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“Or the death of enemies in battle. I saw the owl in visions and dreams and upon waking. A white snowy owl in the summer time. A horned owl perching over my head and the sound of screech owls during the night.”
“Perhaps...” Her mouth was so dry from the fear that she had to clear her throat before she could speak. “Owls are messengers. They bring word of impending death, that is true. But perhaps...” She was reaching for some glimmer of hope. “Perhaps... Perhaps they only foretold of this time. If this is spiritual, then you are called to interpret this message. A message from the world of the dead.”
“Instead, I have hidden it from all but you.”
She could understand why.
“I knew that they called me to something. I assumed they called me to battle my enemies. I rode into all battles expecting to send many ghosts to the spirit road.”
Or to die, she thought. She shivered at the thought. Had it not occurred to him that the owls called him to his own death?
“My name should be chosen from my visions, but I knew that my tribe would be afraid, if I called myself White Owl or Shrieking Owl or Evening Owl. So I chose Night Storm, for the storm that finally quieted the owls.”
“This is a terrible omen.”
“Yes. I am linked to death. I just do not know how.”
“Do you see the dead?”
“No.”
“Do you think the owls were the spirits of the dead?”
“I do not know.” He turned his head and looked at her, his brow furrowed. He seemed to be puzzling something out.
“What?” she asked.
“Why are you still here?”
Now she was the one who was confused. “You asked my help. Don’t you remember?” Was his mind worse than she supposed?
“Of course, I remember. But most women would have run screaming in the other direction the minute I told them of my vision. Why didn’t you?”
Why hadn’t she? “Well, I suppose because you need help and because I think I might be able to help you.”
“You are not like anyone I have ever met. You are either the bravest of all Crow women or the craziest.”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, and immediately recognized what she had done. Her eyes widened. Women did not speak to warriors in such a way. It was within his right to chasten her.
He tucked his chin and stared through thick lashes at her. But he did not chastise or raise his voice, showing so clearly the kind of control a warrior must have over his emotions. He just watched her as her face grew hotter and hotter. She wished he’d say something. Finally he spoke.
“We’ll speak of this later.” He stood.
She followed him and stepped before him when he tried to move away. “Is it because of what I said?”
His mouth quirked. “No. It’s just that my head is hurting again.”
“Where?”
He gripped his forehead.
“Does that happen often?”
“Less often than at first.”
At first? What did that mean?
“When did it begin?”
“In the Fast Water Moon.”
That was the time when the old man of the north finally released his grip upon the land and the snows receded and the green shoots poked up through the ice. A time of great change in the land. Melting ice and rushing water. What had happened to him at that time?
She was about to ask, but he placed his broad hands on her shoulders and gave a little squeeze. “Enough talk for now. I would catch us fish or it is pemmican again for supper.”
Frost returned, tail wagging, carrying an enormous bullfrog in his mouth. He laid it down before them and the frog leaped into the tall grass. Frost pounced like a fox on a mouse but missed, judging from the sound of the splash coming from the lake.
Storm collected his fishing line, bone hooks and the stone sinker. But he paused before leaving. “What will you do?”
Skylark stood and swept the folds from her dress. “I have plants to collect.” She slung her carrying bag over her shoulder and then hesitated.
“What?” he asked.
“Will you be all right alone?”
His face reddened. “I am not an invalid, nor a child. Of course, I will be all right. Will you?”
She nodded and he stalked away.
This, she realized, was why he had not gone to his shaman. He did not wish to be watched and coddled. How could she blame him? She felt much the same. What was the point of living if she did not have the freedom to come and go? He was a man. And a man must have his pride and his dignity.
Skylark watched him walk to the lake and cast his fishing line into the water. Then he tied off the line and removed his fringed hunting shirt and leggings. Finally, he lifted his spear, wading into the blue lake up to his waist. He held the spear poised and ready.
She blinked at the picture he made, with the late-afternoon sunlight glinting on his muscular shoulders and chest. She had seen many men fishing, but none transfixed her the way this one did. She studied the curves and hollows, the play of tension in the cording muscles of his arms and shoulders, and found her breathing grow fast.
He must have sensed her study for he glanced to her, scowling.
She dropped her gaze and hurried away. Once out of his sight, Sky hesitated. They both knew that he might have a falling spell right there and drown before she could reach him. So she stayed close, listening for the splash that might indicate a fall.
