Nakoa's Woman (32 page)

The sun would soon be moving toward sunset. The awful wind would rise again, and she would be alone. The mountain lion screamed again in her mind, and then she thought of Smoking Star and Nakoa’s premonition. He could be lying wounded and bleeding with the trappers long gone. They could have killed him silently. Oh, God, Nakoa could not die! He could have been knifed—he might have been shot and she might not have heard the sound. He could be lying still upon this trail with neither fire, cover, nor the protection that a woman could give him.

She clutched desperately at her stomach. If he were not hurt, he would be back. But darkness would come and he could bleed to death before she could find him! With sudden resolution she followed the trail he must have traveled. Carefully she watched the ground. She saw no sign of his tracks, but she could not read a trail like an Indian. The birds stilled as she glided silently past; there was only the screeching warning of the blue jays. Nakoa, Nakoa, her mind called, desperately searching his for an answer. All around her were thick shadows as the trail became more and more wooded. Still there was no sign of a living person. Now she could hear the murmuring of a stream, where Nakoa thought the men would be camped. She became cautious and moved more slowly.

“Well,” a voice said. “Look what we have here!” Maria recoiled as a grizzled red headed man stepped out upon the trail ahead of her and pointed his rifle at her heart. Maria stood still in terror.

A lean, sandy-haired trapper joined him. “Why don’t you let her pass?” he asked quietly.

“Look at her,” the redhead answered. “Aint you got eyes? Hey, Louis!” he called, and a third trapper stepped out from some trees. He cocked his gun and looked frantically around them. “I said this was a goddamned Indian trail,” he said.

“Look at that pretty little ass,” the redhead said.

“This is one you better not touch,” said the third trapper. “She’s probably Blackfoot.”

“Let’s git,” said the sandy-haired one. “She couldn’t be alone.”

“Yes, she is,” replied the redhead. “I watched her come up the trail. God, look at them tits!”

“Shut up, you damned fool. Let’s get out of here,” said the third trapper.

“She’s alone.” growled the redhead. He moved closer to Maria. “God damn, she’s pretty enough to be white!”

There was a slight rustling around them. Maria held her breath in panic. Nakoa, Nakoa—be still—still—

“You speak English?” the redhead asked her.
“Savez-vous
English?”

“The Blackfoot don’t trade,” the sandy-haired trapper hissed. “They don’t know English. And with her here we have to be near a village.”

“Shut up! Shall we take her with us? She would be good company,” the redhead grinned.

“You son of a bitch,” the third one said, looking around with less fear. “You just want to screw her.”

“And her husband can watch!” said the sandy-haired trapper grimly, and, getting his horse, quickly mounted him. “You two can set up housekeeping with the little lady,” he said. “I’m leaving.”

“Ain’t you going to read over us with the good book?” the third trapper laughed and without answering the lean trapper left them, abandoning the trail and riding his horse straight down the slope of the mountain.

“He’s chicken shit!” said the redhead.

“Blackfoot ain’t good playmates,” said the third trapper. “What you going to do with her?”

“Come here, you little bitch,” said the redhead.

She would cause Nakoa’s death. There were still two guns against him, and he would not see her raped. If she could speak! She could say, “I am Maria Frame from St. Louis. Take me back!” But then, he still would die, for he would not allow them to take her. So she remained silent and still while the redhead came closer to her until his breath almost touched her face. She was so terrified that Nakoa would be killed that tears slowly coursed down her face.

“Goddamn it!” the third trapper said. “She is bawling. She’ll be yelling next! I’m gittin too!”

“I never seen a more beautiful woman!” said the redhead stubbornly.

“They’re all the same where you want her,” said the third trapper. “You gonna trade your hair for that?”

“If I could talk with her! She might come with us. Ain’t we got any more beads?”

Be still the wind, and be still my heart, for they are scared crazy and would fire at any movement. Smoking Star, streaking across a night sky, you will not have this warrior’s life!

“Talk to her in sign,” said the third trapper. “She’s scared, but she ain’t running. Ask her where the village is.”

The redhead signed for the nearness of tipis.

Maria signed back immediately.
“Ehelwisi ka ki,”
she said, indicating that the camp was close by.

“Jesus Christ! I ain’t staying to meet no one else!” said the third trapper, getting his horse and the redhead’s too. Both men mounted and looked silently around them, with their guns primed.

