Martay smiled at her fevered foolishness and closed her eyes. There was no well-dressed stranger here with her. It was only her imagination again. Another of those strange dreams she’d had throughout the day and night.
Again she opened her eyes.
He was still there. His long arms lifting, shoulder blades moving beneath the white dress shirt, he continued to brush his black, silky hair. She stared, transfixed. And was still staring when he laid the brush aside and reached for an article of clothing draped over the tree limb. He picked it up and was shoving long arms down into the sleeves of the black tuxedo jacket when he turned to face her.
Night Sun!
She sat straight up, rasping his name in confusion. He was with her in a flash, kneeling beside her, his hands on her shoulders, his deep voice saying her name, calming her.
It was as though she were in a dream. He was Night Sun, but he wasn’t Night Sun. He was no Indian; he was a white man. Or was he? He was so dark, so handsome, his beautiful white teeth flashing in the sunlight. His black eyes were … were …
It all came rushing back.
Standing in the moonlight on the Darlington’s veranda, her fragrant gardenia sweetening the night air. Reaching out to take the glass of punch from Larry Berton’s hand. Seeing instead the long, dark fingers wrapped around the glass and quickly looking up into a pair of gleaming black eyes. The gentleman in the evening clothes who had taken her from that veranda was … was …
“Who are you?” she murmured as the man she’d known only as Night Sun lifted her up into his strong arms.
He said, “You’re sick, Martay, and I’m taking you to a doctor.”
The next thing Martay was aware of was the unpleasant smell of antiseptics and the sound of men’s low, near voices. One was familiar. The other was not.
The deep, familiar one was saying, “Doctor, you must help her. Surely there’s something, some medicine that …”
“Mr. Savin,” the other interrupted, “your wife has Rocky Mountain fever and there is no known cure. I’m sorry.” Quick, sure footsteps neared her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m taking her out of here,” said the firm, familiar voice.
“Don’t be foolish, son. The girl’s too sick to be moved. We’ll make her as comfortable as possible; let the end come easy.”
Too tired to open her eyes, too weak to speak, Martay felt herself being lifted up into a pair of strong arms and that deep, sure voice said, “The end for this woman is not coming for another sixty or seventy years.” And he started across the floor, carrying her.
“Jim Savin, come back here! That poor girl is …”
“She’s not going to die, Doc.”
“Son, son, there’s nothing you can do. It’s the spotted fever. You can’t save her!”
“I know the healer who will.”
Martay was in and out of consciousness as Night Sun, protectively cradling her to his chest, rode the big black at breakneck speed over rolling grasslands straight toward his Powder River home. His dark face grim, he urged the stallion to run ever faster. The faithful foam-flecked beast obeyed, eating up the miles as though there were wings on his hooves.
At sunset Martay opened her eyes and, completely lucid and totally calm, though burning with fever, touched Night Sun’s face and said, “I know I’m dying. It’s all right, but please, won’t you now tell me who you really are. White or Indian?”
He looked down at her, and as sick as she was, Martay knew she’d never forget the expression in those beautiful black eyes. He said, “I won’t let you die, Martay.”
She said, “Please. Which are you?” and her pale hand lifted to finger the slick satin lapel of his expensive tuxedo jacket.
He said, “Neither. Both. I’m a mixed-blood. My father was a white man; my mother a Lakota Sioux. I’m Jim Savin in your world. In mine, I’m Night Sun.”
Her hand fell weakly from his lapel and she murmured, “My lips are so dry, they hurt.” Immediately Night Sun licked his forefinger, lowered it to her mouth, and circled her dry, hot lips. She smiled gratefully and said, “A half-breed?” He nodded. “Why the name Night Sun?”
“Night Sun means moon in our language. I was conceived under a full Dakota moon, born when the moon was full, and will one day die at full moon.”
“Night Sun,” she said, then: “Jim Savin.” She repeated both names several times, weighing each, deciding which most suited the handsome half-breed. She was silent for a time, studying his harshly planed face, the high, slanted cheekbones, the arrogant nose, the sensual lips.
At last she said, “Night Sun, please don’t let me die.”
“I won’t,
Wicincala.
Never.”
