Authors: Susan Edwards
Spring 1857
Star Dreamer watched her people rejoice in the marriage of Chief Striking Thunder to Emma O’Brien through troubled eyes.
In the center of the village, women moved about wearing dresses exquisitely adorned with beads, feathers and dyed quills. More feathers and beads decorated their long, black hair, which gleamed in the firelight. The men, not to be outdone, had painted their bodies and wore their best breechclouts and moccasins.
Orange-red flames from a large fire leaped high into the sky, casting a warm glow over the darkened camp, showcasing male dancers. Some wore impressive bonnets made from sacred eagle feathers they’d earned with their brave deeds, while others waved coup sticks in the air as they shuffled, twirled and danced around the hot flames.
Infectious laughter competed with the chanting of dancers, voices raised in storytelling and the happy shrieks of children running among the adults. She spied her five-year-old son, Running Elk, tumbling and somersaulting with other boys, and smiled. Like most children his age, he loved to stay up late and play in the dark. Though it was mid-March and the night air held a bitter chill, no one minded. It was a night for everyone, young and old alike, to lose themselves in the simple joy of being alive.
Star ran her fingers through her shoulder-length hair—a reminder in itself of her recent loss—and her reasons for avoiding the crowds. She yearned to be happy and carefree, even if only for one night, but shame at failing her people held her back. The fast and furious beating of drums accompanied by the loud, rhythmic chants of the drummers rose in pitch and tempo.
Death.
The words came at her, echoed loudly in her mind as the pulse at her temple reverberated with the loud, pounding drums, driving her farther into the deep shadows between the tipis. Peace, harmony and contentment would always be denied to her. Like her deceased grandmother, Star possessed the Sight. But unlike her grandmother, who’d considered the ability to see into the future an honor, Star felt cursed.
She hated the uncertainty of never knowing when the visions would strike. She dreaded losing control of her mind to a force unseen and unfelt by most. Most of all, she was tired of being afraid. Tired of taunting glimpses into the future. Tired of being torn by the knowledge that each time she failed to heed or understand the warnings of her dreams, she put her people at risk. Death lay on her shoulders, bowing them under the weight of guilt, leaving her feeling as though she lived in the dark shadows of the Spirits.
Walking around the perimeter of the outer circle of tipis, she spotted a group of girls trading beads and necklaces. Morning Moon, her daughter, sat among them. Watching the girl laugh and play with her friends, Star wondered how long it would be before her daughter began suffering the same fate.
Morning Moon already has the Sight.
Prickles of gooseflesh chilled Star’s flesh. She rubbed her bare arms. She’d been sure that her daughter had been spared, that once again a generation had been skipped. Morning Moon, knowing how her mother felt, had hidden the truth from her.
Tears trickled down Star’s cheeks. Despair engulfed her.
Please, not my daughter, not my sweet child.
Morning Moon was only eight winters—an innocent child—too young to understand. Just knowing that one day her daughter would experience this same torturous pain as her mother made Star want to fall to the ground and curse the Spirits for their cruelty.
“Why does my sister hide in the shadows and walk alone?”
Startled, Star jerked her head up. Striking Thunder, her brother, stood before her, arms crossed, a fierce frown upon his stern visage. He looked every bit as intimidating as their father when displeased. Unable to look him in the eye, Star averted her own gaze.
How could she join in the happy celebration when it was her fault that many present tonight had lost their loved ones? Since her own husband’s death, she’d felt so lost and alone. Two-Ree had been her anchor when her world spun out of control. Hugging herself, she turned from her brother. “I wish to be alone.” Forcing herself to smile and act as though nothing was amiss was more than she could manage.
Striking Thunder’s fingers, warm and firm, stopped her retreat. He turned her gently, forcing her to meet his frustrated gaze. “You still blame yourself for your husband’s death. When will you accept that you were not to blame? If you do not stop torturing yourself in this manner, you will make yourself ill.”
Concern roughened his voice. His gaze slid down her body. Even in the shadows, her weight loss was noticeable, as were the sunken hollows below each cheekbone, the pallor of her skin and the sharp jut of bone beneath his fingers.
