Light Bird's Song
By Sydney Tooman Betts
Chapter 20
Joshua climbed up the precipice to steal a few moments alone, but found a lone woman there, intently watching the sunset. He thought her fine looking, though the years had been less kind to her than they had to his mother. Contrasting the lives the two had led, he did not wonder at the difference. His mother diligently protected her complexion from the sun; this woman's skin had grown so brown that only her green eyes and a glint of brown in her hair betrayed the true origins of her parentage. He began to back down silently; she looked as if her thoughts carried her miles away and he didn't want to intrude, when she sensed he was there and turned around.
“ Joshua …do not go.”
“I don't want to disturb you, Ma'am.”
“You won't. I come here each evening and stare as far as my eyes can see—hoping to spot her coming over the horizon. I know I am being foolish. She is already his woman; she will not leave and he would not let her, particularly if she carries a child.”
“But surely, ma'am, she can't suppose that she owes him any allegiance?”
“She was not raised in Virginia, Joshua, and does not think as you do. Among these tribes, it is customary to take a woman or even a child from your enemy to replace one that he has injured or killed.”
“That's barbaric! You can't swap one person for another.”
“It is little different from “An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth.”
“Are you saying you defend the practice?”
“No, just that it is far from unheard of—even in the Scriptures. When the Benjamites couldn't get wives, they hid in the vineyards of Shiloh and snatched the women who came out to dance. They must have felt horrified, as I'm sure Light Bird did; but they apparently accepted what they could not alter. The text simply says they were carried off as wives.”
Joshua did not answer. He could think of nothing to say that would not insult her husband or his strange people, and though he could not fathom his godmother's choice, he respected her too much to say so.
“I've been a negligent hostess,” she confessed, “so absorbed by Light Bird's loss that I've missed the wonderful opportunity the Lord has given me to know you. When do Spotted Long…I mean Major Anderson and you visit the Pawnee?”
“We leave tomorrow, before the sun rises.”
“Already? I feel that you just arrived. The Major said he is impressed with your heart as well as your intelligence. He says you care much about our people.”
Just then, he felt more repulsed than concerned but saw no purpose in contradicting her. “I have you to thank for that,” he smiled. “I used to swipe your letters and read them until I knew them by heart.”
Brought-Us-the-Book couldn't help but chuckle. “You must have been very bored, particularly with all our back and forth about husbands.”
“Well,” Joshua laughed, “I guess I didn't memorize ALL of your letters.”
“Are you finding it difficult to pick up our language?”
“Yes Ma'am, but the Major's daugh…his children have been quite helpful.”
“I believe the Pawnees speak a different tongue, but at least you should be able to communicate. Our people have been warring with each other before Old Many Feathers was born and many warriors have been captured on both sides. They cannot help but pick up a few of the other's words. I do regret that I've let my chance to know you slip by. It was quite unintentional.”
“You have had a great deal on your mind. I can't imagine how Mother would have coped were my sister Lisa kidnapped.”
Brought-Us-the-Book peered into his dark, sympathetic eyes and thought again of his Uncle Tommy. “She would take her brokenness to Jesus, though it is far from easy to leave it there. I pray Light Bird's husband is kind.”
Joshua, once again, could not answer. Instead, they both fell silent and watched the sun until it lay down in its distant bed. His mother considered his little sister too young to be brought out into society—let alone be sentenced to life with a savage miscreant. Just considering the idea made him angry, and he could not help thinking what his father might do. John Wilson was a man to be reckoned with--a good man, a fair man, but not a man who would stand idly by if his daughter had been raped and enslaved. Try as he did, he could not understand Preying Eagle's point of view or his failure to retrieve the girl and remedy his wife's pain. Furthermore, he felt frustrated with his own inability to offer her solace and blurted out a question that had preyed on his heart for days. “Do you regret your decision to stay here?”
His godmother's bemused expression said clearly he'd misread the direction of her thoughts. “No,” she answered. “Not in the least. I count myself privileged quite beyond anything I'd dreamed—not only to have brought this people the Gospel, but also to be loved by a man whom I grow to respect more with every passing season. I cannot imagine why the Lord has been so kind—except, of course, that He has a generous nature.”
Brightened by a smile, her face looked years younger. He had not seen one on it often; she reserved them mostly for private gatherings. Aside from this, she often reminded him of Corn-Tassels, though less impulsive and more discreet. Thinking of the latter, however, returned his mind to his godmother's men folk, particularly her tall son, so like his father, who would soon confine the Major's vibrant daughter to life of a drudge. He could barely choke back his indignation.
