The Savage

Sixteen

Throwing the door closed behind me, I took off running as fast as I could my shawl fluttering like wings around me. As ever, when I was bothered I headed toward the river that made its home in our property. The belt of trees that grew lush along the banks sheltered the place, making it a natural sanctuary. Heart thundering like a herd of buffalo, I slowed, leaning against a tree trunk to catch my breath.

Al Baily and Toby Whitney! Off all the people I had met since leaving the village of my father, they were two of the worst! Digging my nails deep into the palm of my hand, I fought for control over my volatile temper. With the changing of many seasons, I had been able to tolerate or ignore much that offended me, but the world I lived in was still unwilling to accept my kind. Indians were still 'savage' and 'uncivilized', an unworthy form of life, and I wore that brand like a scarlet letter weighted around my neck. Being half white made me all the more an abomination.

Subtle and blatant insults were a fact of daily life, pointed slights about my heritage or appearance jabbed at me like barbs from poisonous, prejudiced tongues. My only true respite came when I was in the company of Wind Runner. During our brief, clandestine visits, it grew ever harder to watch him walk away without running to join him. As if my thoughts had summoned his spirit, suddenly he was there, standing at my side.

"You are angry this morning." His voice rolled over me in warm waves, the language of our people refreshing. "It is early for such trouble."

"Yes," folding my arms, I took a deep breath, blowing it from my lips before glancing at him. Masculine, untamed, his very presence spoke to a part of my heart, the secret side that ached to never be gone from his side. As a fine, strong adult, Wind Runner was as handsome a man as I'd ever seen.

"Ee yo monk pee shnee. (I am not happy)" We never spoke English, and I had no idea if he even knew how. In all these years I had never asked him. At my sullen tone his brows lifted curiously.

"What clouds your eyes with such bitterness?" Moving to the other side of the tree, he leaned against it, patient, interested. Rubbing my toe over the grass, I savored the cool touch between my toes.

"My father, he is bringing more white men here, men to help with the horses he is raising. It is a bad thing, Wind Runner, for they are wicked."

"You know them?"

"Huh (yes), from my childhood. I cannot stand the thought of them living here! They will make trouble for me because I am half Indian."

"Come..." gently he cupped my elbow in his hand, drawing me from the tree. We walked in silence to the water, where he knelt, pointing into the still liquid surface. "What do you see?"

"You." I made a face at him, but he grinned, tugging at the hem of my nightgown.

"Be serious. Look, and tell me what you see."

Sighing, I got down next to him and leaned over the bank, staring into the water. My heart twisted hard, for rarely did I look at myself now. With womanhood looming over me, I had taken on the features of my mother. While she was beautiful, I couldn't help but feel as though the pieces of my father that I carried within me were dying away. My dress, my hair, my fine slim features...they were all white.

"I see myself," I said softly. "An Indian that is no longer one of her people, a half-white, half Yanktonai with no place to belong."

"Here," he reached out and tapped the water with his fingertip, ripples spreading across the surface. "Now?"

"Nothing. You distorted the surface."

"But not the person who is reflected there, only the image that you see."