Chapter 22

The rising sun shimmered across the lake as Small Doe bent to fill her water skins.   It was a cool but glorious spring morning, and now that the clouds of her grief had lifted, she could appreciate the beauty of this new territory she called home.   She had never seen a lake so clear, and the encircling peaks brought to mind the high, protective edges of a bird's nest.   As she recalled her first sight of them, her stomach unexpectedly knotted; Pacing Wolf had seemed like them that day—fearsome and forbidding—but the responses he inspired in her now were much more agreeable.

          Hearing youthful whispers coming up from behind, she meant to turn around when two hands shoved hard against her back.   Her face painfully smacked the frigid water, and her head grazed a sharp stone.   Stunned for a moment beneath the surface, she grew vaguely aware of an odd mix of sounds:   bursts of muffled laughter, harsh scolding voices, and an answering tattoo of scurrying feet.   The latter died away as she pushed up on all fours; but, glancing behind her, she caught site of two girls running up the path toward the village.   The taller one, perhaps fifteen summers, gained the lead over her companion; but she slipped as her soaked moccasins hit a patch of grass.   Distantly below was a very small girl trying to clutch some precious object while she scrambled to keep up.   It slid from her grasp, catching the little girl between desire to retrieve it and the need to escape.

          Not until bright red splotches began dripping from her head did Small Doe realize that she was bleeding.   They splattered onto a warrior's fringed sleeve, muddling the surprise she felt with worry that they'd spoil his finely worked buckskin.   Instinctively, she backed away and tried clumsily to stem the flow; but the warrior impeded her efforts by pulling her onto her feet.  

          “Stop squirming!” he commanded, sweeping the trailing end of his long breechcloth out of the water and pressing it against her temple.   She complied at once, certain she'd find swallow-winged brows if she dared to lift her eyes.   Where he'd come from, she couldn't fathom; she'd seen only women near the lake.

          “What did I tell you?” a familiar, aged voice began upbraiding.   “They will ruin her!”

            Small Doe couldn't make sense of the comment and wondered if Kills-Behind-Her-Dwelling's mind had begun to wander, but then she remembered what the old one had grumbled as Jack Rabbit dragged her great granddaughter away.   Among-the-Pines!   She had thought the youngest child familiar, but everything had happened so quickly.   I would not have expected this of her.

           Goes-to-Battle lifted the wet buckskin from her wound, pulling back Small Doe's attention.   She smiled up at him cautiously.   It was impolite to ignore his kindness, and his grandmother was close by.   Instead of loosening his grip, however, he slid his hand firmly down to the small of her back.   Small Doe stiffened, though she told herself he meant only to hold her steady, and sidled away from him as soon as possible.

          Kills-Behind-Her-Dwelling stood on the bank, her arms outstretched and her forehead furrowed.   The creases softened slightly as she saw that Small Doe's wound was not deep.   “I will take you home, my little one,” she cooed.   “You will need something dry to wear.”

          Small Doe nodded absently.   She was busy searching the path for Among-the-Pines and her heart for an excuse for the child's behavior.   “Perhaps they are afraid I will turn her father from her.”

          “Afraid?” the old woman sneered.   “Of you?   It looks like you should be afraid of them!”   Thanking Goes-to-Battle, she asked him to pass her Small Doe‘s water sacks.   He did so readily, plucking them from a limb that jutted out into the water, filling them up; and dividing them between the two.

          As they climbed toward the village, Small Doe felt a bit unsteady, but once they'd reached the top, she retreated to her husband's lodge without further mishap.   Lighting a fire, she slipped out of her wet garments and hung them beside it to dry; but before she could don others, Kills-Behind-Her-Dwelling came calling for admittance.  

           Small Doe grabbed the nearest buffalo robe, hastily wrapping up in it before sitting down with her mending.   When she looked up to greet her elderly friend, however, her eyes met Pacing Wolf's instead.   He took in her state of undress at once, but before he could think of a way he might politely tell his grandmother they wanted privacy, he spotted the dried-up blood just inside Small Doe's hairline.  

          “What is this?” he asked, squatting to examine the jagged gash.   His fingertips were as gentle as his tone, but Small Doe wished that he hadn't noticed.   Her heart ached for Among-the-Pines and she didn't want to come between them.

          “I fell into the lake,” she mumbled, dropping her gaze so suddenly that his eyes naturally followed.  

          He found her making large careless stitches that, like her answer, conflicted oddly with his previous observations.   Not once, in the three moons since he had taken her had her tongue proven false but then neither had her balance.   He knew it to be excellent and her hands unfalteringly steady; she'd climbed the pine by the cave with the agility of a wildcat.   Concluding her story was not likely, he decided to probe further:   “The rocks that made you slip—where are they?”  

          An edge had crept into his voice, alerting Small Doe that he suspected something.   He often watches from the heights with other Lumpwoods.   He may have seen everything that…

          All at once, she pictured his cousin pressing one hand against her temple and sliding the other down her back.   She had even briefly smiled up at him.   Imagining how they must have looked from a distance, she couldn't keep her fingers from quivering and tucked them beneath the garment on her lap.

