Captured

Ehawee wakes up to the sound of children crying and their mothers trying to hush them. There is heavy metal at her neck, wrists and ankles, and she is lying on the ground on her side. She can smell the earth, trampled grass and horse manure. She lies still at first, trying to take stock of her injuries, surprised that she's still alive. She finds that she is sore in several places, and short of breath, but beyond that, she isn't sure. She knows she should open her eyes, but hesitates, afraid of what she will see. If she and the rest of the women are prisoners, then the whites must have killed most or all of the men. Her heart sinks at that thought, and she wishes that the whites had killed her as well. Better to be dead than to be their prisoner.

The first thing Ehawee sees when she finally opens her eyes is Magaskawee, sitting a few feet away, head resting on her knees. Beyond her sister-in-law, she sees a rag-tag group of warriors; the survivors, she assumes. From her current position, she can't get a very good look at them. She hears the whites hammering on wood beyond the group of warriors.

Not wanting to give away the fact that she's awake yet, and wanting to conserve her strength, Ehawee remains still as she quietly asks Magaskawee, "Where are we? What has happened?"

Magaskawee starts at the sound of Ehawee's voice. "You...you're not dead?" she asks, surprise mixing with misery.

"No," Ehawee answers, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "I doubt they would have bound me like this if they thought I was. How long have I been unconscious? Where are we? The last thing I remember is attacking the white chief...."

"We are at the white man's camp. The ahr-mee bays. We've been here since yesterday. You lay there still all through the day yesterday and today."

Ehawee looks shocked to hear that so much time has passed. "Maybe they do think I'm dead, then. You must let me know if any of them come close, so I know to stop talking." She hesitates before voicing her next question, wanting and yet not wanting to know the answer. Finally she asks, even more quietly than before, "Who else is here with us?"

Tears well up in Magaskawee's eyes. "Most of the women and children. For some reason, they didn't shoot at us. Not really. More than half of the men are gone...."

Ehawee bites her lip, trying not to cry as well. "Who...which of the men survived? Kohana? Napayshni?"

"Both are wounded, but alive. I think Napayshni is hurt worse than Kohana. They have Takoda with the children. But our fathers, Ehawee...our fathers are gone."

Ehawee is unable to stop her tears at this news, despite the fact that she had been expecting it. "Gone...." She is silent for a moment, tears running down her face, and then she clenches her fists. "I wish I had killed more of them. I wish I had killed all of them. They are without honor."

"Ehawee, you killed nearly half of the white chief's men! And you wounded him. You have done more than any other woman to help her tribe!" She looks up sharply, past Ehawee. "Someone is coming," she warns.

Ehawee closes her eyes and pretends to be unconscious, turning her face towards the ground so her tears can't be seen. A few moments later, hands grab her shoulders, and her left one catches fire. It is all she can do not to scream. She hears another white man say something to the two holding her, and she begins to feel herself dragged along. Her shoulder hurts her terribly, and she finds it more and more difficult not to cough. She clenches her jaw tightly, trying with all her will not to make a sound. She isn't even really sure if pretending to be unconscious will help, or if she'll be able to keep up the ruse for long, but it's all she can think of to do right now. And if she can fool them, even for a little while, it will at least be a small victory over her captors.

Ehawee is taken up stairs and apparently into the lodge of the white men. She can hear the wood floor clunk under the soldiers' boots. Then she is pushed into a chair, and she can hear her chains being attached to it. Someone grabs her hair and holds her head up with it. There is the sound of a match striking, about three feet away, and then the acrid smell of smoke. She feels nothing until, suddenly, a finger is driven deeply into the bullet hole in her shoulder, causing her more pain than when her face was cut. She emits an involuntary cry at the sudden, intense pain, and reflexively grabs for her shoulder, although the shackles bring her up short. Then, her pretense of unconsciousness now ruined, she opens her eyes slowly, hoping that maybe the soldiers will assume the pain woke her up.

She sees a man, a cigarette between his smiling lips. He nods and pulls his finger out, then says something to the two soldiers. They exit the room, leaving her alone with her tormentor. He is handsome, despite his paleness. His hair and beard are brown, but his eyes are the color of the sky in deep winter. He walks around the room, drawing the shades one by one, then sits behind his desk and opens a drawer. He takes many odd things out of it, and begins arranging them.

