Wild Splendor

twined together.

Joined lips forgot how the shadows fall when the

day is done,

And when love is not.

—ERNEST DOWSON

The moon was hidden behind dark clouds, and in the distance lightning forked in lurid streaks across the heavens. Sage held Leonida’s hand as they stood on a butte above the Navaho camp. Below them in thick, visible shadow, people moved, horses stamped, and smoke rose from tiny fires.

“Why does one’s life have to be so fraught with pain?” Sage said, his voice hollow. “From birth, the struggle begins with one’s emotions. Is there anyone, anywhere, who has not been beset with personal tragedies over and over again? There is not one among my people. That is the truth.” He turned his dark eyes to Leonida. “Is it this way for the white people also? Are their daily struggles as deeply felt as the Navaho’s?”

Leonida moved into his embrace and hugged him. “My darling, I can only speak for myself, and yes, I feel my losses deeply,” she murmured. “First my mother died, and then my father. It was not easy to accept that lot in life, that of being alone, without parents to love and to confide in.”

She leaned away from him and gazed up at him. “You changed so much for me,” she said softly. “You gave me new purpose in life. I don’t feel alone anymore. My darling, let me help you with this pain . . . with this emptiness that you are now feeling. There is no need for either of us ever to be lonely again. And as for your sister’s death, yes, it is a tragedy. But the pain will lessen as each day passes. It is with a voice of experience that I speak.”

“My woman, you speak with much wisdom and feelings,” he said. “It is good that I have found such a woman to be my wife. You see, it is not only my sister’s death that lies heavy on my heart. It is everything—this escape to a new land, the abduction of Kit Carson, and the fact that I have to bury my sister far from land that she has known since childhood.”

He turned and gazed down at his camp again. “I feel as though I am a child again, with the unsure future of an Indian, all Indians,” he said solemnly. “Although I am a chief, my powers are few. One by one they have been taken from me. Even now, while my sister awaits her burial ceremony at sunrise tomorrow, I feel perhaps even less than a man.”

Leonida paled and gasped. She gazed up at him, his tortured voice paining her as though someone were sticking knives into her heart. She suddenly felt so helpless. How could she reach beyond his anguish and bring him back to her?

Seeing this defeated side of him frightened her. The only way she knew of making him forget his troubles was making love to him, and now did not seem the time to do this. Lovemaking at this time might even be sacrilegious in the eyes of the Navaho.

Sage turned to her. “Let us return to our dwelling,” he said, taking her hand. “It has been long since I last ate. Even if I have no way to feed my soul at this time, at least my body can take nourishment.”

Leonida stood on tiptoe and brushed a kiss across his lips. “Tomorrow will be hard, but after that, let us look forward, to our future, and all that we will be sharing,” she said, beseeching him with wide, imploring eyes. “There is much to look forward to, my love. Your new village, and . . . and perhaps even a child? Would not that be grand, Sage? To have a child that we truly could call our own?”

Sage did not answer her right away. He gazed down at her with a lifeless expression

, then placed one of her hands over his heart. “It is with every heartbeat that I wish for a child in your image,” he said. “Yet I do not see it as wise at this time. As you have seen, so much stands in the way of our happiness. It is not good to bring a child into this world of questionable future. Runner will be our child. Is he not enough?”

Leonida was stunned to realize that he was not eagerly anticipating becoming a father. She had thought that all Indian warriors, especially chiefs, wished for a son to carry on their lineage. That Sage had actually accepted Runner as that son amazed her. Surely he said this because at this moment, in grieving over his sister, he was not thinking straight.

Although Leonida loved Runner with all her heart, she did not want her only child to be someone else’s.

Solemnly, she walked alongside Sage as they made their way down the hillside. Suddenly she felt empty. She placed a hand over her abdomen, shivering at the thought of her womb being barren forever.

Another thought came to her. She glanced over at Sage, wondering what he would do if she became pregnant anyhow? They had done nothing to prevent pregnancy. Possibly she could be pregnant even now. Surely if she was, he would not turn his back on the child. Perhaps a child born of their love might even save him from this destructive void that was reaching through him like a sore, spreading its venom from cell to cell, killing him slowly.

When they reached the campsite, Sage stopped and looked for a moment on Pure Blossom’s dwelling. It was circled outside by those who had loved her. Inside the singer was singing his dead song, a prayer to the soul of the dearly departed.

Sage wrenched his eyes away and walked quickly from Leonida and into their small dwelling. She stared after him for a moment, trying to understand why he was treating her this way. Grieving over a loved one made a person do many things that they regretted later. She knew that for a fact. She recalled not wanting anyone to get near her when her mother had passed away. Getting through the funeral had been the hardest thing in her life. It had seemed a social event for all of her parents’ friends and relatives. When they had gathered near the casket, where her mother lay so stone-white and cold, and chattered and laughed together, it had been more than she could bear. She had taken it upon herself to order everyone from the house, leaving her father aghast.

When her father had died, she had stood at the back of the room, controlling her urges to scold those who laughed, smoked, and talked over her father’s lifeless body. By then she was older and she had learned the art of restraint.

Putting herself in Sage’s place, Leonida hurried into the wigwam. She stopped and gasped. Sage was obviously just as stunned as she at what lay in a circle around the fire.

Then she thought back again about the food that had been brought to her parents’ house when her mother had died. Everyone had outdone themselves making the most delicious food ever for the grieving family. At the time she had felt that it was wrong to eat the food; she felt as though they were having a picnic at the expense of her mother. But her father had explained that it was traditional for friends, neighbors, and relatives to bring food to the family of the deceased, as away to give their condolences.

It seemed that the Navaho were practicing a white people’s tradition, for never had she seen such piles of food. Although their crops had been destroyed and their animals slain or abducted, the Navaho had taken from their stores of food that which they wanted to prepare for their chief and family. The smells were delectable as they wafted into her nostrils. Her stomach growled, and she could actually feel her mouth watering. Then she remembered how long it had been since she had eaten.

She glanced over at Sage. She knew that he had gone much longer without food than she had. He even looked pale and gaunt from hunger. She had to see to it that he took advantage of the generous offerings from his people.

“Would you look at the food?” she said, grabbing one of Sage’s hands and moving him toward it. She gazed up at him. “I’m starved. Aren’t you? I don’t think I can get a wink of sleep if I don’t eat something.”

Sage eyed the food, actually weak from having gone so long without eating. If he thought back, he could not really remember the last time he had taken nourishment.