18
T
he old white-haired Indian woman sat alone in her comfortable tipi on the northern edge of Chief Windwalker’s Lakota Sioux summer camp on the grassy banks of the Powder River. Her sightless eyes closed in the wrinkled, coppery face, she was enjoying one of her favorite pastimes.
Gentle Deer had seen seventy-four summers, and like every human being on earth, she had favorite moments in her life; golden hours, happy times she would always remember. When she was lonely for the old days and for the people now gone on to be with the
Wakan Tanka
—the Great Spirit—she took those moments out of the reaches of her mind, where they were carefully tucked, and relived them.
The most precious of all was that spring in 1825 when alone she’d gone down to the Bad River for a swim as the sun rose. She was beautiful then and she knew it. Her hair was thick and raven-black and it reached to her hips when unbound. She was lithe of limb, supple and quick and strong, and all the braves looked on her with longing.
Reaching the cold, clear river as the rising sun bathed the waters a soft, shimmering pink, she stopped abruptly, and stared.
Atop a huge, slanting boulder that jutted out over the water stood a tall, magnificent warrior. A stranger to her; he was stark naked. His thick raven hair hung long and loose and his tall, gleaming body was nothing short of beautiful. His shoulders immense, hips slim, glistening thighs powerful, he was all any maiden could dream of.
Sensing her presence, the handsome warrior turned his noble head and looked directly at her. And without speaking a word, he invited her to be as bare and as free as he. Her heart pounding, she slowly, shyly, lifted her soft doeskin dress up over her head and released it. And she stood there naked in the rising sun while his warm black eyes admired her.
In the middle of the cold, clear river they met and knew when they came together that they’d spend the rest of their mornings together. And all their nights as well. They did not make love. They swam and laughed and touched, and later that same day the tall, magnificent Walking Bear brought a whole herd of horses to Gentle Deer’s father and asked if he could marry her.
Within a week she was the adored wife of the fierce, indomitable twenty-five-year-old warrior, envied by every maiden in the huge Lakota tribe. And if those women had known what a gentle, loving husband the powerful brave was in the privacy of their tipi, they’d have been even more jealous.
A wide, pleased grin spread over the old woman’s wrinkled coppery face and she sighed softly, recalling long love-filled winter nights and golden carefree summer days. Then the birth of their first daughter, and the second. And finally another warrior in the family, with the birth of the beloved
Hanhepi wi,
that mixed-blood grandson who, from the moment he’d opened his alert black eyes, had been a joy to them all.
Gentle Deer carefully, lovingly put the sweet memories back in their place and fell to dreaming. Her cherished grandson, now a grown man, handsome and strong and intelligent, had returned to his Lakota home to bring the bright sunshine back into her waning days. Night Sun threw back the flap of Gentle Deer’s tipi, ducked his head, and entered. Then he stood just inside, smiling fondly on the blind white-haired woman he had missed more than he had realized. She appeared to be dozing; her sightless eyes closed. But as he stood there silently observing her, the white head lifted and the eyes crinkled merrily at the corners. She lifted her thin arms wide and said,
“Mitakoza.”
Night Sun threw back his dark head and laughed. Then hurriedly crossed to the seated woman, dropped to his knees, and embraced her warmly, saying, “Yes, it’s your grandson.” He kissed her temple affectionately.
“But how do I know you’re actually here? This might only be one of my dreams.” The brittle-boned old woman giggled happily and cupped her grandson’s strong jaws in her thin hands.
“Does it matter?” he said. “I am here.”
“You have been here all along; you’ll be here forever.” She pressed her withered cheek to his, then asked, “Is she with you?”
Night Sun pulled back to look at her. “Is who with me, Grandmother?”
“The fair-haired child-woman the
Wakan Tanka
showed me in a dream.”
His high forehead knitted, and for a moment he was speechless. Then he gripped her thin hands and said, “There is a child-woman with me, and she’s very sick with the spotted fever. I’m worried she might die.”
The old woman asked, “Did you take her straight to Windwalker?”
“Yes, she’s at his lodge now.”
“Then do not trouble yourself, there is no more you can do.” She freed her hands from his and let her fingers roam inquiringly over her grandson’s broad chest and shoulders. “You are dressed like a white man. You smell like a white man. Have you forgotten the ways of the people now that you’ve been to the white man’s school and learned his customs?”