Be still—be still—let them go! She cramped forward in pain. When she looked up, they were gone, riding down the slope of the mountain as fast as they could. “I am Maria Frame,” her heart beat dolefully. “I am Maria Frame from St. Louis and what difference does it make now?”

She stood bowed and still. All about her the forest life moved again, the wind moved again. Nakoa gently touched her face, he who had said he would never touch her again.

“Maria,” he whispered. “Maria.” The word was a caress. She looked up into his face. It was suffused with joy and in his eyes burned a thousand lights. “You could have gone with them,” he said. “You could have gone—and I could not have stopped you.”

“I made a promise,” she said. “You kept yours. I kept mine.”

“Is that all?” he asked her steadily.

“I would never buy my freedom with your death!”

“That is right,” he said quietly, with all of the light going from his eyes. “You want no part of me. Not even my life.”

She could not answer him.

They walked back to the horses and reached the main camp before dusk. In the outer circle now, Nakoa’s tipi was pitched, and out of respect for their newly married state no one came to see them. They ate together, and, separately, they went to bed. As usual, he fell asleep first.

In the morning she knew she was not to have a baby. She stood over his couch triumphantly. “I am free now,” she said. “I am not going to have your son. I bear no life that belongs to you.”

He got up and rapidly dressed. At the door he looked back at her sadly. “You bear no life,” he said and left her alone.

Chapter Twenty Nine

He did not come back. Why didn’t he return and at least tell her his plans for releasing her? In a growing fury she ate alone, inside of the lodge, so the whole village would not know that he had left her before they had eaten together. She washed, and then tried to sleep some more, but could not.

Finally, she went outside. Smoke rose lazily to the clear sky; she walked among the outer tipis and no one even looked in her direction. She gathered meadow grass for the floor of the lodge, for the camp was situated in a wide and beautiful meadow with the tipis pitched in the same order as they had been upon the prairie, with the exception of hers and Nakoa’s lodge. She returned to it, but there was no sign of him. She put down the grass, and put away their possessions. It was afternoon. Where did he eat? She washed again, and combed her hair. She would go to the inner circle and see Apeecheken; maybe she could find out if Nakoa had passed the time with his father.

Women were peeling the bark off new lodge poles, cutting off twigs and branches, leaving them smooth so that no rough places would tear the lodge skins. Near all of the tipis the poles already prepared were stacked neatly together, to dry and harden in the sun. Men were bringing in fresh poles to be worked, but among them Maria saw neither Nakoa nor Apikunni.

Apeecheken sat in front of her lodge, large with her pregnancy. When she saw Maria, joy shone upon her face, but remembering she was once always with Anatsa, tears came to her eyes too. “Maria, you are well,” she said, signing for her to sit beside her.

“Yes,” Maria said.

“I am sorry for the tears that came to my eyes,” Apeecheken said. “It is that when you walk, it should be that Anatsa walks with you. We miss her so.”

“I know,” Maria said disconsolately. “There are tears in everything. I think tears must be the fountain of our life!”

“You are young to feel this, but so was Anatsa. She spoke in such a manner too. I did not always know all of her words, and now that there are to be no more, it hurts my heart that I did not know them. I have always been more a mother to her than a sister and so, there could not be as much time between us—do you understand?”

“Yes. The mother has to be the root, and the sisters are the leaves that can feel the wind together.”

“And the leaves bring to the mother the sun.”

“Yes.” Maria bowed her head. Nothing would ever bring her the sun again.

“My little Anatsa, so frail in her body and so great in her spirit!”

“How close to the birth of your new child are you, Apeecheken?”

“Less than two moons.”

“New life always comes. Without the life we wouldn’t have the awful dying!”

Apeecheken looked at her closely. “I am sorry that you have known so much of death.”

“I did not mean to bring you more sadness. I just felt a great loneliness for you—and Anatsa.” Suddenly she put her head in her hands and wept. I have no husband! I have no husband! she wanted to scream, but she remained silent except for her weeping.

“Maybe you have a child too,” Apeecheken said, wondering at her distraught face.

“No,” Maria said. “I bear no life.”

“Do not grieve for this. You have just been married!”

Maria moaned.

