The Great Everlasting

By Ray Johnson

Dan Harrington seemingly had everything: a prosperous business, a beautiful redheaded wife, a magnificent home in the towering Sierra Nevadas, and expensive luxury cars. But he also had a disintegrating marriage and skull-cracking headaches. He was midnight plagued by haunting nightmares, murky incubuses that told him to go to the wilds of Montana. Once in Montana he meets a gorgeous Indian woman who claims to have been born in 1842. The radiant Indian woman warns Dan of impending danger, coming at the hands of his wife and her lover. Is the Indian woman a clever temptress, only after his wealth, or a captivating wraith that was sent from The Great Everlasting to warn him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 27, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462838981

Book preview

Chapter One

Dan Harrington considered himself to be a rational person, as all men do, rational or otherwise. The event that caused him to question this favorable self-prognosis occurred shortly after midnight. He had been awakened from a sound sleep by another disturbing dream. An ethereal voice told him to go for a walk in the woods that surrounded the hunting lodge. He had rented the isolated lodge for the week, hoping the change of surroundings might put an end to the troubling dreams that had plagued him for the past month. He followed the dictates of this latest dream, leaving his beautiful wife deep in slumber. Recently his dreams had evolved from meandering and disorganized into troubling and demanding.

He dressed, took his 7mm Remington Magnum rifle, plus a .357 Ruger Blackhawk pistol, and followed the path from the lodge into the black of the forest. He obeyed the directions he received in the dream, but not without arming himself. The woodlands at night held many dangers. He probably would not have heeded the dream voice so readily if the events of the past month had been normal. But of late his life had been nothing close to normal.

He was tall, six feet, three inches, and weighed a muscular two hundred and ten pounds. He was handsome, ruggedly so, with light-brown hair and piercing gray eyes. The storm-gray eyes were a genetic gift from his father, the hair a present from his attractive mother.

While he was pondering everything that had happened over the past four weeks, she seemed to appear out of nowhere. He was still on the narrow path that led from the cabin. This particular trail would eventually take him to a small lake, a mile and a half into the woods. He came upon a moon-bathed glade that bordered the trail and saw her staring at him. She was the most stunningly beautiful woman he had ever encountered. But it was something far more important than her beauty that grabbed at his senses. There was an aura of trustworthiness about her that overwhelmed him. Primordial sensing mechanisms told him that the woman was beyond reproach. Never before had he experienced such an immediate sensation of trust. The ashen moonlight, which had struggled to penetrate the forest trail, washed the small glade in a silvery glow. He stared at her, unable to explain either her presence or the fascination she engendered.

She was standing in the middle of the glade, as if she had been waiting for him to arrive. She had long, raven-black hair that was plaited into twin braids. The decorated braids tumbled like dark waterfalls over her shoulders and onto her breasts. She wore an elaborate doeskin dress that was mnemonically beaded and fringed and matching moccasins. The doeskin dress was handmade, tanned and stitched by nimble fingers rather than by a modern sewing machine. Her moccasins were crafted from full-grain leather, ideal for the deep woods. An elk-tooth choker surrounded her delicate neck.

He tried to appear casual as he felt his pistol and then hefted his rifle. He needed to know if he had actually gone for a walk in the woods or was merely dreaming. The bird’s-eye maple of the rifle stock felt real, as did the cold steel of his revolver. He decided that he was awake, puzzled, but very much awake. He started to approach the woman, but hesitated when her body language indicated she was frightened and ready to bolt. Her dark eyes flashed like black diamonds in the moonlight.

Rather than move forward, he stopped and said, Good evening.

She cautiously nodded recognition, yet still reminded him of a young deer that was skittish and nervous.

It’s a little late for a walk in the forest. He felt foolish stating the obvious, but at the moment could think of nothing profound. His statement sounded doubly shortsighted since he was also walking at the late hour.

Again she nodded, yet remained silent.

Do you live around here? he asked.

Yes, she spoke for the first time.

