On the two points that counted, the scouting was a success. There was fresh meat for the taking and the countryside was devoid of enemies.
After only a few days he was wondering why everyone didn’t live in a lodge. When he thought of the places he had lived before, he could envision nothing but a collection of sterile rooms.
To him the lodge was a true home. It was cool on the hottest days, and no matter what sort of fuss was going on in camp, the circle of space inside seemed filled with peace.
He came to love the time he passed there by himself.
His favorite part of the day was late afternoon, and more often than not, he could be found close to the lodge flap, performing some little job like cleaning his boots while he watched the clouds change formation or listened to the light whistle of wind.
Without really trying, these late afternoons by himself shut down the machinery of his mind, letting his mind rest in a refreshing way.
It didn’t take long, however, for one facet of his life to dominate all the others.
That was Stands With A Fist.
Their talks began again, this time under the casual but always present eyes of Kicking Bird’s family.
The medicine man had left instructions to keep meeting, but without Kicking Bird to guide them, there was no clear-cut direction for the lessons to take.
The first few days consisted mainly of mechanical, unexciting reviews.
In a way, it was just as well. She was still confused and embarrassed. The dryness of their first one-on-one meetings made it easier to pick up the thread of the past. It allowed her needed distance in getting used to him again.
Dances With Wolves was content to have it that way. The tedium of their exchanges was measured against his sincere desire to patch up whatever had damaged the link between them, and he waited patiently through the first few days, hoping for a thaw.
The Comanche was coming well, but it soon became apparent that sitting in the lodge all morning placed limitations on how fast he could learn it. So many things he needed to know about were outside. And family interruptions were never-ending.
But he waited on without complaint, letting Stands With A Fist skip over words she couldn’t explain.
One afternoon just after the noon meal, when she couldn’t find the word for grass, Stands With A Fist finally took him outside. One word led to another, and on that day they didn’t return to the lodge for more than an hour. Instead, they strolled through the village, so intent on their studies that time ran out with little thought of its passage.
The pattern was repeated and reinforced in the days that followed. They became a common sight, a pair of talkers roving the village, oblivious to all but the objects comprising their work: bone, lodge flap, sun, hoof, kettle, dog, stick, sky, child, hair, robe, face, far, near, here, there, bright, dull, and on and on and on.
Every day the language took deeper root in him and soon Dances With Wolves could make more than words. Sentences were forming and he strung them together with a zeal that caused many mistakes.
“Fire grows on the prairie.”
“Eating water is good for me.”
“Is that man a bone?”
He was like a good runner who falls every third stride, but he kept hacking at the morass of the new language, and by sheer force of will he made remarkable progress.
No amount of failure could flag his spirits, and he scrambled over every obstacle with the kind of good humor and determination that makes a person fun.
They were in the lodge less and less. The outside was free, and a special quiet was now in place over the village. It had become unusually peaceful.
Everyone was thinking about the men who had gone out to face uncertain events in the country of the Pawnee. With each timeless day relatives and friends of the men in the war party prayed more devoutly for their safety. Overnight it seemed, prayers had become the single most obvious feature of camp life, finding their way into every meal, meeting, and job, no matter how small or fleeting.
The holiness that shrouded the camp gave Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist a perfect environment in which to operate. Sunk as they were in this time of waiting and prayer, other people paid little attention to the white couple. They moved around in a serene, well-protected bubble, an entity unto themselves.
They shared three or four hours each day, without touching and without talking about themselves. On the surface a careful formality was observed. They laughed at things together and they commented on ordinary phenomena like the weather. But feelings about themselves lay concealed at all times. Stands With A Fist was being careful with her feelings, and Dances With Wolves respected that.
A profound change took place two weeks after the party went out.
Late one afternoon, after a long scout under a brutal sun, Dances With Wolves returned to Kicking Bird’s lodge, found no one there, and, thinking the family gone to the river, headed down to the water.
Kicking Bird’s wives were there, scrubbing their children. Stands With A Fist was not around. He hung about long enough to get splashed by the kids and climbed back up the path to the village.
The sun was still brutal, and when he saw the arbor, the thought of its shade pulled him over.
He was halfway inside before he realized she was there. The regular session had already been held, and both of them were embarrassed.
Dances With Wolves sat down at a modest distance from her and said hello.
“It . . . it is hot,” she answered, as if making an excuse for her presence.
“Yes,” he agreed, “Very hot.”
Though he didn’t have to, he swiped at his forehead. It was a silly way of making sure she could see he was here for the same reason.
But as he made the fake gesture, Dances With Wolves checked himself. A sudden urge had come over him, an urge to tell her how he felt.
He just started to talk. He told her he was confused. He told her how good it felt to be here. He told her about the lodge and how good it was to have it. He took the breastplate in both hands and told her how he thought of it, that to him it was something great. He lifted it to his cheek and said, “I love this.”
Then he said, “But I’m white . . . and I’m a soldier. Is it good for me to be here or is it a foolish thing? Am I foolish?”
He could see complete attention in her eyes.
“Is no . . . I don’t know,” she answered.
There was a little silence. He could see she was waiting.
“I don’t know where to go,” he said quietly. “I don’t know where to be.”
She turned her head slowly and stared out the doorway.
“I know,” she said.
She was still lost in thought, staring out at the afternoon, when he said, “I want to be here.”
She turned back to him. Her face looked huge. The sinking sun had given it a soft glow. Her eyes, wide with feeling, had the same glow.
“Yes,” she said, understanding exactly how he felt.
She dropped her head. When she looked back up, Dances With Wolves felt swallowed, just as he had felt out on the prairie with Timmons for the first time. Her eyes were the eyes of a soulful person, filled with a beauty few men could know. They were eternal.
Dances With Wolves fell in love when he saw this.
Stands With A Fist had already fallen in love. It happened at the time he began to speak, not all at once but in slow stages until at last she could not deny it. She saw herself in him. She saw that they could be one.
They talked a little more and fell silent. For a few minutes they stared at the afternoon, each knowing what the other was feeling but not daring to speak.