          “I did not slip on a rock.   I was bending down to fill my water sacks.”

          Pacing Wolf nodded unconsciously.   He despised a false tongue and would have been keenly disappointed had Small Doe fallen into his trap:   there were no rocks large enough to stand on this side of the lake.   Her wary glances, however, told him she was hiding something, and he was determined to discover what it was.

          “Slip?” the old one scoffed.   “She was pushed!”

          Pacing Wolf knit his brow together sharply.   “By who?”

          Kills-Behind-Her-Dwelling opened her lips, but Small Doe's answer came more quickly, “I did not see.   When I lifted my head, there was no one nearby, though two older girls were running up the path.   The tallest moccasins were wet.”

          Pacing Wolf narrowed his eyes.   He was certain he knew who they were and would not allow the incident to go unchecked.   What he couldn't comprehend was her reluctance to accuse them.

          “Did you see Among-the-Pines?”

          How her husband had guessed this, Small Doe couldn't imagine—unless he had indeed been watching from the heights.   “I thought so,” she admitted, “though I saw her only from a distance.”

          “I know so!” interrupted Kills-Behind-Her-Dwelling.   “She dropped this on the path.   It is the small thing that I made her last summer.   The one she often carries.”

          Pacing Wolf took the well-worn rawhide doll and turned it over in his hand.   “Why did you hold back?”

          His voice had softened slightly, encouraging Small Doe to confess the concern that weighed heavily on her heart.   “She is young and has already borne much loss.   I would be cruel to separate her from her father.”

          He clenched his jaw when he heard her words, but her eyes told him his own heart, not hers, accused him.   Rising abruptly, he ducked through the door, flinging back the flap as if it intentionally impeded his progress.

          Small Doe stared unhappily at the doeskin on her lap, exasperated by her husband's rapid turns of temper.   All the ground she'd lately gained seemed lost, and she wondered again if she'd ever understand him.  

          “He goes to Marks-His-Face,” explained Kills-Behind-Her-Dwelling gruffly, “to speak with him about his daughters.   When Pacing Wolf bargained for their older sister, he agreed to buy them also as they came into womanhood.   Pretty Crow Woman did so last summer.”

          Small Doe's stomach sank and thorny weeds began pricking her well-tended heart.   They damaged the tender shoots she'd so carefully nourished and burst into seed before she thought to dislodge them.  

          “He seeks another wife?” she murmured, more to herself than her aged friend:   “Do I so displease him?”   She was sure of the answer already:   his eyes had turned from keen to flinty before he strode away.   They contrasted sharply with another pair that sprang vividly into her mind.   She could almost feel the warmth in their caress as his cousin had pulled her closer.   If I belonged to Goes-to-Battle, he wouldn't cast me off so lightly!

           Startled by the faithlessness of her own imaginings, Small Doe became aware that Kills-Behind-Her-Dwelling was trying to tell her something.   “You mistake what I am saying, little fawn.   Pacing Wolf does not go to claim her.   He tells Mark-His-Face what she has done and threatens what will happen if she harms you again.”

          “The girl who dunked me?   She is his dead woman's sister?”

          “Yes,” the old one answered, “both of those girls were—but that was no playful dunking.   Among-the-Pines may have thought so, but Jackrabbit's two daughters—you must be wary of them.”

          “You think they meant me harm?” she asked, putting her fingers to the tender swelling.

          “Perhaps, perhaps not,” shrugged Kills-Behind-Her-Dwelling, “but if they found your body floating toward the Echata, they would shed no tears.   The older one covets your place.   With you to warm his bed, Pacing Wolf will make her wait--perhaps so many summers that she grows eager for another warrior.   Let us hope so.   If she begins to cast her eyes about, what can Marks-His-Face say—Pacing Wolf is no longer young and foolish.   But even if she is determined to have him, she will not find his lodge to her liking.   As head wife you hold her fate and those of her younger sister and mother in your hands.”

          The thought of life with Jack Rabbit and her daughters made Small Doe feel ill.   She also felt ashamed.   She had vastly misjudged her husband and been swift to disregard the very qualities in him for which she'd recently given God thanks.   Eagerly tearing at the prickly roots, she asked the Creator to restore her clean and faithful heart.

          “You have nothing to fear,” offered Kills-Behind-Her-Dwelling, misreading Small Doe's expression.   “Mark-His-Face will keep them away from you.   He was walking before I became a woman and knows he soon travels to the Mystery Land .   If he angers Pacing Wolf, who will care for them?   He has no sons.   But Pacing Wolf must prod him softly:   when old Hair-Up-Top rests his white head, Short-Neck, Marks-His-Face's cousin, bends down to see if he is still breathing.

          “You are new to our people and do not know our ways.   When one leader dies, the Good Men choose another to follow—usually for the kinds and numbers of coup he has counted.   When old Hair-Up-Top passes, Hunts-for-Death will lead the Many Lodges, then either he or Marks-His-Face will also become our people's Real Chief.   Only Pacing Wolf and Short-Neck have counted enough coup to lead our clan.   Most want Pacing Wolf.   He is young, but has always cared for the needs of our people.   Many believe this is why the spirits keep him alive each year.   Every summer he accepts one of the Lumpwoods' death-staffs; and every autumn he returns to us whole.   Some prefer to follow Short-Neck because he is older—but he owns a cruel temper.”

