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A Warrior's Daughter · Native American Stories by Zitkala-Sa

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  Speaker 1: Section seven of American Indian Stories. This is a LibriVox recording.
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  Speaker 1: All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
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  Speaker 1: information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. American
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  Speaker 1: Indian Stories by Zidkala Shah, a warrior's daughter. In the
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  Speaker 1: afternoon shadow of a large teepee with red painted smoke lapels,
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  Speaker 1: sat a warrior father with crossed shins. His head was
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  Speaker 1: so poised that his eye swept easily the vast level
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  Speaker 1: land to the eastern horizon line. He was the chieftain's
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  Speaker 1: bravest warrior. He had won by heroic deeds, the privilege
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  Speaker 1: of staking his wigwam within the great circle of teepees.
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  Speaker 1: He was also one of the most generous gift givers
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  Speaker 1: to the toothless old people. For this he was entitled
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  Speaker 1: to the red painted smoke lapels on his cone shaped dwelling.
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  Speaker 1: He was proud of his honors. He never wearied of
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  Speaker 1: rehearsing nightly his own brave deeds, though by wigwam fires,
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  Speaker 1: he prayed much of his high rank and widespread fame.
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  Speaker 1: His great joy was a wee, black eyed daughter of
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  Speaker 1: eight sturdy winters. Thus, as he sat upon the soft grass,
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  Speaker 1: with his wife at his side, bent over her beadwork.
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  Speaker 1: He was singing a dance song and beat lightly the
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  Speaker 1: rhythm with his slender hands. His shrewd eyes softened with
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  Speaker 1: pleasure as he watched the easy movements of the small
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  Speaker 1: body dancing on the green before him. Toussay is taking
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  Speaker 1: her first dancing lesson. Her tightly braided hair curves over
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  Speaker 1: both brown ears like a pair of crooked little horns,
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  Speaker 1: which glisten in the summer sun. With her snugly moccasined
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  Speaker 1: feet close together and a wee hand at her belt
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  Speaker 1: to stay the long string of beads which hang from
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  Speaker 1: her bare neck, she bends her knees gently to the
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  Speaker 1: rhythm of her father's voice. Now she ventures upon the
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  Speaker 1: earnest movement, slightly upward and sidewise in a circle. At length.
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  Speaker 1: The song drops into a closing cadence, and the little woman,
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  Speaker 1: clad in beaded deerskin, sits down beside the elder one,
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  Speaker 1: her mother. She sits upon her feet. In a brief moment,
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  Speaker 1: the warrior repeats the last refrain again. Twusay springs to
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  Speaker 1: her feet and dances to the swing of the few
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  Speaker 1: final measures. Just as the dance was finished, an elderly
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  Speaker 1: man with short, thick hair loose about his square shoulders,
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  Speaker 1: rode into their presence from the rear and leaped lightly
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  Speaker 1: from his pony's back, dropping the rawhide rein to the ground.
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  Speaker 1: He tossed himself lazily on the grass. Hoon hay, you
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  Speaker 1: have returned soon, said the warrior, while extending a hand
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  Speaker 1: to his little daughter. Quickly, the child ran to her
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  Speaker 1: father's side and cuddled close to him while he tenderly
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  Speaker 1: placed a strong arm about her. Both father and child,
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  Speaker 1: eyeing the figure on the grass, waited to hear the
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  Speaker 1: man's report. It is true, began the man with a
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  Speaker 1: stranger's accent. This is the night of the dance, hoon ha,
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  Speaker 1: muttered the warrior with some surprise. Propping himself upon his elbows,
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  Speaker 1: the man raised his face. His features were of the
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  Speaker 1: southern type from an enemy's camp. He was taking captive
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  Speaker 1: long years ago by Tusay's father. But the unusual qualities
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  Speaker 1: of the slave had won the Sioux Warrior's heart, and
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  Speaker 1: for the last three winters the man had had his freedom.
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  Speaker 1: He was made real man again. His hair was allowed
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  Speaker 1: to grow. However, he himself had chosen to stay in
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  Speaker 1: the warrior's family. Hunha again ejaculated the warrior father. Then,
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  Speaker 1: turning to his little daughter, he asked, Tuesday, do you
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  Speaker 1: hear that? Yes, father, and I am going to dance tonight.
