Soaring Eagle's Embrace Page 3

  “But I would think that a person’s first impulse would be to run.”

  “Yet you must not. Best thing you…do, said my grandfather, is to roll up in ball and tuck head down. Bear might bat at you and might scratch you, but cannot harm you.”

  Kali’s jaw literally dropped. “You must be joking. Are you truly telling me that I would be expected to roll myself up and let an angry, two to three hundred pound bear paw at me?”

  “You would not outrun him. It more certain that you live to tell the tale if you did this simple thing. Besides, bears almost never attack a person unless bear is…mother bear and you have come between her and her cub.”

  “Thank you, Gilda, but I’m not familiar enough with bears to know if they would be male or female. Maybe a person should shoot first and ask questions later.”

  Gilda smiled. “No shoot. It very hard…kill bear—should treat…bear with great caution. Did you know that mother bear is only ferocious because…male bear will attack and kill her cubs?”

  “Really? No, I’m afraid that I didn’t.”

  With these words, silence once more fell between the two women until, with a shrug, Kali asked, “Do you think he would stoop to beg forgiveness?”

  “Stoop? He?”

  “Well, Strong Arrow…you know…the legend. He did consider himself flawless, after all, didn’t he? And he won’t…he won’t remember all that has gone on before, will he?”

  Kali met the look in Gilda’s eyes, surprised to detect a faint trace of humor there. But when the other woman spoke, all she said was, “No one knows. But come, let us talk about something else. I am glad that you and your father decided to come here—visit my people—set their image to paper.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes,” said Gilda. “Many…old ones are dying. And when we lose one of them, it great loss for my people, since our traditions and history are kept alive by our elders. Perhaps by you and your father photographing them, some of…old ways might be remembered and recalled to mind…in future.”

  Kali nodded. “It has been my dream—and my father’s too—to come here and do exactly this. Ever since we saw a delegation of Blackfeet Indians who were visiting Washington at the same time that we were. My father has been here once before, but not me. But at last here we are.”

  “Yes,” agreed Gilda. “At last.” A moment followed, then, “You…not be disappointed with your work, not with view of…scenery at dawn, either.”

  Kali smiled. “I know you’re right, but—oh no…”

  Kali came up onto her knees and grabbed hold of a crate filled with equipment. Immediately she began fishing inside it.

  “What is white woman looking for?”

  “Extra flash sticks. I think I packed several, but suddenly I’m not so certain.”

  “My friend,” said Gilda, her voice carrying a note of humor. “You should see how you look…now.”

  “Now?”

  “Aa.” She pointed upward. “Moon shining down on hair makes it look glittery and light—as though you…be enchanted.”

  Kali grinned. “Enchanted?” She snorted. She didn’t believe in such things. Legends were interesting, fun and full of the history of a place. But they were, after all, simply legends. She said, “Thank you for the compliment, Gilda. You are too kind. But it’s probably the effect of the stars. Perhaps they’ve never seen someone like me out here before. Maybe they’re trying to tell me I don’t belong.”

  “Perhaps. Or…maybe they try…tell you that you do.”

  Kali raised an eyebrow. “Doubtful. I was born and bred very far from here in a small village in New England.”

  But Gilda simply smiled. “And yet…” She didn’t finish the statement. “But come, it late and we should try to get some sleep, I think.”

  “Ah yes, here they are,” said Kali, holding up something in her hand. “A few extra flash sticks.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot…tell you one important thing.” Gilda raised her head. “Do not get up in the middle of night, even if you have call to nature. At least not do it if you fear you might run into…bear.”

  Kali sank back down and pulled the blankets over her head. There it was again: the thought of bears. “Good night, Gilda.”

  “Soka’pii. That means ‘good’ in Blackfeet language.”

  “Does it? Soka’pii.”

  Twenty-three-year-old Kali Wallace lay awake, wondering, worrying. But the exact cause of her anxiety escaped her.