Ehawee realizes that she has seen something like this before. The white man looks to be getting ready to cast a shaman's spell, which surprises her, since she didn't think white men had shamans. This discovery doesn't exactly please her, however, and she begins carefully checking out her shackles while the white man begins chanting. Unfortunately, her wrists are chained to the chair arms, and her ankles to the chair legs, and the chair itself feels incredibly solid. She doubts she could break free of it.

The white man stops chanting and smiles again. "There. This should make everything much easier," he says to her in her own tongue.

Her eyes grow wide at hearing him speak her own language, then her face closes up again and she sits there watching him warily. This is one of the men responsible for the deaths of so many in her tribe, she reminds herself. He cannot be trusted. Still, she can't help feeling a little curiosity as she looks at him. This is the closest she's ever been to a white man, and she finds him rather strange looking - especially the hair on his face.

"You'll be able to understand all the whites now. My gift to you." He stands and walks around his desk to sit on its front edge, so he can be closer to her. "Now, I can only guess that you'd love to bury a sword in those stupid fucks outside, hm? Do correct me if I'm wrong."

She realizes that he is not, in fact, speaking Lakota, but she understands what he is saying anyway. She feels somewhat confused by his words, though, mainly the way he referred to his own men, and wonders if she could have heard him correctly. She's tempted at first to remain silent, but then decides to answer him, in part just to see if he can understand her as well. She does her best to keep her voice steady as she speaks, not wanting to sound weak in front of the enemy. "I wish to see them all dead, yes. I care not by what method."

"And what if I let you do that?" he says, then takes a drag on the cigarette, letting the smoke out slowly through his nose. "Would you do something for me?"

She looks even more wary at that, and again wonders if she could be hearing correctly. "You would let me slaughter your own people? Why?"

"Because, my dear, they aren't 'my people,'" he says with a smile. "I could care less what happens to them. I'm far more concerned with you."

Ehawee now looks very confused. "But you're white, just like they are. I don't understand. Why do you want to help me?"

"Just because I share the same skin color, doesn't make me one of them," he says. "Actually, I'm a lot closer to you than you think." He shows her his hand, and in the blink of an eye, he grows claws, and reabsorbs them.

Ehawee's eyes get as wide as saucers when she sees this. "How did you know I can do that? How do you do that so quickly? Are you part spirit too?"

"How did I know? Because any mere mortal would have died from those wounds. You have merely been inconvenienced. By this time tomorrow, all you'll have is scars. As for the last two, practice, and no, not in the sense you're using the word."

Ehawee looks troubled. "Then how can you do what you do? I thought...the shamans say I am part spirit. That is why I can do these things. If that is not true, then why am I different?"

"My best guess? Either mummy or daddy were fibbing."

Her face darkens. "My mother would not have dishonored my father in that fashion. And my father cannot...." Her voice breaks for a second and she blinks furiously, not wanting to cry in front of this strange man. After a moment, she manages to continue, "My father could not do these things. He was as surprised as anyone when they happened."

"Mmm. People are very good at hiding things. Especially when they know the truth will cause pain in someone they love. That's true no matter what culture you're in."

"He did not know," she insists. "He was afraid of me, at first. He would not have felt that way if he knew this would happen." She shakes her head. "He would not be dead if he could do what I do. You said so yourself."

"No arguments. Doesn't exonerate your mother, though."

"Oh. No, I suppose it doesn't. But she died too, a long time ago." She looks at him curiously. "So your parents could do what we do?"

He nods. "Hell, if it makes you feel any better, your real daddy coulda made himself look just like your Injun dad. Your mom might not have ever known."

She frowns. "Akecheta was my real father. I will not dishonor him by suggesting otherwise." Then she pauses, as his words sink in. "You mean you can make yourself look like another person? Only spirits can do such things."

"'Spirit' still isn't the best word for it, but call it what you like."

She gives him an appraising look. "Then is this what you really look like?"

"Possibly. But that's not a question I'm likely to answer truthfully. Now, how about my proposal? I hate to rush you," he adds casually, "but they're planning on hanging the remaining men tomorrow morning."

"Deadwood"
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All text on this page is © 2001 by Kris Fazzari.

Last modified on June 5, 2001 by Kris Fazzari.