Where the Broken Heart Still Beats (9 page)

Every evening we gather at the table and Grandfather leads us in prayer, never failing to ask special blessings for Cynthia Ann and Tecks Ann (as he still calls her), calling upon the Lord to open their hearts and to cleanse them of their sinfulness. But what sinfulness? Was living among her people really a sin? I cannot ask these questions, because in their eyes I am too young, although I am now two months past my thirteenth birthday, and must not ever think such thoughts.

Cynthia Ann still will not speak to me about her husband, no matter how cleverly I have tried to draw her out on this subject. Sometimes she says, "I do not speak of him." Other times she pretends not to hear or understand, her lips firmly closed, the muscles of her jaw quite rigid.

Sometimes she does speak of her children, if I ask the questions just right. "They will be great warriors," she has told me several times, and it is useless to try to convince her that being a warrior is not a good thing, that they will surely be killed if they become warriors.

"That is very dangerous," I say carefully. "I certainly wouldn't want my brother, Ben, to be a warrior, even though he can handle a gun as well as any man. He'll be a farmer, like our father."

She looks at me as though I am not right in the head. "Yes, dangerous. But it is what a man of Nermernuh does. Many men die in battle."

And last evening I tried again to persuade her on this subject. "But your men don't have to die that way, Cynthia Ann," I said. "They must give up their raids on the farms of white settlers. They must stop stealing horses and killing people and taking scalps. It's
wrong,
you know. The Bible says—"

"
You
say wrong," she said, cutting me short. "Your Bible says wrong. What does that mean to us? We are Nermernuh, and that is our way, Lucy. Other is
your
way, white man's way. We are not like you. I think you forget that."

"But you're white!" I said. "How can you believe those things?"

"You say I am white. I say I am Nerm."

I knew it was wrong to argue, but I found myself getting riled. And then I said something quite unforgivable.

"How can you believe that, Cynthia Ann? Those Nermernuh that you love so much
killed most of your family!
And they kidnapped you and your brother and other people, too! Surely you remember that? And what about what happened to you after they captured you? If you remembered what they did to you and your family, I do not think you would love them so much, even if you did marry one!"

Cynthia Ann stared at me for a moment, her eyes filled with anger and confusion and sadness, and then she turned and walked away—not back toward our cabin, but away from the farm and into the woods. Naturally I was upset that such a bad feeling had come between us, and I instantly regretted not holding my tongue. But I thought it was just a temporary thing, that she needed to compose herself and then I would apologize and we would go on as before. Besides, Prairie Flower was with me. The little Indian child was humming contentedly to herself, playing in a pile of sawdust next to the cabin that would be my sister's new home, seeming not even to notice that her mother had left.

But then darkness began to fall, and I realized that Cynthia Ann had disappeared, deep into the wilderness. I could not go in after her, not with Prairie Flower. By the time I returned to our cabin with the child—who was by then upset by the disappearance of her mother—it was quite dark. They wanted me to tell them what had happened, but I could not bring myself to confess at that moment all that I had said that had led up to her flight. Especially since Mama is coming close to her time, and I do try hard not to trouble her. So I said only, "She got upset and she went into the woods."

They were content to let this go and did not press me for details, believing that she would soon come back on her own. They believed, as I did, that she would not try to run away without a horse, that she would never try to go back to her people without her child, and that in a matter of a few hours she would forget her anger and come home.

But the night wore on, and there was no sign of her. Grandfather had gone to Dallas on business, or I am certain that he would have plunged into the woods without any hesitation, but Papa and Ben were not so anxious. And I knew that I could not do it alone.

"She'll be back when she gets hungry enough," Mama kept saying in a sour tone. She is heavy with the child and tires easily, and her patience is worn thin.

I forgot about that when I cried, "But what if something happened to her! Suppose animals got her. Or she's hurt and cannot come back. Oh, we must go find her!"

