In response,the magnificent bird continued its own song as it descended toward Swift Hawk. Would it touch him?
Once in the past, in an earlier vision, a golden hawk had reached out a single feather toward Swift Hawk’s open arms, and the effect of that encounter had changed Swift Hawk’s world forever. For it was the hawk who had enlightened Swift Hawk as to what he needed to be, what he needed to have and what he needed to do, that he might break the spell that enslaved his people.
It was also the hawk that had shown Swift Hawk that warwas not the only skill he must master. So too must he condition his mind. For while it was a fact that Swift Hawk must be unequaled in battle, he must also attain a frame of mind whereby he honestly desired to show mercy and extend aid to the enemy.
This had been the hardest lesson to learn. Indeed, were it not for his training as a scout, Swift Hawk doubted he would have ever grasped it.
Yet all was not well. Despite his training, despite his war record, despite his desire to free his people, they remained enslaved in the mist.
What was he doing wrong?
Was he not strong enough? Was he not kind enough, wise enough, helpful enough? Had he not gone to war and, when victorious, shown benevolence and mercy to the enemy? Did he not aid the enemy and counsel him judiciously? Had he not given of himself, made the right offerings, sacrificed in the proper way?
But in all this time, what good had these things done him? Were his people freed? Was he more enlightened as to what he needed to do to accomplish his task?
Hova’ahane, no.
Swift Hawk shook his head. He did not know what else to do—and the time in which to learn what he must do was quickly passing by him. Two more snows, or years, was all he had left, for already eighteen snows had passed. Problem was, he feared he was no closer to unraveling the spell than when he had been ten winters old.
As a solution, Swift Hawk had come to this lonely spot upon this butte, seeking yet another vision. In this place, he would entreat his spirit protector to guide him, to assist him in understanding what it was he failed to see.
He had prepared himself well. Naked, save for his comfortable buffalo robe, Swift Hawk had bathed himself in the sacred herbs; he had gone without food and water; he hadmurmured his prayers, singing his songs to the Above Ones, watching carefully as the wind carried the smoke from his small fire upward, into the realm of the spirit world.
Now, taking a long, deep breath, Swift Hawk sat forward with anticipation, for the hawk had at last appeared to him. As Swift Hawk waited, he raised his voice higher and higher, stretching out his bare arms toward the heavens, hoping he might receive the bird’s blessing.
But this quest was proving to be far different from his previous vision. Instead of the gilded touch from his protector, this particular hawk spread its mighty wings wide, fluttering them against the wind. It hovered before Swift Hawk, its sharp eyes seeming to see directly into Swift Hawk’s soul. Swift Hawk returned that look, one for one.
Gradually the powerful bird lifted one of its wings and turned its head toward the east, the tip of its feather pointing toward something.
What was it? Swift Hawk gazed in the indicated direction. He could see nothing.
Then, as dim as the first ray of morning light, there came an image. It was an ethereal likeness, for it appeared as though it were made of mist, yet it was an image of two people, two pale faces whose skin was so light that it reflected the sun. Light, too, was their hair color, which seemed as fair as the burnished summer grasses.
At present, these two people were engaged in the running of a white man’s travois at full speed. Atop that wagon sat one fair-haired, pale-faced male, the other occupant, a similarly featured female.
As Swift Hawk watched, he observed that at different intervals, one or the other of the two would look over a shoulder, as though something followed them. Whatever that something was, it was not part of this misty image that Swift Hawk was presented.
Without warning, there came the boom of rifles, followed bya shower of bullets speeding toward these two, maiming one of them…the male. In response the female sat down, her features facing the challengers. She took careful aim with her own rifle and shot.
Yet instead of sadness, a look of shock came over her. He watched as she turned to her partner, noticing that she murmured something to him. But there was more.
He saw her face before him, and in that instant she was as real to him as the light of day. He beheld her likeness with awe, for this was his vision. And yet he could not view her with a completely open heart, for she represented something he did not understand.
She was white; he was Indian. What did she have to do with him?
Still, hers was a symmetrical countenance. She was feminine and pretty, perhaps even beautiful…at least she might be considered so by the white man.
To Swift Hawk she was as strange as any alien being might be. He watched her with some foreboding, watched as her long pale curls wafted in the wind, watched as the strands of her mane shone, reminding him of the silvery rays of moonlight. He scrutinized her thoroughly, even as her blue eyes sparked with such a bright hue they might shame a radiant summer sky. As he surveyed her over and over, he wondered,Who is she?
All at once, the golden hawk took to song, serenading Swift Hawk again with its strangely high voice, chanting the strains of a melody as unfamiliar to Swift Hawk as might be the white man’s music.
What did this vision mean? And more important, what did this have to do with him?
Then, before another moment had passed him by, the woman spoke in Cheyenne. “Ne-Na’estse!Come here, come to me.”
She reached out to Swift Hawk, and as she implored him, she sang:
“By waters muddied,I will be,
