Young Writers Society

They called her Moon because they found her by its light, splayed out, dead-looking, not far from the charred skeleton of a farmhouse. They lifted her onto their travois, covered her with their own buffalo robes, and walked on.

Misinformation plagued her life as a white woman. The newspapers said the land out west was fertile; she believed them. Her pa said the Texas Rangers would keep them safe; she trusted him. Her ma said walking in the rain would give her a cold; she stayed dry. Her husband said ladies don’t ride horses; she agreed. And she and her friends all said the Injuns were bad, every single one of them, as they murmured over delicate pink china tea sets, supposing Comanche was the longer way to say Apache.

But in a short period of time, she’d see that the land was just dead grass that crackled beneath the soles of all but moccasined feet, the Rangers would be nowhere to be seen when Charlie was scalped, the gentle rain would wash the blood from her quivering and disgraced body, and a horse would drag her to safety on a travois. Eventually she’d learn that there really was a difference between the Comanche, the Apache, the Sioux, the Cheyenne, and the Kickapoo. The Comanche sheared Charlie’s life away. But the Kickapoo cradled Moon in their arms, wrapped her in their fur, and set her up on her feet again.

Over the years, she’d hear stories of settlers who were assimilated into Indian cultures at a young age and, in every sense except for the color of their skin and hair, became one with their tribe, white American habits tucked away in some increasingly distant crevasse of their minds.

She was never quite like them.

Moon became Kickapoo because she wanted to hide from the white culture, ashamed of what the Comanche did to her. Even if Charlie had been alive he wouldn’t have wanted her anymore. She’d heard stories of husbands who hang themselves after their wife’s been fouled in an Indian raid. She’d also heard stories of women who’d drink rat poison before their husbands could find out about what had happened.

But still, a large part of her was always rooted in the hopes of returning to the comforts and familiarities of the white culture, ostracizing though it might be. The Kickapoo had not found her when she was an open-minded child, but when she was twenty-three and set in her ways, and even though as the years waned on they treated her like an equal, sometimes she’d study her reflection in the water and wonder if she’d ever get to go back home. She had a sister who lived east. Maybe she’d consider taking her in, so that Moon could hide in the corner of a room and drink pink china tea by herself.

“Moon,” Yellow Flower said, sitting next to her on the edge of the lake, “why don’t you return to the white men?”

Moon frowned, curious as to how Yellow Flower always seemed to know what she was thinking. “There’s no white man or woman that would want me,” she said simply. “I’d be an outcast.”

“But you feel like an outcast here in the tribe, too.”

“I do,” Moon admitted. She picked up a twig and swirled it in the water. “Do you think I’m an outcast?”

“No. I think you are Kickapoo. But it doesn’t matter what I think.” She plucked a leaf from Moon’s hair. “Are you happy here?”

Moon swallowed. She had been wondering the same thing for many winters. “I… I think I am. I like living this way. I’ve never had so many kind friends before. But there are many things I miss. I miss my husband and my house, and I miss the hope of having a family someday.”

“There are Kickapoo men who would marry you,” Yellow Flower said. “Just yesterday Sitting Bear said you were beautiful.”

Moon smiled, but it was a sad smile. “I don’t deserve anyone like Sitting Bear. He deserves a Kickapoo woman who is strong and works hard.”

Yellow Flower laughed. “That’s true. You are lazy.”

“Hey!” Moon threw the stick at her. Yellow Flower leaned over and splashed her with lake water.

That night she couldn’t go to sleep because she was thinking about what Yellow Flower had asked her. Why didn’t she go back, and send her sister a telegram? Was she even happy here? Would she want to concretize her Kickapoo life and marry someone like Sitting Bear?

She thought about her Charlie. He had been the love of her life. She recalled the fluttering of joy she’d feel when he’d come home after a long day of work in the fields. He would be exhausted, but he would always find her in the house first, or outside in the garden, to greet her with a “Howdy Amie,” a smile, a hug, and a kiss, before he even took off his boots.

Then, like so many other nights, she reluctantly began remembering that evening of horror when she saw the Comanche pin Charlie down on his stomach, grab a tuft of his hair, and unsheath a glinting silver knife from his belt. She remembered looking the other way when he screamed, and seeing a second Comanche come for her and toss her onto the ground as if she were a doll. She remembered when it started raining and she crawled over to where Charlie had been, only to realize that they had taken him but left her there to die.

Why? Why did they leave me?

Turtle Dove said that it was because the Great Spirit protected her with the light of the Comanche Moon, another name for the full moon that makes the night as bright as the day. He said that it had made her skin glow with magic, and they left her behind because they were frightened that it would harm them. Like the Kickapoo, the Comanche believe the moon is very sacred, and that its magic shouldn’t be taken for granted or abused.

