A Whisper In The Wind (21 page)

What will be, will be,
he thought again.

But he didn’t have to like it, and he was suddenly eager to fight. Even though he knew his people could not win, he was eager to fight for the land that had nurtured Yellow Spotted Wolf. The land that should have been his.

He was unusually quiet after dinner that night, his thoughts melancholy.

Elayna sensed that something was troubling him, but she didn’t pry, only sat quietly beside him, her hand resting on his thigh, hoping her presence would help.

“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” Michael mused aloud. “I’ve grown to love this place as nowhere else.”

“Haven’t you always lived here?” she asked, and it suddenly occurred to her that she knew very little about the man she had married.

“No.” He shook his head. “It isn’t fair. My people belong here. What right has the government to make them leave? Time and again the United States has promised land to my people, promised them food and shelter. What promises have they ever kept?”

“Michael…”

“My people belong here. They’re part of the land.” He paused, remembering something Luther Standing Bear had written, a statement that claimed only the white man thought of nature as a wilderness. The Indians didn’t think of the grassy plains and timbered hills and flowing streams as wild. Only the white man thought the land was infested with wild animals and savages.

Michael sighed, overcome with despair as he recalled something else, something that Crazy Horse had said.
We did not ask the white man to come here,
the Oglala war chief had said.
The Great Spirit gave us this country as a home. You had yours. We did not interfere with you…

Damn, he thought, it was so frustrating to know what the future held, and know there was nothing he could do to change it. The strong had always preyed on the weak. Old civilizations were lost and new ones were founded.

Nothing remains the same but the earth and the mountains…
How many times had he heard Yellow Spotted Wolf murmur those words when life threw him a curve?

“Michael, won’t you tell me what’s bothering you?” Elayna asked softly, her concern evident in her voice. “Maybe I can help.”

“You help just by being here,” he replied. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Oh, Michael…”

There was a world of wanting in her voice and in the soft glow of her eyes, in the touch of her hand as it slid over his thigh, heating his flesh. He groaned softly as she leaned toward him, her lips slightly parted, her breath warm and sweet as it fanned his cheek.

He forgot about the past then, forgot about the future. There was only Elayna and the wonder and reality of now.

Drawing her into his arms, he kissed her deeply, the heat spreading through him like wildfire as she slid her hands under his shirt and caressed his back and shoulders. He lowered his head and kissed her neck, her shoulder, the tantalizing curve of her breast.

There was too much clothing between them and he uttered a soft oath as he drew away to shed his clout and leggings and shirt. Elayna quickly slipped out of her tunic, and then they stretched out on the buffalo robes, hands and lips eagerly exploring, gently pleasuring, until urgency overcame gentleness and they came together, driven by a need as old as time, as endless as the stars.

He was power and strength, demanding fulfillment, and she was like Mother Earth, giving nourishment and life. She cried his name as his seed spilled into her and she drew him closer, praying that life would merge with life and she would conceive and give Michael Wolf a son.

He held her close long after their breathing had returned to normal, needing to be a part of her, to be cradled in her warmth a few minutes more.

He gazed into her eyes, dark and deep and filled with love and the hazy afterglow of passion.

“Nemehotatse, nahyan,”
Elayna murmured as she brushed a wisp of sweat-dampened hair from his brow. “I love you, husband.”

“Nemehotatse, zemehoesz,”
he replied quietly, fervently. And in that moment he knew their time together was growing short.

Chapter Thirty-Six

They reached Sitting Bull’s camp on the Rosebud the second week of June. It was no longer a Hunkpapa camp but was now composed of Indians of many tribes who had heard Sitting Bull’s cry of war and had come to join in the fight against the white man.

Crook was in the field again, camped along Goose Creek. War was inevitable.

Michael stayed close to Elayna, knowing she must feel lost and alone, like a white rose in a garden of red.

That night he took her in his arms, comforting her with his presence. They did not speak for a long while, only held each other close. Michael knew there were things that needed to be said, decisions that had to be made, but he was reluctant to mention the coming battle, or to think of the battles that would follow, the inevitable surrender of his people, the horror of the reservation.

The need to tell Elayna who he was and where he had come from was strong within him, and yet he knew the time was not yet right, and he put all thought of the past and the future from his mind and focused instead on the woman in his arms.

From the distance came the muted sounds of laughter, the steady beat of a drum, the haunting notes of a flute. The dying fire cast dancing shadows on the lodgeskins, the air was sweet with the scent of sage and pine. And woman.

His hand moved up and down Elayna’s arm, marveling at her soft skin, at the love she had brought into his life. He had made Yellow Spotted Wolf promise again that he would return Elayna to her father if anything happened to him. Yellow Spotted Wolf had readily agreed. He no longer doubted that Michael was his great-grandson, or that he had come to them from another time and place.

Michael sighed. There was one more thing he had to do, and it was time to tell Elayna so she wouldn’t be taken by surprise.