“You have a strong man for a husband,” Apeecheken said in comfort. “My heart is so sad for Apikunni. I do not see him. He has shunned us all, even the Mutsik. He could probably follow Nakoa as their high chief, but he leaves his lodge and is not seen for days at a time. The loss of Anatsa has made him a man so apart from himself.”

“They had such a deep and beautiful love. I can’t understand. I can’t understand the whole crazy pattern of anything!”

“In this life we must see just a pale reflection of ourselves. If the spirit has the strength to go on without the body, there must be great powers of the two combined that we have left untouched.”

“I do not know. I do not know anything!” Maria rose to leave. “My heart is too troubled for talk,” she said. “When I can bring to you comfort or joy from myself—I will.”

“I feel great warmth toward you,” Apeecheken said. “It will always be with gladness that I see you.”

Maria walked slowly toward the outer tipis. In the inner circle she had seen no sign of Nakoa. Suddenly a hand lightly touched her arm. It was Sikapischis. The last time they had met was when Maria had been on her way to the burial grounds. “Sikapischis!” Maria exclaimed warmly, clasping her hand. “My friend of wisdom.”

Sikapischis smiled at her, but Maria sensed a withdrawal from their former closeness. “I have seen your husband,” she said. “He has told me to tell you that he has gone to hunt with Apikunni. He will be gone from your lodge for a while.”

Maria was left breathless. If he were going to free her, she should leave before fall turned to winter. Did this mean that he would not free her now, that it was already too late to avoid the first snows before the southern trails could be reached?

“I am sorry if there is trouble between you,” Sikapischis said. “I have taken fresh meat to your lodge for tonight’s cooking. I will bring you food every day until he returns.”

“He did not say when this would be?”

“No,” Sikapischis started to leave.

“Sikapischis…”

The Indian woman turned to her, and never did Maria see a face become so suddenly old and filled with suffering.

“I am nothing!” Maria exclaimed in grief.

“Siyeh said that you were a beautiful woman. He thought this. And my father, though blind, has seen this. Beauty is a gift, for it is given, and when seen, brings its own joy. I have no more words for you, Maria. I am sorry for this. We have many gifts and never know them, and when a gift is not shared, it becomes a burden.” Sikapischis walked from her, her carriage erect and beautiful.

Maria returned to their lodge, his lodge, and began to prepare the meat. She was bending over the fire when an awful force struck her from behind and sent her sprawling. Dumfounded, Maria looked up into the sweating face of Atsitsi.

“What are you doing?” Maria screamed at her.

“Kicking holy ass,” Atsitsi said.

Maria lunged at her, but the old woman moved out of her path. She sat down upon Nakoa’s couch and glared at her in fury. “Now,” she said, “why you drive Nakoa from here?”

“Get out of here!” Maria shrieked.

“Shut big mouth. I stay. You tell me to leave and I hit you with a big stick!”

“I have nothing to say to you!”

“I have words! That why I here. You think I come to see big Maria? Ha!”

“I won’t listen!”

“Then I kick holy ass again!”

Maria ran for the door, but like lightning, Atsitsi was there before her, blocking her way. “You dirty Nakoa’s lodge—why not leave it quick? You take him from Indian woman who live, for white woman in sky?”

“You do not know.”

“Don’t sing baby song to me! What you do to Nakoa? We lose second Natosin because of you! Feeling between Pikuni and Kainah less because of you! Nitanna feel deep grief because of you! Now what have you done to Nakoa that he leave you to seek warmth of cold forest?”

“I have asked for my freedom!” Maria screamed.

“What Nakoa say?”

“He has agreed to let me go.”

“Good! Good! Why not now? Why fool go off when could send you away before too late when snows come?”

“I don’t know,” Maria said.

“It awful if you not leave quick!”

“Thank you,” Maria said bitterly. “Now, will you leave?” Maria asked her.

“I leave,” Atsitsi said. “And I say good-bye to sweet Maria now, so old Atsitsi can stay on Indian earth in peace!”

Her huge and sweating form was gone, and Maria took the meat that she was cooking from the fire. It had burned beyond eating. Smoke from it curled toward her. She didn’t eat that night. She sat long and held the burned meat. It was charcoal. Like her—it was lifeless.

The pit of the night is dark and still. The pit of the night is black without sound or color. The pit of the night smothers life, chokes dreams, and allows only a drifting that is terrifying because it has no purpose and no goal. It is the time that the body awakens, too rested for sleep, and too early for the tasks of the day. It is too soon for fires and food, and too late for rest and the warmth of the couch.

