Savage Illusions

She lo­we­red her eyes and swal­lo­wed hard. "Spot­ted Eag­le saw my re­sem­b­lan­ce to my mot­her and ex­p­la­ined ever­y­t­hing to me," she sa­id softly, then ra­ised her eyes aga­in slowly. "Only then did I know that I was Blac­k­fo­ot and that my fat­her was Brown Elk."

Chief Gray Be­ar for­ked an eyeb­row. "You know my son?" he sa­id. He lo­oked past her, then in­to her eyes aga­in. "I do not see him he­re. He did not ac­com­pany you

he­re, to in­t­ro­du­ce you to yo­ur true pe­op­le?"

Jolena cast her Blac­k­fo­ot fat­her a tro­ub­led glan­ce, se­eking as­sis­tan­ce in ex­p­la­ining to a fat­her that his son might be de­ad!

Brown Elk drew her clo­ser to his si­de, gi­ving her the com­fort that she was se­eking. He ex­p­la­ined to Gray Be­ar what had hap­pe­ned, tho­ugh he fo­und it hard to ex­p­la­in away his own son's ab­sen­ce sin­ce he sho­uld ha­ve ar­ri­ved back at the vil­la­ge by now.

Chief Gray Be­ar le­aned mo­re he­avily in­to his ca­ne, the gri­ef and con­cern thick in his eyes and his vo­ice as he spo­ke. "We will not be­gin mo­ur­ning my son un­til his body has be­en bro­ught to his pe­op­le as pro­of of his de­ath," he sa­id. "I will send many war­ri­ors to se­arch for both our sons. I will spe­ak to the fi­res of the sun to bring them ho­me sa­fely to us."

Then Chi­ef Gray Be­ar ra­ised a hand in the air and mo­ti­oned for his pe­op­le to co­me forth. Ever­yo­ne obe­yed and ca­me and sto­od qu­i­etly be­hind Jole­na and Brown Elk. Brown Elk ur­ged her aro­und to fa­ce them, as Chi­ef Gray Be­ar ad­dres­sed them.

"One of our pe­op­le has re­tur­ned to us!" Chi­ef Gray Be­ar sho­uted, as best his vo­ice wo­uld carry in his we­ake­ned sta­te of he­alth. "Lo­ok upon her! You will see Swe­et Do­ve in her fe­atu­res! She is the da­ug­h­ter of Brown Elk and Swe­et Do­ve! She has co­me ho­me to us!"

Now Jole­na un­der­s­to­od why so many of the wo­men had fled for shel­ter in­si­de the­ir te­pe­es when they had got­ten a bet­ter lo­ok at her. The ol­der wo­men re­mem­be­red Swe­et Do­ve as tho­ugh she we­re ali­ve only yes­ter­day!

They su­rely tho­ught she had ri­sen from the de­ad!

Now that Jole­na's true iden­tity had be­en ex­p­la­ined to them, they all ca­me to her in clus­ters, so­me smi­ling, so­me to­uc­hing, so­me hug­ging.

Chief Gray Be­ar ca­me to Jole­na and him­self em­b­ra­ced her. "The­re sho­uld be a gre­at fe­ast to ce­leb­ra­te yo­ur re­turn to us," he sa­id, step­ping away from her. His eyes we­re ha­un­tingly dark as he pe­ered down at her. "But you un­der­s­tand that whi­le my son is mis­sing the­re can be no ce­leb­ra­ti­on?"

"Yes, I un­der­s­tand," she mur­mu­red, de­ep wit­hin her­self wis­hing that she co­uld tell him that she un­der­s­to­od mo­re than he re­ali­zed. She wan­ted to sha­re her fe­elings with this el­derly, ailing man, abo­ut a son whom he ap­pa­rently ido­li­zed. She wan­ted to tell Chi­ef Gray Be­ar that she lo­ved him as much!

But she knew that this was not the ti­me­even that the ti­me might ne­ver be af­for­ded her.

If Spot­ted Eag­le we­re truly de­ad, the­ir fe­elings for one anot­her wo­uld be kept a sec­ret, sto­red sa­fely wit­hin the soft con­fi­nes of Jole­na's he­art, to enj­oy on tho­se nights when she al­lo­wed her­self to clo­se her eyes and pre­tend he was the­re with her aga­in.

