A Whisper In The Wind (5 page)

Chapter Eight

He woke slowly. Lying there, his eyes closed, he
thought he was at home. Yawning, he contemplated the day ahead, he
’
d wear the dark blue suit to work…he
’
d have to call Melinda and see if they were still going out that night…he
’
d have to get in touch with Paul Green and tell him his car was ready…

The aromatic scents of tobacco and sage and earth filled his nostrils and he opened his eyes. A slice of azure sky was visible through the smokehole of the lodge, and as he watched, a thin column of blue-gray smoke spiraled upward to mingle with the air above.

He was not home, he thought wryly.

A voice filtered into the lodge and he recognized it as that of old Red-Furred Bear, the medicine man.

“
There was once a
vehoe
who bragged that he was the smartest white man in all the world, the shrewdest trader, the sneakiest thief. No one ever got the best of him in a deal. But one day another
vehoe
told him he was mistaken.
‘
I know someone who can outcheat you any time,
’
the second
vehoe
said. ‘That
’
s not possible,
’
insisted the first
vehoe. ‘
Who is this person? Bring him to me.
’

“‘
His name is Coyote,’ the second
vehoe
said.
‘
He can best you in any deal you can think of.’”

Michael grinned as he listened to Red-Furred Bear continue the story of how Coyote cheated the
vehoe
out of his horse and clothes.

The Indians loved to tell stories of Coyote, the trickster, of
Unktehi
the water monster, of
Iktome,
the spider man.
Mih’n
was an underwater monster shaped like a large lizard.
Mih’n
had two large horns and was partly covered with hair.
Ahke
was another underwater monster.
Hi’stowunini’hotua
was a small, humpless buffalo with sharp-pointed horns and a short snout. Mothers told their children that
Hi’stowunini‘hotua
ate little children who would not go to bed.

From outside came the sound of childish laughter as Red-Furred Bear finished the story of Coyote. The children began to beg for another, and after a few minutes the aged shaman agreed and began to tell the tale of how Coyote brought death into the world.

Michael started to get up, but a sharp pang in his shoulder changed his mind and he fell back on the robes, his teeth clenched against the pain.

He squinted as the door flap opened, admitting a bright shaft of sunlight, and then the woman was kneeling beside him, a bowl of
wojapi
in her hands.

She smiled cheerfully when she saw he was awake.
“Ne-haeana-he?”
she asked.
“
Are you hungry?
”

Michael nodded. He was hungry enough to eat a horse, hair, hide, and hooves.

He started to protest as she lifted the spoon to his mouth, but then he shrugged. What the hell, it was nice to be pampered by a beautiful woman.

The berry soup was sweet and good, and he ate it all, then accepted a drink of cool water. It was the water that was his undoing.

“
I need to…
”
He cleared his throat under her inquiring gaze.
“
I need to go outside.
”

Comprehension brought a quick flush to her cheeks.
“
Come,
”
she said, not quite meeting his eyes as she offered him her hand,
“
I will help you.
”

Outside, the sun was hot and bright. The camp was humming with activity as women stirred kettles of venison stew, or nursed their children, or sat in the shade, sewing and talking.

Men walked about the camp, chatting with friends. Others could be seen fashioning new weapons or repairing old ones. A half dozen warriors were gambling outside the chief
’
s lodge. There were children and dogs everywhere; in the distance, the vast Indian pony herd grazed on the lush buffalo grass.

The woman led him away from the village and into a stand of timber.

“
Thanks,
”
he murmured.
“
I think I can manage the rest alone.”

She nodded and walked away, and Michael found himself wondering what she thought of him. So far, the burden of his care seemed to have fallen on her shoulders. Did she mind?

He felt his spirits rise when he heard the woman call to him a few minutes later, inquiring if he was ready to return to the lodge.

Michael walked slowly, pretending his wound pained him more than it did, and the woman quickly slipped her arm around his waist, as he had hoped she would. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. Her hair, as black as pitch, fell in twin braids down her back. Her tunic was ankle-length, shapeless.

When they reached the lodge, Red-Furred Bear was waiting for them. He nodded gravely as the woman invited him into the tipi, then he waited politely for Michael to take a seat before he removed the poultice from his shoulder and carefully examined the wound.

“Epevomoxtaeoxz,”
Red-Furred Bear murmured, nodding.
“
It is better.
”
Pleased with his handiwork, he bound the wound in a fresh poultice.
“Ne’sta’va’hose-voomatse,”
he said in parting.
“
I will see you again.
”

“
You should rest now,
”
the woman suggested.

“
I
’
d rather sit outside.
”

“
Very well.
”
She picked up a robe and carried it outside where she spread it in the shade of a tree.

“
I must go and help my mother,
”
she said after making certain he was comfortable.
“
I will bring you something to eat when I return.
”

“
Will you tell me your name before you go?
”
Michael asked.

“
I am called Winter Song,
”
she replied with a shy smile.

