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“Here we are,” she said. “I’ll bring you a blanket and tend to your wound after I finish supper. I’m sorry there isn’t much I can do now.”
“You have…done plenty. Many thanks.” He sat down on the dirt floor, braced his back against the wall lined with straw, and grunted. “What are you called?”
“You mean my name?”
“Yes.”
“Ella. Ella Morgan. You?”
“I am called Mazaska Kagi Taka.”
The melodic sounds of his language, in his deep and husky voice, melted over Ella. “That’s beautiful. Does it have a translation?”
“I am sorry. I do not…understand.”
“What does it mean?”
“In white man’s language, it means Silver Raven.”
“Oh.” Ella breathed. “That’s lovely. How did it come to be your name?
“When I was born, I had very thick black hair. But in the back there was a”—he winced—“streak of silver. My mother called me Silver Raven.”
“I didn’t notice the silver streak.”
“It is gone. My infant hair fell out and grew in again, without the silver. But the name…it stayed.”
“I’m glad. It’s a beautiful name.”
“When a Lakota boy becomes a brave, he gets…a new name. I did not.”
“Why?”
“I was—” He grimaced.
“You don’t have to talk.” Ella patted his forearm but then whisked her hand away. She should not be touching him in a friendly manner. What would her parents say?
“I am…fine. When I was a young brave, I played…what is the word?” His forehead wrinkled. “Jokes. I played jokes on my friends. The raven is known to be…clever…and filled with…mischief. So my name…stayed.”
“What a nice story.” Ella wiped his forehead with the edge of her apron. “But no more talking now. You need to rest, and I need to join my family for supper. Later I’ll bring you some food and a blanket. And some water to clean your wound.”
“Many thanks. Ella Hopa. Lila Wiya Waste.”
Ella started to ask what he said, but stopped. His eyes were closed and his breathing had become shallow. He had fallen asleep. No doubt the best thing for him. She smoothed his thick black hair, slick with sweat, away from his troubled face. “I’ll return soon,” she whispered, wondering why her heart was beating faster than normal.
* * *
The Lakota drumming pounded in Raven’s dreams. The roll, the fast drum beat, thumped in his ears, in his veins. His eyes flashed open, his heart pulsating in time with the nocturnal drum.
Where was he?
Trickles of sweat meandered down his cheeks and his bare chest. His right leg throbbed. He gasped as he tried to move it. Yes. The bear. He had run, had found shelter in the small barn on a white man’s homestead at the foot of the woods. Bits and pieces fogged his mind. The cranky cow. The woman. The beautiful woman with hair the color of the soft earth beneath him, her tresses pulled back in a long braid that fell below her waist. What would it look like unbound, cascading over her milky white shoulders and full breasts?
And her eyes. The color of the violets that grew in the foothills near his home. Violets at first bloom.
He had found her.
She had cared for him with her smooth white hands. His skin still burned from her touch.
