Read Online A Whisper In The Wind by Madeline Baker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Madeline Baker
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the best meal he’d ever had, or perhaps it only seemed so because of Winter Song. He smiled at her as she served him a slice of succulent tenderloin, felt his heart beat fast when she smiled back at him, her dark eyes warm with affection and promise.
Later, after everyone had eaten their fill, the drumming began. The warriors who had participated in the hunt danced first, telling how they had tracked the buffalo, boasting of their daring as they stalked the herd, bragging about their kills.
The dancers were magnificent, Michael thought as he watched them. Paint streaked their faces, feathers adorned their long black hair, sweat glistened on their bodies as they danced around the fire. They were free men, free in a way that white men were never free. The Cheyenne owned little, and so they had no need for big houses or fancy apartments. They had no need for money, so they didn’t have to worry about jobs or making ends meet. They had no debts, no mortgages, no loan payments. Their religion was an integral part of their daily life, so they had no need for churches or temples. Their god was found in the mountains, in the grasses, in the rushing rivers and sun-kissed trees. They were not bound by the rules and restrictions of civilization, only by the ancient traditions of their fathers.
He watched as they danced and sang, the sights and sounds alien and yet familiar. The beat of the drum was the beat of his own heart, the soft, guttural sounds of his childhood tongue were like sweet music. The smell of smoke and pine and aromatic sage surrounded him like welcoming arms. But it was Winter Song who held his attention.
How beautiful she was! Her hair was as black as the night, her skin the color of the earth, her eyes as dark and fathomless as the sky. She wore a doeskin tunic the color of fresh cream, the texture of velvet. Soft moccasins beaded in red and yellow hugged her feet. A shell necklace circled her throat.
Someday, he vowed, she would be his.
He was becoming a warrior. Little by little, he was becoming a warrior. He sat with the men in the evening, listening to their tales of courage and bravery, hearing the names of chiefs he had read about in history books, caught up in battles that had been fought a hundred years before he had been born. He ate what the warriors ate—succulent tenderloin, roast buffalo hump, venison, elk, wild fruits and vegetables, jerky and pemmican, stews and broths and thick soups flavored with onions and sage and turnips. He dressed as they dressed, wearing only a clout and moccasins when it was warm, fringed leggings and a heavy buckskin shirt when it was cool. He played their games, slept in a hide lodge, smoked na’koo’neeheso, a mixture of dried leaves and bark. And he courted a Cheyenne maiden. To this end, he acquired a flute from a medicine man known for his power in affairs of the heart. It was a thing of beauty, his flute, made for the music of love. Its shape was that of a long-necked bird with an open beak, and he often played it outside Winter Song’s lodge in the dark of the night.
His chances to see her alone were rare. Often he rose early in the morning so he could meet her at the river when she went to draw water. But those moments were brief and the chance of discovery great.
Courting a white girl had been much easier, Michael mused. Alone, in the dark cocoon of a parked car, anything could happen, and often did. But he was rarely alone with Winter Song, for the Cheyenne held the chastity of their women in high regard. He thought often of coaxing her away from the village, but leaving the camp was risky. Alone in the tall grass there was always danger. You could be gored by a buffalo, attacked by a grizzly, killed by a band of marauding Pawnee or Crow, or captured by the mila hanska, the Long Knives.
But late at night he could let his emotions soar in the plaintive notes of his flute. Sitting in the dark outside Winter Song’s lodge, he let the soft, crying notes
Later, after everyone had eaten their fill, the drumming began. The warriors who had participated in the hunt danced first, telling how they had tracked the buffalo, boasting of their daring as they stalked the herd, bragging about their kills.
The dancers were magnificent, Michael thought as he watched them. Paint streaked their faces, feathers adorned their long black hair, sweat glistened on their bodies as they danced around the fire. They were free men, free in a way that white men were never free. The Cheyenne owned little, and so they had no need for big houses or fancy apartments. They had no need for money, so they didn’t have to worry about jobs or making ends meet. They had no debts, no mortgages, no loan payments. Their religion was an integral part of their daily life, so they had no need for churches or temples. Their god was found in the mountains, in the grasses, in the rushing rivers and sun-kissed trees. They were not bound by the rules and restrictions of civilization, only by the ancient traditions of their fathers.
He watched as they danced and sang, the sights and sounds alien and yet familiar. The beat of the drum was the beat of his own heart, the soft, guttural sounds of his childhood tongue were like sweet music. The smell of smoke and pine and aromatic sage surrounded him like welcoming arms. But it was Winter Song who held his attention.
How beautiful she was! Her hair was as black as the night, her skin the color of the earth, her eyes as dark and fathomless as the sky. She wore a doeskin tunic the color of fresh cream, the texture of velvet. Soft moccasins beaded in red and yellow hugged her feet. A shell necklace circled her throat.
Someday, he vowed, she would be his.
He was becoming a warrior. Little by little, he was becoming a warrior. He sat with the men in the evening, listening to their tales of courage and bravery, hearing the names of chiefs he had read about in history books, caught up in battles that had been fought a hundred years before he had been born. He ate what the warriors ate—succulent tenderloin, roast buffalo hump, venison, elk, wild fruits and vegetables, jerky and pemmican, stews and broths and thick soups flavored with onions and sage and turnips. He dressed as they dressed, wearing only a clout and moccasins when it was warm, fringed leggings and a heavy buckskin shirt when it was cool. He played their games, slept in a hide lodge, smoked na’koo’neeheso, a mixture of dried leaves and bark. And he courted a Cheyenne maiden. To this end, he acquired a flute from a medicine man known for his power in affairs of the heart. It was a thing of beauty, his flute, made for the music of love. Its shape was that of a long-necked bird with an open beak, and he often played it outside Winter Song’s lodge in the dark of the night.
His chances to see her alone were rare. Often he rose early in the morning so he could meet her at the river when she went to draw water. But those moments were brief and the chance of discovery great.
Courting a white girl had been much easier, Michael mused. Alone, in the dark cocoon of a parked car, anything could happen, and often did. But he was rarely alone with Winter Song, for the Cheyenne held the chastity of their women in high regard. He thought often of coaxing her away from the village, but leaving the camp was risky. Alone in the tall grass there was always danger. You could be gored by a buffalo, attacked by a grizzly, killed by a band of marauding Pawnee or Crow, or captured by the mila hanska, the Long Knives.
But late at night he could let his emotions soar in the plaintive notes of his flute. Sitting in the dark outside Winter Song’s lodge, he let the soft, crying notes
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