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  Speaker 1: With these words, she bounded out of his arm and
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  Speaker 1: frolicked about in glee. Hereupon the proud mother's voice rang
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  Speaker 1: out in a chiding laugh, My child, in honor of
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  Speaker 1: your first dance, your father must give a generous gift.
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  Speaker 1: His ponies are wild and roam beyond the great hill. Pray,
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  Speaker 1: what has he fit to offer? She questioned, the pair
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  Speaker 1: of puzzled eyes fixed upon her. A pony from the herd. Mother,
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  Speaker 1: a fleet footed pony from the herd. Tussay shouted with
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  Speaker 1: sudden inspiration. Pointing a small forefinger toward the man lying
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  Speaker 1: on the grass, she cried, uncle, you will go after
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  Speaker 1: the pony tomorrow, And, pleased with her solution of the problem,
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  Speaker 1: she skipped wildly about. Her childish faith in her elders
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  Speaker 1: was not conditioned by a knowledge of human limitations, but
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  Speaker 1: thought all things possible to grown ups. Huh hoob, exclaimed
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  Speaker 1: the mother, with a rising inflection, implying by the explative
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  Speaker 1: that her child's buoyant spirit be not waited with a denial.
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  Speaker 1: Quickly to the hard request, the man replied, how I
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  Speaker 1: go of Tussay tells me so. This delighted the little one,
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  Speaker 1: whose black eyes brimmed over with light. Standing in front
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  Speaker 1: of the strong man, she clapped her small brown hands
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  Speaker 1: with joy. That makes me glad. My heart is good.
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  Speaker 1: Go uncle, and bring a handsome pony, she cried. In
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  Speaker 1: an instant. She would have frisked away, but an impulse
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  Speaker 1: held her tilting where she stood. In the man's own tongue,
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  Speaker 1: for he had taught her many words and phrases. She exploded,
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  Speaker 1: thank you, good uncle, thank you, and then tore away
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  Speaker 1: from sheer excess of glee. The proud warrior father, smiling
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  Speaker 1: and narrowing his eyes, muttered approval. Ho wu Hechitu. Like
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  Speaker 1: her mother, Toussay has finely penciled eyebrows and slightly extended nostrils,
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  Speaker 1: but in her sturdiness of form, she resembles her father.
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  Speaker 1: A loyal daughter, she sits within her teepee, making beaded
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  Speaker 1: deer skins for her father, while he longs to stave
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  Speaker 1: off her every suitor. As all unworthy of his old
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  Speaker 1: heart's pride. But Tousay is not alone. In her dwelling.
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  Speaker 1: Near the entrance way, a young brave is half reclining
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  Speaker 1: on a mat. In silence, he watches the petal of
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  Speaker 1: a wild rose growing on the soft buckskin. Quickly, the
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  Speaker 1: young woman slips the beads on the silvery sinew thread
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  Speaker 1: and works them into the pretty flower design. Finally, in
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  Speaker 1: a low, deep voice, the young man begins, the sun
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  Speaker 1: is far past the zenith. It is now only a
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  Speaker 1: man's height above the western edge of land. I hurried
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  Speaker 1: hither to tell you tomorrow I joined the war party.
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  Speaker 1: He pauses for reply, but the maid's head drops lower
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  Speaker 1: over her deer skin, and her lips are more firm
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  Speaker 1: drawn together, he continues. Last night, in the moonlight, I
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  Speaker 1: met your warrior father. He seemed to know I had
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  Speaker 1: just stepped forth from your teepee. I fear he did
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  Speaker 1: not like it, for though I greeted him, he was silent.
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  Speaker 1: I halted in his pathway. With what boldness I dared,
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  Speaker 1: while my heart was beating hard and fast, I asked
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  Speaker 1: him for his only daughter, Drawing himself erect to his
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  Speaker 1: tallest height and gathering his loose robe more closely about
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  Speaker 1: his proud figure. He flashed a pair of piercing eyes
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  Speaker 1: upon me, young man, said he with a cold, slow
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  Speaker 1: voice that chilled me to the marrow of my bones.
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  Speaker 1: Hear me naught but an enemy's scalp lock plucked fresh
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  Speaker 1: with your own hand. Will by tusay for your wife.
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  Speaker 1: Then he turned on his heel and stalked away to say,
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  Speaker 1: thrusts her work aside. With earnest eyes, she scans her
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  Speaker 1: lover's face. My father's heart is really kind, he would
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  Speaker 1: know if you are brave and true, murmured the daughter
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  Speaker 1: who wished no ill will between her two loved ones.