"Let us go in­si­de my dwel­ling," Brown Elk sa­id, aga­in pla­cing a pro­tec­ti­ve arm aro­und Jole­na's wa­ist and whis­king her away from the ot­hers. "The­re you will eat and be gi­ven clot­hes of our pe­op­le."

Only for an in­s­tant did Jole­na think abo­ut the fat­her who had ra­ised and no­uris­hed her. The won­der of be­ing with her true fat­her was was­hing all tho­ughts of her past li­fe slowly away.

"That so­unds won­der­ful," Jole­na sa­id, smi­ling at him. Over her sho­ul­der she wat­c­hed se­ve­ral war­ri­ors mo­unt the­ir pro­ud ste­eds and ri­de away. Her smi­le wa­ned, kno­wing whe­re they we­re go­ing.

She clo­sed her eyes and ga­ve a si­lent pra­yer that Two Rid­ges had be­en lying abo­ut Spot­ted Eag­le and that he wo­uld be fo­und ali­ve and well.

"White wo­man's at­ti­re sho­uld ha­ve ne­ver clot­hed you," sa­id Brown Elk, his vo­ice bre­aking. "Ne­ver shall it aga­in."

The hurt in her fat­her's vo­ice drew Jole­na's tho­ughts back to him. At this mo­ment, he de­ser­ved her full at­ten­ti­on and de­vo­ti­on. He had be­en de­ni­ed the­se things for far too long.

She fol­lo­wed him in­si­de his te­pee, whe­re she be­gan to ab­sorb ever­y­t­hing as tho­ugh her mind we­re a spon­ge, wan­ting to qu­ickly le­arn ever­y­t­hing that had be­en de­ni­ed her, to ma­ke up for lost ti­me.

She al­re­ady felt de­ep in­si­de her so­ul that this was whe­re she be­lon­ged!

Oh, but if only Spot­ted Eag­le co­uld ha­ve be­en a part of this dis­co­very of her­self as she was truly me­ant to be!

Knowing that if she la­bo­red over tho­ughts of Spot­ted Eag­le much lon­ger, she wo­uld not be ab­le to ke­ep from we­eping, she held her chin pro­udly high as her fat­her hel­ped her down on­to a co­uch sof­te­ned with a cus­hi­on of buf­fa­lo ro­bes be­si­de the fi­re in the fi­re­pit.

As Brown Elk pla­ced mo­re wo­od on the fi­re, Jole­na ga­zed aro­und her aga­in. The in­si­de walls of the te­pee we­re ma­de of brightly pa­in­ted cow­hi­de, re­ac­hing from the gro­und to a he­ight of fi­ve or six fe­et. The pa­in­tings por­t­ra­yed the va­ri­o­us bat­tles and ad­ven­tu­res in which her fat­her had ta­ken part. An air spa­ce abo­ut two or three in­c­hes thick had be­en left bet­we­en the in­ner li­ning and the lod­ge co­ve­ring. The air rus­hing up thro­ugh it from the out­si­de ma­de a draft which aided the lar­ge flap at the top to free the lod­ge of smo­ke.

Three co­uc­hes we­re po­si­ti­oned aro­und the fi­re. At the fo­ot and he­ad of every co­uch, a mat ma­de of stra­ight, pe­eled wil­low twigs, fas­te­ned si­de by si­de, was sus­pen­ded on a tri­pod so that bet­we­en the co­uc­hes spa­ces we­re left as con­ve­ni­ent pla­ces to sto­re ar­tic­les which we­re not in use.

The earth flo­oring of the lod­ge had be­en swept fan­tas­ti­cal­ly cle­an, and do­mes­tic pa­rap­her­na­li­aworn, gray mil­lsto­nes, go­urds, bas­kets, and clay pot­s­sat ne­atly in pla­ce along the walls.

Jolena's eyes we­re drawn to an ex­hi­bit of war­ring at­ti­re and we­apons, which was most im­p­res­si­ve as the fi­re cast its dan­cing sha­dows upon the bows and ar­rows, the lan­ces de­co­ra­ted with many co­lor­ful fe­at­hers, and the rif­les with the­ir shi­ning bar­rels.

She lo­oked for signs of wo­men's at­ti­re or ne­ed­le­work, se­e­ing not­hing of the kind, which had to me­an that her fat­her no lon­ger had a wi­fe.