SILVERY SHAFTS OF moonlight touch the sand. The sage brush looks ominous in those shimmering rays, and the mesas are ancient black monuments to the God that created them. A small fire smokes and puffs its way through dry pine and juniper, releasing the scents of a sun-baked desert.<\/p>\n
My steel horse sits silently behind me, except for the click-click-click-click of a slowly cooling engine, and the fire snaps, crackles, and pops through its fuel.<\/p>\n
\u201cMind if I smoke?\u201d asks the stranger across the fire from me as he rolls his own without awaiting my approval. I scowl, but say nothing. He doesn\u2019t seem to be a bad sort, handsome even, with his long blonde hair and black duster. \u201cSo tell me somethin\u2019,\u201d he says, shifting just slightly so his back is against the saddlebags on his mechanical animal, and one knee is cocked just so. He takes a drag on his cigarette and blows smoke rings at the harvest moon as if he had nothing better to do. \u201cWhat\u2019s a pretty girl like you doin\u2019 in a place like this?\u201d<\/p>\n
I roll my eyes and continue to read my book. I don\u2019t know why I allowed him to ride with me, but yesterday, when he had approached me in Moab, there was something \u2026 in his eyes \u2026<\/p>\n
I couldn\u2019t refuse.<\/p>\n
I wish I had.<\/p>\n
\u201cI guess that\u2019s pretty tired, hunh?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTo say the least,\u201d I mutter, and try to keep my husband in mind. It\u2019s not so easy \u2026 until I remember the argument that sent me out here. Alone. With a Triple A card and a stainless steel nine millimeter semi-automatic pistol strapped to my thigh.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot in the mood for talkin\u2019. Well, I guess I can take a hint,\u201d says my stranger as he pulls his hat low over his face, crosses his booted ankles, and stretches out on his bedroll.<\/p>\n
I watch him through the tongues of orange and blue and wonder where he came from, what his story is. But I dare not ask. Because out here, out West, the unwritten code of privacy still exists for those on the edge. Because he hasn\u2019t asked for my name or situation. And because, despite my denials, he fascinates me, and I feel guilty.<\/p>\n
I move, my body suffering as much discomfort as my mind. The vibrations of the engine had overcome the fully padded leather seat two hundred miles back, and my arms, butt, and legs are still a little numb. So I rise and stroll into the darkness beyond the fire I share with my fellow traveller.<\/p>\n
The orange glow fades from my pupils as I berate myself for looking directly into the fire. I know better than that.<\/p>\n
But campfires in the desert fascinate me.<\/p>\n
\u201cSHE LIVES IN THE past. I don\u2019t think she realizes it\u2019s 1995.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMrs. Hardin? How do you feel about what Don has said? Mrs. Hardin? Mrs. Hardin! There is nothing outside. Our emotions are here, inside, and we must deal with them.\u201d<\/p>\n
But there was that bird I just couldn\u2019t stop watching. She layered her nest oh-so-carefully with bits of twine and a yard-length piece of\u2014<\/p>\n
\u201cLook at that bird,\u201d I said, and pointed. The marriage counselor and Donny both looked. I felt their exasperation as if from far away. \u201cWhat\u2019re those things called? The holey things you tear off of computer paper?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSnow, please answer the question. We\u2019re getting nowhere.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIsn\u2019t it amazing,\u201d I said, \u201cthat nature can use our garbage to sustain life?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease don\u2019t start with the tree-hugging stuff again, honey.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know, the Indians would make camp on a spot, then leave it better than they found it. Not only did they not want to leave tracks, but\u2014more importantly\u2014they felt that they owed the land respect. That they belonged to the land, not the other way around. And when they killed an animal for meat, they would ask its forgiveness and portray their gratitude that it would give its life for the life of man.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMrs. Hardin!\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at the counselor then. \u201cYou have no idea how to deal with me, do you?\u201d<\/p>\n
She blinked, as if I were an idiot, and my comment was one of those unexpected and sudden lucid moments of insanity. \u201cMrs. Hardin, you\u2019re an intelligent woman.\u201d She didn\u2019t believe that. \u201cSurely\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSurely I can get with the program and let you pour your Freudian mumbo jumbo into my head?\u201d I looked at my husband, who stared at me with something akin to horror. \u201cI rather like Jung, myself. I thought you knew that.\u201d To the counselor then. \u201cFreud is so out of date. Please catch up.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2014I\u2014Mrs. Hardin!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI have made my wishes known to you, Donald. You won\u2019t allow me children, you won\u2019t allow me a career, you won\u2019t allow me any identity beyond that of the wife of Doctor Donald Hardin. Please allow me this.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut it\u2019s crazy!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMrs. Hardin, it really is much too dangerous. For a man it would be dangerous, but for a woman? I\u2019m afraid the whole idea is preposterous\u2014delusional.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m delusional,\u201d I muttered, my emotions shut down.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t live in 1853, Mrs. Hardin. You are not a squaw\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI hate that word. Use \u2018wife.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are not an Indian squaw.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI never said I was,\u201d I whispered. \u201cI just said I wanted to be\u2014for one month. I\u2019ll come back to Connecticut and be a good little doctor\u2019s wife for the rest of my life. All I want is a month to myself right now with a motorcycle, a bedroll, and a gun.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNever,\u201d Donny hissed as he dragged me out of the office with an apology tossed at the counselor. \u201cTake those braids out,\u201d he snarled later, much later, in our bedroom. \u201cAnd those feathers! Put them in the trash. Heaven only knows what kind of an impression you\u2019ve made on my colleagues and their wives by now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMustn\u2019t let the guys know your wife\u2019s a lunatic.