Savage Illusions - Page 68

Keeping the blan­ket aro­und her sho­ul­ders, clas­ping it to­get­her with a hand, Jole­na went to the en­t­ran­ce flap and pe­ered out­si­de, di­sap­po­in­ted that the per­son she had se­en ten­ding to the fi­re was not her fat­her at all. Fo­ur Be­ars, a han­d­so­me, mid­dle

-aged Blac­k­fo­ot, tur­ned Jole­na's way and nod­ded a grim and si­lent hel­lo, then sa­un­te­red off in­to the night to­ward his own te­pee, whe­re his wi­fe and da­ug­h­ter wa­ited for him.

Sighing, Jole­na de­ci­ded to wa­it out­si­de for a whi­le lon­ger to see if her fat­her's si­len­ce might me­an that he was pla­cing his sad­ness for a son be­hind him to jo­in a da­ug­h­ter who was very much ali­ve.

The night bre­eze car­ri­ed a chill, but the blan­ket lent warmth to Jole­na's sho­ul­ders. She lo­oked he­aven­ward and wat­c­hed the play of stars in the vel­vety black sky. She co­uld ma­ke out the big and lit­tle dip­per and ot­her con­s­tel­la­ti­ons, es­pe­ci­al­ly that which the Blac­k­fo­ot cal­led The Se­ven Per­sons, the con­s­tel­la­ti­on of the Gre­at Be­ar. To­night it se­emed over­po­we­ringly bright, as if it we­re an omen.

''Daughter?" Brown Elk sa­id as he ca­me to Jole­na out of the dar­k­ness, his fa­ce still pa­in­ted black with mo­ur­ning. "You wa­it for yo­ur fat­her in the cold?" He ca­me to her and pla­ced a hand to her el­bow, us­he­ring her away from Spot­ted Eag­le's dwel­ling to his own.

Jolena ex­pec­ted to find his te­pee cold and wit­ho­ut the frag­ran­ce of fo­od, but so­me­one had kept the fi­re bur­ning and had ma­de su­re fo­od awa­ited his re­turn from his long ho­urs of mo­ur­ning. She ex­pec­ted the one who was so tho­ug­h­t­ful and kind was Mo­on Flo­wer. Her kin­d­ness was spre­ad aro­und, it se­emed, to ever­yo­ne who ne­eded it. Even whi­le she mo­ur­ned for Two Rid­ges, she was put­ting her fe­elings se­cond to ot­hers who mo­ur­ned even mo­re de­eply.

Brown Elk nod­ded to­ward his co­uch, which was cus­hi­oned with many plush furs. "Sit," he sa­id, hel­ping her down on­to it. "We will talk af­ter I re­mo­ve the mo­ur­ning pa­int from my fa­ce."

"You must be star­ved," Jole­na sa­id, wat­c­hing him as he po­ured wa­ter from a jug in­to a wo­oden ba­sin, then be­gan splas­hing his fa­ce with the wa­ter. "The stew smells de­li­ci­o­us. Whi­le you wash yo­ur fa­ce, I will dip so­me stew in­to a bowl."

"Dip stew in­to two bowls," Brown Elk sa­id, scrub­bing his fa­ce with his hands, wat­c­hing the wa­ter turn black with the dis­car­ded pa­int. "Am I right to think you ha­ve not eaten eno­ugh to ke­ep yo­ur strength? Yo­ur he­art is tro­ub­led too much to enj­oy the tas­te of fo­od on yo­ur ton­gue?"

"Yes, so­met­hing li­ke that," Jole­na sa­id, mar­ve­ling over how he co­uld me­asu­re her mo­od so well. She lad­led stew in­to two bowls and set them asi­de un­til he ca­me and sat down be­si­de her.

She didn't he­si­ta­te to eat on­ce he be­gan, not ha­ving re­ali­zed that she was so hungry un­til she got that first bi­te bet­we­en her lips. She ate ra­ve­no­usly, then set her bowl asi­de as he scra­ped the last mor­sel of car­rot from his bowl with his fin­gers.

Brown Elk then set his bowl asi­de and tur­ned his dark eyes to Jole­na. "It is writ­ten on yo­ur fa­ce that too much wor­ri­es you," he sa­id. He pla­ced a gen­t­le hand to her sho­ul­der. "Do not fret over yo­ur whi­te brot­her. Spot­ted Eag­le will re­turn him to you. And do not worry over Spot­ted Eag­le. He is bra­ve but ca­uti­o­us, and he has strong me­di­ci­ne. So­me say that he is re­la­ted to the ghosts and that they help him."

"Truly?" Jole­na sa­id, her eyes wi­de.

Brown Elk drop­ped his hand to his lap. "You see, my da­ug­h­ter?" he sa­id, chuc­k­ling. "This wi­ze­ned old man knows what to say to draw a da­ug­h­ter out of her­self." His eyes twin­k­led in­to hers. "The me­re men­ti­on of Spot­ted Eag­le did not do it, but the won­der of what I sa­id abo­ut him is what hel­ped draw yo­ur tho­ughts away from that which tor­ments you."

"Do pe­op­le truly say that he is re­la­ted to ghosts and that they help him?" Jole­na as­ked, her eyes still fil­led with won­der.

