“Gentle Deer, what does my
Wicincala
mean?”
“Little girl,” said the Indian woman, “my pretty little girl.”
28
S
aturday. September 20, 1879. A perfect Indian summer day on the east fork of the Dakota Territory’s cold, clear Powder River.
Martay awoke with a start, turned her head quickly, and was relieved to see that Night Sun had already gone. She didn’t want to see him today, not until they met at the wedding of Peaceful Dove and Lone Tree.
Full of energy and hope, she scrambled from her soft bed of furs, hurriedly washed her face and teeth, and drew one of her plain buckskin dresses over her head. Adhering to the new regimen she had set for herself, she fought the strong impulse to let the tipi chores go for the day, and instead went about tidying up, humming to herself as she picked up their clothes, swept the floors clean, and dusted the pine chest by Night Sun’s bed.
She had been tempted, more than once, to look inside the chest where the man she loved kept his personal things, but she’d never given in. Hesitating now, she told herself she wasn’t snooping, she wanted to give Peaceful Dove her fine pearls and earscrews for a wedding gift, and Night Sun had told her he would keep the jewels for her, in the top drawer of his chest. She could have them any time she pleased.
She pleased today.
So Martay didn’t feel like an intruder when she opened the drawer and took from it the pearls. When she lifted the smooth leather envelope containing the jewels, her attention was drawn to a faded picture beneath. Eyes wide with curiosity, she lifted it from the drawer and studied the couple in the yellowing photograph.
A strapping, handsome man with dark hair stood with his arm around a tiny, beautiful Indian girl, a girl with the same eyes as Night Sun’s. Black, beautiful eyes, looking up at the tall man with unveiled adoration.
Martay needed no one to tell her that the handsome pair were Night Sun’s parents. Carefully lowering the crumbling photograph back to its place, she stopped and blinked when she saw another likeness smiling up at her.
A picture of herself.
Martay drew a shallow breath and nervously looked about, making certain she was still alone. Satisfied that she was, she eagerly lifted the newspaper article topped with the picture of her, only to see more pictures, more stories. Night Sun had apparently been tracking her movements from the moment she had reached Denver.
But why? Dear God, why?
Shaking her head in puzzlement, she skimmed some of the articles, then put them back where she’d found them, and saw a long, flat piece of black velvet, folded like a tall, narrow book. Intrigued, she let her fingers slide down its supple length, then curiously opened it.
Her face went hot, then cold, and hot again.
Lying on its specially cut bed of midnight-black velvet was a fragile ivory flower. A flower that had once been fragrant and seductive in the hot summer night. The long-stemmed white gardenia she had carried the night Night Sun took her from the Darlington party.
Martay’s knees trembled and she felt for a moment she might cry.
The unpredictable Night Sun had saved her gardenia as though it were precious to him. He’d cut the black velvet collar from the great coat Gentle Dove had told her of, and had fashioned a luxurious resting place for the pressed flower.
“My Darling,” Martay said aloud, and placed the flower, inside its black velvet covering, back exactly as she had found it.
Her heart sang as she hurried to Gentle Deer’s lodge. And it continued to sing while she and the other young maidens readied the honeymoon tipi with sweet sage and
wacanga
to purify the newlyweds’ first home. It continued to sing when, as a group, they went for Peaceful Dove, and together the six of them made their way to the river to bathe and wash their hair for the ceremony.
At last it was time for the wedding.
Martay did not wear her beautiful new doeskin dress. It hung, waiting, in Gentle Deer’s lodge, where she would go at sunset to change for the big dance. For now she wore only a plain, serviceable dress, and her hair, parted in the middle, fell loose about her shoulders.
At straight-up noon, Windwalker seemed to appear out of nowhere. He wore no fancy garb, no shirt; his massive muscular shoulders and arms were bare. A hush immediately fell over the assembled crowd and everything took on a dreamlike quality.
Standing in a big open space under the clear blue sky, Martay watched as the strange, compelling ceremony unfolded. There was an altar. There was a peace pipe and lots of smoke. There was a bloodred blanket wrapped around the shoulders of Peaceful Dove and Lone Tree. Their wrists were bound together with a cloth and they clasped the sacred pipe, the aromatic smoke from the
kinnickinnick
swirling about their heads.
