Chapter 10 #2
Perhaps she should fear for her safety, but she didn’t.
For one thing, silly though it may seem, she trusted that tree.
For another, the long grasses, wild pea vines and bushes that bordered the river hid her from view.
It gave her a feeling of security, though she realized that out here on the prairie, there really was no such thing.
Still, she floated on downstream until at last the singing was so close, she knew she should stop and look up. Luckily for her, the sun was beginning its gradual rise into a steel-colored sky, lending the land the tiniest bit of gray light. On a bluff overlooking the river, she saw him, Swift Hawk.
He faced east—in her direction, although he didn’t appear to be aware of her, for his attention was elsewhere. This was a good thing, she decided, because it gave her the opportunity to look her fill at him without being seen.
And look she did, drawing in a breath as she gazed up at him.
She sighed. He was a magnificent creature.
She would not be female if she didn’t appreciate how his broad chest tapered to hard, narrow hips, or how his long black hair, caught in the wind, rushed back from his face, lending him a noble air.
All at once her stomach seemed queasy, as though she had been twirled round and round. Yet the sensation was far from unpleasant.
Her thoughts were scandalous, however, for the man was practically naked.
Gone were his leggings; gone, too, were the shirt and breastplate he usually wore to their evening gatherings.
He stood up there on that bluff, utterly exposed, except for his breechcloth and knife sheath, moccasins and a bit of Indian jewelry.
At his feet lay his weapons, his bow and his quiver full of arrows, his rifle.
But he ignored them. Instead, his arms were open wide, his feet spread apart, his face inclined toward the sky. He sang as though he would praise the very sky itself.
It was a beautiful moment, but for the life of her she could not put to words why this was.
What was it that Swift Hawk held in his hand? A tuft of smoldering grass? Or was it sage, or sweet grass, perhaps? A few nights ago, Swift Hawk had informed her that Indians prayed using sage.
Was Swift Hawk praying?
Angelia paused, her chin lifting as she peered up at the man. Being raised a minister’s daughter, she should recognize prayer when she saw it.
Ever so slowly, she nodded. It was so. As she watched, it seemed to her as if the entire prairie had become his church.
From out of nowhere a ray of misty light spilled from the sky, shining dimly on the man. Angelia held her breath. The sight was incredible, as though all that was spiritual acknowledged this man.
The moment was extraordinary, set out of time, and gazing up at Swift Hawk, Angelia rammed headlong into a sudden awareness.
Perhaps it was because of their nightly lessons that Angelia was beginning to look upon Swift Hawk not simply as an Indian—someone alien to her—but she was beginning to view him as she might anyone else.
Or perhaps it was because here, on this Western frontier, her perspective was changing.
Whatever the reason, she realized that Swift Hawk’s people were not the savages they were being made out to be.
Here were not a people without God, without honor or intelligence; here were not a people without love. The caravan’s campfire stories, the newspaper articles she’d read, the soldiers’ opinions, all these expressed the Indian as a savage.
But none of these things were right. If Swift Hawk were to exemplify his people, then the Indians would have to be a religious as well as a conscientious people.
Was it all, then, nothing but gossip?
True, she figured that as in all races of people, there would have to be those who did right and those who did wrong. But then, she thought, remembering her history, if the Indians were acting savagely, was it all one-sided?
Wouldn’t she fight for what was hers, if someone wanted all she possessed?
For the first time, Angelia understood what was happening here.
The Indians were fighting for all that was theirs, their land, their culture, their very existence.
Never again would she look upon the Indian as anything other than a race of people; people with strengths, faults and rights, just like anyone else.
She had learned something this morning, something that might, perhaps, change her viewpoint about the West. True, she may not have changed the world with her knowledge, but for herself, the matter was settled.
What was being said about these people was nothing more than rumors and lies.
Each soul must meet the morning sun, the new, sweet earth, and the Great Silence alone!
Charles A. Eastman
The Soul of the Indian
Swift Hawk sang an honoring song to the Creator, thanking Him for giving life to all things, for making the earth beautiful and, having made the proper sacrifices, Swift Hawk felt secure in asking for help in attaining the freedom of his people.
As he sang, he smudged himself with the smoldering embers of sweet grass, asking that his thoughts be pure, and that he walk the good road, the one most advantageous to his people.
There was much that he still did not understand, and in his daily prayers, he asked again for help in learning what he must, that he might fulfill his purpose.
In many ways, Swift Hawk acknowledged that he had arrived at a forked road, for he had come to a place where there were many paths to choose.
Had he chosen correctly? Wisely?
It had been his decision to help the woman and her brother, but despite his growing warmth for the woman, Swift Hawk’s doubts were still many.
If she were truly the one who was meant to help him, would he continue to yearn for her in a purely physical way?
Didn’t his sense of honor and common sense negate this?
Yet, he could not deny his desire. As it was, each night when he at last lay down to sleep, his thoughts were flooded by images of taking her to his bed, almost to the exclusion of all else. He knew he should consider more seriously the marriage bed. It was the only honorable way.
