him. As they killed the parents of Swift Foot, they will kill you and him.” He spun away to pace along the bank.
After several taut minutes of silence, he continued, “I cannot allow you to put yourself in this danger.”
Small Bird sighed. His words held truth. Over the years, the Miniconjou had tried many times to kill the son of Runs with Wind. She knew they might continue to hunt him down—and as his wife, her own life would be in danger too. Yet though it scared her, she accepted her fate. The past had set her on the path that had led to this marriage between her and Swift Foot. And the fact that the Miniconjou were willing to talk peace reassured her. Deep in her heart, she had a goal: peace would be achieved, and she would have a hand in it.
Staring out across the shallow stream, Small Bird watched leaves from the tree at her back drift down to the water and float away. Bits of dried grass in sparse patches between boulders on the other bank waved gracefully; and upstream, several small toddlers played in the water, their mothers keeping close watch over them. Yet the peaceful scene did not put Small Bird at ease. Lone Warrior’s words were very troubling.
How could she convince him that it was far too late to change her mind? Her brother, and many of their tribe, had been against the marriage and the joining of these two Hunkpapa tribes from the beginning; it put them all at war with the Miniconjou.
Lone Warrior had even tried to talk her father into refusing the marriage offer. But deep in her heart, Small Bird had known this was her future. She’d turned down many suitors before Swift Foot, sure in her belief that one day her life would merge with his. And now it would—no matter the consequences.
The welfare of her people weighed heavily on her shoulders. Small Bird’s emotions whirled, leaving her confused and even a bit frightened. Responsibility could be scary. Sometimes she longed for ignorance.
Caught in the turbulence of the past like a rock or twig sucked up in a whirlwind, she pushed away from the supporting strength of the cottonwood tree at her back. Blinking against the reflected brightness of the sun on the water’s surface, she allowed her sight to blur. The sharpness of the scene softened. Colors and hues merged as the stream turned silvery-white, framed with swirls of green, brown and blue.
Come to me,
she commanded. Knowledge came to her in many forms. Thoughts. Feelings. Sometimes dreams. As knowledge of this fate had.
Slowly the brown blur took on the shape of a young boy with black hair. He wore a big grin as he waved at her. The scene soothed her. This child—her child, hers and Swift Foot’s—represented the future and gave her the faith she needed to believe she
had
a future. One shared with a great warrior: the warrior who’d saved her life at the age of three.
The image of the boy faded at the sound of Lone Warrior’s angry voice. “This is not the time to let your mind cloud with silly dreams.” Small Bird’s brother glared down at her.
Small Bird didn’t bother to tell him that what he called her “silly dreams” were visions that often spoke of the future or explained the present. She’d kept her talents mostly to herself, speaking of them only to her tribe’s medicine man and her father. It was this dream of the little boy combined with her past connection to Swift Foot that had ensured her choice of husband.
Swift Foot’s uncle, the old chief, and Wind Dancer, Swift Foot’s tribe’s young shaman, knew of her abilities as well—but she had asked them not to reveal the truth to others. She had no desire to become
winyan waken,
a tribe’s holy woman. Her role lay in becoming a wife and bearing a child.
This child.
Small Bird waited patiently for her brother to leave. Nothing he said would change the course of her future. Sighing, she put her hand on his shoulder. When it came right down to it, she really didn’t have a choice in the matter. Knowing this was her destiny didn’t make it easy to accept, but her brother’s continual arguments made it worse.
“I must do this,” she said softly.
“Then you are a fool.” Lone Warrior grabbed her by the upper arms and held her firmly. “Like that small bird the eagle snagged in his sharp talons, you will be taken by Swift Foot’s enemies.” He released her but held her gaze. “
Wambli
warns of death. If you go through with this foolish marriage, you will die.” Once more, bitterness filled his voice.
Trembling beneath the heat and conviction of her brother’s words, Small Bird turned away. She hated the weakness and fear his prediction elicited, yet all she could do was hold on to that bit of hope the dream-child brought her. By this time tomorrow, she’d be Swift Foot’s wife.
Lone Warrior forced her to face him. “Have you forgotten that you nearly lost your life because of this man you seek to marry?” His voice vibrated with anger.
Memories intruded, blurring everything around her, flashes of remembered senses.
The screams.
The pounding of her heart, which matched the pounding of the horses’ hooves carrying the enemy toward her hiding spot.
The rumble of the ground beneath her chest, the terror of being alone.