“You know better than that,” he said, and captured her hands. “Don’t forget you’re the one who insisted I go to Harvard and read law.”
“So I am,” said Gentle Deer thoughtfully, having almost forgotten her urging pleas that her mixed-blood grandson take advantage of the education offered by his rich white father. Long before the boy had grown into manhood, she had clearly seen the approaching end to the Sioux’s proud, free way of life. For her, it mattered little, she was old and her days on earth were short. But her cherished half-breed grandson had to be prepared for an uncertain future. He had fought going east, and agreed only because he hoped, by studying law, he could better help his people right the broken treaties of the past.
“Have you been well, Grandmother?” asked Night Sun, breaking into her thoughts.
“Do I not look well?” replied the feisty old woman, unwilling to burden the returning warrior with complaints of her failing health. She had what she wanted. Night Sun’s return to his home before she died. Already she felt better.
“You look beautiful,” he said, and touched her white hair, smiling. The smile fled, and he asked, “Grandmother, will you go to see the woman-child?”
“Ah, the impatience of youth,” she scolded. “I cannot interrupt Windwalker at his medicine. I will go when the time is right, Grandson. When I am called on. Not before.”
He did not argue. Nodding, he said, “I leave you now. I will go to my tipi and clean up. Then I’ll wait at Windwalker’s lodge.”
“Do not disturb him, Grandson!”
“I won’t. But I want to be close by in case the girl …” Night Sun didn’t finish the sentence. He rose to his feet and left.
Martay slipped in and out of deep, dark unconsciousness. She fought against fever-induced dreams she could not distinguish from reality. She vacillated between resting peacefully in blissful, floating euphoria and struggling wildly against crushing, terrifying torment.
Smiling in her slumber, Martay sighed softly.
It was sunrise. In a weightless, wispy gown of sheer white batiste, she skipped through a vast field of wild roses. Roses of pure white with diamond drops of dew clinging to their ivory velvet petals. Their scent sweetening the clean morning air and making her dizzy with delight, she ran, barefooted, across the wet field, her long hair streaming out behind her, the wind kissing her face. She ran and ran until her legs were weak and her heart was pounding and she could go no farther.
She looked up and saw him waiting for her. A tall, dark God, dressed all in white, standing there in the sea of white roses, the golden sunshine shimmering in his jet-black hair. He reached out and drew her into his close embrace and she tipped back her head to look up into his beautiful black eyes.
Martay screamed in terror.
She was not looking into the beautiful black eyes. A broad, angular face was above hers, a face she did not recognize. And a voice she had never before heard said, “I will not harm you. Do not fear me.” Martay, not knowing if she was awake or asleep, looked fearfully into his eyes, not believing she could trust him. But far too weak to fight him, her head dropped back to the pallet and her burning body went limp. Bending close, he said, “I am Windwalker, tribal chieftain of the Lakota Sioux and shaman to my tribe.” Martay nodded weakly. “You are in my lodge on the banks of the Powder. Do you recall coming here?” he asked, his voice deep but gentle.
Martay did not answer. She turned her head and let her tired eyes slide around the dim tipi. “Night Sun?” she murmured, suddenly terrified he had deserted her. “Night Sun,” she said more strongly, her sick eyes questioning and fearful, tears forming in their corners.
Pacing restlessly back and forth just outside in the darkness, Night Sun heard her speak his name. Dropping a just-lit cigar, he hurried inside, disregarding Windwalker’s command to wait outside until summoned. His heart drumming against his ribs, he went straight to Martay, took her fragile hand in his, and said, “I’m here, Martay. Can you hear me? It’s Night Sun.” He cast a quick, nervous glance at Windwalker.
The chieftain nodded, then silently retreated, stepping out to breathe in the fresh night air. It was the first time in forty-eight hours he had left Martay’s side.
Focusing with difficulty, Martay blinked up at Night Sun. He read the quick relief that came into her emerald eyes, and her tears overflowed, spilling down her hot, flushed cheeks. Squeezing his hand anxiously, she said, “I thought you’d left me.”
“I’ve been here all along,” he said, and gently brushed the tears away. “Right outdoors.” He smiled at her.