Feather in the Wind Read Free Page A

dust and fry bread filled her nostrils. She heard the whir of a snow cone machine.
    In need of something cool to drink, she thanked Cindy for explaining the dances to her and then left the dance area and made her way to the refreshment stand. She bought a large cup of root beer, heavy on the ice, then went to stroll through the booths, wanting to buy a souvenir of some kind to take home with her.
    She passed by t-shirts and vests and scarves, dreamcatchers in a variety of sizes and colors, Indian dolls, brightly beaded chokers, baskets, a wide assortment of jewelry crafted in silver and turquoise, fetishes carved in onyx. She saw much that was pretty, but nothing she wanted to take home.
    Disappointed, she was about to turn away when she saw a single black and white feather attached to a loop of rawhide. Hanging from a post, it fluttering in the breeze, as if beckoning her.
    Lifting the feather from a hook, she ran one finger lightly over the spine, surprised by the warmth of it, the way it seemed to snuggle into her hand, inviting her touch. She knew, in that moment, that she had to have it, knew, somehow, that it was meant to be hers.
    “Can I help you, miss?”
    Susannah smiled at the man standing behind the counter. Tall and lean, he was dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans, moccasins, a long-sleeved Western shirt and a buckskin vest that had a moon and stars painted on one side and a slash of lightning painted on the other. He wore his long gray hair in twin braids that reached his waist.
    “How much do you want for this?” Susannah asked, holding up the feather.
    The man shook his head. “It is not for sale.”
    “It isn’t? Why not?”
    “It is a Lakota prayer feather,” the man explained, taking it from her hand. “It is very old, and sacred to my people.”
    “But I’ve got to have it.”
    He looked at her intently, his deep black eyes seeming to look at her and through her, almost as though he could read her mind, her heart. “Give me your hand.”
    “What?”
    “Your hand,” he repeated, and extended his own.
    Susannah felt a chill of unease skitter down her spine. Almost, she was tempted to tell him to just forget it. Almost. She stared at his hand. His skin was brown and wrinkled, like sunburned leather. His palm was heavily calloused.
    Her heart began to beat faster as she placed her hand in his, felt his fingers, surprisingly strong for such an old man, curl around hers. He closed his eyes, his grasp tightening. Susannah’s breath caught in her throat as the image of a man standing atop a high mountain flashed through her mind. For an instant, she thought she heard someone chanting to the sound of a distant drum.
    With a nod, the old Indian released her hand and opened his eyes. “You are the one,” he murmured, his voice thick with wonder.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Take the feather. It is yours.”
    “Oh thank you,” she said, disconcerted by the man’s intense gaze. “How much do you want for it?”
    The man shook his head. “It is yours.”
    “That’s very nice of you,” Susannah said puzzled by the man’s peculiar attitude, “but I couldn’t…”
    The man silenced her with a wave of his hand. “This is no ordinary feather,” he said somberly. “It is Wakán .”
    “ Wakán ?”
    “Holy. You must be careful with it.”
    “I will. Are you sure I can’t pay you for it?”
    “Very sure. Things that are sacred must not be sold.” His dark-eyed gaze met hers again. “Eagle feathers are sacred to the Lakota people. This is a medicine feather. If you are worthy, it will bring you that which you most desire.” Reverently, he placed it in her hand. “Remember,” he warned, his voice solemn, “it is a prayer feather.”
    “Yes, I will,” Susannah replied, wondering what, exactly, he was warning her to be careful of. “Thank you so much.”
    At home, she went immediately to her office and placed the feather beside the photograph of the Indian, which she had framed. They looked