“The Indians are going to celebrate the Sun Dance tomorrow.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s hard to explain, hard for whites to understand. The Sun Dance is a religious ceremony. It’s very old and very sacred to my people. Often when a man prays he offers the pipe or tobacco to the Great Spirit, but during the Sun Dance a warrior offers his blood and his pain to the spirits to show his gratitude, or to secure the blessings of the Great Spirit on the tribe. Sometimes a man takes part in the ceremony to acknowledge blessings he has already received, or to ask for a special favor, or a vision.”

“What do you mean, he offers his blood? How?”

“There are a couple of ways. Some men offer pieces of their flesh. Other men choose to be attached to the Sun Dance pole by ropes attached to skewers inserted in the muscle over their breasts, here and here,” Michael said, pointing to his chest.

“That’s barbaric!” Elayna exclaimed, horrified by the mere idea of such an ordeal.

Michael nodded. “I used to think so too.”

Elayna stared at Michael. “You’re not going to do it?”

“I’ve got to.”

“Why?”

“I can’t put it into words. It’s just something I’ve got to do. I may never get another chance.” His hand stroked the back of her head. “I’ve asked Yellow Spotted Wolf to help me.”

“You won’t change your mind? For me?”

“I can’t. I’m going to war, Elayna, something I’ve never done before.” He chuckled softly, sheepishly. “I need all the help I can get.”

“And you think God will protect you if you do this dance?”

Michael shook his head, his expression tender as he gazed into her eyes. “I want Him to protect you.”

Two large tears formed in Elayna’s eyes and emotion thickened her throat. “Oh, Michael,” she murmured, “please don’t go.”

“I don’t want to, but it’s something I’ve got to do. I don’t expect you to understand. I don’t understand it myself.”

She wanted to beg him not to be a part of it, not to participate in such a heathen ceremony, not to go to war against her people, but she choked back the words. He did not need arguments from her, he needed her love and support, and that was what she would give him.

“The Sun Dance lasts for several days,” Michael said, squeezing her hand. “I don’t know how much time I’ll be able to spend with you, but I’ll be thinking about you every minute.”

Time, Elayna thought. Once it had been her friend, but now it stalked her like a wolf on the trail of fresh blood.

The days that followed were like nothing Michael had ever experienced. The Indians were keyed up, excited at the prospect of the coming battle. There were many great warriors and chiefs gathered along the banks of the Little Bighorn: Gall and American Horse, Two Moons and Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull and He Dog and Little Wolf.

Sitting Bull was not the leader of the camp; there was no single leader, but he was a man of great importance. Broad-shouldered, his dark eyes flashing with anger, he moved through the camp, exuding confidence in an Indian victory.

“What treaty that the whites have kept has the red man broken?” he asked at one of the many council meetings. “Not one! What treaty has the white man ever made with us that they have kept? Not one! When I was a boy, the Lakota owned the world, the sun rose and set on their land. What white man can say I ever stole his land or a penny of his money? Yet they say I am a thief.”

His words were strong, filled with truth, and the young men vowed to fight hard in the coming battle.

But before the battle there would be the Sun Dance.

It loomed before Michael with frightening fascination. Did he have the courage to fulfill the vow he had made to the Great Spirit? Could he endure the pain of the knife without whimpering like a child?

Mo’ohta-vo’nehe sensed Michael’s anxiety and suggested that Michael visit the sweat lodge to purify himself for the coming ordeal. Michael agreed, and Yellow Spotted Wolf asked if he might join him and Mo’ohta-vo’nehe.

The sweat lodge was only about four feet high. The frame was made of willow branches covered with hides. Before the sweat began, Red-Furred Bear purified the lodge with sweet grass and sage, and then Mo’ohta-vo’nehe, Yellow Spotted Wolf, and Michael stripped off their clouts and entered the lodge, naked as the day they were born.

They sat in a semicircle for a few minutes, praying silently. Michael prayed for Elayna, that she would be protected during the coming battle, that she would have a long and happy life. And he prayed for courage to face the Sun Dance, for courage in battle, for courage to face the future, whatever it might hold for him.

A short time later Mo’ohta-vo’nehe’s wife, Hemene, began passing hot stones into the lodge, plucking them from the fire outside with two forked sticks. The hot stones were placed in a rectangular hole dug in the center of the sweat lodge. Mo’ohta-vo’nehe sprinkled water over the hot stones, creating dense steam and heat.

As the steam filled the lodge, Mo’ohta-vo’nehe began to chant a courage song, imploring the Great Spirit of the Cheyenne to bless those within the lodge with health and strength, with wisdom and fortitude.

At first, Michael could hardly breathe. Steam and smoke filled the lodge, and he knew a moment of panic, a sense of suffocation as the intense steam filled his lungs with heat.

“Relax,” Mo’ohta-vo’nehe said. “Let the steam surround you and fill you until it is a part of you. Empty your mind of all thought.”

Michael nodded. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to go limp, to think of nothing but the warmth of the lodge, of what he hoped to gain from participating in the Sun Dance.

He was aware of Yellow Spotted Wolf sitting beside him, of the soft chanting of Mo’ohta-vo’nehe, of the soft sizzle of the cold water on the hot stones. He wondered if Yellow Spotted Wolf was aware of the uniqueness of this moment when the past and the future were joined together.