“What of the way living here has exposed your daughter?”
“Living here?” Cocking her head, she looked at him as though his question made little sense; within seconds, however, he saw she caught his meaning. She lifted her chin and glanced away but spoke with patience, as though she answered a rash child. “Evil is everywhere, Joshua, and the quest for vengeance is inherent in human nature. Why else would God have made such a point of telling us to leave it to Him? To protect her from harm, I would have needed to keep her from the world—not this village. You said you read my letters; then you are already aware of the events that brought me here. I am thoroughly convinced that God's heart is good, and though I would not say He caused the man to take her—He never tempts anyone to sin—His hands were not tied while He watched it. She was no more hidden from Him than Esther was when they took her to Xerxes' harem.”
“So you think we are to simply accept what happens as our fate—as Hindis do?”
“By no means! God gave us a free will to make choices and in-so-far as we can see through the Scriptures the way we should go—we should take it.”
“But your daughter did not choose to be carried off.”
“No, she did not; but she has choices now. She can live to God's glory with the Raven-Enemy and trust that He has not forsaken her. I would ask you a question similar to the one Mordecai posed to Esther: How do we know what He has planned or for what purpose He allowed this?”
“And the Major's daughter? Do you think he should risk allowing her to remain here as well?”
Brought-Us-the-Book began to see what lay beneath his questions. She had noticed his marked interest in her “niece” and aversion toward her eldest son. “I trust that Spotted Long-knife is consulting our Lord's heart on the matter. What that may be, I cannot pretend to know, but I can assure you my son would not wish her to stay if God did not. Would you have her go if He wanted her to stay?”
Confounded, he could only shake his head and mutter, “No, ma'am”; but he grew determined to present the Lord, and Corn-Tassels' father, with quite a different proposal.
As the moving band neared a vast lake, a large body of strange Sparrow Hawks met and mingled with them. Kills-Behind-Her-Dwelling anxiously searched their ranks, looking first at the warriors and then at the women, as if uncertain they were friend or foe; but other Women-Who-Talk-Against-Each-Other-Without-Fear appeared as relaxed as they had all day. Wondering what set these apart from the multitude that had joined them lately, Small Doe glanced up at the ridge where the Lumpwoods kept watch. A stream of warriors, obviously friendly, melted into their lines; but her constant companion pulled her wrinkled lips into a deep scowl.
“What troubles you?” asked Small Doe.
“They are Kicked-in-the-Bellies. Jackrabbit and Marks-His-Face will be among them.”
Small Doe neither recognized the names nor understood their significance. She knew only that she was relieved when Hair-Up-Top signaled the tribe to stop. Her white pony had proven even-paced and eager, and the warming soil had painted the valleys with lovely purple and yellow flowers; but whether from the increasing heat or lack of water, she had begun to feel increasingly weak.
As she gazed at the ridge, she saw a many-feathered stranger who had been talking with her husband turn abruptly and hasten his horse to a small group of women wending its way toward Mountainside's clan. Pacing Wolf's sorrel followed closely on his heels, as if the man's errand was urgent, but the throng quickly swallowed both.
Suddenly, a shrill shriek split the air. She couldn't discern its direction at first, but as it grew louder she spotted a strange woman, older than her mother but younger than Two Doves, rushing her mount toward Pacing Wolf's clan. The woman's eyes bulged and she drew her lips back like a desperate horse.
Watching her absently, Small Doe began to wonder if Kills-Behind-Her-Dwelling was her target and grew alarmed as the old woman prodded her appaloosas forward, harnessed in tandem, to meet the stranger's charge. The stalwart ponies balked and backed until the lead pony looked like it might rear. Instantly, Small Doe dove for its bridle; but before she had grasped it, the mad stranger grabbed hold of her skirt, yanked her off her white mare, and shoved her down onto the rocky soil. Gripping Small Doe's braids with surprising force, she would have beat her head against a rock had Pacing Wolf not leaped off his horse.
“No!” he cried, catching the stranger's wrists so that he suspended her in mid-air. “She is my woman!”
Spewing curses, the indignant woman tried to kick Small Doe in the head. “She is not fit to take the dead's place!”
“You will not do this!” spat Pacing Wolf, his expression contorted with menace.
The many-feathered warrior pushed through the crowd. His face, tattooed with a circle on his creased forehead and a line beneath his lip, looked much older than the woman's. “Let her down!”
