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Savage Illusions

Page 61

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He tur­ned back to Jole­na and pla­ced his hands at her wa­ist, slowly dra­wing her to him. "Had my war­ri­ors not ar­ri­ved when they did, the Cree wo­uld ha­ve sent anot­her ar­row in­to the air, and that one wo­uld ha­ve fo­und its true mark. I wo­uld ha­ve jo­ined Two Rid­ges on the long walk to the Sand Hills."

Jolena flung her­self in­to his arms. She clung tightly to him. "I co­uld hardly be­ar it when I tho­ught that you had di­ed," she sob­bed. "Two Rid­ges had al­most con­vin­ced me that you we­re de­ad. I didn't want to ac­cept what he sa­id as true. But the­re was no pro­of that you we­ren't. When I ren­de­red him un­con­s­ci­o­us I star­ted wor­king my way thro­ugh the fo­rest, but only half-he­ar­tedly, for wit­ho­ut you, not­hing se­emed im­por­tant to me an­y­mo­re."

"You sho­uld ne­ver al­low yo­ur­self to fe­el hol­low with des­pa­ir," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, stro­king her long, thick ha­ir. "I ma­de the sa­me mis­ta­ke when I tho­ught you we­re de­ad. And now do you see? Hai-yah! We des­pa­ired for na­ught. It was emo­ti­on was­ted! One must al­ways ha­ve fa­ith and ho­pe. Des­pa­ir is a wor­t­h­less emo­ti­on!"

"It is easy to con­demn such fe­elings," Jole­na sa­id, le­aning back, ga­zing up at him. "But when I tho­ught you we­re de­ad, I co­uld not help it. My world has be­co­me you. You are my li­femy every he­ar­t­be­at. Sho­uld you die, I wo­uld be only half ali­ve!"

He fra­med her fa­ce bet­we­en his hands and drew her lips to his. When he kis­sed her, it was not from hungry pas­si­on, but swe­et­ness and lig­h­t­ness, mat­c­hing the mo­od they both we­re fe­eling.

Remembering what her Blac­k­fo­ot fat­her had sa­id abo­ut ha­ving to pre­pa­re Two Rid­ges for bu­ri­al ma­de Jole­na draw away from Spot­ted Eag­le. She ga­zed up at him with wi­de, wo­eful eyes.

"Why sho­uld I be ex­pec­ted to pre­pa­re Two Rid­ges' body for bu­ri­al?" she as­ked, shi­ve­ring. "Spot­ted Eag­le, the tho­ught of do­ing that cur­d­les my blo­od. How co­uld I be ex­pec­ted to for­get how he tri­ed to ra­pe me? How?"

"There are ti­mes when one must put ot­her pe­op­le's fe­elings be­fo­re one's own," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, gently pla­cing a hand to her che­ek. "Now is such a ti­me for yo­ur Blac­k­fo­ot fat­her."

"But why sho­uld I?" Jole­na sa­id, mo­re in a whi­ne than she wis­hed it to so­und. "Two Rid­ges and I sha­red the sa­me blo­od, but that is all."

"And that is my fa­ult," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, tur­ning his fa­ce away from her to sta­re in­to the dan­cing fla­mes of the fi­re. "Had I be­en trut­h­ful with Two Rid­ges, he wo­uld not be de­ad now. He wo­uld be ce­leb­ra­ting ha­ving a sis­ter. You wo­uld sha­re that. Kno­wing that you we­re blo­od kin!"

"Why didn't you tell him?" Jole­na sa­id, mo­ving aro­und in front of him. She le­aned up on her kne­es, so that she co­uld lo­ok di­rectly in­to Spot­ted Eag­le's eyes. "Didn't you think that he wo­uld wel­co­me such news?"

"I am not su­re how he wo­uld ha­ve ac­cep­ted the truth, had it be­en told him," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id. "I be­li­eve that he had strong fe­elings of a man for a wo­man for you and ne­ver wo­uld ha­ve be­en ab­le to sort thro­ugh them and find tho­se me­ant only for a sis­ter."

He pa­used and lo­we­red his eyes, then lo­oked up at Jole­na aga­in. "My re­ason for not tel­ling him was a sel­fish one," he sa­id, his vo­ice bre­aking. "I did not want you to know that he was yo­ur brot­her, nor did I want him to know that you we­re his sis­ter, fe­aring that too much of yo­ur ti­me that I wan­ted to spend with you wo­uld be spent with yo­ur brot­her. He wo­uld ha­ve the an­s­wers to so many of the qu­es­ti­ons eating away at you. I wan­ted you all to myself for as long as I co­uld ha­ve you. And I was wrong. Will you for­gi­ve me?"

Jolena crept clo­ser to him and twi­ned her arms aro­und his neck. "Dar­ling, the­re is not­hing to for­gi­ve," she mur­mu­red. "The fact that you lo­ve me so much ma­kes my he­art sing."

She ga­ve him a soft kiss, then le­aned in­to his em­b­ra­ce. "The­re is much to be sad for," she mur­mu­red. "But al­so the­re is much to be happy for. We ha­ve fo­und such lo­ve, you and I. And I ha­ve fo­und my true pe­op­le, es­pe­ci­al­ly my fat­her. He is exactly what I tho­ught he wo­uld be. He is a kind, de­ar man. How sad that he has lost a son, af­ter dis­co­ve­ring he has a da­ug­h­ter!"