There was a gentle hiss as Hemene passed fresh stones into the lodge and Mo’ohta-vo’nehe sprinkled them with water.

Michael felt as though he were drifting, weightless, mindless, through a world of silent heat. Sweat poured from his body, draining the strength out of him, leaving him feeling drugged, sluggish, suspended between time and space.

He took a deep breath and his lungs filled with moist heat, firing his blood, filling him with exhilaration. His spirit seemed to soar outside his body, and he felt as though his ancestors were in the lodge with him, smiling at him, offering him their support. He was Cheyenne, a warrior of the People, about to offer his pain and his blood to the Great Spirit.

Yellow Spotted Wolf had been right, Michael mused. A man needed a vision to guide him through life. He thought of his father, a man who had never had a purpose, who had never found a reason for living.

He was drifting, warm and safe, like a baby in its mother’s womb. Blurred images danced before him. His father, tall and handsome he had been, a likable, easygoing man until he jumped head first into a whiskey bottle and never came out…his mother, filled with love and patience and tenderness, a gentle woman, a beautiful woman with eyes that were always sad. Had she ever been happy? Was she happy now…?

He felt a quick stab of pain as the images in his mind sharpened and he saw his mother as he had seen her last, a still figure lying in a crude wooden coffin, the pain in her eyes forever veiled behind closed lids. Was she happy now…? Was his great-grandfather happy now? He had a sudden recollection of wrapping a frail body in the Morning Star blanket, of placing the body high in the fork of a tree, and it seemed that Death was all around him, dark and quiet. Was Death the only answer to pain, the only happiness…?

But Yellow Spotted Wolf was not dead. He was here, in the sweat lodge. Perhaps his father was here too, and his mother.

“Father…” He breathed the word aloud, and in his mind’s eye he saw Joshua Red Wolf as he might have been had he looked for answers within the heart and soul of the Cheyenne instead of the white man’s firewater.

A great sadness overwhelmed him and he felt the sting of tears behind his eyes as he grieved for his father, for the man that might have been, for the love they might have shared.

“Father…” He felt a hand on his shoulder and he opened his eyes, his heart pounding. But it was only Yellow Spotted Wolf standing before him. There was a deep and abiding sadness in his great-grandfather’s eyes, as if he too had seen the man that Joshua Red Wolf might have been.

Rising to his feet, Michael followed his great-grandfather out of the sweat lodge. They were running now, running toward the river.

The shock of the cold water took his breath away, and then he was filled with a sense of power and well-being such as he had never known.

“You are ready now,” Mo’ohta-vo’nehe declared as Michael stepped out of the water.

Michael nodded. He had been reborn inside the sweat lodge. The old Michael Wolf had died, and a new Michael had emerged, a man who knew who he was and what he was. A man at peace with himself.

The Sun Dance pole was cut the following day and erected where the dance would take place. Sitting Bull had let it be known that he would take part in the dancing, but first he intended to offer his flesh to
Wakán Tanka.

When all the preparations had been made, Sitting Bull sat down on the ground and a warrior known as Jumping Bull knelt beside him. Lifting the flesh of the medicine man’s arm, he cut away a small piece of skin. Elayna gagged and looked away, but Michael watched intently, his gaze focused on Sitting Bull. The old warrior seemed immune to the pain. No sign of discomfort showed on his weathered face. He might have been sitting comfortably inside his own lodge, meditating, so peaceful was his countenance.

No sound broke the stillness of the sacred circle save for the whisper of the wind through the trees and the song of the river.

Soon Sitting Bull’s arm was covered with blood, and Michael knew that each cut was a prayer for victory. Jumping Bull paused only briefly and then began on Sitting Bull’s other arm, his knife flashing slowly and skillfully, until he had cut one hundred pieces of flesh from the arms of Sitting Bull.

A collective sigh of admiration rippled through the people, their dark eyes paying homage to Sitting Bull’s courage.

Then it was time for the Sun Dance to begin, and Michael forgot about Sitting Bull’s pain as he contemplated his own. He had asked Yellow Spotted Wolf to be his instructor. It was unusual for one so young to be a sponsor, but Yellow Spotted Wolf had endured the Sun Dance, and that was the major requirement.

Too soon it was time for the candidates to be pierced. Michael knelt on the ground, his head thrown back, as Yellow Spotted Wolf pinched up the skin on the right side of his breast and ran an awl through the skin, then quickly inserted a wooden skewer through the incision. The procedure was repeated on the left side, and then the skewers were tied to the end of a rope fastened to the top of the Sun Dance pole.

The pain in his chest was sharp and all-consuming, worse than anything he had imagined, but Michael refused to cry out, refused to show any sign of weakness. It was important that Yellow Spotted Wolf be proud of him. It had always been important.

Bright spots of pain danced before his eyes as he rose to his feet.

He was two years old and he heard his great-grandfather’s voice echo through the mists of time: “Do not be afraid,” Yellow Spotted Wolf said as he lifted Michael onto the back of his horse. “You are Cheyenne. We were born to ride with the wind.”