Pacing Wolf did so, setting her on his far side, away from Small Doe. “My debt is settled!”
“I curse her belly,” the woman snarled. “Your offspring will die before they see the sun!”
“Come woman,” the tattooed man commanded, hefting her up behind him with difficultly. “Her kinsman is dead; but,” he addressed Pacing Wolf, “do not forget the rest of our agreement.”
Wheeling his horse with surprising grace, he began to trot away; but the woman snatched Among-the-Pines' reins and pulled her behind them. Small Doe scrambled quickly up to rescue the child, but Pacing Wolf put out his hand.
“She is Jackrabbit; my dead woman's mother. She did not know until now.”
Once Marks-His-Face' mount retreated, Pacing Wolf distractedly told Small Doe to lift her skirt. She complied modestly, unmindful of the slow rivulet of blood dripping down her leg, but he was in no mood for patience. “Up!” Squatting down, he brushed a thumb over her scraped knees and declared they were not deep, but the eyes he raised to hers clearly wished to know if she felt much pain.
She shook her head. “Your quickness kept me from harm.” Hearing her reply, the corners of his mouth curved up faintly, but before she could return his smile, he mounted and sped off toward the ridge.
The Blackfoot captive, whom Hair-Up-Top had named Last Woman, guided her horses up beside them. She'd observed the turmoil, but knowing the effort would be wasted, she asked no questions. Instead, she nodded inquiringly toward her friend's scraped knees. Small Doe smiled and shook her head in reply, but Last Woman was no more satisfied than Pacing Wolf had been. With considerable effort, she dismounted, withdrew a pinch of black salve from her pouch, smeared it across the abrasions, and then nodded firmly to assure her friend that she would heal nicely.
Small Doe smiled her thanks; but, looking up, she noticed Last Woman's daughter riding after Among-the-Pines. “Come back,” she called, but the child did not give up until she heard her mother echo the command in their musical language. The little girl looked crestfallen, though she halted at once, staring longingly after her small playmate until they could no longer distinguish her within the Kicked-in-the-Bellies' throng.
“When will they send her come home?” Small Doe asked Kills-Behind-Her-Dwelling.
“Never,” sighed the old woman, wrinkling her brow. “She will not return to us—Jackrabbit's her mother's mother. She has the right to raise the child—and ruin her.”
The unexpected news disappointed Small Doe. At home, the father's clan would have kept her. Among-the-Pines had been unpredictable, one moment warm and another balky; but Small Doe had grown fond of the child. Sighing sadly, she realized she still had much to learn. Sparrow Hawks had hair and skin that were much like the Allies', but their differing customs surprised her continually.
Too weary to delve further, Small Doe grasped her white pony's reins but, in deference to Last Woman's condition, she did not mount. Instead, the four companions led their animals side by side toward the amassing camp. Each walked in silence most of the distance: Kills-Behind-Her-Dwelling too disgusted to talk, and the two Blackfoot captives unable to offer much more than smiles and nods. Losing Among-the-Pines would greatly hinder their communication. The little Blackfoot girl and she, adjusting more rapidly to each other's languages, acted often as their interpreters.
How He-Who-Leads-the-Moving-Band had learned about Last Woman's daughter, Small Doe could only guess; the story had come out in small bites as Among-the-Pines and Little Blackfoot played. She supposed the aged leader might speak Blackfoot, but preferred to think Pacing Wolf had given him the information. During the morning after the Lumpwood feast, he'd led a lovely mare and her foal to Crazy Bear Wolf's lodge. Honored by such a visit, the man granted his aged leader's request but refused to accept his gift. Hair-Up-Top insisted, and after a time Crazy Bear Wolf gave in; took the horses; and sent the child, along with gifts of clothing, to her mother. Small Doe wished she could have seen Last Woman's face when Hair-Up-Top returned with his surprise. That evening as they did their chores, both mother and daughter looked radiantly happy; and when the old man happened by, their grateful expressions transcended speech.