The haunting voice mesmerized him. Her almond-shaped eyes gave her an appearance that was almost Oriental. She had prominent cheekbones and skin the color of sage honey.

How is it that you’re out this late? More important, where did she come from? He knew there was an Indian agency some twenty miles away, but that would not account for her being alone in the dead of night, deep in the forest.

I … I came to warn you.

Warn me? Her response caused him to frown. Warn me about what?

Sleep with your weapon in your hand tonight. There was an eerie seriousness to her voice, an intensity that sent icy chills coursing up and down his spine.

Am I in danger?

She nodded solemnly.

From … from robbers? The cabin he rented was remote and, by the nature of that isolation, somewhat vulnerable. The cabin had a portable generator for electricity, but no phone. He had purposely left his cell phone at home, wanting to be totally free from the pressures of business.

She slowly shook her head, causing her braids to swing.

If not from thieves …

She interrupted. From the woman.

She caught him off guard. He took a deep breath, then asked, You mean from my wife?

No, again she shook her head, from the woman.

He looked bewildered. "There’s no one else at the cabin except my wife."

She is not your mate. Sleep with your weapon.

The earnestness of her forewarning unnerved him. What is it you’re actually saying?

Trust me. Sleep like the mountain lion. Keep one eye open.

I don’t understand …

Again she interrupted. I must go now.

Please don’t. I need to know more. What he really wanted was to know more about her. Warnings come and go, but women like her were a godsend. The feeling of immediate trust that he first experienced continued to swirl about him like a comforting breeze.

Just heed my words. It was apparent that she was preparing to leave.

Will I ever see you again?

Tomorrow night, she nodded slowly, when the moon is again overhead. She pointed skyward at the pallid moon.

Do you have a name?

Morning Fawn. The smile was slight, still it was there.

obviously you’re Indian.

Absarokee. She smiled again, ever so slightly. Crow, in your language. Birikyo oce, Whistling Water Crow.

From the Agency?

No. She shook her head and the thin smile vanished as quickly as it had come.

Then where do you live? Her presence was a midnight enigma. They were miles from the nearest cabin, other than his own.

Near the Death Camp.

Ahh … she staggered him again, I don’t know of any such place around here. The only death camps he had ever heard about were those associated with the World War II holocaust.

It is nearby. I must go now.

But you’ll be here tomorrow night? The thought of never seeing her again tore at his heart.

She nodded with her reply. When Mother Moon is high. But heed my words.

You’re certain I’m in danger?

This time she nodded vigorously. Do not trust the woman with hair like the prairie fire.

Before he could question her further, she slipped into the black of the woods and disappeared. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had just spoken to the most beautiful woman he had ever chanced upon, but she vanished into the trees before he could decipher her warning. She took the aura of trust with her, leaving him feeling alone and vulnerable.

He assumed the woman with hair like a prairie fire was his wife, Sarah. Their marriage was in sad shape, tenuously held together with baling wire and scotch tape, but he had never considered Sarah a threat. He had married Sarah three years ago, over the strenuous objections of his father. Sarah had been his father’s secretary. His father was the patriarch of a family business, a prosperous lumber operation in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, above Fresno in Central California.

Shortly after Dan’s marriage to Sarah, his father died of a heart attack. As the only heir, Dan inherited the thriving company. He was unable to pinpoint the exact point in time when his marriage began to sour, but the past six months had been extremely difficult and stressful. To compound his marital problems, he had been troubled for the past month by the unexplainable nightmares. On four different occasions he had dreamed about renting a cabin in Montana and going hunting. The fact that it was the middle of summer and not hunting season did not deter the recurring dreams.

One of the dreams slipped back into his mind, just after the Indian woman disappeared into the trees. He had been walking in the woods at night and came upon a young fawn. The fawn spoke to him, but he could not understand the words. His eyes narrowed as he gazed around the small glade that was suffused in silvery moonlight. It was the glade in his dream.