          “What is a death-staff?”

          The old woman sighed inwardly, wondering once more how Small Doe had grown up so ignorant.   “That is one, up there,” she answered, pointing to a crooked staff hanging beside Pacing Wolf's pipe.   Small Doe had been curious about it early on; it's curling peels of willow bark brought to mind the ribbons on Corn-Tassels' bonnets, but whenever Pacing Wolf entered his dwelling all else faded quickly from her mind.   As the moons came and went, she'd ceased to give it thought.

          “Very soon—when the sap begins to run and the grass turns green—each war society will cut limbs or saplings to bear their standards into battle.   The Lumpwoods will also cut four long rods to make into these staffs.   Two warriors, chosen for valor, will each take one and bend it so the top curves over toward the ground.   Hunts-for-Death made that one.   They leave the other two rods straight, like the ones there, above your door flap.”

          Small Doe had seen these straight ones pinning together the covers of numerous Lumpwood lodges, but she'd mistaken them for the society's symbol.   “Do they serve a purpose?”

          “Yes,” Kills-Behind-Her-Dwelling nodded, “a very great purpose.   When the enemy charges, all warriors with staffs leap from their horses and thrust them into the ground.   They make their stand, fighting between these and the enemy, and welcome death rather than retreating.   Only when another Lumpwood yanks it up may the staff-bearer flee to safety.   The Foxes do the same.   The Muddy Hands and Big Dogs use ropes.”

          As she considered how many stands her husband had survived and others he might soon risk, Small Doe again grew queasy.   The grass had already begun to green.   “How do they decide who must take them?”

          “The Lumpwoods will all gather in Hunts-for-Death's lodge—he is a great war-leader.   When he has filled and lit his pipe, he will offer it to a warrior he particularly admires.”

          “Must that warrior smoke it?”   Small Doe knew Hunts-for-Death regarded her husband highly.

          “No, and no one takes the honor lightly.   If the warrior is not ready to die, perhaps because he feels his medicine is weak—or he wishes to enjoy his new wife—he will hang his head low.   This tells Hunts-for-Death not to see him and he bears no disgrace.   But if the warrior is ready to give his life for his people, he will leap up, give his war cry, and smoke the pipe.   Hunts-for-Death will then offer it to another until he finds four who are willing, and afterward charge them with their duties.   The first two receive the crooked staffs and the last two the straight ones.   He has offered Pacing Wolf a staff four times, and each time Pacing Wolf has accepted the honor.   Count his staffs—he has two crooked and two straight.”

          Hearing the last, Small Doe felt worse and began praying inwardly that he would hang his head.   “You said Pacing Wolf must be careful with Marks-His-Face.   The man is neither Lumpwood, nor of your clan.   How can he harm Pacing Wolf?

          “It is not just Pacing Wolf he will harm, but the whole clan.   He leads the Kicked-in-the-Bellies, so his voice sways many.   When Pacing Wolf was married to his daughter,” the old one lifted her shoulders rather than complete her thought, “but now if he breaks faith, Marks-His-Face may use his influence in favor of Short-Neck.”

          War cries interrupted any further explanation, and pounding hooves followed.   Fearing the worst, Kills-Behind-Her-Dwelling grabbed a weapon while Small Doe slipped into the dress she'd been mending.   When they peered outside, they saw a party of Lumpwood soldiers rushing toward a blue-coated long-knife that had ridden over the ridge.   Pacing Wolf was among them.   A second long-knife trailed the first closely, but the bright sun showed clearly that neither brandished weapons.  

          I know this man, thought Small Doe, staring at the first.   His cap obscured his features, but she recognized the way he sat his mount.   All at once, she started running toward the middle of the camp, knowing they'd escort him there, and prayed they wouldn't deem him a threat.   Her heart thumped while she shielded her eyes, straining to see while the Lumpwoods engulfed him, but to her great relief the party swiftly wheeled and raced toward the area where she stood waiting.

          Watching his approach, she could barely contain her excitement; but as he rode by, she thought she'd been mistaken.   His eyes flitted through her without a hint of recognition.   Trailing his progress to the large central dwelling, she spied Hair-Up-Top emerge and pull himself up to full height.   When the long-knife dismounted to greet him, however, the gathering warriors swallowed both up.   Not until she dodged clear of a Lumpwood on horseback could she catch another glimpse.   The throng about her parted as the rider weaved passed, clearing up her doubts along with her view.   Just ahead of her, the long-knife removed cap and ran a glove through his flattened hair.   It was damp with sweat from the arduous journey, and slightly dulled by scattered gray, but the brilliant sun, high in the sky, showed it unmistakably tinged with auburn.  

For You, O Lord, do I wait.   It is You, O Lord my God, who will answer.   For I pray:   “Only let them not rejoice over me who boast against me when my foot slips.”

Psalm 38: 15-16

Edward S. Curtis, North American Indians, Vol. 4., p. 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

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