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI won\u2019t tolerate much more of this!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat will you do?\u201d I asked him as I obediently took the braids out of my hair and watched the pure white feathers float into the trash can. Down, down, down, to light without a whisper on a crumpled, lipstick-smeared Kleenex.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, honey,\u201d he sighed as he came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. I wanted to pull away, but I didn\u2019t. Because Donny was my husband. Before God and man. \u201cSnowy, I know you\u2019re unhappy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m bored.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, can\u2019t you find something else to do besides read westerns and watch westerns?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou made me quit my beadwork.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause you were doing all those creepy Navajo designs\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cApache.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhatever. Darling, why can\u2019t you be happy? What can I do to make you happy? Would a child do it? I know you\u2019ve wanted children for the longest time \u2026 Let\u2019s do have a child, then, if that\u2019ll make you happy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d Oh, I began to cry. I don\u2019t like it when my emotions are so uncontrollable. \u201cPlease let me go,\u201d I begged. I had never begged for anything in my life. \u201cI\u2019ll come back to you. I promise.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI would be the laughingstock of the entire medical community.\u201d<\/p>\n
I gulped.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s silly,\u201d he continued.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot to me,\u201d I sobbed as I slid to my knees in front of him and unfastened his fly. And tried not to gag. \u201cPlease, Donny.\u201d<\/p>\n
He buried his fingers in my hair to hold me away from him. \u201cWhat if something happens to you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNothing will happen to me,\u201d I whispered as I drew him toward me.<\/p>\n
A COYOTE HOWLS in the distance. I start, and spin on my heels. The sand grits under my boots and stirs around my denim-clad legs. The moon has meandered so far that I wonder what kind of trance I was in. I see burning embers of orange glow in the distance, but I do not see the body of the rugged stranger whose name and circumstance I do not know.<\/p>\n
I run my hands through my hair. I have no mirror, but I can feel the blonde length, whose satin fall is interrupted by chunky braids interwoven with snow white feathers. My duster flaps about my ankles in the slight desert breeze, which now carries the distance sound of chanting.<\/p>\n
I spin again. It is all around me, the singing. And the drums. It grows louder, fills my head, pulses in my arteries along with the pound of the life-giving liquid, coaxes my body to sway and my feet to stomp. I close my eyes and raise my arms to the moon, and I sing.<\/p>\n
Sing of past warriors, great men who counted coup on many of their enemies. Sing of brave men who have gone beyond to hunt, where the buffalo still graze and the land is still fresh. Sing of pretty maidens and handsome braves and beautiful children, of the goodness of Wakantanka\u2019s bounty, of nature\u2019s generosity to The People.<\/p>\n
The glow of fire lights my face and hands as I dance. I feel the heaviness of my white doeskin wedding dress, weighed down by thousands of beads I have sewn myself. The fringe caresses my bare calves, and my moccasins feel light on my feet.<\/p>\n
\u201cDove-in-Snow.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stop dancing and look at the man who has called my name. He is tall, broad, with yellow hair, like mine. It wafts around his body, bare but for breechclouts, moccasins, and war paint. A bonnet of feathers that I made for him almost touches the ground.<\/p>\n
\u201cSundancer,\u201d I whisper. \u201cYou have counted many coup today.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTo bring much wealth to your father, the chief.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFor my bride price.\u201d<\/p>\n
He nods.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnother calls me\u2014wife.\u201d<\/p>\n
He snorts. \u201cA white man, back in the land of the Iriquois, in a different moon. He does not love you like I do.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know,\u201d I whisper.<\/p>\n
\u201cCome,\u201d says my handsome, yellow-haired brave as he holds his hand out to me. I feel his comforting grip, and I thrill at his touch. \u201cIt is time to take your place among The People again. As my wife. You have been too long gone, and I have missed you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve waited forever for you to come for me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut, Snowy, you had to come for me<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n ★<\/p>\n SILVERY SHAFTS OF moonlight touch the sand. The sage brush looks ominous in those shimmering rays, and the mesas are ancient black monuments to the God that created them. A small fire smokes and puffs its way through dry pine and juniper, releasing the scents of a sun-baked desert. My steel horse sits silently behind […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":6087,"menu_order":92,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1388","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/moriahjovan.com\/talesofdunham\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1388"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/moriahjovan.com\/talesofdunham\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/moriahjovan.com\/talesofdunham\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/moriahjovan.com\/talesofdunham\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/moriahjovan.com\/talesofdunham\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1388"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/moriahjovan.com\/talesofdunham\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1388\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":24704,"href":"https:\/\/moriahjovan.com\/talesofdunham\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1388\/revisions\/24704"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/moriahjovan.com\/talesofdunham\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/6087"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/moriahjovan.com\/talesofdunham\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1388"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n20260223<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"