Wild Rapture

But Echohawk did not see how anyone, ever, could take his wife’s place in his heart, nor the child that Fawn had been carrying within her womb at the time of her death. Because of her death, Echohawk had thought strongly of taking his own life, his grief was so intense, but had known that his father and his people needed him too much for such a cowardly act—and also because a suicide had no chance to enter into paradise.

“It is wise, my son, to move more closely to people that can be relied upon,” Gray Elk said, as though sensing his son’s doubts. “And trading will be profitable with the white people who frequent Fort Snelling. Echohawk, you can trade in beaver. As you have seen on our journey here, buffalo and deer abound in this region, and Silver Wing spoke of muskrat and marten that were as plentiful as mice.”

“Ay-uh, it will be good hunting and trading, Father,” Echohawk said, remembrances of his last hunt flooding him. Had it only been thirty sunsets ago when he had brought home a fat venison for his wife to cook? Had it only been thirty sunsets ago when he had watched her lovingly as she had sat across from him eating and laughing softly at his tales of the hunt? His gut ached with loneliness and despair, even now hearing the ring of her laughter and seeing the peace and love in her dark, beautiful eyes.

Gray Elk slipped his hand from Echohawk’s and patted his cheek gently. “Echohawk, it is soon the smoky time, when leaves put on their war paint and the war drums of the wind become louder,” he said, a quavering smile touching his lips. “It is time to place sadnesses from your heart and choose a woman to warm your bed. And must I remind you, my son, that you are the only son of your father and must sire a son yourself. My grandson, your son, will be the future defender of our people, whose lives will depend upon his courage and skills. If the child is a girl, she will be the future mother of a noble race.”

Gray Elk patted Echohawk’s cheek again, then lowered his trembling hand and slipped it beneath the warmth of the bear pelts. “For our people, place sadnesses of your loss from your mind and heart,” he softly encouraged. “That is the way it should be. It is for you to ensure the future of our band of Chippewa. Only you, my son. My time is soon over.”

Weary from the lengthy dialogue, Gray Elk exhaled a heavy sigh, then closed his eyes. “Gee-kee-bing-gwah-shee,” he said, barely audible. “My son, I am getting sleepy. I . . . must . . . sleep.”

Guilt spread through Echohawk like wildfire. His father, a man of fifty-seven winters, was recovering much too slowly from a bullet wound in his chest. It had been hard to listen to his father pour his heart and soul out to him without being torn with anger and guilt, Echohawk having failed at defending his people the day of the raid. The raiders had come too suddenly upon his people while so many of them were away from the village, burning off the pine needles from the ground to ensure against forest fires later. Echohawk had been among those setting and controlling the fires. By the time word had reached him of the massacre, the raiders had had a head start on him and his braves, and during the chase had slipped away like ghosts in the night.

Echohawk had returned to his injured wife just as she had spoken her last words to him. She had revealed to Echohawk that a white man with the eyes of a coward and the renegade Sioux White Wolf had led the attack. It was the man with the eyes of a coward that had fired the bullets that had felled both Fawn and Chief Gray Elk.

Echohawk brushed a kiss across his father’s brow, then rose to his full height, tears streaming down his cheeks. He doubled his hands to his sides in tight fists and looked up at the darkening heavens, vowing revenge.

But first he had his father’s wishes to fulfill. Then he would find the man with the eyes and heart of a coward. Also, one day he would come face-to-face with White Wolf. The renegade Sioux would not die an easy death.

“Vengeance will be mine!” he said beneath his breath, then turned his gaze back to his father when he awakened long enough to speak a few more words.

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Dutiful son that he was, Echohawk knelt down again beside his father. He leaned his ear close to his father’s lips, for his words were now no more than a whisper.

“May the Great Spirit watch over you, my son,” Gray Elk said, very aware of the despair and hurtful anger in the depths of his son’s dark eyes. “He will guide you in which way is best for our people once I am gone. Remember this, Echohawk. Hungering for vengeance is like a festering sore inside one’s heart. It will never heal.

“Peace, on the other hand, can give you comfort. Even as I lie here, a victim of hate and greed, I am at peace, for it was not I who initiated the raid which ended in many deaths and sorrows. Those that did are condemned forever to walk paths of darkness, their souls never to find peace. Practice restraint as taught to you as a child, and live in peace, my son. It is best for the future of our people.”

Echohawk flinched when his father again grasped his hand. “Echohawk, if you should die before you father a son, the future chief of our people, what then of our people?” he said, his voice filled with desperation. “Find a woman who will be the ‘flower of your wigwam.’ Have a son soon. At a very early age see that he assumes the task of preserving and transmitting the legends of his ancestors and his race.”

Echohawk was at a loss for words, not knowing how to cope with his father’s soft, tormented pleadings for a grandson. Echohawk did not see how he could ever desire another woman. His very soul even now cried out for Fawn, his beloved. He could still feel her softness within his arms. He could still hear how she so sweetly spoke his name. None other could be as sweet! As wonderful! How could he make such a promise that he felt he could not keep?

Yet he knew that what his father had said was true. The future of their people did depend on a succession of sons, and to have sons, one must have a wife.

But one’s heart must be ready for a wife! Echohawk despaired to himself.

“Go to nee-ban, sleep, Father,” Echohawk urged as he once again slipped his father’s hand beneath the warmth of the pelts. “Wah-bungh, tomorrow. We shall discuss wives and grandsons tomorrow.”

Gray Elk gazed up at Echohawk, the slowly rising moon casting enough light on his son to enable him to see him and his handsomeness, and be assured that here was a man who would not go wifeless for long. How could any woman resist such a tall and vigorous, good-looking man with sparkling dark eyes? How could any woman not notice Echohawk’s hair that was as thick and long, and as black as the raven’s wing, and his hard and proud mouth? And how could any woman not want to bear Echohawk a son, knowing that his offspring would have the same muscular strength, the same easy grace, and the same power of endurance as his father?

Echohawk arched an eyebrow when he saw a strange sort of peace pass over his father’s face as he closed his eyes, his features smoothing out as if he had just entered into a pleasant fantasy. As troubled as Echohawk was, he wished that he could join his father in the same sort of magical place, where all sadnesses are left behind.

But he realized all too well that many responsibilities awaited him.

Rising to his full height, he did not turn to look at his people. He quickly mounted his horse and began riding away in a slow canter, his father’s travois dragging behind him, knowing that soon everyone would follow.

Ay-uh, so much depended on him.

His people’s very existence.

Chapter 2

One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup. . . .

—Stevenson

One Year Later,—August 1825