Lakota Honor (6 page)

The words sliced through her and piece by piece he tore her down. Her soul begged for a kind word from him. Nothing but blame came from his lips. Blame, blame and more blame.

He hated her.

I will not cry.
She blinked back the tears, and stood tall while he hurled insults at her.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" He knelt down beside her and lifted her chin. "I love you, Nora." His eyes watered. "But some days I wish you were never born." With those words he left, shutting the door behind him.

Nora's heart broke. The one person she'd ever relied on, ever cared for, ripped the heart from her chest. The pain was almost too much to take. She brought her knees up and hugged them to her. How could he be so cruel? How could he say he loved her but then say those words? She wiped at a tear. Over the years, Pa's disposition had faded from joyful and light to ugly and dark. He resented her for the life they had to lead. He accused her for the alcohol he consumed.

She brought her forehead to her knees.
When did he begin to hate me so much?
She held out her hands. They had caused this—her gift. Maybe he was right. Maybe her hands were cursed after all. But how was she to stop helping those in need?

She shook her head.
If someone is hurt I need to help them.
She thought of Joe. If she hadn't healed him, he'd have no thumb. If she hadn't helped Jess Chandler, she might've died. And what of the animals that she found shot, in traps or wounded? She couldn't walk away from them either.

She couldn't do what Pa asked of her. She squeezed her hands together. She'd sacrificed her relationship with her father to save lives. Why couldn't he see the good she'd done? Instead, all he saw was a curse that had taken everything away from him.

She blew out a ragged breath

If she received nothing else from her ability to help those in need but to see their joy, then it was worth it to her. She couldn't change who she was, even though Pa would love nothing more. If she didn't use her gift at all and walked away from those in need, would he love her again? Would he take back the awful words he said? Acceptance weighed heavy upon her soul. Without saying the words, she knew the answer.

Nora gathered the dishes and pushed the untouched food onto one plate to be saved in the icebox for tomorrow. Her stomach lurched. The thought of eating the tasteless meat tomorrow night was enough to make her sick.

After she cleaned the kitchen, she heated water in the pot. A cup of tea would ease the tension in her neck and the headache she felt coming on. She took yesterday's leaves and dumped them into her cup.

She went to the window. The kerosene lamps lit the street. There was no sign of father. She knew where he'd gone. The water boiled and she poured some into her cup. She stirred the leaves and took a sip. The hot minty taste wasn't as strong as when she first used the leaves a couple of days ago, but it did the trick. And she didn't have a choice, there was no more left.

CHAPTER NINE

He lay awake listening to the sounds of a night he knew would end badly. He leaned over and placed his hand on his younger brother's chest. Little Eagle's soft breaths feathered his skin. Good, he was still asleep. A crash echoed through the tiny cabin.

He removed the thin blanket covering him and his brother. The straw-filled bed crunched under his weight as he shifted to roll off and touch his bare feet to the dirt floor. The fireplace on the far wall gave little light to the one room home, but he could still make out the table flipped on its side, two wooden chairs and a makeshift counter—a plank on top of three tree stumps.

Another bang followed by a pleading moan. Ina! He crawled around the bed to try and see what was going on, even though he already knew.

The warm glow from the fire cast the room in welcoming shadows, but the beast standing over his mother turned it into a nightmare. A meaty fist raised high in the air and rushed toward her as she lay on her side, bleeding from the temple. The thud of flesh meeting flesh sent his stomach rolling. He squeezed his eyes shut, tucked his head into his chest and prayed it would stop.

The dull sound continued. He covered his ears, tried to shut it out. If he were taller, stronger he'd be able to help her. Guilt consumed him, and a tear slipped past his black lashes.

A low whimper came from his Ina, and he wanted nothing more than to go to her. He needed to hold her in his skinny arms and tell her he loved her.

Tears wet his face, but he didn't bother to wipe them. More punches came. When would it end? How much more could she take? His chest heavy, the air seized within his lungs, as he muffled a sob into the straw-filled bed. His fingers gathered the blanket, gripping it tightly.