He pinched himself, acting out the foolish ritual that people do in the movies when they want to see if they are really awake. The pinch confirmed that he was definitely awake. The Indian woman said her name was Morning Fawn. Was she the fawn who tried to speak to him in his dream? His head should have ached after the chimerical encounter, instead he felt relieved, his enervating dreams now vindicated.

He was torn between staying, hoping that Morning Fawn might come back, or returning to the lodge. Finally he left for the hunting lodge and his sleeping wife. Morning Fawn’s mysterious warning had been burned into his brain with the sizzle of a red-hot branding iron. How could an Indian woman in Montana possibly know anything about my redheaded wife from California? he mused as he headed back. During daylight the path appeared wide and inviting. But at midnight it seemed to narrow and the trail-crowding trees looked taller, as if willfully blocking the moonlight.

As he walked he ran the events over in his mind that led him to rent the lodge. He had suffered through persistent dreams, each dream telling him to come to this area. Along with the dreams came splitting headaches, migraines that only ceased once he finally made up his mind to make the necessary reservations. He told Sarah that he planned on renting a hunting lodge. He explained that he needed to get away from the pressing demands of business for a short while, but never mentioned the unusual dreams. He allowed her to believe that the headaches were the result of too many stress-filled hours at the lumber mill.

Sarah had protested vociferously, arguing that it was ridiculous to rent a cabin in the wilderness, even more so since it was in Montana rather than California. She contended that Las Vegas or New Orleans would do both of them far more good. Her heated protestations continued until the day before he was scheduled to leave. Then she suddenly reversed herself and announced that the trip sounded appealing and that she was going with him. The capricious reversal was not out of character because she often changed her mind in mid-stream

Dan welcomed her change of heart, hoping that being alone might spark resurgence in their marriage, perhaps even a second honeymoon. His optimistic hopes for marital revitalization had thus far remained unfulfilled. Although Sarah was a bit more pleasant than usual, there was still a coldness about her that troubled him. Their lovemaking had been resurrected, but seemed mechanical, devoid of any real fire or passion.

Sarah was still sleeping when Dan returned, unaware that he had even left. He guessed correctly that the deep slumber was due to the Valium she had taken earlier. Her doctor kept her well prescribed, to counter the tension brought on by the deterioration of their marriage, or so she professed. Her luxurious red hair had been long when they married. Just over a year ago she had taken to wearing it short, asserting that it was easier to care for that way. He preferred it long.

Dan slipped quietly from his clothes, being careful not to wake her. The chilling words of the Indian woman came back to haunt him. She is not your mate. Sleep like the mountain lion. Before he returned to bed he eased his revolver under the pillow. He drifted off to sleep with his fingers curled around the walnut grips of the pistol.

Once in deep slumber, a biblical verse from his childhood crept into his mind. From Proverbs: She will do him good and not evil, all the days of her life. He had memorized the verse in Sunday school, long years before. Did the verse describe Sarah or Morning Fawn?

Chapter Two

Even after his bewildering midnight adventure, Dan still woke up before Sarah. By 7:30 a.m. he was fixing a hardy breakfast of bacon, scrambled eggs and buttermilk biscuits. The aroma of sugar-cured bacon sizzling in a cast iron skillet did not have the desired effect upon Sarah. Rather than pleasing her, it caused her to turn up her nose and pull the covers over her head.

For God’s sake, Dan, what the hell are you doing up this early? She shouted through the flowered sheets and quilted comforter, angered that she had been awakened at such an unholy hour.

I thought you might like some breakfast, he shouted back. He continued cooking, having suffered through similar tirades numerous times before.

Brunch! Brunch, not breakfast. Brunch is what civilized people have, and not in the goddamned trees. They have brunch at The Bonaventure in Los Angeles or at Antoine’s in New Orleans, not in the forest. She finally pulled down the covers and stared at the open-beam ceiling, disliking what she saw. She detested everything about the lodge, from the rough-hewn rafters to the hardwood flooring, most of all the quiet isolation.

