The Savage Ones

"Jaynie." Her whisper woke me early the next day. It was Saturday, and unusual for Mamma to be up so early. "Wake up honey. Frank wants to see you."

"Why?" rubbing my eyes hurt, for the lids were swollen and puffy. Yesterday felt like a horrible dream, though I knew it was all too real. I had stayed home from school, alternating weeping and exhausted sleeping.

"Get dressed. Your clothes are by the fire after you wash."

"Yes Mamma."

I climbed down the ladder, blinking in the soft glow from the fireplace. My buckskin dress hung across the rocking chair, near a large bowl of water and a soft cloth. Edging closer, I ran my fingers over the cured hide, glancing sideways at my mother for confirmation. The bone ornaments clinked gently together, small sounds of music to my ears. Mamma moved around the kitchen, deliberately not looking my way, and I smiled a little. She would allow me to wear it, this day.

Stripping swiftly, I soaked the cotton in the water, scrubbing vigorously with it until my skin was tingling and wet. Finished, I attacked my hair, small rivers of water washing a trail across my scalp. Waiting to dry, I huddled near the flames, running my fingers through my hair, pulling it free of tangles, letting the waves of hot air swallow the moisture. My stomach ached a little, from sorrow and anxiety, uncertain what was going to happen.

Once dressed, Mamma merely nodded toward the door, not even asking me to brush my hair, and I understood at last. It was a day of grief, of farewell, a day of acceptance and release. This was my last day with my father.

"Ee'nah?"

"Go, sweetheart. Frank is waiting."

"You will not come, Ee'nah?"

"No. This day is for you." Her lips tightened a little, and I realized she did not mourn the death of Napayshni. It would be many years before I would understand how she felt, but that was the first time I knew that she had never loved my father. It did not hurt me, and I did not resent her for it, instead feeling a swell of pity for her rise inside me. Mamma had known Napayshni in a way that I never would, yet she had not known him as I had, had not seen him for the man he was. To her, he would forever be an Indian, a savage.

I found Frank outside waiting for me. Next to him was his pinto, and once I was up, he climbed up behind me. We rode bareback, leaving the yard behind us as he headed the pony into the light of the rising sun. It was a quiet morning, only the birds awake yet. The soft beat of the pony's hooves drummed a soothing rhythm into my heart, and the muscles I had not realized were stiff began to relax.

There was an unspoken agreement between Frank Colter and I, neither of us speaking as we travelled farther from home. The lush, open land of the prairie swallowed our passage, long grass waving gently in an unseen breeze. The scent of sage, dust, grass, and blooming flowers perfumed the air. Golden rays of sunlight touched the exposed skin of my cheeks, my neck, and arms, and closing my eyes I tilted my head back drinking it in. Though I had never performed a mourning ritual before, I recalled with clarity the way it was done. Death had been a part of life since before the oldest memories of my People.

As we rode along, my eyes drifted over the land that Frank had purchased, admiring the wide spaces, the gentle rolling hills, sparse trees, and herds of horses. His fortune had been bad, lightning strikes killing two herd stallions, bears and wolves feeding off free range stock, wild stallions slipping in and stealing mares. Replacing the stock was eating through his money and credit, and I wondered what other plans he had should a horse ranch fail. I saw our destination at last, a simple pole structure, loosely covered with buffalo skins, stood solitary at the top of a gentle knoll.

Sliding from the horse's back, I took a few steps toward the lodge, then glanced up at Frank. Dismounting, he ground hitched the pony and led the way inside, holding the flap open until I entered. The lodge was dark inside, hot, and I saw why, for Frank took a seat across from me, the smoldering embers of a fire heating large stones in the center of the tent. It was sparse inside, only a few blankets to pad us from the hard ground, and a full basket of water with a stack of firewood nearby. Lowering myself to my knees, my hands folded into my lap, a fresh wave of grief building inside my heart. Frank saw it, his gray eyes somber. Silently he reached behind him and pulled something from its sheath. I heard the scrape of it against leather, and my eyes widened.

"No blood, Butterfly." His words were quiet, but he did not hesitate in handing the long bladed hunting knife to me, our gazes locked. The tradition of my people was to cut themselves, wailing in sorrow, bleeding heavily for the one taken to the world of spirits. Frank's warning was not without merit, but he did not have to worry. I nodded, taking the heavy weapon from him, holding it tightly in my hand.

There would be no wailing here, no songs of grief, no pleas to the spirits to guide my father's path to the next world. His death had passed too long ago, and it would be rude and inappropriate to address such matters now. Yet, as his daughter, the only child of his blood, I could not let his passing from this world leave me untouched. Instead, I raised the knife, letting the blade catch the glow of the embers, the metal taking the appearance as something alive in the flicker of flames.