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  Speaker 1: When rising to go, the youth holds out a right hand,
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  Speaker 1: grasp my hand once firmly before I go. Ho, ye, pray,
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  Speaker 1: tell me, will you wait and watch for my return?
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  Speaker 1: Tesay only nods assent, for mere words are vain. At
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  Speaker 1: early dawn, the round campground wakes into song. Men and
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  Speaker 1: women sing of bravery and of triumph. They inspire the
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  Speaker 1: swelling breasts of the painted warriors, mounted on prancing ponies
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  Speaker 1: bedecked with the green branches of trees, riding slowly around
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  Speaker 1: the great ring of cone shaped teepees. Here and there,
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  Speaker 1: a loud, singing warrior swears to avenge a former wrong
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  Speaker 1: and thrusts a bare brown arm against the purple east,
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  Speaker 1: calling the great Spirit to hear his vow all. Having
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  Speaker 1: made the circuit, the singing war party gallops away southward
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  Speaker 1: astride their ponies laden with food and deer skins. Brave
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  Speaker 1: elderly women follow after their warriors. Among the foremost rides
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  Speaker 1: a young woman in elaborately beaded buckskin dress. Proudly mounted,
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  Speaker 1: she curbs with the wild raw high loop a wild
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  Speaker 1: eyed pony. It is Tessay on her father's war horse.
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  Speaker 1: Thus the war party of Indian men and their faithful
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  Speaker 1: women vanish beyond the southern skyline. A day's journey brings
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  Speaker 1: them very near the enemy's borderland. Nightfall finds a pair
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  Speaker 1: of twin teepees nestled in a deep ravine. Within one
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  Speaker 1: lounged the painted warriors, smoking their pipes and telling weird
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  Speaker 1: stories by the firelight, while on the other, watchful women
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  Speaker 1: crouch uneasily about their center fire. By the first gray
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  Speaker 1: light in the east, the teepees are banished. They are gone.
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  Speaker 1: The warriors are in the enemy's camp, breaking dreams with
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  Speaker 1: their tomahawks. The women are hid away in secret places
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  Speaker 1: in the long thicketed ravine. The day is far spent.
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  Speaker 1: The red sun is low over the west. At length,
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  Speaker 1: straggling warriors return one by one to the deep hollow
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  Speaker 1: in the twilight. They number their men. Three are missing.
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  Speaker 1: Of those absent ones two are dead, but the third one,
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  Speaker 1: a young man, is a captive to the foe. Hey
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  Speaker 1: Hey lament the warriors, taking food in haste. In silence,
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  Speaker 1: each woman, with long strides hurries to and fro tying
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  Speaker 1: large bundles on her pony's back. Under cover of night,
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  Speaker 1: the war party must hasten homeward, motionless with bowed head
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  Speaker 1: sits a woman in her hiding place. She grieves for
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  Speaker 1: her lover. In bitterness of spirit. She hears the warrior's
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  Speaker 1: murmuring words. With set teeth, she plans to cheat the
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  Speaker 1: hated enemy of their captive. In the meanwhile, low signals
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  Speaker 1: are given, and the war party, unaware of Tusay's absence,
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  Speaker 1: steal quietly away. The soft thud of pony hoofs grows
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  Speaker 1: fainter and fainter, the gradual hush of the empty ravine
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  Speaker 1: whirs noisily in the ear of the young woman. Alert
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  Speaker 1: for any sound of footfall's nigh, she holds her breath
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  Speaker 1: to listen. Her hand rests on a long knife in
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  Speaker 1: her belt. Ah. Yes, she knows where her pony is hid,
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  Speaker 1: but not yet has she need of him. Satisfied that
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  Speaker 1: no danger is nigh, she prowls forth from her place
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  Speaker 1: of hiding. With a panther's tread and pace, she climbs
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  Speaker 1: the high ridge beyond the low ravine. From thence she
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  Speaker 1: spies the enemy's camp fires rooted to the barren bluff.