Even though vexed and pouting, she remained beautiful. As Morning Fawn had described her, she had flame-red hair, the color of a racing prairie fire, and it was natural. It was her enticing red hair that first attracted Dan. Unfortunately for Dan, her tresses cloaked a fiery Celt temper that she was giving full vent to this morning. She groused her way to the bathroom and continued to grumble until she stepped into the shower. The steaming-hot water finally put a damper on the flames of her ire.

She remained irritable throughout breakfast, complaining about everything from the early hour to the stillness of the surrounding forest. She picked at her food, not really eating anything. Somewhere around 10 a.m. a curious reversal of temperament occurred. She coiled her slender arms around Dan’s neck and after a passionate kiss announced that she was going into town, taking their four-wheel-drive Jeep Grand Cherokee.

Hardin isn’t much of a town. Are we out of something? Dan was certain they had plenty of provisions. The larder, refrigerator and freezer were all well stocked.

Chalk it up to cabin fever. I need to be around real people. I don’t like the raccoons and squirrels as much as you do. I won’t be gone long. She pressed against him, causing his emotions to stir.

It’s a long drive. Do you want me to come with you? The road to Hardin was as lonely as the lodge itself, dirt all the way to the paved county road; two lanes scarcely traveled the rest of the way.

No, she shook her head, stay and watch the animals do whatever it is they do out here. I’ll be careful. When I get back I’ll make that big lizard of yours stand up and beg. She reached down and touched his restless manhood, sealing her erotic promise with a beguiling wink.

She was wearing a loose-fitting lavender pointelle pullover with a deep-cut neck and zigzag hem. The matching spandex leggings displayed her slender legs to good advantage. The lavender pullover could not conceal her magnificent breasts.

I’ll be ready. The warning of the night before seemed less threatening in the light of day.

Sarah’s unpredictable mood swings were very hard on him. One minute she was complaining about being at the lodge and the next minute she was seducing him. By 11 a.m. she was driving away in the new Jeep four-door, heading for the small town of Hardin. Dan stood on the porch, watching her kick up dust as she drove away down the narrow road, as always, driving too fast.

The lodge was elegant and expensive, normally rented during hunting season by wealthy hunters. Dan had been able to rent it on short notice only because it was the off season. It was a two-story structure, built with mountain spruce and fir, and comfortable enough for the most discriminating clients. The lodge had all the amenities of home, all powered by a four-cycle gas generator. The generator was housed in a small shed that was located thirty yards to the rear, far enough away where sound was not a problem. The lodge dominated the middle of a natural clearing, a clearing surrounded by thick woods. The view of the woods and a nearby stream could be savored from the covered porch that ran across the entire front of the lodge.

Sarah hated the outdoors and anything remotely connected with nature. Her rapid course change, abruptly agreeing to accompany him, still puzzled Dan. But once they arrived at the lodge she reverted to her old self, irascible, unpredictable.

Dan decided to take a walk into the woods, to the glade he had visited the night before. He tried to convince himself that he was merely passing time. In reality he hoped he might find Morning Fawn during daylight. The quiet glade was empty, with no evidence that he or Morning Fawn had ever been there. A bushy-tailed squirrel scurried across the log he saw last night, headed back to his nest in a hollow tree. He returned to the lodge, disappointed. He spent the remainder of the afternoon target firing his rifles and pistols and then took a brief nap. He wanted a clear head at midnight, when the moon was high overhead.

Sarah returned shortly after 4 p.m. She had purchased an inexpensive cotton blouse. This was unusual because her taste in clothing was always extravagant. She went directly to the shower, apparently forgetting about the earlier offer of a sexual encounter. Rather than remind her, Dan started fixing dinner.

Sarah remained edgy throughout dinner, merely picking at her steak and pasta. Because of the generator and a satellite dish, they had myriad channels of television available for the evening. Dan hoped that watching television might improve her attitude. When he broached the subject, she informed him that the very thought of watching television in the wilderness nauseated her.