“That’s why we gave you the name Tepehkiiha,” Turtle Dove said.

A few weeks after she had spoken to Yellow Flower by the lake, Moon and several women were cooking meals in the wickiup. Suddenly, a cry from outside alerted them to the arrival of strangers. Abandoning the cornbread dough, they hurried outside, like bees fleeing their hive. Beyond the clusters of wigwams and wickiups they saw a line of riders on the crest of a hill, waiting silently and numbering about twenty. Their rifles were held skyward at their side.

“White men,” Yellow Flower whispered.

“Rangers,” Moon said, in English. About six years too late, she thought. Charlie’s scream echoed through her skull, like the condor’s cry as it bounces left and right against canyon walls.

Sitting Bear came to find her. “Hide,” he said. “They might be coming for you.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but closed it slowly, deciding that he was right. Back inside the wickiup, she wrung her hands in worry and uncertainty. It had been over six years since she’d talked to a white man. Was she missing an opportunity by hiding from them? Would they come anyway in search of her and kill every Indian in their path, not knowing that the Kickapoos were a benevolent people?

There was no use in worrying. She sat down and kneaded the dough, and when it was done she continued to roll it in her hands. She could not bake it yet because the clay oven was outside.

Moon was not accustomed to being alone. Ever since she was placed in this village, she was always surrounded by people. She cooked with the women, played with the children, gathered wood with friends, and slept with Yellow Flower’s family in their wikiup. She had learned the Kickapoo language fairly quickly because there were almost always conversations to listen and contribute to. Sitting there, rolling the lump of dough from hand to hand, Moon was keenly aware of how strange the silence was. She didn’t like it.

She heard the soft treading of moccasins outside and put the dough down. “Come, Moon,” Sitting Bear’s voice said. “Turtle Dove waits for you in his wickiup.”

She climbed out. “What? What for?” To her knowledge, no woman except for Turtle Dove’s wife was allowed inside his wickiup. Otherwise, only the greatest Kickapoo warriors and elders ever entered, to discuss strategies and make important decisions. When trading partners like the Comanche visited, sometimes they were invited there as well.

“You know what for,” Sitting Bear said, looking down at her solemnly.

He was right. She did. “Are there white men there?”

“Yes. Two. One says he knows you.”

Oh, Great Spirit. Who could that be? Her pa? One of her friend’s husbands, maybe?

The line of Rangers, two men short, were still on the crest of the hill, and some of their more anxious horses danced in place and tossed their heads. Moon knew that the men were watching her and judging her, and she wished she could tuck her long blonde hair under a hat or something. She felt ashamed, like a collared, hand-fed wolf seeing its pack again for the first time.

“Be proud of who you are,” Sitting Bear whispered in her ear.

Was her insecurity really that obvious? Probably. She paused at the mouth of the wickiup, and took one long look at the congregation of the Kickapoos - her family - standing in a c-shape that curved around one side of the village, like a fortification in between her and the Rangers. She caught the glance of Yellow Flower, who smiled encouragingly.

Moon ducked inside. Turtle Dove indicated the spot next to him and she took it quickly, keeping her eyes downcast all the while. She could see the dusty black boots of the two white men sitting across from them, but she didn’t look up to see their faces.

“Do you know this man, Moon?” Turtle Dove asked.

“I don’t want to know,” she said. One of the white men shifted uncomfortably, probably unnerved to hear her speak Kickapoo.

“He says he is your husband.”

She almost laughed. This was all a joke, then. “My husband is dead.”

Turtle Dove didn’t answer. She looked at him, then finally at the men across from her.

There he was. Her husband.

“Howdy, Amie,” Charlie said.

She was struck by such a sudden rush of emotions that she didn’t know what to say.

Her husband searched her eyes. “Can you say anything, Amie?”

“Tepehkiiha,” she said, breathless.

“Wha… What’s that mean, honey?” The English grated harshly and loudly on her ears.

“My name is Tepehkiiha.”

“Oh, alright.” He looked pained. “What’s that mean?”

“Moon.”

He glanced down at the dead fireplace. She in turn stared at his hat, and wondered numbly if he had any scalp left, and if he did how he was alive. He wasn’t supposed to be alive. They took him from her. They killed him.

Had she dreamed it all? The glinting knife, his scream?

Charlie sought her eyes again, his eyebrows creased with worry, but she quickly looked away. In that glance she realized that he looked much older than last time she had seen him. The smiling crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes were deeper. He had grown a beard, and the shadows brushed beneath his cheekbones were darker.