“
I am called Wolf.
”

Michael spent a quiet hour sitting in the shade, somewhat bemused by what he saw. Nearby, an aged warrior was making arrows. Any warrior worth the name could make an arrow, but this man was a true artisan. He used red willow branches for the shafts, making sure they were the proper length, the correct weight. Michael had learned from Yellow Spotted Wolf that an arrow too light in the shaft would not fly straight; one that was too heavy would not carry far enough to be of much use. The old warrior used the feathers of a red-tailed hawk for fletching. Three feathers, Michael noted, never more, never less.

Across the way he saw a woman scraping the flesh from a deer hide, using the leg bone of a buffalo to remove the last bits of meat and skin. It was hard work to turn a green hide into a piece of soft, workable cloth. Stripping the meat away was only the first step. Next, a mixture of brains, liver, and melted fat would be worked into the hide. When that was done, the skin would be soaked in water for several days, then the excess liquid would be stripped out with a long stone blade and the hide would be stretched to dry. Lastly, the hide would be pounded with a rock until it was soft and pliable.

Gazing into the distance, Michael saw two young boys racing their ponies along the river-bank. Nearby a handful of warriors were gambling. Across the way two young girls were taking turns brushing each other
’
s hair. In the next lodge a woman was making a cradleboard.

Michael let out a long sigh. Everything was just as Yellow Spotted Wolf had said it had been in the shining times before the white man came. It was incredible. It was impossible. But it was true. He had prayed for a vision, had begged the Great Spirit for understanding, and he had been sent back in time to discover the past for himself.

And so,
he mused,
I’m here. But for how long? A week? A month? A year? The rest of my life?

He glanced around the village and thought of what it would be like to give up all the creature comforts he had so taken for granted, the expensive suits and luxury automobiles, the nights on the town, the beautiful, sweet-smelling women he had dated. It might be fun to stay here for a week or two, but what if he was here to stay? Could he adapt to the kind of life his great-grandfather had known? Living in a hide lodge, wearing a clout and moccasins, eating rough food…such things were all right for a lark, but forever?

He closed his eyes and thought of home. His apartment was large, comfortable, totally masculine. Every girl he had ever taken there had hinted that it needed a woman
’
s touch, but he liked it as it was, a blending of earth tones, predominantly greens and browns.

He thought of the things he had taken for granted, radio, television, a daily newspaper to keep him informed on world events, running water, flush toilets, air-conditioning in the summer and heat in the winter, fast cars, cold beer, fine wine, a good steak.

And his job. He liked what he did for a living, perhaps because he was damn good at it. His job…he
’
d told his secretary he
’
d be gone a couple of days, and now he
’
d been gone over a week. What would she think when he didn
’
t call in and no one answered at his place? What would his boss think? No doubt Walsh would be angry at first, and then he
’
d begin to worry.

And what about Melinda? What would she think when he didn
’
t call? They weren
’
t engaged, or even going steady, but he dated her more often than anyone else, and he knew Melinda expected him to propose within the year.

Melinda. He liked the sound of her name, the way she always looked up at him as if he were a cross between Valentino and Gary Grant. She was a tall, willowy girl, with shoulder-length blonde hair and peaceful blue eyes.

Melinda. He knew part of the reason she was so enamored of him was because of his Cheyenne blood. His ancestry fascinated her, and she often teasingly referred to him as her handsome savage, especially when they were alone in his apartment, curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace. There was no derision in her voice when she called him a hot-blooded heathen, only a kind of curious excitement, stirred, perhaps, by the distant memory that, in another time and place, he would have been forbidden to her.

He chuckled softly, wondering what Melinda would think of him if she could see him clad in fringed buckskin leggings and moccasins instead of a sharp three-piece suit and hundred-dollar boots. Would she still find him fascinating? He knew instinctively that she would be repelled, and the thought made him angry.

At dusk he made his way into the timber, walking deep into the shadowy forest until he could no longer hear the sounds of the village. There, alone, he lifted his arms toward heaven. He had prayed himself into this mess, he mused with a wry grin, perhaps he could pray himself out.

Head thrown back, eyes closed, he prayed to
Heammawihio,
asking the Great Spirit to send him back where he belonged. He prayed fervently, heedless of the cool wind that blew down out of the north, unmindful of the growing ache in his wounded shoulder.

The moon rose high in the sky, and still he prayed, but no vision appeared to him, no spoken words broke the stillness of the night. Instead, a gentle peace dropped over him, like the touch of loving arms, and a quiet voice whispered in the back of his mind, assuring him that he was where he was meant to be.

With a low groan, he lowered his arms and sank down on the ground.

And again he heard that faint inner voice.

You are where you were meant to be.

Chapter Nine

That evening after dinner Michael asked Winter Song if Mo’ohta-vo’nehe was a member of the tribe.

The girl’s mouth dropped open and she clapped her hand over it as her eyes widened. “Yellow Spotted Wolf!” she exclaimed. “That is who you remind me of. Are you related? You look much like him.”

“He is my…my cousin.”

Winter Song jumped to her feet. “I will get him for you,” she said, and ran out of the lodge.