He did his best to interest her in a movie, but she wanted none of it. Instead she browsed through a fashion magazine, commenting testily on dresses that cost more than many poor women earn in an entire year. This again caused him to wonder about the moderately priced blouse she purchased in Hardin. She fixed herself a rum and coke, without offering to get anything for him. This did not bother him because all he ever drank was beer and he did not want one on this particular night.

By 10 p.m. she was ready for bed, but did not ask Dan to join her. She left with a smile, but it appeared forced, disingenuous. Dan found himself in a quandary. He was afraid that if he went to bed he might not awake before midnight for the promised rendezvous that had been occupying his every thought. He could not set the alarm, for obvious reasons. Finally he decided upon a middle course of action. He would remain dressed and catnap in a chair, a trick he had perfected in combat. When it was too dangerous to lie down, he would sit in the seat of his command hummer and grab fifteen or twenty minutes of nodding and bobbing sleep.

He settled into a maple rocking chair near the fireplace, drifting off with the dying embers. Each time he woke up he checked his watch and then made certain that Sarah was still sleeping soundly. The nightly Valium had eased her into such a deep slumber that he could have driven their Jeep into the bedroom without waking her.

By 11:30 p.m. he was too nervous to wait any longer. As with the previous night, he went well armed. He again found himself tormented by the thought that the encounter with the Indian woman had merely been a dream. He took solace from the fact that when he awoke the following morning his .357 magnum had been under the pillow. Guns are not moved by dreams.

The moon was almost directly overhead when he slipped from the cabin. He walked quickly to the path that would take him to the glade. The air was pregnant with the scent of aromatic pine trees and their fallen needles crunched softly beneath his boots. A gentle night breeze whispered through the trees, telling the forest animals that all was well. He was dressed for the woods in Levi’s and a long-sleeve burgundy chamois-cloth shirt. The night was crisp, but not cold.

He tried to steel himself for the eventuality that the Morning Fawn encounter might just be the result of the troubling dreams he had been experiencing. It would be a tremendous blow to his mental well being if the beautiful Indian woman were nothing more than a figment of his imagination. The closer he got to the glade, the more nervous he became. When the path finally widened, and the glade hove into view, he breathed a deep sigh of relief. She was waiting for him, in the same location as the previous night.

He swallowed, hoping to steady his voice. Good evening, Morning Fawn. That feeling of intense trust again swirled around him.

Good evening, Dan.

Her voice was as lovely as he remembered, but her greeting caused him to frown. He had not told her his name when they first met. I … I don’t remember telling you my name. How did you come by it?

I know much about you, Dan Harrington. She walked gracefully to a weathered log that had been felled by lightning years before. She took a seat near the rooted end of the log and motioned him to a spot nearby.

He would have preferred to be closer, but she still had that skittish look about her. He took a seat where she indicated, resting his rifle against the fallen tree. His mind was racing through the possibilities of where she could have obtained his name. Perhaps she got it from the realtor who rented him the lodge, or maybe from the vehicle registration on the Jeep. He quickly discounted both assumptions because he kept the Jeep locked and the realtor seemed too professional to give out personal information about her clients.

Morning Fawn was dressed like the night before, as if attired for some tribal ceremony. She was wearing another doeskin dress that was fringed and decorated with intricate beadwork. It was evident, even in the moonlight, that she was extremely well built. Tonight her hair was worn straight down, with two black-tipped eagle feathers hanging over her shoulders, dangling like long, avian earrings. She carried a narrow bundle, wrapped in a hide of some type. The bundle was two feet long and tied off with leather thongs.

How is it you know anything at all about me? he asked, still puzzled.

I cannot tell you everything you wish to know tonight. It would be too much for you to absorb. But I will tell you more each night, until you know everything you seek.

Her statement caused him to smile, even though he tried not to. It meant he would be able to see her again. All right, I can live with that. Still, how is it you know my name?

The … she hesitated, hoping he was strong enough to handle this mind-bending reality, the Great Spirit told me much about you.

Her concerns were well founded because the revelation did shock him. He expected her to say something mundane, like she lived nearby and had contacted the realtor to find out who had rented the hunting lodge. Or a friend ran the license number on the Jeep through the Department of Motor Vehicles, thus coming up with his name and vital statistics.

