A Whisper In The Wind by Madeline Baker Page B

nodded at each one in turn, his heart pounding like a war drum as he gazed at Yellow Spotted Wolf. This was his great-grandfather, the man he had loved and respected. And buried less than a week ago. He longed to throw his arms around the young man, to pour out who he was and where he had come from, but the time was not right. Perhaps later, when his family knew him better, when they trusted him, perhaps then he would tell them who he was.
    “Come,” Mo’ohta-vo’nehe said. “Let us go to our lodge. We have much to discuss.”
    Michael thanked Winter Song and her family for their hospitality, then followed Mo’ohta-vo’nehe to his lodge, his excitement mounting with each step.
    Mo’ohta-vo’nehe’s lodge was large and comfortable. Willow backrests were placed on either side of the firepit, sleeping robes were situated at the back of the lodge.
    Mo’ohta-vo’nehe sat down and indicated that Michael should sit on his left, the place of honor in a Cheyenne household.
    Michael obligingly sat down, remembering that it was not considered good etiquette to pass between the owner of the lodge and the fire. Well-bred people passed behind a lodge’s occupants.
    Hemene took up a moccasin and began to decorate it with porcupine quills. Badger sat on his sleeping robe, his dark eyes alight with curiosity for their guest. Yellow Spotted Wolf sat across from his father, his hands resting on his knees.
    Mo’ohta-vo’nehe took up his pipe. For a moment he held it reverently, and then he pointed the pipestem to the sky, to the ground, and to the four directions, saying, “Spirit Above, smoke. Earth, smoke. Four directions of the earth, smoke.”
    Smoking meant more to the Indians than it did to the white man. Among the Cheyenne, it was an important ceremony. The pipe, when passed, always went with the sun, from right to left. It was considered unlucky to touch anything with the pipestem while smoking. The ashes were not scattered after smoking, but were kept in a little pile near the edge of the fire, as befitting the sacred act of smoking.
    On the reservation, Michael had known old men who would not smoke unless they were alone. There was to be no noise within the lodge, no dishes knocked together. Some men would not smoke if there was a woman in the lodge.
    When the pipe had been passed, Mo’ohta-vo’nehe politely questioned Michael about his past, and Michael told him as much as he could, saying that he had been taken from his people at an early age and raised by a white family, and that when his white family died, he left their home to return to his own people, to learn the ways of his ancestors.
    Mo’ohta-vo’nehe accepted his story, and Michael breathed a sigh of relief.
    Later that night, lying beneath a soft buffalo robe, he gazed into the darkness and thought about who he was, and where he was. These Indians were nothing like the Indians on the reservation. These were not tame Indians. These men were warriors, fighters. They wore eagle feathers in their hair, necklaces made of bear claws at their throats, beaded armbands, and shirts decorated with the hair of their enemies. They carried stolen U.S. Army rifles and scalping knives.
    The Cheyenne. They were his people, known to be the finest horsemen on the Plains, fearless in battle, ruthless to their enemies. And he was here, in their midst, one of them, and yet a stranger.
    But he was here. Incredible as it seemed, he was here.
    A thrill of excitement brought a smile to his face. He was here, and while he was here, he would learn to be a warrior. He would learn to ride like the wind, to hunt the buffalo, to fight and to kill. And, yes, to take a scalp. He would join one of the warrior societies if they would have him, the Wohkseh’hetoniu, perhaps, or the Mota’mita’niu. He would make a name for himself, a name Yellow Spotted Wolf would be proud of. And perhaps he would court Winter Song.
    He closed his eyes and summoned her image to mind: smooth dusky skin,