Frost accompanied her, which surprised her. Perhaps Storm had sent the dog along to keep the animal from disturbing the fish or for her protection. She walked along the bank, digging cattails for their roots and cutting the reeds for the inner sweet stalky stems. The tops made excellent bedding material. She cut with her skinning knife and in only a few minutes she had carried enough back to their camp for their bedding. Then she returned to the shore and used an antler from her bag to dig several fat tubers before moving on.
She hunted for specific plants but also collected anything of use that fell into her path. Yarrow was first, what her grandmother called Nosebleed Plant and her aunt called Thousand-leaf. She knew this would help heal the small nick she’d cut to prove she was not supernatural. She chewed the leaf and then pressed it to her wound. The sting reassured her that the leaf worked to help keep away pus and to speed scabbing.
Skylark continued wandering as she pressed the sodden crushed leaf to her palm.
Jimsonweed was one she particularly wanted for she knew that, if eaten, it could cause visions and fanciful dreams. But it also could still tremors. She did not know if it could stop moth madness. This sickness was named after the moth that, crazed by the firelight, flew directly into the flame. Victims of moth madness also fell to the ground and twitched like a dying moth. Perhaps Jimsonweed might prevent a spell. But she found none. She did find Motherwort in the open area near the lake. This plant she knew stopped twitching, when in the correct amounts.
By the time she had circled the lake, her bag bulged with green plants, roots, cactus, pine needles, flowers and berries. Why, she even had enough to feed them if he did not take a fish or two.
She could no longer see Storm. But she had glimpsed him from time to time as she made her way around the small lake. She must be nearly back to him. She was humming a tune as she went. Frost had been good company, even helping her dig when she asked him. He was a very good digger and it made her think she might want to get such a dog.
The splash that sounded from a place just ahead made her steps falter. She came to an abrupt stop and Frost cocked his head to listen. She strained for some other noise but heard nothing except the sound of the insects’ steady buzz and the hammering of her own heart. And then it reached her, the low hoot of an owl. Skylark clamped her bag to her chest and ran toward Storm with Frost at her heels.
Please let him be all right, she thought as her feet tore over the open ground.
Skylark ran as fast as she could toward her warrior.
She dropped her bag on the shore and threw the knife, sheath and carrying cord over her head. Then she thrashed through the high cattails until she was waist deep in the lake, still wearing her ornate moccasins. The sight that greeted her stole away her breath. There was Storm, faceup, on his back, gliding through the water like a fish, his powerful legs kicking in a smooth rhythm. The picture he made seemed to fix her to the spot. He rolled and dove, disappearing for a moment, which gave her the moment she needed to recover her wits.
The sight of the man in motion was emblazoned in her mind as she backed toward cover. The wide plains of his working chest and ripped muscle of his stomach enthralled. And she had seen the root of him, nestled in the thatch of glistening black hair. His wet skin reminded her of a beaver, slick and glossy. The image made her body twitch and her stomach clench.
He resurfaced closer to her, popping up from the blue waters just two body lengths from where she stumbled back through the tall cattails.
“Aha. An enemy scout,” he said, his grin playful.
And again she stopped, staring like a ground squirrel who, when confronted by a fox, finds herself too far from the safety of the trees. The smile transformed him from a seriously handsome man to one that made her blood rush and her body quake. What had she gotten herself into with her foolish promise? She would not be able to sleep a wink knowing what lay beside her in the dark.
He frowned now. “Why are you wearing your dress?”
Storm studied her now, treading water as smoothly as a duck. Did he see her flushed face and round, frightened eyes? Did he see her heavy breathing and clenched fists.”
“Did you come to swim?” His words sounded like an accusation.
Chapter Four (#ulink_ca06f20f-4a24-5ced-91e7-f7af9aad4a3d)
Skylark met the smoldering fury of his stare and realized that her assumption had injured his pride. She shook her head in answer to his question, did she come to swim? The truth, she wondered, or a lie. Truth, she decided. “I heard the splash and...”
“Naturally you thought I was drowning. Why should I be capable of taking care of myself?” He spun in the water and swam smoothly back to the rocky bank beside their camp. She watched him stride quickly from the water, trying and failing not to stare at his wide shoulders, narrow waist and muscular backside. Then she turned tail and threaded herself more carefully through the reeds, recovering her bag and knife. She sat on the bank to pour the water out of her moccasins and decided to carry them. He wanted her help. But she must find a way to do so without stealing away his dignity. Besides, she would be here only two nights. After that there would be no one to watch him but Frost.