The … the Great Spirit? he asked haltingly.

Yes. He told me much about you. She watched his gray eyes in the moonlight, wondering how this disclosure would affect him.

The Great Spirit? He repeated himself foolishly.

Yes. He … he protects me.

Dan paused, trying to fit the events of the past month into something that made sense. He had numerous puzzle pieces, but none of them gave any hint as to the overall picture. Now this striking Indian woman was further confounding him, adding more pieces to his perplexing puzzle.

And he told you about me?

Yes, she nodded slowly, He is the one who gave you your visions.

Visions? He looked mystified.

The dreams that caused you to come here. To us they are visions. The Great Spirit brought you to me. He gave you the visions.

Visions? Again he fatuously repeated himself.

She nodded and informed him, He woke you from your sleep last night and caused you to come to me.

Why? He was not accepting her version of what happened, although it was probably just as rational as any other. Why would he do that?

The answer is very complicated. It will take you some time to … to trust me enough to believe everything that I tell you.

Believe me, I’ve never trusted anyone as much as I trust you. I’d have moved Heaven and Hell to get here tonight, just to see you again.

I’m happy you feel that way. His impassioned statement caused her to blush.

One thing has troubled me since last night.

Tell me. I will be truthful about everything, but you must be patient. It will take time for you to accept the truth. This will be very difficult for you.

All right, I’ll be as patient as possible. Last night you said you live near the Death Camp. Where on earth is a Death Camp?

It is unusual that you would phrase it that way. The Death Camp is where the good people of my tribe go when they die.

A … a cemetery?

No, she shook her head, the White man always calls it the Happy Hunting Ground. You would better understand it as … as a Crow Heaven.

He agreed with her earlier prognosis, this was going to be extremely difficult. So you’re telling me that you live near … near an Indian Heaven?

To the Absarokee, my people, the Birikyo oce …

He interrupted and said, You used that phrase last night.

She nodded and interpreted for him. It means Whistling Water Crow. We are Mountain Crow.

There’s more than one type of Crow?

Yes, two kinds. Mountain and River Crow.

And this Death Camp is on an Indian Agency?

No. The Death Camp is in a beautiful valley, blessed with a clear stream and tall trees.

Near here?

She hesitated, but finally answered. Yes, it is near here, but not in the sense that you’re asking.

Explain that, please.

The Death Camp is our … our Heaven. The days are warm and the nights crisp. Game is plentiful and our warriors never lose a battle. Our children are never sick and no one grows old.

It’s a mythological place? A place your people dream about?

No, it is very real. I was supposed to go there myself.

His eyes narrowed, troubled by her reply. But that would mean you’re … you’re …

Try very hard to accept everything I tell you as truth. I understand how difficult this must be for you. I was a good woman all my …

Again he interrupted, Was?

Yes, she nodded slowly, I was a good woman, a chaste woman all my life. I was a tree notcher. I was …

Was? The term continued to befuddle him.

An owl hooted in a nearby tree. Dan thought it was a mournful sound, eerie and haunting. Morning Fawn looked toward the towering tree, as if having received a sign.

She decided to start from the beginning. During the winter count of The Great Hunt, my people were camped near the south fork of the Rosebud. My father, Five Ponies, had separated us from the main body of our tribe for the summer. The only warriors with us were my brothers, Sees the Eagle and Twin Tails. My useless husband, Moves Away, was there also.

Moves Away? What an unusual name, he mused.

She shook her head as if thoroughly disgusted. "He was given that name because every time he had an opportunity to count coups, he moved away from the enemy instead."

A coward?

Even worse, but I will tell you more about him later. We were trailing a small herd of buffalo that had moved into the Valley of the Rosebud. My father was still very ill. He had never fully recovered from an attack by Sans Arcs Lakotas during the winter count of …

once again he interrupted. What’s a winter count?

It is our calendar, the way we number years. The most important event of the winter determines the name of the year.

