Savage Illusions

"Now let's not talk an­y­mo­re abo­ut it," he qu­ickly ad­ded. "Bre­ak­fast is wa­iting in the di­ning ro­om. Let's go and eat our fill. Es­pe­ci­al­ly you two yo­ung'uns. Who's to say what sort of fo­od you're go­ing to get on that ste­am­bo­at?"

Kirk la­id the rest of Jole­na's va­li­ses asi­de and went to his fat­her's cha­ir and to­ok over pus­hing it for him. He ga­ve Jole­na a ner­vo­us sta­re as she wal­ked on ahe­ad of the whe­el­c­ha­ir, a bo­un­ce in her steps this mor­ning that se­emed dif­fe­rent.

And he knew why.

Though she had not spo­ken abo­ut it, he knew that she was an­xi­o­us to see if she co­uld find which tri­be of In­di­ans was her own, and to see if she co­uld even find her true fat­her. Al­t­ho­ugh she was not go­ing to just out-and-out se­arch for the­se things of her past, he knew that it wo­uld be at the back of her mind day in and out, and that so­me­how she just might co­me upon the an­s­wers by chan­ce.

He fe­ared this cle­an to the co­re of him­self, for he knew what this wo­uld do to the­ir fat­her. It wo­uld de­vas­ta­te him, per­haps even kill him from the he­ar­tac­he of lo­sing her to anot­her. Lo­sing her to a man by ex­c­han­ged mar­ri­age vows was one thing. Lo­sing her to a man whom she wo­uld be cal­ling "fat­her" was anot­her.

Kirk had tri­ed his dam­n­dest to talk Jole­na out of go­ing on this ex­pe­di­ti­on with the ot­her le­pi­dop­te­rists, des­pi­te ha­ving be­co­me one her­self at the age of six­te­en be­ca­use of the­ir fat­her's te­ac­hings.

But she had vo­wed to her fat­her that she wo­uld find the elu­si­ve, ra­re but­terfly and bring it ho­me to him for his col­lec­ti­on.

No mat­ter how hard the­ir fat­her had de­ni­ed wan­ting to ha­ve the but­terfly, no mat­ter if de­ep wit­hin his he­art he wis­hed now that he had not ta­ught her the skills of his sci­en­ce­do­ing so ma­inly to fill the vo­id in his li­fe that his pa­ral­y­sis had ca­use­dJ­ole­na wo­uld not be con­vin­ced that this ra­re but­terfly was not still as im­por­tant to him as it had be­en tho­se many ye­ars ago when he had al­so tra­ve­led far to se­arch for it.

Jolena co­uld fe­el the stra­in bet­we­en her­self and her fat­her and brot­her. She knew she was the ca­use, yet she wo­uld not al­low an­y­t­hing to ru­in this won­der­ful­ly ex­ci­ting day for her. As each mo­ment pas­sed, her ex­ci­te­ment bu­ilt in le­aps and bo­unds.

She wal­ked smo­othly on down the long cor­ri­dor, whe­re do­ors ope­ned on each si­de of her in­to a ho?

?me en­c­han­ted by the play of the light from the chan­de­li­er in each ro­om.

Jolena mo­ved in­to the di­ning ro­om with eager steps. The walls we­re mel­low with flic­ke­ring light from the gre­at sto­ne fi­rep­la­ce along the far wall, the fur­ni­tu­re and glass and me­mo­ra­bi­lia in the spa­ci­o­us ro­om glin­ting in sun­s­hi­ne as it po­ured thro­ugh the row of win­dows op­po­si­te the fi­rep­la­ce.

She step­ped up to the tab­le and sto­od be­hind her cha­ir. She wa­ited to sit down af­ter Kirk ar­ri­ved and po­si­ti­oned the­ir fat­her's whe­el­c­ha­ir at the he­ad of the tab­le.

Placing her hands be­hind her, an­xi­o­usly clas­ping and un­c­las­ping them, she ga­zed aro­und her, kno­wing that when she be­ca­me ho­me­sick, she wo­uld re­mem­ber this ro­om best of all. It wasn't only a di­ning ro­om. The­re we­re al­so com­for­tably plush cha­irs and a so­fa that sat in a wi­de cir­c­le be­fo­re the fi­rep­la­ce. The ro­om was pa­in­ted a glossy bur­gundy, ma­king it a co­ol ret­re­at at lun­c­he­on and a warm ha­ven at night as the fa­mily nes­t­led aro­und the fi­re.