Yet he, more than anyone else, realized this path was blocked to him. For one, she was white, he was Indian; for another, she was from a dream, he was on a quest.
But most important, the biggest objection he might raise would be his vow to the Creator. A vow to remain celibate and unattached to the female of the species.
Saaaa, it had to be a weakness within him—a weakness that was a danger signal, and a danger he would do best to heed.
For he had realized long ago that, for whatever reason, his life could not admit a great love and the accomplishing of a great deed—not at the same time.
If ever a time did come that he would have to choose between the two, the fulfillment of his purpose would have to take precedence over all else.
Yet, in some way, somehow, she was part of this.
But could he be certain of what part she was to play? What if she were to be no more than a hindrance, a distraction meant to lure him away from the good road? For he surely felt lured.
Enough, he told himself. He resolved nothing with his thoughts.
He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs, and clearing his mind, he continued to sing.
As he sang, he smudged himself with the sacred grass, that the smoke might purify his thoughts, and he opened his heart to the allness of nature, fusing his mind to the rhythm and the life of the environment around him.
He sensed her presence, for her thoughts were a stranger here amongst the pulse of nature.
She was here? Now? Where?
He hadn’t heard her approach, he hadn’t seen her. Nevertheless he knew she was here—he could perceive her. With his mind, he sought her out.
Ah. There she was, there in the river. For a moment, if a moment only, he joined his mind with hers and knew at once that she had been bathing… What? Here, right under his nose? Strange that he hadn’t noticed her at once.
Or had she sought him out?
Haa’he. She had done exactly this, he realized. Immediately his body responded to that thought. It was as if she had offered herself to him, heart, body and soul. He swallowed hard, knowing well that just because she was here, it did not mean she was his to court.
His body refused to listen to reason, and of its own, it impressed its needs upon him. Physically he ached to see her. Morally, he knew he must not, for if he were a wise man, he would resist the temptation that she presented.
Perhaps he was not so wise as his conscience dictated. Indeed, he did not leave as he knew he should, but rather stayed where he was, waiting, knowing that eventually Mother Earth would aid him.
He was right. Soon the forces of Nature did, indeed, conspire with him against her, for a single ray of morning light alit upon her, there where she hid in the water.
Go! Leave here while you can, a rational part of him urged. If she had been bathing, she would be naked.
Stay, beseeched his heart.
He grimaced. What was his path to be?
He had little way of knowing. The only certainty he grasped at the moment was that he needed to cleanse himself, and to that end, he began to sing again. The melody was a healing song, and yet he changed the words slightly, instinctively knowing it was the right thing to do. He sang, in English:
“Come out, come out, my angel
Come out and sing with me.
Show yourself, my angel
Come forth, that I may see,
The angel that I dream of,
The one who spies on me.”
He watched as she glanced around her, as though looking for some other being. He shook his head. Did she honestly think he would serenade another? Nevertheless, he continued to sing, saying directly to her…
“Come out, come out, Angelia,
Come out and sing with me.
Together we may be stronger,
Than I alone could be.
Come out, come out, Angelia,
Come forth and sing with me.”
At last she stood up. She was not naked, as he had supposed. He did wonder if she knew that the simple shift she wore hid nothing from his view, not her breasts, not her hips, not the wisp of matted hair, there at the junction of her legs. Nothing…
At the sight, Swift Hawk drew in his breath, and that portion of his body most masculine twitched in a way he understood all too well.
This was not helping. This was not helping at all.
Even as he watched her, her image began to change.
Golden light encircled her, and she was no longer standing before him practically naked, but rather she was adorned in Indian garb.
Nor was she alone. In her arms was a babe, by her side a youngster of perhaps two winters in age, the child looking much like Swift Hawk’s own father.
Swift Hawk didn’t rub his eyes to be certain of what he saw, for with the wisdom passed down from beings wiser than he, Swift Hawk knew this image was a gift from the Creator. It was His way of showing Swift Hawk the future—and she was part of it.
Swift Hawk’s throat constricted, and closing his eyes, he tried to gather his thoughts. But it was impossible, and when he opened his eyes again, the image was gone.
There she was, beautiful Angelia, standing before him, down by the water, looking practically naked and lovelier than he had ever seen her. He knew what he would do, what he had to do.
Grabbing hold of his weapons and crouching to his knees, Swift Hawk climbed down from the bluff, and pulling on his quiver and bow quickly, he stepped toward her.
She was his. Maybe not in body, not yet…
for he would be a fool to take her as a wife here, beneath the prejudiced eye of the white man; a fool, as well, to betray his own vow.
That last idea stopped him. But would he betray it? Was this not the Creator’s way of releasing him from a promise made so long ago?
Realization dawned, and as it did, a sense of freedom enveloped him, a kind of ease he hadn’t felt in many a year. She was his. He didn’t know how this could be; he didn’t even know why. But in some inexplicable way, she belonged to him.