  Was it the talk of bears? The camping? Certainly it couldn’t be the project upon which she and her father were engaged. No, not that. Photography was her life.

  So, if not that, what was it that was causing her thoughts to race through her mind?

  The legend? Ridiculous. Kali had accompanied her father on enough of these expeditions to realize that there was little evidence to substantiate native myths and legends. Such things were simply the superstitious meanderings of a native people who had yet to learn the laws of the physical universe. There was always a logical explanation for what might appear to be magic, if one cared to look for it.

  Yet she couldn’t deny that tonight’s story had touched something deep within her. She sighed. She needed sleep, that was all. With a grimace, she turned onto her side.

  “Ooooo, ooooo.

  Ooooo, ooooo.”

  Sitting up quickly, Kali stared around her. What was that? It had sounded like singing…the baritone strains of a man’s voice.

  She shook her head. What was wrong with her? It couldn’t be singing. Here? On the rocky crest of a mountaintop? In the middle of the night? Surely not.

  It was that silly legend influencing her, she thought, causing her mind to create things it might not understand. Why, it was probably no more than the wind whistling through the pines below them.

  “Ooooo, ooooo.

  Ooooo, ooooo.”

  Or was it? Hmmmm…

  Kali pulled down the woolen covers and took a moment to glance around their camp. “Do not get up in the middle of the night,” Gilda had cautioned…as though Kali needed the advice. Anyone who had done as much traveling as Kali had would know better than to venture a midnight stroll. Yet, foolish though it might be, Kali couldn’t deny that something was pulling at her, making her yearn to investigate that sound.

  “Ooooo, ooooo, iihtawaakomimmotsiiyo’p.

  Ooooo, ooooo, iihtawaakomimmotsiiyo’p.”

  Kali sat up. That hadn’t been the wind or some magical incantation. Though she didn’t understand the words, there was no denying that this time she had heard singing.

  “Ooooo, ooooo, iihtawaakomimmotsiiyo’p.

  Ooooo, ooooo, iihtawaakomimmotsiiyo’p.”

  There it was again. She moved to her knees, glancing first at Gilda’s sleeping figure and then at that of her father, who lay not more than twenty feet away from her. Why didn’t the noise awaken either of them?

  Kali briefly considered rousing them, but immediately decided against it. For one, her father needed the rest; for another, he would not appreciate the reason for concern, since he hadn’t heard the legend.

  And Gilda? Kali wouldn’t awaken her guide—she would feel silly in doing so. It would be as though to show fear. And Kali was nothing if not analytical.

  Well, wasn’t this perfect, then? That left only her.

  Kali rose to her feet, trying to be as silent as possible. Luckily, she still had her shoes on—a precaution on these wilderness trips, since she could never be certain of how quickly she might have to move.

  She needed a weapon, however. Bending over, Kali picked up the revolver which was never far from reach. Now, which direction should she go?

  “Ooooo, ooooo.

  Ooooo, ooooo.”

  To the north. Taking a deep breath for courage, Kali stepped forward. In minutes, she had walked out of their camp and jumped down into a small, rocky gully. The clattering made by small pebbles accompanied her movement, but she tried to ignore the sound, since there was little sh
e could do about it.

  Immediately, darkness engulfed her. Looking right and left, she moved forward cautiously, coming up the other side of the gully and climbing out of it, careful not to put weight on a foothold until she was certain of its strength. Still, she made even more noise as a few rocks gave way beneath her feet.

  Funny, she thought, how the darkness could make ghostly figures out of the most innocent of things. For instance, in the light of day, that boulder ahead of her would appear as no more than a mere formation of stone. In the darkness, however, it became a spook.

  Perhaps, she conjectured, the mind’s wanderings were all there was to the belief in the supernatural.

  Yes, that was most likely it. It wasn’t fear she was feeling at this moment; it was the product of her imagination.

  “Ooooo, ooooo. Inihkatsimat.

  Ooooo, ooooo. Inihkatsimat.”