Windwalker, in his deep, bass voice, sang prayers over the happy couple, and although Martay could not understand his words, his powerful voice was beautiful and somehow very soothing.
While everyone’s undivided attention was on the shaman and the wedding couple, Martay allowed her gaze to slowly sweep about, looking anxiously for that other mystifying man—the man who had kept and carefully pressed a gardenia because it had belonged to her.
He was easy to pick from the crowd. Taller by half a head than the braves surrounding him, Night Sun stood looking, not at Windwalker, not at the wedding couple, but directly at her. She’d caught him staring at her before, but always he’d hastily looked away. This time he didn’t. He continued to stare at her with an unblinking intensity she could feel touch her as though his hands were on her.
His fierce scrutiny still scared her, maybe it always would, but it thrilled and pleased her as well. He cared for her, she knew he did, just as she knew that before another sun rose over his beloved Dakota Territory, she would be his in every way whether he was hers or not.
Trembling inside, she finally broke their locked gazes, forcing herself to look away, to return her attention, and her thoughts, to the wedding ceremony at hand.
“Walk hand in hand with the Great Spirit,” Windwalker told the happy couple in Lakota and so brought to a close the somber rites.
If the impressive ceremony had been spiritual, with much mysticism and calling on the
Wakan Tanka,
the remainder of the festivities were of an earthly nature.
There was a huge, leisurely feast with juicy roasted elk and bison and vegetables and fresh berries. People were giving presents to the newlyweds, and when finally it was Martay’s turn, she stepped forward and presented her pearls to them, the only thing she had to give, and a beaming Peaceful Dove kissed her cheek and called her sister, causing tears to spring to Martay’s green eyes.
There was much laughter and joy and happiness. And before she knew it, it was time for everyone to go to their lodges and dress for the dance.
She searched anxiously for Gentle Deer, spotted her, and hurried to escort the blind woman back to her lodge. Once inside, Martay eased the tired Gentle Deer down to the floor, and went across the tipi to pull the flap securely closed. She then hurriedly stripped off the hot buckskin dress as well as her worn satin underwear. Wishing for a filled bathtub, or even for another bath in the cold river, she knelt naked before the pan of cool water Gentle Deer had provided, and washed her flushed face, her hot throat, her bare shoulders.
While she and Gentle Deer talked of the day’s pleasures, Martay sponged her full, high breasts, coloring as they peaked into tight little buds when Gentle Deer mentioned Night Sun’s name. Glad his grandmother could not see, she continued to bathe her heated flesh, wanting every inch of her body to be fresh and clean.
At last she rose, and stepping into the downy soft underwear Gentle Deer had made, she hesitated, unsure. The brief underpants were all; there was no chemise, nothing to cover her breasts. A soft chuckling made her turn her head.
Gentle Deer said, “Do not frown, child. The doeskin dress will cover you. Come, I will help with your hair. It is not necessary to wear the underwear unless you wish.”
“I wish,” answered Martay, and came to sit before the other woman.
As deftly as any sighted person, Gentle Deer drew Martay’s long, heavy hair to the back of her head and began meticulously plaiting it into one plump, gleaming braid.
Naked save for the tiny doeskin underpants, Martay patiently sat there on her heels, feeling as though she might explode with excitement. Wishing Gentle Deer would hurry, not daring to say so, she imagined what it would be like when Night Sun saw her in the new dress.
At last the perfect braid was finished. Gentle Deer carefully wrapped the plait’s end with strips of black velvet—velvet from the same source as that which cushioned a wilted gardenia—and placed her aged hands atop the bare shoulders of the girl before her.
She said, “I have fixed your hair like our people’s because that is what you want.” She gently squeezed Martay’s shoulders and added, “But if he wants it loose and flowing, then let him have his way.”
Martay turned her head as her speeding heart almost beat its way out of her bare bosom. She started to ask who, but didn’t.
“I will,” she said, and rose and went to get dressed.
The velvety doeskin dress felt soft and silky against her flesh. Looking into the mirror she had brought from Night Sun’s lodge, she thought it was as beautiful as any fancy ball gown she had worn in the old days.