The other man, an old silver-starred captain, was watching her critically, eying her up and down, probably wondering how many Indians had taken advantage of her over the years.

Abruptly, she stood up. Turtle Dove grabbed her wrist but she yanked free and left the wickiup without a backwards glance. She stormed towards the lake and felt tears stinging in her eyes. She knew the whole village was watching from behind but she didn’t care. She wanted to die.

She was almost at the lake when she glanced back and saw Charlie following her, his spurs ringing with each step. She couldn’t believe this was happening. What was he doing? What did he care if she drowned? A fouled woman is better off dead, isn’t she?

She plunged into the water just as he caught up. “Amie!” he yelled.

She continued to wade further into the water, but curiosity got the best of her. “Why’re you here?” she cried over her shoulder.

“I’ve been trying to find you,” he said. “Now, come on back now. I’ve looked too long to lose you in a lake.”

She turned around, the water well up to her waist. “Why did you want to find me?”

“You’re my wife, Amie.”

“Who’s been taken up by a Comanche!” she sobbed. She turned back and plunged her head under the water.

“Amie!” Charlie kicked off his boots and waded in after her. “I don’t care about that no more. I… I never cared.”

Her ears were under the water so she couldn’t hear him. Suddenly his arms were around her and he pulled her head out of the water. She struggled fiercely to get free, like a fish on a hook, and in the process of trying to hold her tight, Charlie’s hat fell off.

With that, Moon was still.

“Charlie,” she whispered.

He looked embarrassed, and snatched the hat out of the water. “I didn’t want you to see that yet.” He covered his head.

The fleeting sight of his scalp - or lack of - was like a branding iron to her memory. “How… how did you survive it?”

Charlie took a deep breath. “The Rangers saved me,” he said. “Got me to a doctor right away. Two of ‘em went back to find you, but… they were both kids and, well, they got lost. The rain didn’t help much with the tracks, either. I’ve been trying to find you ever since I got better. Didn’t think I’d find you way down here. In southern Texas. With Kickapoos.”

“Charlie,” she said again. She was crying, but this time it was for a different reason.

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t want to scare you right away like that.”

“No, it’s not that. I still don’t understand why… why you’d try so hard to find me. Or how you’re still alive.”

“Yeah, well.” He hugged her to him. “Here I am. Fine and dandy. And I don’t give a damn to whatever a Comanche did to you. Wasn’t your fault. All these years must have been tough on you, yeah?”

“Yes, but…” She noticed that the Kickapoos had followed Charlie to the lake, and were now all standing nearby to watch, squinting in the orange glow of the setting sun. She shook her head. “No. I’ve been well taken care of. How have you been?”

“Tired,” he admitted. “This country’s bigger than I thought. I was worried I’d find you too late, after you’d… y’know.”

“After I’d what?”

He looked deeply and sadly into her eyes, and his tone shifted to become quiet and serious. “After the years started rolling by and I still couldn’t find you, I was more and more scared.”

“That I was dead?”

“Not so much that. I had a pretty good feeling inside of me that you were just hiding somewhere, since you knew I was dead and you knew no folks would take kindly to you no more. I was afraid - and I’ve heard stories of it before, y’know - that you’d gone ahead and married an Injun.”

“Oh!” she said, grateful that was all.

Charlie, his blue eyes startled and wide, grabbed her by the shoulders. “Good Lord, Amie! Have you?”

“No, no, Charlie!” She squeezed his arms. “No. I’m still all yours.”

“Oh, thank the Lord. Thank the Lord.” He embraced her again, taking her head to his chest, and Moon could hear his heart beating frantically. “I was so scared, listening to you speak Kickapoo in that teepee—”

“Wickiup,” Moon corrected.

“Right. I was so scared. You knew I was dead. There was nothing holding you back.”

Fresh tears sprung up, and she could see some rimming Charlie’s eyes as well. It felt so good to have her husband back, to know that he was alive, and to know how much he loved her.

“So,” Charlie said, still holding her to him, “you learned how to speak Indian and everything too. How d’you say your name again?”

“Tepehkiiha,” she sniffed.

He attempted to pronounce it and, like a bird trying its wings for the first time, did not succeed.

“Let’s get out of the water, alright?” she laughed. “I have some friends I’d like you to meet.”

They waded to the shore, and were accepted by the jubilant faces of the Kickapoo village, who were a people that liked to see happy endings.

Questions

1. Is there too much exposition at the beginning? Does it take too long for the story to catch up to the main plot (when Yellow Flower first speaks)?

2. Is Moon's sudden breakdown as she flees to the lake too... sudden?