"Ah'day-wa-yea kee, meesh'ay-hay kee-ksue'yea nee-yea.(Father, I remember you)" Speaking softly, I pulled a lock of hair out in front of me, and using the keen edge of the knife, cut it off.

"Father, in life you soared with eagles, ran with wolves, your heart courageous like the mighty bear. I remember you." Another section of hair fell, joining the first.

"Your foot stayed on the path of honor, your eyes clear and bright, you fought for the way of your people. I remember you." Frank's eyes followed the strands of hair as they drifted to the ground, but betrayed nothing. The fire was kept hot, logs being added every time one burned through. Occasionally Frank would pour a ladleful of water over the flames, venting steam into the confines of the tent. My voice did not waver as I chanted softly of Napayshni, recalling his acts of bravery, and love. With each statement, I sheared another section of hair from my head, until at last they were gone. Putting the knife down, I gathered the loose strands, bunching them tightly together, and wrapping them with a small section of twine. Offering it to the sky, I tried to keep all emotion from my face.

"Great warrior, Napayshni, hear my words, remember your daughter. I give you this gift, an offering, that you may look down on me with favor, and when my time comes, that you not forget your child, the daughter of your blood. In life, you were respected, and in death the memory of your greatness will live on in my heart. I remember you." Closing my eyes, I let the bundle of hair drop from my hands. It fell into the flames with a hiss and as I watched it burn, the acrid scent of burning hair stinging my eyes, I let the last tears I would ever cry for my papa fall. Through the thick gray smoke, Frank's eyes bored into mine.

"May he find peace," was all he said.

From behind the water basket he pulled a dried bunch of sage, and gently tossed it into the fire, letting the fragrant perfume of natural incense wash over us. Once the flames burned down a little, I reached out and plunged fingers into the silt, lifting them to my face. Drawing them deliberately across my skin, black marks visibly spoke of my sorrow, raw patterns boldly streaked onto living canvass. After that we sat in silence a long time, the heated, moist air of the lodge making sweat pour from us in rivers. My dress clung to my body, my shaved hair plastered to my scalp like wet leaves. Frank was dripping, his hair so wet it curled, stuck to his forehead. When the last bit of flame from the last log finally died, he looked across the ashes at me, grave, patient.

"Wee-yea lah? (ready)"

"Yes."

He waited until I rose, then leaned forward to smother the embers with fresh dirt, making certain the fire was dead. The air outside hit me with a refreshing chill, and I was surprised that the sun had nearly set, pulling the light from the sky. Frank came out to stand behind me, his close presence comforting in the vastness of land surrounding the lodge. It smelled of grass and fading warmth, fresh and clean.

"You did well, Kimimela."

"Thank you." Knowing I could no longer speak of him, only think of Napayshni in my heart, I said nothing more. Frank gestured toward a stand of trees boasting their spring leaves.

"There's water there. We could use a cooling off."

"Yes."

Silently, I followed him, and together we waded into the knee-deep water, splashing the clear, crystal liquid over our bodies despite our clothing, washing away the heat, the sorrow, the ash. It was like a re-birth, and once finished, I felt new. Sitting on the bank, wringing out his socks, Frank finally looked at me.

"When you're ready to head home, you just say so."

"Could we stay here, for a while?" I looked at him, feeling hollow, consumed by a dark sorrow that would only heal with time.

"Sure."

I lay back where I was, staring up at the sky, my knees bent, fingers playing with the buckskin fringes of my dress. Frank lay his socks out to dry, and stretched out at my side, hands folded behind his head. I saw the even rise and fall of his chest, heard the deep, steady sound of his breathing, and was comforted. Lifting my hands, I folded them behind my head, letting the edge of my elbow touch Frank's. I could feel him hold absolutely still, not certain I'd done it deliberately or not.

"I will never be able to call you Papa, Frank," I said softly, staring up at the sky. "But, you have been good to me."

He said nothing to that, did not even move, and I took courage. Anything from him right then would have made my words shrivel and die like parched grass. My eyes searched the expanse of sky, lingering over the faint gleam of stars beginning to appear on indigo velvet. The pulse of my heartbeat was loud in my ear, like hands on the war drum.

"You said once that I am your daughter, Frank Colter." His gaze on me was like fire, though I did not look over. "You are the only father I have now."

The insects began to sing, and the black sky glittered with diamonds. The moon rose slowly, casting silvery light over waving grass and rolling land. The pale reflection shimmered on the water, the long, broken wail of a coyote floating eerily through the night. My eyes closed, soaking in the sound, the scent, the feel of the moment. I did not remember falling asleep.