"She can take care of herself well enough, Lucy," Mama assured me in a gentler tone. "She'll be back when she's ready. I wouldn't worry myself too much about it."

But I did worry, and all of today I have done little else but wait and pray to Almighty God for her return.

Then late this afternoon when I went out to the privy and was once more searching the distance for her, I happened to look off to the north and saw a thin dark line of clouds stretching across the sky, the first sign of a blue norther coming our way. By the time I had hurried back to the cabin, the air had taken on an eerie stillness. Papa and Ben rushed in from the fields, calling to us to get the animals shut up as best we could and the shutters latched.

In minutes the dark line became an ominous wall of black thunderclouds, and the wind began to blow, bending the trees. When the rains began in lashing sheets, I was beside myself with worry. What shelter will she find out there in the woods?

Papa says not to fret, that she is well able to take care of herself, but as the wind howls and the hail drums on the roof of our cabin, I cannot imagine how she will endure this. And Prairie Flower weeps in fear of the storm and in despair that her mother is not here.

I know that Mama would be relieved to be rid of her, and Martha and Ben and Papa, too. It is only Grandfather and I who truly care for her. But for the sake of the little girl, I am desperate for her return. I have resolved that if she does not return soon, I will take a horse and go looking for her myself. And pray that I find her alive.

The hot, moist air hung motionless, and the white women's clothing clung to Sinty-ann's legs, heavy and clammy. Insects hummed and bit, raising small, red-and-white, itching welts on her hands and face.

Lucy had made her very angry. In some ways Sinty-ann had grown fond of the girl. Lucy was kind, and she meant no harm. She was the only one in this family who seemed to try to understand, who did not despise the People. And yet even Lucy had shown that she was capable of cruelty, without even knowing that she was being cruel.

The questions Lucy had flung at her had hit their mark, upsetting her deeply. In all the time Sinty-ann had lived with the People—"Twenty-five years," Lucy had said, "since you were like Sarah"—she had chosen not to think about how she came to be there with them. She knew terrible things had happened then, things that must be forgotten. But as she grew older, the memories had sunk like stones in water, out of reach, far below the surface, rising up again only in dreams. Then, even the dreams had stopped.

But since she had been forced to live among these white people, the dreams had come back, waking her in the night, her sleeping gown soaked with sweat, her moans disturbing Prairie Flower. It is nothing, she told herself—only a dream. When it happened many times, she knew that it was more than that.

Then Lucy spoke of those forgotten things as though she knew about the dreams. Somehow Lucy knew what had happened—but how
could
she know? Lucy had not yet been born in the time before Sinty-ann was Naduah.

The sun slipped over the edge of the world, and darkness moved in swiftly. Sinty-ann pushed through the thick growth until she could no longer see the branches that snapped at her face. Then she threw herself on the mossy ground and lay stretched out, feeling the damp earth along the length of her body. The sounds of the woods were changed. She listened to the owl calling, over and over. Her stomach began to gnaw with hunger, and she was thirsty. The night passed slowly. She gathered a few leaves and sucked the droplets of moisture that had collected on them, but it was not enough to slake her thirst. She lay still, making no effort to move.

She believed they would not come looking for her yet, because they thought she would not go far—not without Prairie Flower. They were right. She would not try to make her way back to the People this time. All she wanted now was to get away from that white family. All of them, even Lucy.

The light returned, and the heat. Her hunger and thirst deepened. Late in the day, she felt the change in the air. Everything became very still. Then the wind began to blow. She knew what this meant: a violent storm, the kind that sometimes swept across the prairies and tore all but the most firmly pegged tipis out of the ground and blew them away, whipping them with driving rains that stripped the leaves from the trees. She looked around for shelter, but there was none. At least, she thought grimly, as the force of the storm broke, they would not come for her in this. Neither would wild animals.

She huddled against a tree, listening to the wind that howled like a wounded beast. Now there was water to drink, but she was shivering with cold. Sometime later the storm passed on. She squeezed the water out of her sodden clothes and drank it. Then it was night again.