As if thinking of the dog had conjured him, the dog charged out of the reeds and then shook away the water droplets clinging to his skin. Skylark squeaked and vainly tried to ward off the unwelcome shower with her hands. Frost sat, tongue lolling, eyes half-closed, as she stood and shouldered her bag. She slipped the cord holding her skinning knife over her head and then completed the circle, returning toward their camp. She paused at the fast-moving stream to wash away the mud that speckled her arms and legs.
She removed her dress, thinking she must find some clay to clean away the mud stains when next she came upon some. As she splashed off the grime and sweat, she thought of him, perfect and in motion. The need came upon her unawares. Her breasts ached and her body trembled. She wanted him in all the ways a woman needs a man but she knew why she couldn’t.
She thought of all the men she had met at the fall gathering when they camped with the Wind Basin tribe and how none had chosen to court her. What if this man was her only chance to experience the coupling that her aunt and uncle obviously enjoyed in the night?
She crossed her arms over her heavy breasts, her nipples hardening instantly. Then she splashed a fist down into the water. No, she would not repeat the mistakes of her mother. Storm was promised to another and Sky would never be a second wife. She must be strong and live alone.
She finished her bathing quickly and donned her dress over damp skin. Then she returned to camp to see Storm striking flint with a steel ring and sending a shower of sparks onto carefully gathered tinder of inner bark and the fluff pulled from the dry cattail flower heads. This method of fire starting was usually faster than the cord and stick, but it required steel, which she did not have. Her skinning knife was red flint that came from far to the east.
Storm glanced at her and then returned his attention to his work. Beside him lay three trout, two small and one enormous.
Soon one of the sparks caught and a wisp of smoke emerged from the nest of cattails. Expertly, he lifted the dry white fluff and blew into his hands. The dander caught, glowed, and then a flame erupted from within. He carefully set the flame inside the tepee of tinder and the flames began to catch and rise.
He had already gutted the fish, so she cut green skewers and returned to construct a simple rack for the whole fish. Then she peeled the cattail tubers and cut the inner tender shoots into manageable sizes. She left the cactus and thistle roots for another meal but crushed several juniper berries and stuffed them inside the hollow cavities of the fish.
When the fire had burned for a time, she set her moccasins to dry but not too close to the flames. They were precious to her, because, like her knife sheath, they had been made by her mother, the best quill worker in her village. Or she had been.
When the larger logs began to collapse into glowing embers, she raked the coals into a neat pile and set the shoots to roast while he tended the fish. Frost watched his every motion with hungry eyes and a drooling mouth. Despite the warmth of the fire, the air surrounding Night Storm was still cold and he did not look at her.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I meant no insult.”
Finally he met her gaze. “It is why I do not speak of it and why I do not want those in my tribe to know. Then they will see me as you do.”
“How is that?”
“Imperfect. Weak. Helpless.”
Her shoulders sank at the truth of that. But she also thought they might see him as dangerous and frightening because of the owls.
“I am sorry. I know you are strong. I see you are capable. But everyone has a weakness of some kind.”
“I never did.”
She turned the subject to something that troubled her.
“How have you kept the others from seeing you fall?”
“I spend more and more time away, alone.”
She thought of him, unaided in a falling spell and frowned. “That is dangerous.”
“No worse than losing everything I am,” he said.
“Is your life worth any less?”
“Less and less every day.”
She reached in her bag and drew out a leaf from the nosebleed plant she had collected. Then she crushed the leaf between her fingers and applied it to the scabbing wound on her hand.
“You have been alone during each spell?”
“But I usually have warning. I did not recognize it at first, but now I do and I move away from others.”
Her anger faded as her curiosity was piqued. “What warning?”
“I smell the odor of burning flesh. Then my vision wavers as if I am looking through lake water or like staring through the bands of heat that rise from ground baking in the summer sun.”
“You see movement?”
“A wavering or trembling of the world around me.”
“Can you see the spirit world beyond?”
His brow furrowed. “I have not tried that. I think I see only this world. Sometimes it is just in one eye. I notice this because I closed one eye and then the other.”
“Which eye?”
He pointed to his right.