The first night she was alone without him, she touched it, this black time of nothing, as the wolves howled out across the mountains in their loneliness.

The second night she knew it too. It awakened her from sleep, and let her know her nothingness. It stretched ahead, deep and endless, never to be lighted by a morning sun. Was it because she had accepted him, lain with him, been possessed by him, that she felt such a craven emptiness? Because he had brought freshly killed meat, was all other food to be forever tasteless? What good would be the white man’s salt, the white man’s sugar?

The air grew colder. Would they live without contact all through the white winter until the trails south were open and free once more? Autumn leaves were falling, and back in her own land, were gently covering her mother’s grave. Blinding tears came, and fell uselessly upon the Indian buffalo robe. And from far far away, down the mountain and across the green prairie, came the sweet lingering lullaby.

She heard steps approaching the lodge. She sat up, wiping her eyes, her heart leaping to her throat. The door flap opened, and she saw a giant form silhouetted against the glimmering stars. “Nakoa!” she said, throwing the buffalo robe over her shoulders, “Nakoa!” She went to the fire pit, and built the coals into flame with fresh wood. She turned to him. “Apikunni!” she breathed, stunned. “Where is he? Where is Nakoa?”

“He did not return with me, Maria.”

“Why? Why Apikunni?” Her voice had risen, and hastily she motioned for Apikunni to be seated. He sat away from her, upon Nakoa’s couch. His face was drawn and tired, and Maria saw that he had lost all of his boyish look since Anatsa’s death.

“You are free. Nakoa has given you your freedom. In the morning, two Mutsik and I will take you south. We will reach the white man’s trails before the first snows.”

“Why did he not tell me this? Why did he send you?”

“He will not see you again. You do not carry his child. You are free.”

“Oh!”

“You speak in pain. You do not want this?”

“Yes. But what we want brings pain too.”

Apikunni said nothing, but his face expressed coldness. Maria put her face in her hands, and the tears came again, unchecked. “I am sorry!” she said finally. “It seems that all I have done since I have been here is weep!”

“That is why Nakoa is letting you go. He does not want the grief in your heart.”

“Among you I have so many friends. I loved Anatsa. I love Sikapischis and Apeecheken and Natosin, my Indian father. I have love for you, Apikunni, husband to Anatsa.”

In the firelight, he looked at her shrewdly. “With so much love for the Indian, there must be some for your husband.”

“There is. Of course, there is. But not the love for a marriage. Not that—any more!”

“Love does not come and go like the day and like the night. Anatsa told me that your love for Nakoa was as hers for me. Could you ever have felt a love so deep, so sweet?”

“The scorn in your words and upon your face hurts my heart. Of course I had a love so deep and so sweet. But I cannot be wife to him now. I know this.”

“Siksikai…”

“Oh, do not tell me of Siksikai. I know myself, Apikunni! I know my feelings. I will speak to you, and with the straight tongue of the Indian.” She huddled close to the fire. “Once—so very much—I wanted Nakoa. I loved him so! My love for him was pure, beautiful, and so my lust was not lust, and there was no dirtiness!”

“Dirtiness?”

“My body was beautiful because it was for him.” She looked away, fighting the shaking of her lips and her chin. “To exist, Apikunni, a love has to be met. I met Nakoa, but he took Nitanna to his bed instead. He dirtied himself in Nitanna!”

“And you were dirtied—and wounded—and knifed—by Siksikai.”

“I could not help that.”

“You could help that more than Nakoa could help his marriage to Nitanna.”

“No! No!”

“Maria,” he said softly. “Was he not punished enough with what Siksikai did to you? I have never seen a man show so much agony.”

“I do not know! But my love is gone, and I stand in night, and in this darkness I want my own kind!”

“You are not in night. You are in blindness!”

“Whatever it is, my love is passed, and I want to walk now in the white man’s way!”

“You will walk alone. You will flee in shadow. Maria, have you thought of life without the sun?”

“My sun is not Nakoa. My sun burns within myself!”

“Your sun burns within the two of you, joined as one. And such a sun would melt the highest snows and bring light for growing.”

“It is done,” Maria said miserably. “It is all done.”

“All right. We will leave after dawn.”