She thought of her sons, remembering when they had gone on their vision quests, seeking their power, their medicine.

The vision quest was an experience every young brave went through. When he was no longer a boy but not yet a man, he left the camp dressed in his breechcloth and moccasins, carrying only his buffalo robe, a pipe, some tobacco, and a flint or a bit of metal for starting a fire. He went alone. That night he slept facing east, his robe over his head, showing that he was not afraid of wild animals that might attack him in the darkness. For four days and nights, longer if necessary, he fasted and prayed, waiting for his vision, trusting that some spirit would share its power with him.

Sometimes the spirit came to the youth as a voice heard in a trance, or as an animal that appeared to him, giving him songs to chant whenever he wanted to make medicine.
Puha,
it was called—power. That vision, that hallucination, gave him his medicine, telling him what to put in his medicine pouch—feathers, maybe, or the teeth or fur of a particular animal—so that he could contact his spirit when he needed to. It made him strong in battle, successful on hunts. No chief, no leader of the People, could be without medicine. If he did not have it, no warriors would follow him on a war party or go with him to hunt buffalo.

She remembered Quanah's vision quest. When he came back, it was clear that Quanah had powerful medicine. From the very beginning, even as a youth scarcely beyond boyhood, she knew, her husband knew, everyone knew, that Quanah would be a great leader.

For Pecos, the younger brother, it had not been that way. He had gone on his quest and come back without
puha.
They went to the medicine man for help, asking him for some of his
puha
for Pecos, but even that had not helped much. Several times Pecos went on a quest, and several times he returned, his discouragement deepening.

She had not loved him less for it, but she knew her husband was disappointed. This younger son would never lead a war party. But Quanah would, and that made up for everything.

Most of the old men in the tribe had
puha.
Even some of the women got it, but only after they were no longer able to bear children. Then their husbands would help them to get medicine.

Her husband was not here to help her get
puha.
But Naduah would get something else, alone here in the woods with her hunger and cold. She would remember what she had forgotten, and that would make her strong.

On the evening of the third day, leaning weakly against a tree trunk, she finally recalled the sound of her father's voice. It released a flood of memory that poured through her like a powerful river.

I
T IS WARM
, smelling of late spring. Her father and the other men come back from working in the fields, their blue shirts dark with sweat. She is helping her mother carry their supper to a rough wooden table outside the cabin. Her younger brother, John, and the two little ones, Silas Junior and Orlena, are still playing. She is tired of chasing them all day, glad when her father scoops them up on his lap and laughs with them, glad when they finally are tucked in their bed and she can stay up a while longer with the grown-ups and listen to their talk.

Her grandfather, Elder John Parker, and grandmother and her two uncles and their families as well as her own all live in the fort they have built, seven small cabins inside the stockade. Her cabin is next to the garden in which this summer's corn, beans, and peas are already sprouting. There are always lots of children to play with. They have lived in the fort for a couple of years. Before that there was the endless trip across the plains in wagons drawn by teams of oxen. Her youngest brother and little sister were born on that trip. Before that she lived in another place she can no longer remember at all.

The grown-ups' talk turns again to the Indians, especially the Comanches, who are constantly raiding the white settlements, stealing their horses, ruining their fields, sometimes killing the settlers. That was why the family had built this fort.

An enormous gate was made especially to keep the Indians out, put together without nails, made of wooden slabs so thick no bullet, no arrow shot from a powerful bow, could penetrate. Two blockhouses were erected at opposite corners of the compound where the men would go with their rifles in case of an attack. The surrounding stockade is made of logs twice as tall as any man, pointed at the top to keep Indians from climbing over.

The settlers feel secure inside their fort. "Indians won't never bother us here," her father says often when she feels scared. "We're safe, long as we keep that gate shut tight." A thrill of fear prickles her neck whenever the subject comes up.