The ancient leader's lodge, however, always the first to be erected, presented Small Doe with unforeseen difficulties. Used often for councils, it was larger than the others and therefore required longer, heavier poles. Last Woman and Kills-Behind-Her-Dwelling could offer little help, and Pacing Wolf was still performing his duties as a soldier. As she struggled to lift the first, she felt someone close behind her reach around either side and hoist it up. She knew who he was without looking. Like an answer to her unspoken prayers, he habitually turned up whenever she needed help. Indeed, since plucking her from the Echata he'd done so with such regularity that she wondered fleetingly if he was an angel. The hard-muscled stomach brushing against her back argued otherwise. Slipping out from between his arms, she stood well aside while he thrust the lodge pole into place and then stepped forward to hold it steady while he braced another against it. He did so without thanks, but the smile he tossed her was like the sun suddenly breaking through a thick cloud.
Looking up, she saw Last Woman's lips press into a hard, straight line. Nodding toward Goes-to-Battle, she whispered something to Little Blackfoot who bounded over to Small Doe. “This man no good,” the child whispered, looking toward the handsome Fox as he retreated. Taking Small Doe's chin in her padded fingers, she turned it up toward the ridge where a line of warriors stood watching. “He much good.” At once Small Doe picked out Pacing Wolf among them, but in case she had not, the little girl drew a circle around her face. “Paint face red—paint eyes yellow.”
“That is Pacing Wolf,” Small Doe smiled. “He is my husband.”
The little girl grinned broadly. “Husband good. Old-Hair hears his talk and gives horses for me.”
Her words were imperfect but their meaning unmistakable, confirming Small Doe's suspicions. Looking at her captive friend, she asked, “Pacing Wolf told Hair-Up-Top about your daughter?”
When Little Blackfoot ran over and conveyed the question to her mother, a lovely smile brightened the normally solemn face. “Good,” Last Woman nodded, looking toward the ridge. “Man Good.”
Small Doe beamed. They were the first Sparrow Hawk words she had heard her friend use, and she was proud that her husband's kindness had inspired them.
Small Doe hung her husband's pipe and medicine shield inside his freshly tossed up dwelling and turned her thoughts toward making their late meal. It would be a simple fare of dried meat and vegetables boiled in a buffalo hide kettle suspended over a tripod. She added a few of the spring onions that she had found near the lake and then snatched a few moments to read her Bible. Turning to John's Gospel, she picked up where she'd left off yesterday:
“These things Jesus said as He lifted up His eyes to heaven. ‘Father the hour has come to glorify Your son so that He may glorify You. You gave Him authority over all flesh, so that He may give to them everlasting life; and this is everlasting life: that they may know You, the only true God, and Jesus, the Anointed One, whom You have sent. I have glorified You on the earth by finishing the work that You gave Me to do.”
“Lord, this is what I want also—to accomplish the work that You have given me to do. My efforts seem feeble and useless, but You are able to do anything. Please let me speak what You want spoken and do what You want done. Use me in any way that You will and make me like Jesus , who did not turn back though he knew suffering awaited him.”
While she considered what the answer to her prayer might cost, her mind wandered toward her new Blackfoot friends. “Lord, would You also please comfort Last Woman and help me, somehow, make You known to her? She has endured far worse than I have and without Your Holy Spirit for comfort. Her husband is probably dead and she belongs to a man who could be her grandfather. At least he does seem kind.” Recalling Little Blackfoot's happy smile when she pointed out Pacing Wolf, and the difference their reunion had made to Last Woman, she could not help feeling grateful to her husband.
Pacing Wolf hurried to his lodge but halted outside when he heard Small Doe speaking. Much weighed heavily on his mind, and though he wanted her to form friendships, he was not in temper to greet a group of women. When no other voice answered, he realized she was speaking with her spirit-guide and waited, torn between staying and walking away. He wanted to duck in and discover how she'd fared after Jackrabbit's assault, but he would not disrupt her spirit-vision—his people respected them and considered them private. As he was about to turn aside, she said something that froze the breath in his chest.
“Lord, I want to thank you also for giving me to Pacing Wolf. His heart is like his arm: strong and ready to act. I am proud to call him my husband.”
Pacing Wolf was astonished, but confusion crept up to assault his joy. He'd been pleased with her growing curiosity and interest, and that she no longer yielded to him by force of her will. All this, and the pride she voiced, was his natural due—he provided well, delighted her with gifts, and had twice kept her from an enemy. The reason she was grateful he'd snatched her, however, was beyond his ability to comprehend. He lacked both the handsome face and easy way with women that his cousin possessed, and could think of one motive only for her spirit-guide to deliver her into his hands.
Hoping she'd say more, he quieted every muscle; and yet, something inside him compelled him to flee. His feet decided for him, carrying him swiftly toward the ridge and up a cliff he knew well. Dangling his legs off its side, high above the encampment, he filled his lungs with the cool evening breeze that swept the perspiration from his face.
