The Warrior's Captive Bride

“Or the death of enemies in battle. I saw the owl in visions and dreams and upon waking. A white snowy owl in the summer time. A horned owl perching over my head and the sound of screech owls during the night.”

“Perhaps...” Her mouth was so dry from the fear that she had to clear her throat before she could speak. “Owls are messengers. They bring word of impending death, that is true. But perhaps...” She was reaching for some glimmer of hope. “Perhaps... Perhaps they only foretold of this time. If this is spiritual, then you are called to interpret this message. A message from the world of the dead.”

“Instead, I have hidden it from all but you.”

She could understand why.

“I knew that they called me to something. I assumed they called me to battle my enemies. I rode into all battles expecting to send many ghosts to the spirit road.”

Or to die, she thought. She shivered at the thought. Had it not occurred to him that the owls called him to his own death?

“My name should be chosen from my visions, but I knew that my tribe would be afraid, if I called myself White Owl or Shrieking Owl or Evening Owl. So I chose Night Storm, for the storm that finally quieted the owls.”

“This is a terrible omen.”

“Yes. I am linked to death. I just do not know how.”

“Do you see the dead?”

“No.”

“Do you think the owls were the spirits of the dead?”

“I do not know.” He turned his head and looked at her, his brow furrowed. He seemed to be puzzling something out.

“What?” she asked.

“Why are you still here?”

Now she was the one who was confused. “You asked my help. Don’t you remember?” Was his mind worse than she supposed?

“Of course, I remember. But most women would have run screaming in the other direction the minute I told them of my vision. Why didn’t you?”

Why hadn’t she? “Well, I suppose because you need help and because I think I might be able to help you.”

“You are not like anyone I have ever met. You are either the bravest of all Crow women or the craziest.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, and immediately recognized what she had done. Her eyes widened. Women did not speak to warriors in such a way. It was within his right to chasten her.

He tucked his chin and stared through thick lashes at her. But he did not chastise or raise his voice, showing so clearly the kind of control a warrior must have over his emotions. He just watched her as her face grew hotter and hotter. She wished he’d say something. Finally he spoke.

“We’ll speak of this later.” He stood.

She followed him and stepped before him when he tried to move away. “Is it because of what I said?”

His mouth quirked. “No. It’s just that my head is hurting again.”

“Where?”

He gripped his forehead.

“Does that happen often?”

“Less often than at first.”

At first? What did that mean?

“When did it begin?”

“In the Fast Water Moon.”

That was the time when the old man of the north finally released his grip upon the land and the snows receded and the green shoots poked up through the ice. A time of great change in the land. Melting ice and rushing water. What had happened to him at that time?

She was about to ask, but he placed his broad hands on her shoulders and gave a little squeeze. “Enough talk for now. I would catch us fish or it is pemmican again for supper.”

Frost returned, tail wagging, carrying an enormous bullfrog in his mouth. He laid it down before them and the frog leaped into the tall grass. Frost pounced like a fox on a mouse but missed, judging from the sound of the splash coming from the lake.

Storm collected his fishing line, bone hooks and the stone sinker. But he paused before leaving. “What will you do?”

Skylark stood and swept the folds from her dress. “I have plants to collect.” She slung her carrying bag over her shoulder and then hesitated.

“What?” he asked.

“Will you be all right alone?”

His face reddened. “I am not an invalid, nor a child. Of course, I will be all right. Will you?”

She nodded and he stalked away.

This, she realized, was why he had not gone to his shaman. He did not wish to be watched and coddled. How could she blame him? She felt much the same. What was the point of living if she did not have the freedom to come and go? He was a man. And a man must have his pride and his dignity.

Skylark watched him walk to the lake and cast his fishing line into the water. Then he tied off the line and removed his fringed hunting shirt and leggings. Finally, he lifted his spear, wading into the blue lake up to his waist. He held the spear poised and ready.

She blinked at the picture he made, with the late-afternoon sunlight glinting on his muscular shoulders and chest. She had seen many men fishing, but none transfixed her the way this one did. She studied the curves and hollows, the play of tension in the cording muscles of his arms and shoulders, and found her breathing grow fast.

He must have sensed her study for he glanced to her, scowling.

She dropped her gaze and hurried away. Once out of his sight, Sky hesitated. They both knew that he might have a falling spell right there and drown before she could reach him. So she stayed close, listening for the splash that might indicate a fall.

Frost accompanied her, which surprised her. Perhaps Storm had sent the dog along to keep the animal from disturbing the fish or for her protection. She walked along the bank, digging cattails for their roots and cutting the reeds for the inner sweet stalky stems. The tops made excellent bedding material. She cut with her skinning knife and in only a few minutes she had carried enough back to their camp for their bedding. Then she returned to the shore and used an antler from her bag to dig several fat tubers before moving on.

She hunted for specific plants but also collected anything of use that fell into her path. Yarrow was first, what her grandmother called Nosebleed Plant and her aunt called Thousand-leaf. She knew this would help heal the small nick she’d cut to prove she was not supernatural. She chewed the leaf and then pressed it to her wound. The sting reassured her that the leaf worked to help keep away pus and to speed scabbing.

Skylark continued wandering as she pressed the sodden crushed leaf to her palm.

Jimsonweed was one she particularly wanted for she knew that, if eaten, it could cause visions and fanciful dreams. But it also could still tremors. She did not know if it could stop moth madness. This sickness was named after the moth that, crazed by the firelight, flew directly into the flame. Victims of moth madness also fell to the ground and twitched like a dying moth. Perhaps Jimsonweed might prevent a spell. But she found none. She did find Motherwort in the open area near the lake. This plant she knew stopped twitching, when in the correct amounts.

By the time she had circled the lake, her bag bulged with green plants, roots, cactus, pine needles, flowers and berries. Why, she even had enough to feed them if he did not take a fish or two.