calling a few days later.
Unfortunately, the first close-up view of the prospective groom reminded the Gunther clan of how pitiful his condition was, and their spirits dipped.
A futile attempt had been made to drag a comb through his thick, yellowish hair. His clothes were reasonably tidy but a clue to his implausibility lay in the fact that he was wearing two left boots. Though his hands had been recently washed, the stunted sleeves of his jacket showed that it had been some time since his arms had encountered a cleaning agent.
Hygiene aside, it was the essence of Axel himself that caused a momentary deflation in the family's hopes. His small, close-set eyes peered out of a bony promontory that was more ledge than brow and was complemented by a wide, impenetrable jaw. In rustic parlance he was what was called a “mouth breather' and he shuffled wherever he went in the short, careful gait usually associated with advanced age. His great paws hung lifelessly at his sides and, aside from an occasional expression of glee at some childish stimulus, he rarely spoke unless by way of a response to some simple instruction.
It was patently clear to all who saw him that for a dullard of Axel's magnitude to conduct a courtship was impossible. Nor was it conceivable that he could form any kind of proposal, even if his unknown desires were to hit upon the idea.
But nothing could deter the Gunthers in their desperation and, despite the suitor's total lack of qualification, they pressed forward. After a short-lived repast, they managed, through a flurry of hasty, bald-faced maneuverings, to isolate the trio of Axel, Christine, and her undemonstrative offspring on a porch bench. Once the players were in place, the Gunthers retreated into the house to monitor developments from behind a curtained window.
Stands With A Fist's back felt their eyes, but the surveillance did not bother her. To sit alone on the porch freed her from the constant and annoying presence of the whites, whom she had come to regard as incessantly antic. Here she could think and dream and feel without interruption. Nor was she concerned with Axel's presence. Far from being ostracized, the feebleminded of Ten Bears' village were fully accepted, and there was nothing unusual about sitting next to one of the 'slows,' whose behavior was harmless and easily predicted.
To be alone in thought also gave her the opportunity to muse about her secret. When she thought about it, she indulged herself with an inward smile. It was hard not to smile openly, or even laugh out loud, when she considered the monumental foolishness of the whites.
It had surprised her when it all came back during the long ride as a prisoner of the rangers, and she remembered thinking at the time that such a thing, coming so easily and so completely, must have emanated not from her own mind but from the Great Mystery.
There were words she still could not understand, but the gist of everything had been plain almost from the beginning. She knew who the Gunthers were supposed to be and was aware of political and social divisions in the town. She had not expected Reverend Tooey to touch her, but she had known who he was and why he was coming long before she faced him. She also knew why the slow one sitting next to her had come.
The secret had made it possible for her to navigate the trials of captivity one step ahead of her keepers while allowing her to use her own language, in fact her entire being, as a part of the subterfuge, and even now, sitting in the still, heavy air of summer, it infused her with hope.
To the consternation of the ever-vigilant Gunthers, more than an hour passed in which the thrown-together couple shared neither word nor look. Once or twice Stays Quiet made brief inquiries of her mother but that was all and it is likely that the couple, both of whom were quite content to sit, would have continued in silence had not Axel happened to lay one of his huge hands on the trouser pocket in which he kept his sizable collection of marbles.
He loved his marbles completely, and the simple act of rubbing them back and forth inside the pocket was enough to produce a ferocious-looking, gap-toothed grin on his face. The light clacking sound drew Stays Quiet's interest. When she gazed first at the pocket, and then at Axel, the moron nodded smugly. Gurgling happily, he lifted his bulk off the bench and shuffled down a short flight of steps to the yard. There he selected a patch of bare earth just below the porch and tamped it gently with one of his left boots.
Stays Quiet was now hanging over the railing, peering down inquisitively at the moron's ritual. Axel knelt in front of the spot he had chosen, and, using the side of his hand, spent a minute or two smoothing the surface with extraordinary care. Satisfied at last, he made a fist, then flipped out an index finger as if it had been sprung from a jackknife, and, marshaling all his concentration, began to draw a circle in the ground he had so assiduously prepared. When the circle was complete, Axel leaned back to better regard his effort, and, pleased with it, started a hand into the marble pocket with a delicacy that gave the impression he was after something fragile as a flower.
The girl on the railing watched, spellbound, as Axel closed his eyes to all distraction and let his fingers search out the treasured cache. Stays Quiet didn't see the marbles when Axel first drew them out in a cupped hand. But when he opened his fingers and let the perfectly round, multi-colored stones dribble onto the dirt inside the circle, Stands With A Fist's daughter fell into a trance that pulled her along the porch and down the steps to Axel's side. There she stood, her light, hazel eyes drifting from one magical sphere to another as Axel tucked his shooter into the crook of his thumb and scanned the playing field for the most promising opportunity.
Settling on a nearby cat's-eye, Axel crouched low, bounced his eyes from target to shooter several times, and fired. The shooter sped across the pancaked ground, made a loud pop as it impacted, and sent the larger marble rolling out of the circle and into the nearby rough.
Axel cried out. Stays Quiet clapped her hands and, in a few bounds, located the marble. She lifted it gingerly out of the grass, stared at it in a brief spasm of awe, bounded track to Axel, and placed it in his yawning palm.
Stands With A Fist was now standing at the rail, and as she watched Axel ready himself for the next shot, the moron's concentration was suddenly broken. He lifted his eyes to the girl standing next to him. Then he glanced at the shooter wedged against his thumb, plucked it daintily away, and offered it to Stays Quiet.
For the first time since her capture, Stands With A Fist's soul was invaded by a good feeling as Axel positioned the girl next to him, tenderly fixed the marble against her thumb, and generously provided his expertise in the selection of the most likely target. Though Stays Quiet's first attempt skipped across the circle without hitting anything, Axel yelped happily and stroked the girl's shoulder as if she were a puppy.
The rest of the afternoon transpired without incident. Stands With A Fist sat stoically on the porch while the two competitors below her who proved to be quite evenly matched, played game after game, each contest conducted with a joy that made winning and losing irrelevant.
From then on, Axel didn't miss a day, often waking in the dark to walk the miles that separated him from Stands With A Fist and Stays Quiet. He was always at their side and one look at the contented three-some, whether at work or play, suggested a familiarity that might have spanned years rather than days.
The Gunthers watched all this with pleasure, for even the most careless observer could have detected a bond between the disabled man, the former captive, and her child. In a sense it was better than a marriage, the arrangement of which would have taxed the family's skimpy reserve of emotional energy.
Without the rigors of public sanction, a family unit had been created and the effect on Christine's kin was evident. The coming of Axel Strunk seemed to sedate the Gunthers' wild charge and the family dropped most of its efforts at rehabilitation to let her life follow its languid, routine course of eating and sleeping and work and play.
Everyone was happy except Stands With A Fist, but true to the form that made her captivity bearable, she kept her feelings hidden from all but Stays Quiet. When the key turned in the lock at twilight, they invariably sat together at the west-facing window, watching the sun make its fiery exit.
In the terrible days following their arrival in Jacksboro she had explained to her daughter the purpose of the ritual. The same sun was shining somewhere on her sister, brother and father, and it was important to wish them good dreaming each twilight. In that way their family could stay together.
Stays Quiet often asked her mother when Dances With Wolves would come and get them, and her response was always the same.
'He'll come, little girl,' she would whisper.
'Tomorrow?'
'Maybe tomorrow.'
Then she would stare out the window, wondering if her hopes were foolish. Sometimes she thought he might be dead or too badly wounded to ever come. But she never indulged despair for long, and as darkness descended at the wane of day, she would close her eyes and imagine her family whole once more.