"Perhaps," Brown Elk sa­id, shrug­ging. "It was just so­met­hing that ca­me to me that I tho­ught might draw yo­ur at­ten­ti­on. it wor­ked, did it not?"

Jolena la­ug­hed softly, now re­ali­zing that what he sa­id was not at all true, but it had se­emed so­met­hing that might be. Spot­ted Eag­le se­emed the sort to be ab­le to do an­y­t­hing and to be an­y­t­hing he de­si­red.

"Yes, it wor­ked," she mur­mu­red. "And I ap­pre­ci­ate it. I am con­cer­ned over Spot­ted Eag­le and my brot­her's wel­fa­re. Both are pre­ci­o­us to me."

"Then I was right ear­li­er to as­su­me yo­ur fe­elings for Spot­ted Eag­le are tho­se that a wo­man fe­els for a man when she wis­hes to spe­ak vows of fo­re­ver with him?" Brown Elk sa­id, le­aning over to push anot­her limb in­to the flesh-war­ming fi­re.

"Yes, I ha­ve many won­der­ful fe­elings for Spot­ted Eag­le," Jole­na sa­id, fin­ding it easy to talk with this man who un­til a few days ago had be­en a stran­ger to her. She was so glad that the Blac­k­fo­ot of this vil­la­ge had as­so­ci­ated eno­ugh with whi­te pe­op­le that they co­uld spe­ak her lan­gu­age. If not, she wo­uld ha­ve felt li­ke a stran­ger in a fo­re­ign co­untry!

"And I ap­pro­ve," Brown Elk sa­id, set­tling back down on­to his co­uch aga­in. He fol­ded his arms com­for­tably ac­ross his chest. "He ne­ed not pay me a lar­ge bri­de pri­ce for you, for I can see that he al­re­ady has you loc­ked wit­hin his he­art, as he is loc­ked wit­hin yo­urs."

Jolena mo­ved from the co­uch on­to to her kne­es be­fo­re Brown Elk. "Fat­her, it is so stran­ge how it hap­pe­ned," she mur­mu­red, her eyes spar­k­ling in­to his. "I saw Spot­ted Eag­le in my dre­ams be­fo­re I ever met him fa­ce to fa­ce! When I told Spot­ted Eag­le this, he ex­p­la­ined the im­por­tan­ce of dre­ams to the Blac­k­fo­ot. I fe­el so bles­sed, Fat­her, to be Blac­k­fo­ot and to be he­re to le­arn ever­y­t­hing that a Blac­k­fo­ot wo­man sho­uld know."

"You will le­arn easily," Brown Elk sa­id, smi­ling at her. "Alre­ady you know much."

"And how do you fe­el abo­ut my dre­ams?" Jole­na sa­id an­xi­o­usly. "And that they for the most part co­me true?"

Brown Elk fra­med her de­li­ca­te, cop­per fa­ce bet­we­en his hands. "I, too, am gif­ted with dre­aming," he sa­id, his vo­ice low and com­for­ting. "You see, my da­ug­h­ter, I dre­amed of you of­ten be­fo­re you ca­me to me in the flesh."

"You did?" Jole­na sa­id, gas­ping. "Truly you did?" "It is true that I did," Brown Elk sa­id. "But you see, my da­ug­h­ter, un­til you ca­me to the vil­la­ge and sho­wed yo­ur­self to me, when I dre­amed of you I tho­ught the dre­ams we­re of yo­ur mot­her! Now I know they we­re, in truth, of you!"

He drew her to him and crad­led her clo­se. "This fat­her mis­sed you," he sa­id, his vo­ice bre­aking. "You are so li­ke yo­ur mot­her, my be­a­uti­ful bri­de, my re­ason for bre­at­hing. But you are re­al and de­ar to me, fo­re­ver­mo­re, Ni-tun, as my da­ug­h­ter. Yo­ur mot­her is just a swe­et me­mory that I ha­ve tuc­ked away now in­si­de my he­art."

"Would you mind ter­ribly tel­ling me abo­ut my mot­her?" Jole­na as­ked, easing from his arms. "If you wo­uld rat­her not, I wo­uld un­der­s­tand. You ha­ve just a short whi­le ago left yo­ur pla­ce of mo­ur­ning, whe­re you mo­ur­ned a son. I wo­uld un­der­s­tand if it is too so­on to talk of so­me­one el­se for whom you ha­ve sung yo­ur mo­ur­ning songs."

"It wo­uld ple­ase me to ac­qu­a­int you with yo­ur mot­her," Brown Elk sa­id, his vo­ice tra­iling off in­to si­len­ce as he ga­zed in­to the fla­mes of the fi­re.

Jolena crept back on­to her co­uch, fe­eling aw­k­ward in this si­len­ce. She sto­le a glan­ce at her fat­her's fa­ce and no­ti­ced aga­in its tex­tu­re, then no­ti­ced so­met­hing new sin­ce he had lost a son­t­he sag­ging lo­wer lids of his le­vel, as­su­red eyes. Yet not­hing had chan­ged abo­ut his un­com­p­ro­mi­sing, self-wil­led mo­uth.

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