  How lovely. The voice was a low baritone, the sound coming from somewhere directly in front of her. She squinted. What was that? Up ahead of her, she could see…

  Fear or not, it was always best to be safe. Setting the gun into a ready position, she trod closer and closer to a ledge that overlooked a deep chasm. The moon was casting a glow over the rocky land, and Kali was almost certain she could make out a silhouette ahead of her. Either that, or Kali’s mind was creating a figure out of something that was no more than stone and shadow.

  She took another precarious step forward and almost breathed out a sigh of relief. No apparition, this. She had been right. It was a man.

  He was facing away from her, his countenance turned toward the moon. His position treated her to quite a view of his posterior, although his most striking feature, she was quick to note, was his hair, long and dark, which fell to a midpoint on his back…a back, she observed, which was wide at the shoulders and tapered to a narrow, naked waist.

  Naked. At the sight of all that skin, Victorian-raised Kali shut her eyes, fighting against an odd feeling of weakness. She quickly curbed the response, chalking the emotion up to one of surprise.

  Should she speak?

  Somehow she didn’t think so. She trod forward over the pebbly pitch of the land, placing her footfalls as silently as possible. Luckily he was still singing and didn’t appear to hear her.

  At last she was no more than five feet away; she stopped. At that very moment, the moon shone brilliantly over the man’s figure, illuminating him in a misty, silver light. He looked…ephemeral, yet real, all at the same time.

  Was he real?

  From where had that thought materialized? Of course he was real, wasn’t he?

  All at once, Kali longed to reach out and touch him, if for no other reason than to satisfy her curiosity. But she refrained, preferring to study him from what she considered a safe distance.

  She saw him raise his head to the heavens, heard him utter:

  “Ooooo, ooooo. A’painahkimma.

  Ooooo, ooooo. A’painahkimma.”

  She yearned to see more of him. It was a natural curiosity; a feminine one, too, perhaps. Would he be as handsome from the front view as he was from the rear?

  Kali crept around to the side of him so that she could satisfy her curiosity, and as she did so, she caught her breath. This man was young, probably in his mid to late twenties. Lean and fit—he was…beautiful. There was no other word to describe him.

  Of course, her judgment could have been influenced by the effect of the moonlight. But moonlight or not, there was something about him that made her want to…

  Moving around him again, so that his posterior was toward her, she stole up behind him silently until he was no more than an arm’s length away. Slowly, her hand inched toward him. It was as though she had to touch him.

  Her fingers shook with effort, she noted, though that didn’t deter her from her goal. She reached out farther and farther toward him, the light of the moon seeming to encourage her to do so. And then it happened. A mere fraction of an inch away, he moved. She stopped, gasping.

  At once he turned his head toward her.

  She dropped her arm.

  He caught her eye, yet he didn’t say a word; he simply stared at her, at her face, at the length of her hair, the open buttons at the neck of her blouse. Then his gaze skimmed downward, down the length of her bosom to each arm, where his scrutiny lingered over the gun which she still held out in front of her.

  Slowly, almost laggardly, his stare came back to her eyes. Held her gaze. But there was no animosity that she could see, there in the depths of his eyes. No fear, no dread…only curiosity.

  Should she speak? Would he understand English? Or should she use the sign language she and her father had learned? She did neither.

  Leisurely, he turned toward her, towering some seven or eight inches over her. Now it was Kali’s turn to stare at him. In the dim light of the moon, he appeared to be the embodiment of masculine beauty, all muscle and sinew. His dark skin shone as though he might, himself, be comprised of a special glow, and it seemed to accentuate all the reasons why she should reach out toward him once again…if only to assure herself that he was no more than flesh and blood. Yet she couldn’t do it.