Tight across her breasts and hips, its yolk was decorated with narrow lines of colorful beadwork and dentalium shells. Around her narrow waist she tied a long belt with silver disks known as conchos. On her feet she wore fringed knee-high moccasins. Smiling at herself with pride and pleasure, she felt somehow new and good and different. A chill of expectation skipped up her spine and she softly laughed, thinking she was becoming like the Indians. She, too, could see things before they happened.
Could see that this night was to be a special one in all her life. Knew that she would indeed feel even more new and good and different by morning. She’d heard Night Sun say that white men saw so little, it was as if they used only one eye. Well, she was using both eyes now and she saw the two of them together. Night Sun and her. For the night or for a lifetime? That much she couldn’t see.
Uncaring, she whirled about announcing, “I am ready, Gentle Deer.”
“Are you?” said the blind woman, and Martay knew what she meant.
They joined the others just as the September sun was setting behind the distant Bighorn Mountains. Already the singing and chanting had begun and a handful of half-naked braves were dancing before a huge, newly built fire. Laughing maidens were clapping their hands and the old people were seated about on blankets, ready for an evening of fine entertainment. The beaming bride and bridegroom sat in a place of honor, watching the merrymakers.
Dropping Gentle Deer’s hand at the edge of the crowd, Martay began to clap and pat her foot. In moments her hands, and her foot, stilled, her heartbeat quickened. She had become aware of Night Sun’s presence, a presence so compelling, she could feel his nearness. As if guided by his silent command, she turned completely around, saw him at once, and felt her throat go dry.
He stood alone and apart, on a gentle rise fifty feet from her, a long, bare arm raised over his head, hand clasping the bough of a cottonwood. He, too, had changed his garb. Gone were the buckskin leggings and the fancy fringed shirt and the moccasins.
His tall, lean frame was covered with only a brief cream-colored breech-clout and he looked more naked than clothed. Criss-crossing his bare chest were bandoliers decorated with buttons, elk teeth, and mother-of-pearl disks. His lengthening raven hair, glinting blue in the dying sunlight, was held back with a tight red headband, a few silky strands lifting in the gentle breeze from the river.
High on each leanly muscled arm was a wide band of polished copper, and anklets of shells adorned his bare feet. His skin was smooth and bronzed, and the sight of his bare, firm thighs and long, graceful legs, touched with the dying rays of the sun, made Martay long to run appreciative fingers from his naked hipbone all the way down to his bare, bronzed toes.
A savage lord. Arrogantly he stood there, feet apart, as still as a statue, the perfect male body outlined against a flaming apricot sky. In wonder Martay stared, and knew, at that moment, the reason she had never really cared for any other man; because the man she had always wanted, the man she had waited for, was standing there in all his splendid glory.
Primitive and proud and beautiful.
Someone grabbed Martay’s arm as the sun slipped completely out of sight. Reluctantly tearing her eyes from Night Sun, she smiled warmly at the maiden, who was inclining her head toward the dancers. Nodding her understanding, Martay joined the revelers, watching and mimicking their footwork. Within minutes she had the intricate steps down and laughed nervously when someone handed her a gourd rattle.
The fire blazed high in the night sky. The drums pounded a provocative beat. Warriors passed bottles of wine around. Martay shook her gourd rattle, tossed her head about, but moved her body only slightly.
Night Sun came down to join the fun. He stood at the edge of the crowd, smiling easily, accepting drinks of wine and watching Martay dance. She looked stiff and embarrassed, out of her element. But beautiful. Breath-takingly beautiful. The soft doeskin dress clung to her high, lovely breasts and shapely bottom, and Night Sun was almost glad she was not completely at ease; if she relaxed and danced with the abandon of the People, she would be far too seductive.
Night Sun said yes to the offer of the whiskey being passed around and felt it burn down into his bare chest and arms. He was watching when one of the maidens handed a couple of
uncela
buttons to Martay. His first inclination was to step forward and warn her against the effects of the peyote. He stayed where he was. He would keep an eye on her. If she nibbled one or two of the buttons it would do her no harm. So long as she didn’t accept more.