Then it had only been a seed, buried and out of sight, and she hadn’t known what it meant. But the Great Spirit knew. The Great Spirit had let the seed grow. The Great Spirit, in all its Great Mystery had encouraged the seed to life every step of the way.
That feeling she had, that feeling of safety. She knew now that it was not the safety felt in the face of an enemy or a storm or an injury. It was not a physical thing at all. It was a safety she had felt in her heart. It had been there all along.
The rarest of all things in this life has happened, she thought. The Great Spirit has brought us together.
She was reeling with the wonder of how it had all come to pass when she heard a gentle lapping of water a few feet away.
He was squatting on a little patch of beach, splashing water on his face in a slow, unhurried way. He looked at her, and without bothering to wipe at the water dripping down his face, he smiled just like a little boy.
“Hello,” he said. “I was at the fort.”
He said this as if they had been together all their lives. She replied in the same way.
“I know.”
“Can we make some talk?”
“Yes,” she said, “I was waiting to do that.”
Voices sounded in the distance, near the top of the trail.
“Where should we go?” he asked.
“I know a place.”
She got quickly to her feet and, with Dances With Wolves a step or two behind, led him to the old side path she had taken the day Kicking Bird asked her to remember the white tongue.
They walked in silence, surrounded by the soft plod of their footsteps, the rustling of willows, and the singing of the birds who infested the breaks.
Inside, their hearts were pounding with the suspicion of what was about to happen and the suspense of where and when it would take place.
The secluded clearing where she had recalled the past finally opened to them. Still silent, they sat down cross-legged in front of the big cottonwood that faced the river.
They could not speak. All other sound seemed to stop. Everything was still.
Stands With A Fist dipped her head and saw a rent in the seam of his trouser leg. His hand was resting there, halfway up his thigh.
“They are torn,” she whispered, letting her fingers lightly touch the tear. Once her hand was there she could not move it. The little fingers lay together unmoving.
As if guided by some outside force, their heads came together softly. Their fingers entwined. The touching was rapturous as sex itself. Neither could have retraced the sequence of how it happened, but a moment later they were sharing a kiss.
It wasn’t a big kiss, just a brushing and then a slight pressing together of their lips.
But it sealed the love between them.
They placed their cheeks together, and as each nose filled with the smell of the other, they fell into a dream. In the dream they made love and when they had finished and were lying side by side beneath the big cottonwood, Dances With Wolves looked into her eyes and saw tears.
He waited a long time, but she wouldn’t speak.
“Tell me,” he whispered.
“I’m happy,” she said. “I’m happy the Great Spirit has let me live this long.”
“I have the same feeling,” he said, his eyes welling.
She pressed tightly against him then and began to cry. He held her hard as she wept, unafraid of the joy that was running down her face.
They made love all afternoon, having long talks in between. When shadows finally began to fall across the clearing, they sat up, both sensing they would be missed if they stayed much longer.
They were watching the glint on the water when he said: “I talked to Stone Calf . . . I know why you ran off that day . . . the day I asked if you were married.”
She rose up then and extended her hand. He took it and she pulled him to his feet.
“I had a good life with him. He went away from me because you were coming. That is how I see it now.”
She led him out of the clearing and they started back, clinging to each other as they walked. When they were within hearing of the faint voices calling from the village, they halted to listen. The main trail was just ahead.
With a squeeze of their hands the lovers slipped intuitively into the willows, and as if it would help them get through the coming night of separation, they came together again, making it fast as a hurried goodbye kiss.
A step or two more from the main path leading up to the village they stopped once more, and as they embraced, she whispered in his ear.
“I’m in mourning and our people would not approve if they knew of our love. We must guard our love carefully until the time comes for all to see it.”
He nodded his understanding, they hugged briefly, and she slipped through the undergrowth.
Dances With Wolves waited in the willows for ten minutes and then followed. He was glad to find himself alone as he shuffled up the hill to the village.
He went straight to his lodge and sat on his bed, staring through the lodge flap at what was left of the light, dreaming of their afternoon in front of the cottonwood.
When it was dark he lay back on the thick robes and realized that he was exhausted. As he rolled over he discovered the smell of her lingering on one of his hands. Hoping it would stay all through the night, he drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER XXVI
The next few days were euphoric for Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist.
There were constant smiles about their mouths, their cheeks were flush with romance, and no matter where they went, their feet seemed not to touch the ground.
In the company of others they were discreet, being careful not to show any outward signs of affection. So geared were they for concealment that the language sessions were more businesslike than ever before. If they were alone in the lodge, they took the chance of holding hands, making love with their fingers. But that was as far as it went.
They tried to meet secretly at least once a day, usually at the river. This they couldn’t help doing, but it took time to find absolute seclusion, and Stands With A Fist in particular fretted about being found out.
Marriage was in their minds from the beginning. It was something they both wanted. And the sooner the better. But her widowhood was a major stumbling block. There was no prescribed period of mourning in the Comanche life way, and release could come only from the woman’s father. If she had no father, the warrior who was her primary provider would take on the responsibility. In Stands With A Fist’s case, she could look only to Kicking Bird for her release. He alone would determine when she was no longer a widow. And it might take a long time.
Dances With Wolves tried to reassure his lover, telling her that things would work out and not to worry. But she did, anyway. During one fit of depression over this issue she proposed that they run away together. But he only laughed, and the idea was not brought up again.
They took chances. Twice in the four days after their coming together at the river she left Kicking Bird’s lodge