Perhaps she is not woman-flesh after all, he mused, but a trickster sent by this book-god to weaken my heart. As he pondered the possibility, a passage she'd read last night began ringing in his mind like an echo:
“How much more severely will a man deserve to be punished who has trampled the Son of God under his feet, regarding the blood of the covenant by which he was sanctified as unclean, and has insulted the Spirit of Grace? For we know Him who said, ‘Vengeance is Mine, I will repay.' And again, ‘The Lord will judge His people.” It is a terrifying thing to fall into the hands of the living God.”
He hadn't understood much of it, but the last few lines had laid hold of him like an enemy. I am the one He speaks of—this “Spirit of Grace” that possesses her. My vengeance-quest insulted him—but I cannot take her back. He felt all the terror the verses described and guilt pressed down on him like a crushing rock. Jackrabbit's assault added to its weight, squeezing him until he could hardly breathe. If my clanswomen are unwelcoming, she will find Marks-His-Face' clanswomen pitiless. Jackrabbit is a vicious woman and has much influence among them, but if I take her back… He remembered Wild Dog's cruel pronouncements as if he'd heard them yesterday. Still, he thought, she might fare better there than here.
After a time, he saw his thoughts could only lead him in endless circles and called out: “Spirit of the Book, I am Pacing Wolf of the Sparrow Hawks. I have stolen a woman who belongs to you. You know her as Light Bird, but I have called her Small Doe. We are one flesh like the man and woman You made for the garden; and like him, I want to keep her. If You wish to strike me, I am here—but who will bring her meat when she hungers or skins to clothe her back?”
He crouched like a man prepared for an enemy, half-expecting lightning to pierce the sky, and yet he did not feel aggression toward his woman's god. He liked to listen to the book, though it sometimes made his insides quake. Surmising that the absence of her god's immediate wrath implied an acceptance of his terms, Pacing Wolf rose to his feet. “I will care for her well.”
Trotting home with a lightened burden, he cautiously entered his lodge. Small Doe's brow was pinched together, but when she saw him, her face softened with obvious relief.
“I will get your supper.”
As she headed toward the door, he reached out to pull her to him and ran his hand around the back of her neck. “You are well?'
Small Doe smiled, touched by his concern. “Yes—only worried that you had fallen down a ravine.”
He searched her round black eyes as he mulled over the vow he'd made to her book-god; he'd happily risk his life to keep it. He despised the evils to which his revenge had exposed her; and yet, he could not wish he'd left her as she was. A hungry man does not wish his full bowl were empty.
Growing self-conscious under his scrutiny, she laid her cheek in the crook of his neck and rubbed her hand lightly across his shirt. He smelled of sweet tobacco, mixed with sweat, which she breathed in contentedly. “Little Blackfoot told me what you did for her mother. A worthy warrior cares for their own, but you have shown mercy to an enemy's family. I count myself privileged to belong to such a man.”
Pacing Wolf's throat constricted. Pressing her closely against him, he nuzzled her hair with his cheek. He relished the feel of her hands as they wound around his waist and wended up his back. When he'd last thanked his spirit-guide for a woman, she'd disappointed him severely. This time, he thanked Small Doe's, thinking, Whoever he is—He-Who-First-Made-All-Things or some lesser spirit—he shows much regard for the wounded of heart.
But You, O Lord, are a compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger and abounding in love and faithfulness.
Psalm 86:15
Author Bio
Sydney Tooman Betts currently resides in Florida with her protagonist-inspiring husband and two teen-aged children. When not engaged in writing, she spends most of her time home schooling, mentoring, leading the women's Bible study at her local church, or painting.
While single, Ms. Betts (B.S. Bible/Missiology, M.Ed) was involved in a variety of cross-cultural adventures in North and Central America. After marrying, she and her husband lived in Europe and the Middle East where he served in various mission-support capacities. Her teaching experiences span preschool to guest lecturing at the graduate level and she has been privileged to serve as Sunday School Superintendent, Children's Church Director, or Women's Ministries facilitator in several evangelical denominations.
Before her first novel, A River too Deep, she had ghostwritten several stories included in an adult literacy program.
Contact Sydney at: www.LightBirdsSong.com
To Purchase “A River Too Deep” and “Light Bird's Song”: www.e316.com , www.Amazon.com , www.authorhouse.com