  For one, the man wore nothing more than breechcloth and moccasins…as well as a little jewelry To touch a man so scantily dressed would be the height of immodesty. However, that realization didn’t keep her from looking, and she noted that around his neck he wore a necklace that fell in loops over his chest, hiding what she thought might be a most perfect form. Shell earrings fell from his earlobes, she noted too, and it was interesting to see that the effect of what was usually considered feminine attire looked, on this man, the exact opposite.

  And his face… Two eyes, straight nose, full lips and high cheekbones. Nothing out of the ordinary in an Indian face, yet what should have been commonplace was somehow not. Stately eyes, revealing a keen intelligence, stared back at her. Proud lips remained silent, though she felt in the depths of her soul that this man would have liked to speak.

  Kali opened her mouth to say something…anything, if only to convince herself that she was looking at a real man, not some imaginings based on her own fear. But she had no more than prepared to speak when he reached out to her.

  She looked at his hand, seeing for the first time that he held a fan out toward her. One that looked as though it might be made of eagle feathers.

  Did he mean for her to take it? Surely not. Yet no sooner had the thought materialized than, by way of signals, he encouraged her to take the fan from him.

  She reached forward. He didn’t move. Her fingers grazed the end of one of the feathers.

  Ah, it was real…completely real. Should she accept it? Was that what he intended, or did he desire something else from her? Something more personal?

  That thought, although it came out of nowhere, let loose an avalanche of feeling, which surged through her like a fire gone wild. It seemed a contradiction, for she wanted to hold back, yet touch him, all at the same time. Alas, she moved her hand forward one small, slow fraction of an inch, then another.

  That’s when it happened. All at once, her hand shook with the effort, the tremor spreading to her arm, then to her entire body. She stood there quivering like a newborn babe. Suddenly she sobbed. It was as though the sound was dragged from the depths of her soul.

  She couldn’t do it; she just couldn’t touch the man.

  And it wasn’t fear that was the source of the problem; nor was it inability. It was as though something within her protested, telling her she must remain separate from him.

  Dropping her hand, she did the only thing left for her to do. She spun away from him and fled, little caring that, as she ran, pointed edges in the rocks slashed at the material of her dress, tore through the soles of her shoes, cutting into the delicate skin beneath.

  She had to get away, which she did with all possible speed.

  And not once during her long trek back to camp did she look behind her…

  Chapter Three

&
nbsp; We could look in vain in such camps as that of the North Piegans, nestled among the cottonwoods, to find the depravity, misery and consuming vice, which involve multitudes in the industrial centres of all the large cities of Christendom.

  —Walter McClintock, The Old North Trail

  “M’dear, I was of the opinion that you might wear that pretty white dress tonight.”

  “White?”

  “Hmmm, yes. The one that you bought last year. You know…”

  Kali stared at her father as though he might have sprouted an extra head. “Father, although I love you dearly, please leave the fashion sense to me. White is for garden parties or weddings.”

  She seasoned her words with a smile. Though her father might be a genius when it came to native history, he was notoriously absentminded and not in the least bit fashion conscious. She continued, “This dark green two-piece may look drab to you, but I assure you it is the height of fashion for someone in my position. Besides, though it may appear as if what I’m wearing is no more than a suit, it is sprinkled with black lace at the collar and black embroidery on the skirt to give it a more feminine appeal.”

  “True, my dear. True, but in my opinion the white makes you look more womanly and pretty.”

  Womanly? Pretty? Was that the sort of image she wanted to present this evening?

  Kali didn’t think so. Besides, in her own mind she wasn’t quite the type. Oh, make no mistake, she could be as feminine as the next one. But if she were to be truthful, she would admit that her heart belonged to the out-of-doors, to her work, to the open spaces and mountains.

  The mountains. Unwittingly, her thoughts returned to her most recent trek—no less than a week ago—to the summit of Chief Mountain.

  Gilda had not lied about its beauty. Under the filtering streams of an early morning sun, mist had formed over the trees and brooks, the land resisting the light for as long as possible, although a few pink and silver beams had managed to glide down to the earth, appearing as though they were illuminating some specially chosen creature.