Lakota Baby. Elle James
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dome-shaped structure. Vapor wafted in the bitter morning air, a hazy fog lifting from the taut hide stretched over arched willow branches.
A smile lifted the edges of Joe’s lips. Only Matoskah kept his sweat lodge erect year-round, when others were dismantled after powwow and tourist season ended. The buffalo hide, darkened with age and years of smoke, held the secrets, hopes and dreams of many Lakotans, divulged in the way of the ancients.
Joe hesitated to intrude on the shaman’s meditation.
“Enter the womb of our people, Son of Lonewolf.” Age did little to diminish the powerful voice of the tribe’s trusted healer. And how did he always seem to know who stood outside the lodge?
Holding the flap of skin aside, Joe stooped to crawl like an animal into a den, the steam rising from the rocks embracing him. He squatted to the left of the entrance and let his eyes adjust to the light from the fire’s coals and the little bit filtering through the thick skin overhead. Before the steam could escape, Joe turned to secure the flap, sealing the lodge.
Vapor swirled around him and he inhaled, accepting the surge of power that coursed through his veins. No matter how many times he’d been in a sweat lodge, he could count on that blanket of peace permeating his body and soul. Overdressed for tradition, he unzipped his coat as sweat beaded on his upper lip and forehead.
To the right of the entry, a hunched and wrinkled figure sat cross-legged, facing the coals and steaming rocks in the dug out center of the small space. Naked except for a meager loincloth, Matoskah sat staring at the glowing coals. The flap of supple deer skin was his one concession to modesty in the spiritual haven of his ancestors where the Indian was meant to be naked in the womb of the earth.
Joe reached out to grasp the spiritual leader’s forearm. “Mitaku oyasin, chante wasteya, nape chiyusa pe.” My relative, with a good heart, I shake your hand. The words brought back an image of his father sitting across a similar bed of steaming rocks from an eight-year-old Joe. He’d taught him that the words symbolized the importance of family and the completeness of the circle—only one of many lessons his father would teach him of the Lakota way of life, lessons he’d promised to pass on to his children and his children’s children.
Matoskah grasped Joe’s forearm in a firm grip. “Hau kola.” Hello, my friend.
“Forgive me, Matoskah, for intruding on your reflection. I have need of your counsel.”
The old man nodded and resumed staring into the coals.
Joe struggled to suppress his impatience. He felt out of place with too many clothes on his skin and too many thoughts churning in his head. But he forced himself to sit as the shaman did, drawing in a long, deep breath of the thick air. He closed his eyes, absorbing the souls of his ancestors, reaching for the combined wisdom of their years.
“What makes you as gray as the day outside, Joe Lonewolf?” Matoskah asked, the words swirling around the lodge like smoke from a peace pipe.
Joe opened his eyes and stared at the aged man. “A child is missing.”
Without looking up from the bed of rocks, Matoskah’s head dipped in a single nod. “I have heard.”
“It’s Maggie’s child.” Joe hadn’t meant to say anything about Maggie, but there it was, blurted out like a teenager unable to think before he speaks.
“I understand.”
What did the old man understand? Joe sat on his tongue, afraid to open his mouth and spew forth more of his hurt and anger. He’d come to cleanse his mind, not to stir the air with his confusion.
“This woman is not of our people.”
“No, she’s not. She’s one of the social workers with Indian Child Welfare Association. She works with the reservation teens.”
The old man inclined his head. “I know of her.”
As close-knit as the reservation was, Joe wasn’t surprised.
“She’s done well for our youth, working with those who abuse drugs and alcohol,” Matoskah added.
“Yes.” Maggie had thrown herself into her job, winning the hearts of many, including Joe. Had he not been so blind, they might have been together today.
“You must find this child.”
“I know.” The old man wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already believe. Joe wanted him to tell him what to do about Maggie, but the question lodged in his throat.
“You fear you will fail?”
Was that it? Was he afraid he wouldn’t find Maggie’s baby? “Yes.”
“Is your fear of failure for the child or for the woman?”
Joe leaned back. “The child, of course.”
“And if you fail the child, you will not fail the woman?”
The answer was obvious, why would the shaman ask it? Joe dragged in a deep breath of the moist air, cleansing his nostrils and lifting the cloud from his head. “Yes.”
“I sense hurt and resentment toward this Maggie.”
Joe’s chin dipped to his chest, his shame an almost overwhelming being seeping into his pores like the steam. “Yes.” As if the haze cleared, Joe realized some of his confusion stemmed from his anger toward Maggie for marrying his stepbrother. “Will my anger cloud my judgment and ability to find her child?”
“Only you can know this. Do you mistrust her because she is not one of your people?” Matoskah had that uncanny way of reading Joe’s thoughts before he’d completely formulated them himself.
“I did,” Joe admitted, his softly spoken words drifting toward the ceiling with the stone vapor. After a year in the desert country of Iraq he’d come to realize he didn’t trust himself where Maggie was concerned.
The shaman laid a hand on Joe’s arm. “When you were in battle, did you care about the color of your soldiers? What religion, what race?”
Joe sat straighter. “No, they were my brothers.”
“Does a child have a choice of what color, religion or race he is born into the world with?”
“You know they don’t. But that doesn’t change the world for our people on the reservation.”
“We are all brothers, Joe Lonewolf.” Matoskah lifted a cup of water and poured it onto the glowing stones. Steam hissed and rose in a cloud to fill the room. “Children are wakanyega, sacred beings. The child is one with the earth, one with our people, as is his mother. Look for this child like you would look for your own son, and remember, not all is as it appears. That is all you need to know. Mitaku oyasin.”
My relative.
Joe extended his hand and grasped his mentor’s forearm. “Pilamaya.” Thanks. Then on all fours, he crawled from the sweat lodge into the frigid air outside, welcoming the swift rush of cold filling his nostrils and stinging his cheeks.
Look for this child like you’d look for your own son. Dakota wasn’t his son but he was a child, part of the circle of life and born of mother earth. His focus would be on finding the baby alive. Once he’d accomplished that mission, he could decide what to do about his feelings for Maggie.
Chapter Four
Maggie unlocked the door and entered, automatically reaching in to switch on the lights of the large gymnasium. Her snow boots made echoing clopping sounds as she crossed the painted concrete court to her office on the opposite side.
As she pushed the glass door open, a lump lodged in her throat. A colorful playpen stood in one corner as if waiting for her to place Dakota in it with his toys.
How many times had she brought Dakota to work with her? Had she set herself and her child up for this disaster? Had one of the teens who’d visited the center