“You must eat, build your strength,
mitanski,
my sister. I know you are troubled. You fight your gift, but someday you will fulfill our grandmother’s prophecy.”
Seeing her brother’s hard features soften with worry made Star uncomfortable. It would be so easy to bow her head, agree and grasp at the hope he offered. But she couldn’t. Not any longer. “
Hiya!
You are wrong.” Star squeezed her eyes shut against the stark truth and yanked herself free. She didn’t want to remember their grandmother’s words, her promise that the Sight would one day save their People.
Star’s visions used to be filled with vague images or impressions she couldn’t interpret and could easily shove aside or discard. And once she’d had her children, they’d visited her less often. But over the last year, messages from the Spirit world became more frequent, lasted longer, the images far too powerful to ignore. They warned of evils she couldn’t—and didn’t want to—comprehend.
Only her grandmother could have understood the panic Star felt when her vision darkened and control was taken from her. Only Seeing Eyes could have known how it felt to have one’s mind caught in the grip of a spiritual force.
“My gift is not strong—not as it was with our grandmother. Only births are clear to me. But I cannot see or prevent death. The visions either come too late—like the death of your first wife—or they are not clear enough to be of use.”
Except for seeing your own husband’s death in battle, and that you did nothing to prevent.
Already seeded in her soul, her guilt sent its roots deeper.
Striking Thunder held out his hands, palms up. “This is not true. Did your gift not prevent me from killing Emma’s father? You knew he was not the enemy. Had I attacked, it would have brought the wrath of the soldiers upon us and destroyed our people. Did you not save our people that day?” Her silence lent frustration to Striking Thunder’s voice. “What of Wolf and his wife? You warned of the danger surrounding them…and yet you still believe you have no power?”
“I could not see the danger clearly. It took you and our father to know where the danger lay. Look what happens when you and my father are not around. People die—like your first wife. Many died last summer because I could not warn them of the attack. I saw death and did not understand what the Spirits were saying.” Her voice broke on a sob as she recalled her sister-in-law’s brutal murder. “You lost a wife—and a child—because I refused to listen to what the Spirits were trying to tell me.” For the first time Star spoke of the unborn babe none but she had known about. She revealed her knowledge not to hurt her brother, but to prove to him how terribly wrong he was, how dangerous it was for him to put his faith in her.
Striking Thunder’s only reaction was a tightening of his jaw. “You speak nonsense! You are not to blame for the death of my first wife, nor of any child she might have carried.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “It was not meant to be. I know this as do you.”
“Then why did I see it? What was the point if the outcome could not be changed? I can’t bear the thought that more of our people will die because I fail to understand the messages of the Spirits.” Star angrily brushed the tears from her face. “The Spirits took my husband, left my children without a father’s love and protection.”
“You are not responsible for your husband’s death. Do you think if he’d known the truth he’d have stayed behind like a fearful old woman? No! Your husband—my friend—would have gone with me that night, no matter what you told him. Had he known he was riding to his death, he’d have done so with courage.” Pride tinged with sadness filled his voice.
Star froze, reliving that one brief moment when her husband had ridden past her. One word. He’d have stopped. He’d have listened. And though part of her acknowledged that her brother was right, that her husband would have ridden to war that night regardless of what she’d said, she’d denied him the choice. Perhaps the knowledge would have made him better able to protect himself.
Fear of dishonoring him had kept her from sharing the vision with Two-Ree. What good was honor to her now? It didn’t provide for her family or come home each evening to be a loving father to his son and daughter. And honor was a sad substitute for the friend she so greatly missed and grieved for.
Striking Thunder glanced behind him. A slim, red-haired woman dressed in a bleached deerskin dress came forward from the deep shadows. Six months before, Emma had been his white captive, but now she was his beloved wife and Star’s newest sister-in-law. Striking Thunder brought her forward. The love in his gaze was reflected in an answering adoration in hers.
“The Spirits took one wife but gave me another. Who is to say this is not the way it was meant to be? Who is to say there is not another husband for you?”