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  Speaker 1: The slender woman's figure stands on the pinnacle of night,
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  Speaker 1: outlined against a starry sky. The cool night breeze wafts
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  Speaker 1: to her burning ear snatches of song and drum. With
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  Speaker 1: desperate hate, she bites her teeth to say, beckons the
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  Speaker 1: stars to witness. With impassioned voice and uplifted face, she pleads,
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  Speaker 1: Great Spirit, speed me to my lover's rescue, Give me
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  Speaker 1: swift cunning for a weapon this night, All powerful Spirit,
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  Speaker 1: grant me my warrior father's heart, strong to slay a foe,
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  Speaker 1: and mighty to save a friend in the midst of
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  Speaker 1: the enemy's campground. Underneath a temporary dance house are men
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  Speaker 1: and woman in gala day dress. It is late in
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  Speaker 1: the night, but the merry warriors bend and bow their
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  Speaker 1: nude painted bodies before a bright center fire. To the
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  Speaker 1: lusty men's voices and the rhythmic throbbing drum. They leap
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  Speaker 1: and rebound with feathered head gears. Waving women with red
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  Speaker 1: painted cheeks and long braided hair sit in a large
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  Speaker 1: half circle against the willow railing. They too, join in
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  Speaker 1: the singing and rise to dance with their victorious warriors.
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  Speaker 1: Amid this circular dance arena stands a prisoner bound to
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  Speaker 1: a post. Haggard with shame and sorrow, he hangs his
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  Speaker 1: disheveled head. He stares with unseeing eyes upon the bare
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  Speaker 1: earth at his feet. With jeers and smirking faces, the
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  Speaker 1: dancers mock the Dakota captive. Rowdy braves and small boys
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  Speaker 1: hoot and yell in derision. Silent among the noisy mob,
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  Speaker 1: a tall woman, leaning both elbows on the round willow railing,
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  Speaker 1: peers into the lighted arena. The dancing center fire shines
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  Speaker 1: bright into her handsome face, intensifying the night. In her
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  Speaker 1: dark eyes, it breaks into myriad points upon her beaded dress.
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  Speaker 1: Unmindful of the surging throng jostling her at either side,
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  Speaker 1: she glares in upon the hateful scoffing men. Suddenly she
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  Speaker 1: turns her head, tittering maid's whispered near her ear. There
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  Speaker 1: there see him now, sneering in the captive's face. 'tiss
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  Speaker 1: he who sprang upon the young man and dragged him
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  Speaker 1: by his long hair to yonder post. See he is handsome,
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  Speaker 1: how gracefully he dances. The silent young woman looks toward
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  Speaker 1: the bound captive. She she is a warrior, scarce older
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  Speaker 1: than the captive, Flourishing a tomahawk in the dacolda's face.
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  Speaker 1: A burning rage darts forth from her eyes and brands
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  Speaker 1: him for a victim of revenge. Her heart mutters within
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  Speaker 1: her breast, Come, I wish to meet you, vile foe
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  Speaker 1: who captured my lover and tortures him now with a
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  Speaker 1: living death. Here the singers hush their voices, and the
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  Speaker 1: dancers scatter to their various resting places along the willow ring.
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  Speaker 1: The victor gives a reluctant last swirl of his amahawk. Then,
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  Speaker 1: like the others, He leaves the center ground with head
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  Speaker 1: and shoulders swaying from side to side. He carries a
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  Speaker 1: high pointing chin toward the willow railing. Sitting down upon
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  Speaker 1: the ground with crossed legs, he fans himself with an
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  Speaker 1: outspread turkey wing. Now and then he stops his haughty
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  Speaker 1: blinking to peep out of the corners of his eyes.
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  Speaker 1: He hears some one clearing her throat gently. It is
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  Speaker 1: unmistakably for his ear. The wing fan swings irregularly to
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  Speaker 1: and fro at length. He turns a proud face over
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  Speaker 1: a bare shoulder and beholds a handsome woman smiling. Ah,
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  Speaker 1: she would speak to a hero. Thumps his heart wildly.
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  Speaker 1: The singers raise their voices in unison. The music is
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  Speaker 1: irresistible again, lunges the victor into the open arena again.
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  Speaker 1: He leers into the captive's face at every interval between
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  Speaker 1: the songs. He returns to his resting place. Here, the
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  Speaker 1: young woman awaits him as he approaches. She smiles boldly
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  Speaker 1: into his eyes. He is pleased with her face and
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  Speaker 1: hers smile. Waving his wing fan spasmodically in front of
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  Speaker 1: his face, he sits with his ears pricked up he
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  Speaker 1: catches a low whisper. A hand taps him lightly on
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  Speaker 1: the shoulder. The handsome woman speaks to him in his
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  Speaker 1: own tongue. Come out into the night. I wish to
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  Speaker 1: tell you who I am. He must know what sweet
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  Speaker 1: words of praise the handsome woman has for him. With
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  Speaker 1: both hands, he spreads the meshes of the loosely woven
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  Speaker 1: willows and crawls out, unnoticed, into the dark. Before him
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  Speaker 1: stands the young woman, beckoning him with a slender hand.