French do­ors ope­ned to a wi­de and spa­ci­o­us bal­cony that hung out over the high cliff that over­lo­oked the win­ding, muddy wa­ter of the Mis­sis­sip­pi. On a foggy day, the so­und of fog­horns waf­ted up­ward, myste­ri­o­us and be­a­uti­ful.

Today, Jole­na wo­uld be a part of the mystery, her he­art thril­ling anew at the tho­ught of tra­ve­ling so far on the ste­am­bo­at, her des­ti­na­ti­on one of in­t­ri­gue and ex­pec­ta­ti­ons that she co­uld not deny ma­de her he­art be­gin thum­ping, as tho­ugh drums in­si­de her we­re be­ating out a ste­ady rhythm.

Drums.

Indians.

The tho­ught of fi­nal­ly fin­ding at le­ast a part of her he­ri­ta­ge by be­ing ne­ar In­di­ans ca­used her to fe­el a stran­ge sort of he­adi­ness.

If only…

Her tho­ughts we­re in­ter­rup­ted by her fat­her's vo­ice. "Go and lay mo­re wo­od on the fi­re, Kirk," he sa­id, so­un­ding shal­low as he held his emo­ti­ons de­eply gu­ar­ded wit­hin him, tho­se sa­me emo­ti­ons that we­re the­re in his eyes every ti­me Jole­na lo­oked at him.

He now sat at the tab­le and was spre­ading a nap­kin ac­ross his lap. Torn with emo­ti­ons her­sel­fe­mo­ti­ons that bat­tled in­si­de her over this de­ci­si­on she had ma­de to le­ave the li­fe she had al­ways known to step in­to the un­k­now­nJ­ole­na si­lently pul­led her cha­ir out from the tab­le and sat down. She gin­gerly spre­ad her nap­kin ac­ross her lap as Kirk la­id two mo­re split wal­nut chunks aga­inst the bac­k­log of the fi­rep­la­ce.

Avoiding her fat­her's ste­ady sta­re, which ma­de Jole­na fe­el gu­ilty aga­in for le­aving him, she wat­c­hed Kirk as he ca­me to the tab­le. She felt bles­sed to ha­ve such a brot­her. He was a highly in­tel­li­gent yo­ung man, who was set­ting asi­de his fu­tu­re for her, to be her es­cort. To­day he was ever so han­d­so­me in his blue cor­du­roy tro­users and whi­te li­nen shirt.

The one thing that was dis­t­rac­ting and so­mew­hat thre­ate­ning was the hol­s­te­red pe­arl-han­d­led pis­tol bel­ted at his wa­ist. It had be­en a gift from the­ir fat­her, for Kirk to carry with him du­ring the jo­ur­ney to and from the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory.

It ga­ve Jole­na a dri­ed-th­ro­at fe­eling to be­li­eve that her brot­her wo­uld ever ha­ve ne­ed of the pis­tol, yet she knew that the chan­ces we­re gre­ater than not that he wo­uld be for­ced to use it.

There we­re re­ports of In­di­an at­tacks and mas­sac­res in the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory.

Not even re­ali­zing that she had pic­ked up her fork and was to­ying with her plat­ter of scram­b­led eggs, her fat­her was a sud­den, lo­ud re­min­der.

"Stop pla­ying with yo­ur fo­od and eat, damn it," Bryce sa­id, frow­ning at Jole­na, prac­ti­cing his du­ti­es as a fat­her for as long as he was al­lo­wed to.

Jolena smi­led we­akly over at him and nod­ded. "Yes, fat­her," she mur­mu­red. "I… I was just lost in tho­ught. Wit­hin the next ho­ur I shall be bo­ar­ding the ste­amer. I can't help but be ex­ci­ted."

Bryce ga­ve her anot­her lin­ge­ring, un­ner­ving sta­re, then swal­lo­wed hard and lo­oked down at his un­to­uc­hed eggs. He so fe­ared lo­sing Jole­na on­ce she en­te­red the land of her an­ces­tors. If she ca­me fa­ce to fa­ce with her true fat­her and pe­op­le, she might want to stay with them and be­co­me one of the­mo­ne with them.