Her eyes wi­de­ned and she le­aned away from Spot­ted Eag­le aga­in. "The­re is just so much to ask, and to say," she blur­ted out. "I fe­el that my brot­her Kirk is still ali­ve. Will you send a se­arch party out to lo­ok for him? Ple­ase, will you?"

"Soon, my lo­ve," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id. "After ar­ran­ge­ments are ma­de in our vil­la­ge for Two Rid­ges. Then we will fo­cus our at­ten­ti­on on yo­ur ot­her brot­her."

"Thank you," she whis­pe­red, gi­ving him a gen­t­le hug.

Then she lo­oked up at him, her eyes wa­ve­ring, her in­si­des cold aga­in at the tho­ught of what her Blac­k­fo­ot fat­her was ex­pec­ting of her. "You did not say why I must pre­pa­re Two Rid­ges for bu­ri­al," she sa­id, her vo­ice shal­low. "Why must it be me? The­re are many ot­hers in yo­ur vil­la­ge who had mo­re res­pect for Two Rid­ges than I. How can I, the wo­man he tri­ed to ra­pe, be ex­pec­ted to be du­ti­ful to him?"

"No mat­ter what he did, he was yo­ur brot­her," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id. "It is the prac­ti­ce of the Blac­k­fo­ot that the next fe­ma­le re­la­ti­ve of the de­ce­ased pre­pa­re the one who has di­ed for bu­ri­al. You are the only li­ving fe­ma­le re­la­ti­ve. It is re­qu­ired of you to do this for yo­ur Blac­k­fo­ot fat­her."

Jolena shud­de­red. She drop­ped her ga­ze and slowly sho­ok her he­ad back and forth. "I don't think I can," she sa­id in an al­most whis­per.

Spotted Eag­le cup­ped her chin with one of his hands and ra­ised her eyes to his aga­in. "Yes, you can," he sa­id firmly. "For yo­ur true fat­her, you must."

"I don't think I can to­uch him! My fat­her will know that so­met­hing is wrong by my be­ha­vi­or."

"You must not al­low that to hap­pen," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, ta­king both her hands and dra­wing her clo­se to him. He im­p­lo­red her with his dark eyes. "We must ne­ver al­low yo­ur fat­her to know the ter­rib­le truth abo­ut his son. Can you not see why? Yo­ur fat­her might bla­me you for the cha­in of events that led his son to his de­ath! If not for you, Two Rid­ges wo­uld ha­ve not be­co­me so­me­one fo­re­ign to him­self! It is best not to gi­ve the old war­ri­or ca­use to re­sent his da­ug­h­ter! He de­ser­ves to ha­ve so­me ti­me of hap­pi­ness with a da­ug­h­ter he now knows is very much ali­ve, and he­re to lo­ve him."

"It's all so con­fu­sing," Jole­na sa­id, te­ars stre­aming from her eyes.

"There is so­met­hing el­se to con­si­der," Spot­ted Eag­le con­ti­nu­ed. "I do not want to gi­ve Brown Elk ca­use to do­ubt what I told him abo­ut how his son di­ed," he sa­id. "If so, I might be put to the test of truth-tel­ling. It is not go­od that a next chi­ef in li­ne be dis­ho­no­red in such a way.''

"What do you me­an?" Jole­na as­ked softly. "What sort of test wo­uld you be put thro­ugh?"

"It is a so­lemn form of af­fir­ma­ti­on, a sac?

?red ce­re­mony prac­ti­ced by our pe­op­le when so­me­one's word is in do­ubt," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, ri­sing. He be­gan slowly pa­cing back and forth, his arms fol­ded tightly ac­ross his chest. "If a man tells his com­pa­ni­ons so­me very im­p­ro­bab­le story, so­met­hing that they find hard to be­li­eve, and they want to test him to see if he is re­al­ly tel­ling the truth, a pi­pe is gi­ven to a me­di­ci­ne man. The me­di­ci­ne man pa­ints the stem red and prays over it, as­king that if the man's story is true he may ha­ve long li­fe, but if it is fal­se that his li­fe may end in a short ti­me." Spot­ted Eag­le pa­used, then ga­zed in­ten­sely down at Jole­na. "The pi­pe is then fil­led and lig­h­ted and pas­sed to this man who is do­ub­ted. The me­di­ci­ne man says to him, 'Accept this pi­pe, but re­mem­ber that, if you smo­ke, yo­ur story must be as su­re as the ho­le thro­ugh this stem. So yo­ur li­fe shall be long and you shall sur­vi­ve. But if you ha­ve spo­ken fal­sely, yo­ur days are co­un­ted.'

He knelt down be­fo­re Jole­na and pla­ced his hands on her sho­ul­ders. "This man may re­fu­se the pi­pe, sa­ying, 'I ha­ve told you the truth; it is use­less to smo­ke this pi­pe,'" he ex­p­la­ined softly. "But if he dec­li­nes to smo­ke, no one be­li­eves what he has sa­id and he is lo­oked upon as ha­ving li­ed. If, ho­we­ver, he ta­kes the pi­pe and smo­kes, ever­yo­ne be­li­eves him. It is the most so­lemn form of oath."



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