Michael Blake - Dances With Wolves

He noticed the journal sitting on one of the camp stools and picked it up. It was odd, leafing through the entries. They, too, seemed old and gone, like something from a past life.

Sometimes he laughed at what he had written, but on the whole he was moved. His life had been made over, and pieces of the record were set down here. It was only a curiosity now and had no bearing on his future. But it was interesting to look back and see how far he had come.

When he reached the end there were some blank pages, and he had the whimsical idea that a postscript was in order, something clever and mysterious perhaps.

But when he raised his eyes to think, against the blankness of the sod wall he saw only her. He saw the well-muscled calves flashing from under the hem of her everyday doeskin dress. He saw the long, beautiful hands extending gracefully from its sleeves. He saw the loose curve of her breasts beneath its bodice. He saw the high cheeks and the heavy, expressive brows and the eternal eyes and the mop of tangled, cherry-colored hair.

He thought of her sudden rages and of the light surrounding her face in the arbor. He thought of her modesty and dignity and of her pain. Everything he saw and everything he thought of, he adored.

When his eyes fell back on the blank page spread on his lap, he knew what to write. He was overjoyed to see it come alive in words.

late summer 1863

I love Stands With A Fist.

Dances With Wolves

He closed the journal and placed it carefully on the center of the bed, thinking capriciously that he would leave it for posterity to puzzle over. When he walked outside Dances With Wolves was relieved to see that Two Socks had disappeared. Knowing he would not see him again, he said a prayer for his grandfather the wolf, wishing him a good life for all his remaining years.

Then he vaulted onto Cisco’s sturdy back, whooped a goodbye in Comanche, and galloped away at full speed.

When he looked over his shoulder at Fort Sedgewick he saw only open, rolling prairie.

She waited almost an hour before one of Kicking Bird’s wives asked, “Where is Dances With Wolves?”

The waiting had been very hard. Each minute had been filled with thoughts of him. When the question was asked she tried to construct her answer with a tone that shielded what she felt.

“Oh, yes . . . Dances With Wolves. No, I don’t know where he is.”

She went outside then to ask around. Someone had seen him leaving early, riding to the south, and she guessed correctly that he had gone to the white man’s fort.

Not wanting to know why he had gone, she threw herself into finishing the saddlebags she’d been working on, trying to blot out the distractions of the camp so that she could focus only on him.

But it wasn’t enough.

She wanted to be alone with him, even if it was just in her thoughts, and after the noon meal she took the main path down to the river.

Usually there was a lull following lunch, and she was pleased to find no one at the water’s edge. She took off her moccasins, walked onto a thick log that ran out like a pier, and, straddling it, dipped her feet into the cooling shallows.

There was only a hint of breeze, but it was enough to blunt the day’s heat. She placed a hand on each thigh, relaxed her shoulders, and gazed at the slow-moving river with half-closed eyes.

If he came for her now. If he looked at her with those strong eyes and laughed his funny laugh and said they were going. She would go right now, the where not mattering.

Suddenly she remembered their first meeting, clear as if it were yesterday. Riding back, half-conscious, her blood all over him. She remembered the safety she had felt, his arm around her back, her face pressed against the strange-smelling fabric of his jacket.

Now she was understanding what it meant. She understood that what she felt now was what she felt then. Then it had only been a seed, buried and out of sight, and she hadn’t known what it meant. But the Great Spirit knew. The Great Spirit had let the seed grow. The Great Spirit, in all its Great Mystery had encouraged the seed to life every step of the way.

That feeling she had, that feeling of safety. She knew now that it was not the safety felt in the face of an enemy or a storm or an injury. It was not a physical thing at all. It was a safety she had felt in her heart. It had been there all along.

The rarest of all things in this life has happened, she thought. The Great Spirit has brought us together.

She was reeling with the wonder of how it had all come to pass when she heard a gentle lapping of water a few feet away.

He was squatting on a little patch of beach, splashing water on his face in a slow, unhurried way. He looked at her, and without bothering to wipe at the water dripping down his face, he smiled just like a little boy.

“Hello,” he said. “I was at the fort.”

He said this as if they had been together all their lives. She replied in the same way.

“I know.”

“Can we make some talk?”

“Yes,” she said, “I was waiting to do that.”

Voices sounded in the distance, near the top of the trail.

“Where should we go?” he asked.

“I know a place.”

She got quickly to her feet and, with Dances With Wolves a step or two behind, led him to the old side path she had taken the day Kicking Bird asked her to remember the white tongue.

They walked in silence, surrounded by the soft plod of their footsteps, the rustling of willows, and the singing of the birds who infested the breaks.

Inside, their hearts were pounding with the suspicion of what was about to happen and the suspense of where and when it would take place.

The secluded clearing where she had recalled the past finally opened to them. Still silent, they sat down cross-legged in front of the big cottonwood that faced the river.

They could not speak. All other sound seemed to stop. Everything was still.

Stands With A Fist dipped her head and saw a rent in the seam of his trouser leg. His hand was resting there, halfway up his thigh.

“They are torn,” she whispered, letting her fingers lightly touch the tear. Once her hand was there she could not move it. The little fingers lay together unmoving.

As if guided by some outside force, their heads came together softly. Their fingers entwined. The touching was rapturous as sex itself. Neither could have retraced the sequence of how it happened, but a moment later they were sharing a kiss.

It wasn’t a big kiss, just a brushing and then a slight pressing together of their lips.

But it sealed the love between them.

They placed their cheeks together, and as each nose filled with the smell of the other, they fell into a dream. In the dream they made love and when they had finished and were lying side by side beneath the big cottonwood, Dances With Wolves looked into her eyes and saw tears.

He waited a long time, but she wouldn’t speak.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

“I’m happy,” she said. “I’m happy the Great Spirit has let me live this long.”

“I have the same feeling,” he said, his eyes welling.

She pressed tightly against him then and began to cry. He held her hard as she wept, unafraid of the joy that was running down her face.

They made love all afternoon, having long talks in between. When shadows finally began to fall across the clearing, they sat up, both sensing they would be missed if they stayed much longer.

They were watching the glint on the water when he said: “I talked to Stone Calf . . . I know why you ran off that day . . . the day I asked if you were married.”

She rose up then and extended her hand. He took it and she pulled him to his feet.