She returned minutes later, followed by four Indians. Michael recognized Yellow Spotted Wolf immediately. They did, indeed, look very much alike. At sixteen, Yellow Spotted Wolf was tall and broad-shouldered. He wore his long black hair in two thin braids in front and loose down his back. A single white eagle feather adorned his hair, a necklace of shells and turquoise circled his throat, a wide copper band hugged his right biceps.

“I am Mo’ohta-vo’nehe,” said the tall warrior standing beside Yellow Spotted Wolf. “Winter Song tells me that you and I are related.”

“We are distant relatives,” Michael said. “I have come a long way to find you.”

Mo’ohta-vo’nehe lifted one thick black brow. “How are we related? Who are your people?”

“It is difficult to explain,” Michael replied, wishing he dared tell them the truth. “My name is Wolf, and I am related to your family by blood. More than that I cannot tell you.”

Mo’ohta-vo’nehe pondered that for a moment. He had no doubt that the man called Wolf was related to him. The resemblance between the stranger and Yellow Spotted Wolf was too remarkable to be coincidence.

“If what you say is true, what do you want of me?” Mo’ohta-vo’nehe asked.

“I need shelter until I can build a lodge of my own. I was raised a long way from here, and it is my desire to return to my people, to learn their ways.”

“You are welcome here, Wolf,” Mo’ohta-vo’nehe decided. “You will stay with us as long as you wish.” He nodded to the woman standing on his right. “This is my wife, Hemene, and these are my sons, Yellow Spotted Wolf and Badger.”

Michael nodded at each one in turn, his heart pounding like a war drum as he gazed at Yellow Spotted Wolf. This was his great-grandfather, the man he had loved and respected. And buried less than a week ago. He longed to throw his arms around the young man, to pour out who he was and where he had come from, but the time was not right. Perhaps later, when his family knew him better, when they trusted him, perhaps then he would tell them who he was.

“Come,” Mo’ohta-vo’nehe said. “Let us go to our lodge. We have much to discuss.”

Michael thanked Winter Song and her family for their hospitality, then followed Mo’ohta-vo’nehe to his lodge, his excitement mounting with each step.

Mo’ohta-vo’nehe’s lodge was large and comfortable. Willow backrests were placed on either side of the firepit, sleeping robes were situated at the back of the lodge.

Mo’ohta-vo’nehe sat down and indicated that Michael should sit on his left, the place of honor in a Cheyenne household.

Michael obligingly sat down, remembering that it was not considered good etiquette to pass between the owner of the lodge and the fire. Well-bred people passed behind a lodge’s occupants.

Hemene took up a moccasin and began to decorate it with porcupine quills. Badger sat on his sleeping robe, his dark eyes alight with curiosity for their guest. Yellow Spotted Wolf sat across from his father, his hands resting on his knees.

Mo’ohta-vo’nehe took up his pipe. For a moment he held it reverently, and then he pointed the pipestem to the sky, to the ground, and to the four directions, saying, “Spirit Above, smoke. Earth, smoke. Four directions of the earth, smoke.”

Smoking meant more to the Indians than it did to the white man. Among the Cheyenne, it was an important ceremony. The pipe, when passed, always went with the sun, from right to left. It was considered unlucky to touch anything with the pipestem while smoking. The ashes were not scattered after smoking, but were kept in a little pile near the edge of the fire, as befitting the sacred act of smoking.

On the reservation, Michael had known old men who would not smoke unless they were alone. There was to be no noise within the lodge, no dishes knocked together. Some men would not smoke if there was a woman in the lodge.

When the pipe had been passed, Mo’ohta-vo’nehe politely questioned Michael about his past, and Michael told him as much as he could, saying that he had been taken from his people at an early age and raised by a white family, and that when his white family died, he left their home to return to his own people, to learn the ways of his ancestors.

Mo’ohta-vo’nehe accepted his story, and Michael breathed a sigh of relief.

Later that night, lying beneath a soft buffalo robe, he gazed into the darkness and thought about who he was, and where he was. These Indians were nothing like the Indians on the reservation. These were not tame Indians. These men were warriors, fighters. They wore eagle feathers in their hair, necklaces made of bear claws at their throats, beaded armbands, and shirts decorated with the hair of their enemies. They carried stolen U.S. Army rifles and scalping knives.

The Cheyenne. They were his people, known to be the finest horsemen on the Plains, fearless in battle, ruthless to their enemies. And he was here, in their midst, one of them, and yet a stranger.

But he was here. Incredible as it seemed, he was here.

A thrill of excitement brought a smile to his face. He was here, and while he was here, he would learn to be a warrior. He would learn to ride like the wind, to hunt the buffalo, to fight and to kill. And, yes, to take a scalp. He would join one of the warrior societies if they would have him, the
Wohkseh’hetoniu,
perhaps, or the
Mota’mita’niu.
He would make a name for himself, a name Yellow Spotted Wolf would be proud of. And perhaps he would court Winter Song.

He closed his eyes and summoned her image to mind: smooth dusky skin, hair as black as ebony, eyes as dark as onyx, and a smile to warm a man’s soul. Winter Song.

Yes, he thought with a wide grin, living in the past held many interesting possibilities.