“Hiya!”
Star shrieked. There would be no one else, ever. Never again would she risk seeing the death of a mate. It hurt too much. She backed away.
“I’m not worthy of our people’s respect and honor. I failed—failed you as my chief, failed my family, my grandmother—my people.” Anguished, Star spun around and ran away from the tipis, away from the warm circle of light, away from the happiness of those people she loved—people who might one day die because of her own inability to use the Sight.
From where he stood, Colonel Grady O’Brien watched his eldest daughter ride away from the village with her new husband. Inside, he still harbored mixed feelings about her marriage to the young Sioux chief. Did she truly desire to remain here among the Sioux rather than return home with him to St. Louis?
It went against his fatherly instincts to leave her out here where life was harsh. Here illness wiped out entire villages, and war with other tribes or soldiers was a gruesome part of life. He longed to wrap her in his cloak of protection and keep her safe from harm, shield her from the ugliness that made up this world. He could have insisted she return with him.
Maybe he should have.
With his soldiers, he had the power to forcibly take her away. After all, it could be argued that after her ordeal of being captured first by Yellow Dog and his band of renegade Indians, then rescued and held captive by the man who was now her husband, she couldn’t possibly know her own mind. But deep down, he of all people understood the power of true love.
And he had no doubt Emma loved her husband. Or that Striking Thunder loved her. No matter how much he worried, Grady would not deny his child the chance to follow her heart. Some would whisper he’d been too ashamed to bring her back to polite society, that she’d been ruined by her time spent in captivity among the Indians, but he knew the truth. It was love that tied her to this land, to her husband. It was that love that would give her the courage to embrace a life so different from the one in which she’d been raised.
Glancing up into the bright, shimmering heavens, Grady thought of his late wife, Margaret Mary. With a sigh, he spoke to her. “She’s all grown up, Maggie. Our baby has flown the nest.” Though some found his habit of talking to his deceased wife strange, when he spoke aloud, carried on conversations with her, he felt as though heaven and earth weren’t so far apart.
Even after nine years, he still missed her. His wife’s sunny smile, her laughing green eyes and her love of life had made his own life complete. When she’d died, colors faded, joy ebbed and part of him shriveled and died too. He was now a mere shadow of the man he’d once been. He knew that, but what was to be done?
“I’m leaving her behind, Maggie. Watch over her.” Adjusting his gloves, he spun around, away from the black emptiness into which Emma and Striking Thunder had disappeared. At least he wasn’t returning home alone. He still had his youngest child. And speaking of his other daughter, he realized he hadn’t seen her in hours.
He set off in search of her.
He had no difficulties moving about the camp. No one stepped forward to block his path. His easy grace and commanding presence—Grady was well over six feet tall—had always served him well among both soldiers and Indians. Not that any of the village’s inhabitants would have a reason to stop him. Although there was always some tension between the Sioux and his soldiers—not without cause, he realized—the wedding celebration had done wonders for that. And he had ordered his men to be on their best behavior.
As he searched for his daughter, he observed the men under his command. So far, they had put their best foot forward, but he knew temptation could weaken even the strongest of men. Spotting one soldier walking alone with a young Indian maiden, he beckoned him over. “I believe it is time to return to our camp, soldier.”
“Ah, Colonel—”
“You heard me. I will tolerate no improper behavior.”
The man looked as though he would protest, then thought better of it. “Yes, sir.” And with that the soldier took his leave.
Satisfied that all was in order, Grady again turned his attentions to the whereabouts of his youngest daughter. Where had she gone? A flurry of movement near the food caught his attention.
“Ah.” He might have known she’d still be rooting through the leftovers. The child ate enough for three people.
Deciding to spend some time with her, he headed her way. Before he reached her, she and her young friend, Morning Moon, ran off toward the river that was a short distance away. Frowning, he wondered what she was up to. She knew better than to leave the safety of the village at night. But since when did rules apply to her? he thought to himself wryly. Renny being herself, as he’d discovered, tended to act first and think later. With a rueful shake of his head, he followed.