Kirsten hears the stream before she can see it. The water, swollen with snow melt, makes a soft rushing sound as it pours over the low cataracts of its limestone bed and swirls around the roots of the centuries-old sycamores that march along its banks. When she emerges, still soundlessly, from the screen of the trees, Kirsten can see that its speed casts a fine spume into the air, misting the surface of the water and the slopes leading down to it. One tree, larger than the others, looms over the breadth of the stream, its roots, thick as a man’s body, woven into the living rock at its base. Dakota sits among them, her feet braced against a humped root. Her elbows rest on her bent knees, her chin on her folded hands. For a moment it seems to Kirsten that the other woman has been weeping; but fine droplets spangle her dark hair as well as her cheeks. And then Kirsten catches sight of Dakota’s eyes, dry and grey and empty as a winter sky.
The sight stops Kirsten in her tracks, her breath catching in her throat. Christ. Now what? I don’t know what to say to a face like that.
A month ago, a week ago, she would have turned away, retreating behind the barricades of her mind, into the silence a mere touch behind her ear could bring. Even now, her first impulse is flight, the long muscles in her legs spasming in her urgency to be gone.
Her fear has no place in this clearing. The power of earth and air and water here is an almost palpable thing, holding her fast. For a long moment she stands and watches the motionless form beside the swirling water. There is no acknowledgement, nothing that signals acceptance or even consciousness of her presence.
What can I say to her?
But that is the wrong question.
Silently as a shadow, she crosses the small open space beneath the sycamores. Half a dozen steps bring her close enough to see the minute rise and fall of the dark blue and green plaid flannel across Dakota’s shoulders, and the relief that washes through her tells her just how much she has feared. A few more steps carry her to the tangle of roots that spread out almost as widely as the crown of the tree. Koda still gives no sign that she is aware of Kirsten’s presence.
What if—?
She has heard that it is dangerous to touch a person who is in a trance state. An out-of-body soul might lose its lifeline and never come home, wandering forever in the grey interstices between worlds.
And that, she thinks with the certainty of recognition, is what I am. Have been. A homeless soul.
And here, here at last, is my home.
Very carefully, so as to make no sudden noise, Kirsten steps among the roots, placing her feet among the gnarled spirals, steadying herself against the trunk with an outstretched hand. Near the base of the tree, beneath a hollow large enough to hold a grown woman, a knot juts out at waist level, its blunt wedge shape suggestive of the head of a great serpent rising above the coiled roots. A jolt of recognition goes through Kirsten.
Snake Mother, Earth Mother. Keeper of the Tree of Knowledge. Grant me wisdom.
She closes the space between herself and Koda, dropping silently to her knees. Very gently, she slips her arms around Dakota’s waist, leaning her head against the other woman’s strong shoulder. For an instant, Koda’s back stiffens against her, then relaxes, settling to her own shape as if their bodies had been molded one for the other. After a moment, Dakota’s hand covers both of hers where they rest against her waist. It is chill as death.
Time passes. The sun slips lower in the sky, angling through the trunks of the trees, turning them to columns of gold and silver. Finally, her hand warm now, Dakota stirs.
“You found me,” she says.
Rubbing her cheek lightly against Dakota’s shoulder, she answers. “I followed. Where you go, I will go.”
Dakota’s hand enfolds Kirsten’s own, raises it to her lips. The kiss is light as a breath of air. “My people will be your people. My home is your home.”
From somewhere deep in her memory, archaic words rise to Kirsten’s tongue. “Faith and truth will I bear to you, to live or die.”
In this life, in the next. For all time.
When the shadows begin to thicken about them, Koda lets her breath go on a long sigh. “We should go back..”
Reluctantly, Kirsten lets her arms fall from Dakota’s waist. “I suppose we should.”
Koda stands, extending a hand to help Kirsten up. It is not until they are once again at the door of the house and she must find her keys that she lets go.
*
The house is cool and quiet as they enter. The trees outside the windows cast moving shadows across the opposite wall like the outspread arms of dancers swaying to a beat only they can hear. The sound of nails clicking across the polished floor heralds the entrance of Asi, who comes over to greet them, taking healthy sniffs of their clothing before presenting his head and body to be scratched.
Koda notices a folded sheet of paper ruffling in the breeze and walks over to the kitchen table, sliding it out from under the salt-shaker-cum-paperweight and bringing it closer to her face in deference to the swiftly fading light. The page is covered with Maggie’s bold, flowing script.
Dakota, Kirsten:
I’m gathering up some of my men and setting up a census-taking crew for the base. I think it’s about time we figure out who and what we have here, and what skills we might be able to use both in the short and long term.
I’d like to do the same thing with the outlying cities, just to see where we stand. Kirsten, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have you accompany me to Rapid City tomorrow so we can get a first-hand look at what we’ve got left—resource and humanity wise. Finding a judge is one of our first priorities. If we can’t find one, any half-way competent lawyer will have to do. I’m not optimistic about either of those chances, but it’s a pressing need we have to fill.
Don’t expect me home tonight. I’ll bunk in the barracks and see you at 0800.
Maggie
“Looks like you’ve got a full day tomorrow,” Koda remarks, handing the note over. Kirsten’s quick eyes scan the writing and she frowns.
“Well, it wasn’t something I was planning on, but I suppose….” Her voice trails off as she scans the note again. She knows the value and desperate need of the census; it was she, in fact, who had suggested it to Maggie in the first place. But she had hoped, truly and dearly, that she would be allowed to play ‘grunt’ and sit behind a table with pencil and pad in hand, taking names.
The subtext of the note she holds dashes those hopes like bone china beneath a bull’s hoof. “Crap,” she half-whispers as she crumples the note into a ball and tosses it into the trash. “Just…crap. I hate being used as a figurehead.”
“You could always say no,” is Koda’s practical advice, delivered with a faint smirk and a lift of her eyebrow.
Kirsten thinks about it for a moment, then shakes her head. “No,” she sighs, “Maggie’s right. If we want to get this done the right way, and that takes me marching at the head of this little parade, than I’ll just have to suck it up and get it done. Hopefully, it won’t take very long.”
“Mm.”
“So,” Kirsten says in a deliberately bright tone, needing the subject turned away for now, “are you hungry?”
“Not really.” In truth, since Wa Uspewicakiyapi’s death, grief has placed a leaden ball in her belly; a ball that does not share its space with food well at all.
Kirsten catches the dimming of those brilliant eyes and holds back a sigh. “There’s some soup left over from last night,” she continues as if Koda had answered in the affirmative. “If you’ll do me the favor of taking Asi out, I’ll heat it up.”