Night Wind

Night Wind

We used to joke about it. Never in the mother-in-law's presence, however.

"Indian Princess burn supper again."

"White Man no understand our ways. Campfire temperature not calibrated properly."

Her mother had said, "There are NO Indians in our family. Don't talk about it. Our friends will hear."

We had a good marriage. Raised two kids. She excelled in her business career.

It was several years ago that we went on a long weekend getaway to the Amana Colonies in
Iowa. Near the small town of Homestead was a nature trail which winds along the Iowa River. The cold March morning was warmed by a spring sun and the numerous patches of snow were rapidly disappearing leaving the ground muddy and soft.

As we walked we admired the many birds and investigated green shoots appearing through the leaf litter. Our hurried gait was slowed with all the enticing things to see.

Eventually, we came upon some Indian mounds. Suddenly Nell dashed from the trail. She picked up a stick and plunged it into a mound.

"Grandfather, I am here." She shouted eagerly.

I know my wife. This was no prank. I rushed after her and grabbing her shoulders, walked her away from the mound. She didn't protest. She seemed excited and bubbling. I
glanced around to see if we had been observed.

"What in Gods name were you doing?" I asked.

"White man wouldn't understand." She replied with eyes shining.

We finished our hike, toured a few shops, had dinner, then returned to our motel for the evening. I waited patiently for her to broach the subject of her odd behavior, but she said nothing.

I slept restlessly that night and when the morning sun filtered through the drapes, I climbed sleepily out of bed. She wasn't there. I was frantic. Only her coat and my car keys were gone. Oh, God, what could I do? Where should I
start?

Then there was a light tapping at the door. It was Nell, mud on her feet, her clothes, her face, in her hair. She stood there aglow, radiating happiness and peacefulness.

"Where have you been?"

"I spent the night at the Indian mound."

"In the dark? Are you all right?"

"Better then all right." She said as she carried her muddy shoes to the shower and stepped in clothes and all.

She accepted without question my suggestion that we return home a day early. I wanted to be away from this place that so affected her.

On the drive home she nestled her head on my shoulder as she had done so often before we were married. She chattered away about the passing landscape, the farms, the small towns. I felt that now, the time might be right.

"What did you do at the Indian mound all night?"

"I really don't think you can understand."

"Try me, Princess."

"I saw the buffalo and the wolf, --- and I listened."

"You saw them in the woods? What did you hear?"

"I'm sorry. I can't put it into words that you will understand."

"Because I don't have any Indian blood?"

"I'm sorry." She whispered.

The next few weeks she seemed her bubbly self. Then again one night I woke to find her gone from bed. I looked expecting to find her reading a book or sketching. She was not in the house. Both our cars were in the garage. I went
into the back yard and found her there. Wrapped in a blanket with her back against the old oak tree, she sat looking at the sky.

"What are you doing, Princess."

"Listening. Can you hear them?"

"Only the wind through the pines."

"White man cannot understand." She said jokingly.

Arm in arm we went inside. I started the coffee pot and over two steaming cups I tried once again.

"Nell, don't shut me out. What do you hear? What do you see?"

"I'll never shut you out, but I'm not sure I can tell you. I hear words and see pictures --- more like feeling them. It's history past and future --- It's a culture and a
people that I'm connected to by blood. I'm sorry. I don't tell it very well. Is it enough that it makes me very happy?"

"Nell, I want to be the one to make you very happy. I don't want this thing to drive a wedge between us."

"There will be no wedge. You, white man, are my one love. This other is like enjoying a great painting. You wouldn't be jealous of my liking a work of art or a piece of classical music. Those things make me happy, but I find
fulfillment through our love."

"I think I have just been conned by the clever tongue of a beautiful Indian princess. But, I'll accept that as long as you tell me frequently, how you find fulfillment."

In the weeks that followed I was aware many times of her bare feet moving to the closet to get a blanket and then out to the back yard. Several times I checked from the window and saw her huddled by the oak, staring intently at
the sky. The sleep she lost didn't seem to affect her, in fact she seemed more vibrant then ever.

Then one dark day, after supper, she said without emotion, "Tonight, I'm going to die."

"My God, have you seen a Doctor, are you ill."

"No, I am not ill. I just know I am going to die."

Incredibly, she felt --- knew she was going to die. I believed her.

Far into the evening we held hands and recalled the happiness of our lives. Finally, well past our usual bed time, she insisted we retire. Entwined in each others arms we lay on the bed. In dread I crushed her to me, as to
protect her, to prevent that which she accepted so easily.

At some point I fell asleep and when I awoke she was gone. I leapt to my feet and rushed into the back yard.There, sitting by the ancient oak, she stared to the heavens
with lifeless eyes.

Weeks later I returned to Iowa and the Amanas. There on the nature path near Homestead, I sprinkled her ashes on an Indian mound.

Many nights now, when the moon is out and a wind blows through the evergreens, I take a blanket and go into the back yard. Leaning against the oak, I look up and listen.

There, I hear a thousand voices whispering words that no white man can understand.

Story ID:	265
Written by:	Dick Dunlap (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Fiction
Location:	Amana Colonies Iowa USA
Year:	1997