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  Speaker 1: She steps backward, away from the light and the restless
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  Speaker 1: throng of onlookers. He follows with impatient strides. She quickens
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  Speaker 1: her pace, he lengthens his strides. Then suddenly, the woman
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  Speaker 1: turns from him and darts away with amazing speed. Clinching
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  Speaker 1: his fists and biting his lower lip, the young man
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  Speaker 1: runs after the fleeing woman. In his maddened pursuit, he
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  Speaker 1: forgets the dancerena beside a cluster of low bushes. The
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  Speaker 1: woman halts the young man, panting for breath and plunging
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  Speaker 1: headlong forward, whispers loud pray, tell me, are you a
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  Speaker 1: woman or an evil spirit? To lure me away? Turning
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  Speaker 1: on heels, firmly planted in the earth, The woman gives
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  Speaker 1: a wild spring forward like a panther for its prey.
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  Speaker 1: In a husky voice, she hissed between her teeth, I
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  Speaker 1: am a dacoda woman. From her unerring long knife, the
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  Speaker 1: enemy falls heavily at her feet. The great Spirit heard
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  Speaker 1: Toussay's prayer on the hilltop. He gave her a warrior's
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  Speaker 1: strong heart to lessen the foe by one. A bent
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  Speaker 1: old woman's figure with a bundle like a grandchild slung
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  Speaker 1: on her back, walks round and round the dance house.
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  Speaker 1: The wearied onlookers are leaving in twos and threes. The
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  Speaker 1: tired dancers creep out of the willow railing, and some
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  Speaker 1: go out at the entrance way, till the singers, too,
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  Speaker 1: rise from the drum and are trudging drowsily homeward. Within
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  Speaker 1: the arena, the center fire lies broken in red embers
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  Speaker 1: the night, no longer lingers about the willow railing, but
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  Speaker 1: hovering into the dance house covers here and there a
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  Speaker 1: snoring man whom sleep has overpowered where he sat. The
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  Speaker 1: captive in his tight binding raw hide ropes hangs in
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  Speaker 1: hopeless despair close about him. The gloom of night is
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  Speaker 1: slowly crouching. Yet the last red crackling embers cast a
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  Speaker 1: faint light upon his long black hair, and, shining through
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  Speaker 1: the thick mats, caress his wan face with undying hope.
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  Speaker 1: Still about the dance house, the old woman prowls. Now
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  Speaker 1: the embers are gray with ashes. The old woman bent
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  Speaker 1: appears at the entrance way with a cautious groping foot.
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  Speaker 1: She enters, whispering between her teeth a lullaby for her
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  Speaker 1: sleeping child. In her blanket, she searches for something forgotten,
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  Speaker 1: noisily snored the dreaming men in the darkest parts. As
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  Speaker 1: the lisping old woman draws nigh, the captive again opens
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  Speaker 1: his eyes. A forefinger she presses to her lip. The
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  Speaker 1: young man arouses himself from his stupor, his senses belie
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  Speaker 1: him before ys wide open eyes. The old bent figure
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  Speaker 1: straightens into its youthful stature to say herself is beside him.
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  Speaker 1: With a stroke upward and downward, she severs the cruel
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  Speaker 1: cords with her sharp blade, dropping her blanket from her
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  Speaker 1: shoulders so that it hangs from her girdled waist like
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  Speaker 1: a skirt. She shakes a large bundle into a light
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  Speaker 1: shawl for her lover. Quickly she spreads it over his
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  Speaker 1: bare back. Come. She whispers and turns to go, But
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  Speaker 1: the young man, numb and helpless, staggers night of falling.
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  Speaker 1: The sight of his weakness makes her strong. A mighty
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  Speaker 1: power thrills her body. Stooping beneath his outstretched arms, grasping
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  Speaker 1: at the air for support, Tousay lifts him upon her
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  Speaker 1: broad shoulders. With half running, triumphant steps, she carries him
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  Speaker 1: away into the open night. End of section seven. Red
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  Speaker 1: by step Heather, Bangalore, India, March nineteenth, twenty twenty three.