He needed to help her. He rubbed his cheek against the mattress, the straw poked through, cutting his skin. He searched the room for something—anything that he could use as a weapon. There was nothing. No gun, no knife, no magical spell to cast like in the stories he'd been told.

Silence. The room held an eerie stillness, and he strained to hear any sign his Ina was alive. He opened his eyes. The swine still stood above her, a bottle of brown liquid in his hand. He took a long drink and spat it all over her. She didn't move. The brute nudged her with his boot. Still nothing.

Rage bubbled hot and feral inside of him. Ina lay beaten and bloodied on the dirt floor while the monster, the beast—his father kicked her! He dug his hands into the dirt floor and squeezed, feeling the black residue filter through his clenched fingers.

A warrior's cry burst from his mouth as he bolted toward his father. Arms flailing, he punched and kicked trying to kill the wasichu. A large hand clipped his chin, dazing him, but he wouldn't give up, he couldn't. He had to save her.

He scratched and bit puncturing the skin, on his father's arms. Another backhand across the head sent him sprawling into the counter, breaking dishes and toppling it over. His arm was cut, and the side of his head pulsed with pain. A knife bounced to the floor and he grabbed it.

Arm held high he charged at his father. With one swing the knife was knocked from his hand, and thick fingers dug into his throat. He struggled for air as his feet left the ground. He kicked at the space around them, his vision blurred.

When he came to, it was still dark outside and his father was gone. His throat sore and swollen, he winced as he swallowed. He crawled toward Ina. Each move he took sent spasms throughout his scrawny body. By morning he'd be covered in bruises.

He would never forget these moments. The punches, smacks, kicks permeated his mind and stole to the very depths of his soul. His brother was awake. Three winters old, Little Eagle clutched the tattered blanket close to his mouth and stood over Ina. Little Eagle's round face was damp with tears.

He struggled to get closer. His tongue fatter in his mouth, he tasted blood when he licked his lips. He knelt beside them and held his little brother's hand.

"Misu, iyunke—Brother, lay," he said and guided him down to lie beside their mother.

"Ina, Ina?" Little Eagle whimpered.

His breaths came in quick puffs as his heart pounded in his throat. He placed their mother's head onto his lap. How was he going to fix her? Old bruises mingled with new ones coloring her face. A nasty scrape bled from the side of her head and into her blue-black hair. He ran his hand along the soft tresses, something he'd done since he was little. The motion had calmed him and helped him sleep.

He slowly got up, dunked a dirty cloth into the bucket and tenderly cleaned her wounds. Her deerskin dress was ripped at the neck and arms, traces of too many times their father had abused her. He ran the cloth along the cut on her head, trying to pull the dry blood from her hair. He'd cared for her several times in his twelve winters, and each time she grew weaker and weaker. He'd watched his Ina change from a strong, lively woman to a shell, a whisper of who she once was.

He turned a hate-filled glare toward the door where the man who called himself a husband, a father had left. He had no feelings but those of disgust, at the vile wasichu who stole from them a life filled of happiness and love.

He kissed her cheek and rested his face against hers.

"Ina, Ina, please wake up."

He lay like that for half hour, until he realized he could feel no breath touch his cheek. He sat up and watched her chest. He shook her.

"Ina, you've got to wake up."

His mother didn't move, and he gasped unable to accept what might be. He glanced at Little Eagle, nestled close to their mother on the floor.

"Wanbli Cikala—Little Eagle. Ina needs to stay warm. Go fetch some firewood."

The boy shook his head. "No, no," he cried clutching Ina's hand.

"Go. You must be big. You must help."

Little Eagle nodded and laid his blanket over Ina.

"Two logs," he said and his brother ran outside.

Hands shaking, he placed his finger into his mouth and held it in front of her nose. There was nothing. No air flowed from her lungs! He scanned the room searching for something or someone to help him. He shook her, once, twice a third time. No air. No air!

"Ina? Ina?"

He watched as her dark head lolled to the side, and he knew there was no life within her.

"Ku, ku, ku—come back, come back, come back."