The acrid smell of smoke mingling with screams that had seemed to last a lifetime.
She’d been so young. She hadn’t understood death, but she’d been sensitive to the grief around her. And confused. She remembered how scared she’d been in the days following the attack, when women slashed their hair short and cut their own flesh. She shuddered, the vision of a woman chopping off the tips of her own fingers haunting her.
Small Bird drew a deep breath and forced the nightmare away. She had to make Lone Warrior understand. Though he was not a chief, the warriors of their clan of Hunkpapa looked to him for leadership. If he refused to give his allegiance to Swift Foot, who was to become her tribe’s new chief when she married him, then the rest of the warriors would also withhold loyalty, which would only cause tension and strife.
Sliding her arms free of his grip, Small Bird reached out and took his hands in hers. “I have not forgotten that day. I will never forget. So many died…” Her voice broke.
Lone Warrior jumped in. “Do you not care that you may meet the same end?”
Small Bird closed her eyes, her grip tightening on his hands. “You know I care,” she whispered.
“Then I will speak to our father. I will tell him about the appearance of
Wambli.
He will agree that it is a sign.” Lone Warrior turned to leave.
Small Bird grabbed his arm. She loved her brother, hated to see him so worried, but could not allow him to interfere. “No. Do not. No more fights. They will not change what will be.” She tightened her hold on his arm to prevent him from leaving.
For long moments, brother and sister stared at each other. Finally, Lone Warrior inclined his head. “This does not make me happy, but I will respect your decision.”
Relieved, Small Bird glanced down at the ground to show respect. “Thank you, my brother.”
Shouts to her right brought her head up. A group of five exuberant boys ran past, forcing her to step back. Smiling sadly, she longed for the carefree days of childhood.
The boys skidded to a stop when a woman appeared from around a huge boulder. Leaning heavily on a thick stick, she hobbled over the rocky ground. She wore a long shapeless dress with no decoration. Not even a simple row of colorful quilling adorned the yoke. No row of swinging fringe had been added to soften the plainness of her garment. A long length of softened deerskin covered her head and hid her face. In her free hand she clutched the edges of a wide strip of leather that encircled twigs and sticks.
After a moment’s hesitation, three of the boys ran in circles around the old woman, taunting her. One youngster picked up a rock. “Show us your face, old woman,” he shouted. “Show us your face.”
Small Bird gasped at the rude display of the boys—they were from her tribe. The two from Swift Foot’s were silently backing away from their new friends. Ashamed of the children’s behavior, Small Bird rushed forward. Lone Warrior followed.
“Enough!” she said. Engrossed in their cruel game, the boys didn’t hear. Without warning, one leaped forward and snatched the woman’s head covering away.
Startled, the woman whirled and tried to take it back. Her crutch fell from her hand and she lost her balance. Her lame foot buckled beneath her and she fell with a cry. Staring down at the woman, the three boys froze in horror.
“Anog-Ite!”
“Anog-Ite!”
“Double-Faced Woman!”
Small Bird held her breath, her heart beating fast. Anog-Ite was a legend. She had been a very beautiful and vain woman who had married
Tate,
the Wind, and borne him four sons: the four winds. As time passed, she’d become more and more conscious of her beauty, and devoted less time to the welfare of her children.
Enamored by her face, Sun invited the wife of
Tate
to take the seat beside him at the feast of the Gods.
He
took the seat, usurping the place of a goddess: Sun’s wife, Moon.
Angered,
Shan,
the Great All-Powerful Spirit, decreed that Moon would no longer be Sun’s companion. That was his punishment. But condemned for her vanity, ambition and negligence,
Ite
’s punishment was harsher. She was banished to the world to live without friends—and with only half of her beauty. The other half of her face became so horribly ugly that the sight of her terrified any who looked upon her.
The screams of the small boys brushing against the woman here, the fallen crone, shook Small Bird from her glazed horror. Double-Faced Woman was only a myth. Gazing down at the fallen woman as she turned her head to the side, Small Bird was caught by wonder. She’d always thought her cousin Moon Fire to be the most beautiful woman alive, but this “crone’s” face held an ethereal beauty she’d never before seen. Small Bird heard a gasp from her brother.
Turning, she saw his jaw had dropped. He stared at the woman as if unable to believe what was before him. Rolling her eyes, Small Bird returned her attention to the shaking beauty on the ground. Compassion won out over superstition. She bent down.