So the winter count of The Great Hunt corresponds to … he paused, hoping she was about to tell him it that coincided with the previous year.

The winter count of The Great Hunt was 1867, by your calendar.

Morning Fawn. Her answer caused his jaw to drop.

Yes?

You just casually told me that you’re over one hundred and thirty-five years old.

Not exactly. I told you the truth would be very hard to accept. Please, bear with me and let me finish.

He acquiesced, with reservations. Forgive me for interrupting. The fear that he was dreaming returned to haunt him. only his fascination with this captivating Indian woman kept him from once again pinching himself. But if he had to be in a dream, he wanted her to remain there with him.

There is nothing to forgive. Only a great warrior could absorb even this much. As I was telling you, we were hunting buffalo on the Rosebud. For all practical purposes we had only two warriors with us, my two brothers. Early one morning, just after dawn, we were attacked by a small Lakota war party.

Why? Why did they attack you?

"It was springtime. Attacking other bands was a way of life.

The Lakota saw all the land from the Assiniboins in the north to the Kiowas in the south as being their own. They would always attack any hunting party they came across, even though we were in Crow territory." She was nonchalant with her territorial explanation.

A small war party attacked you?

Yes, with fourteen warriors. My brothers killed five of them and my father killed two. With three real warriors we might have fought them off. My worthless husband fled the camp on Twin Tails’ best war pony.

Leaving you … he was afraid to finish the query.

Leaving me, my sisters-in-law and my mother to fight off the remaining seven Lakotas.

What about your brothers and father?

They were killed by the Lakotas.

I’m sorry. The somber disclosure caused his brow to furrow.

Do not be. They are all in the Death Camp, with my sisters-in-law and my mother.

He felt ridiculous asking, but did so anyway. So … so you weren’t killed?

Not then. My sisters-in-law and I continued fighting until we ran out of arrows. The Lakotas then killed both of them, along with my mother. They took me as a prisoner.

As a hostage?

No, she shook her head angrily. I was to be the first wife of Rising Wind, the leader of the small band. She hissed out Rising Wind’s name.

They were Sans Arcs also, like those who attacked your father earlier?

No, they were a mixed war party. Of those who still live, two are Miniconjou, one is Hunkpapa and two are oglala.

Are? His eyes betrayed utter bewilderment.

Are. They also live near the Death Camp, in utter misery.

You live with them?

Not exactly. I have my own lodge. They live in dilapidated Lakota lodges with short lodge poles. She waved her hand with the teepee descriptions, as if dismissing all Lakota lodges as inferior. She explained that Crow teepees have tall lodge poles that extend high above the top flap, giving almost an hourglass effect, obviously superior to other tribal lodges.

I’m right back where I started, he complained. You’re still telling me that you’re over one hundred and thirty-five years old.

Can you handle this knowledge? she asked, her head cocked.

I hope so.

I have asked the Great Spirit to give you wisdom and patience. I know this story is very difficult for you to accept.

Ask him again. I’m not certain my brain can handle everything you’re telling me.

He will strengthen you. She continued her tale. The war party was taking me and another woman, an Arikara they had kidnapped, back to the Lakota camp. They were all evil warriors. Rather than seek guidance from the Great Spirit, they instead followed The Woman of Two Faces.

Who is she?

Ahh … she paused, formulating her answer, the Great Spirit is all that is good. The Woman of Two Faces is a Lakota goddess who represents all that is wicked.

The … the Devil, but a woman?

That is a good description. But more like a dark angel. She leads men and women on the path of wrongdoing and deception.

And she’s real?

Just as real as the Devil himself. The Lakota warriors followed her rather than the Great Spirit. That is why they killed my sisters-in-law and my mother. No true warrior kills women or children.

You were protected by the Great Spirit and they were protected by this Woman of Two Faces? He was struggling to keep up, but her sincerity made it difficult not to believe her.

Yes, and believe me, I understand what this story must be doing to you. And what you are thinking is true. A great battle was raging between the forces of good and those of evil.

"You have no idea