Tears spewed from his eyes onto her face as he sobbed, clutching her body to his. He inhaled the wood smoke, the pine, the fresh scent that was her alone. He didn't want to forget. He didn't want to let go. He couldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't!

Wrenching sobs wracked his body in uncontrolled shakes. The pain inside his soul pricked and pierced at his sanity. He rocked her back and forth, clutching—grasping at what he once had. He pulled her closer and wept for the mother he'd lost, for the stories he'd not hear, for the love he'd never see in her eyes again. He wept for the brother he'd have to tell, and the life they'd live without her.

He stumbled to his feet and searched for something to ease his pain. Something to take away the fire from his insides, the weight of hopelessness, anguish and fear bore down upon him and buckled his knees.

Ina, Ina, Ina. His mother was gone.

His hands shook as he gripped the knife he'd tried to kill his father with. He sliced his chest four times. The misery, the torment poured out from inside of him. He howled, and as the blood ran from his chest, so did the tears from his eyes.

He rubbed his bleeding flesh, smearing two lines along his cheeks. He fell to his knees before his mother and gathered her into his arms. A low humming floated from his lips in between moments where his body broke down and trembled. He took Ina's hand and sliced her palm, before slicing his own and bringing them together.

"You will be with me forever, my Ina."

Otakatay tossed back the bed roll and sat up, panting. His lungs burned with the intensity of the dream and the vivid memory of his last moments with his Ina. His bronzed flesh glistened. Four scars stood out among the others. He closed his eyes. The ache in his heart radiated, encompassing his whole back.
Ina.
Oh, how he missed her. How he wished for that day back. He let her down. He didn't protect her. He didn't save her.

I couldn't.
Years passed before he'd avenged that day and all the others that led up to it. But no matter what he did, no matter who he killed, the hurt stayed with him, a constant sickness that crippled him.

He remembered the suffering Ina went through, the anguish that followed afterward, the life they were thrown into. He touched the feather in his hair, a constant reminder of a promise he would fulfill at all costs.

There was no way to make it right. No way to change what had happened. He wiped at the tears that wanted to fall. He would not cry. He showed no weakness.

But he was so sorry he'd let Ina down. He'd let them all down. He studied the scar on his palm.
I will never forget
. He was no longer the happy boy who loved stories and whittling wood, or who had taught his brother to shoot an arrow. He was a killer, a violent, deadly man who with the skilled swipe of his blade had ended many lives.

I am Otakatay, one who kills many.

A chill swept over him and he pulled the deerskin shirt from his saddle bag. The leather was smooth and warm against his damp flesh. He rubbed the faded yellow skin between his fore finger and thumb taking comfort in the texture of the shirt and the rhythm of his fingers. A night owl hooted. The day was going to be long.

He placed the shirt back into the bag and threw his arms into the black cotton one he wore every day. He was restless, sleep eluded him. He gathered wood to stoke the fire.

Now warm and comfortable, he felt the feather tied in his hair. It was becoming dense and falling from the quill. He would need to get a new one.

He didn't think he'd find any witkowan
in town, but it didn't hurt to have a look around. He needed one more kill. One more scalp to bring to the wasichu who hired him. Then he could take back what was his. He didn't have to kill anymore.

In a few hours he would put his black duster on and head into town. A nervous tension settled inside of him. No welcoming party would greet him. Instead, people would stare, point and run. Doors would be locked, windows closed and shutters brought down. Children herded indoors by fearful women and men with rifles.

He shook his head. His presence among the wasichu had disaster written all over it. He learned long ago to read the white eyes. He knew their actions before they surfaced in their own minds. Which gun they'd use to draw on him and where his bullet would strike, killing them instantly. He could spot the cowards that would attack from behind and the sensible men that didn't want any trouble at all.

He pulled the knife from his pant leg and sharpened the blade on his whetstone. If he had to venture among the wasichu, he'd go prepared. He was never without two knives and a rifle. Sparks flew from the blade as it scraped along the smooth stone. The owl's voice blending with the swipe of the blade played an earthy song that he embraced, allowing the melody to become a part of him.