Lakota Moon Illustration by Richard Larson Chapter 1 July 1845 - The Moon of the Red Blooming Lilies "The whole family died of smallpox, 'ceptin' a baby. Bein' as how all the others were busy with their own problems, no one wanted the child, so they put him in the arms of his dead mama and placed 'em both on a scaffold made of tree limbs, high enough so the wolves couldn't get at 'em. They wrapped'em up in buffalo hides and left 'em there." Silas Wells paused and scratched his silver chin stubble with dirt-caked fingernails. He looked around the campfire and continued, his voice low and full of mystery. "They could hear that babe's cries for days, but the cries got softer and softer, til all they heard was the wind whippin' across the prairie and the howlin' of the hungry wolves." Mary Eliza McElroy shuddered and looked across the crackling fire at the leathery old mountain man, who smirked at the effect his latest story was having on his young audience. "Heathens," her sister Bonnie whispered in her ear just as their mother burst through the circle of children sitting cross-legged on the ground. Libby McElroy stopped in front of Wells as the boys she had pushed out of her way struggled to right themselves. "Mr. Wells, I will not have you frightening my children." Libby stood before him with her arms folded across her bosom. "Every night they listen to your stories, then I have to comfort them when they wake from their nightmares. You should be ashamed of yourself, worrying children like this." The guide's craggy face took on a sheepish look as Libby stared down at him. "I'm just tellin' these young 'uns the truth, Miz McElroy. They oughta know how the redskins are so's they can protect themselves." Libby fixed him with a glare usually reserved for her children, or her husband when he got frisky. "Indians don't often attack wagon trains on the trail, that's what they told us at Fort Laramie.And Indians helped us haul our wagons up and down Windlass Hill, or have you forgotten?" Mary Eliza watched as Wells stroked his chin and thought it over. The land was crawling with Indians, none of them happy with the road that sliced across the open plains of southern Wyoming, even though they seemed happy enough to trade with the whites at the adobe-walled post on the banks of the Laramie and Platte rivers. Wells snorted. "Well, we're in Sioux territory now and they ain't as nice as some of them other Injuns has been. I spent years in these parts, Miz McElroy, and I know Injuns. Can't trust 'em, not even the good 'uns." "Then I pray we never see the bad ones." Libby turned to her children. "Bonnie, Mare-Liza, Douglas, come along now." The children sighed as they picked themselves up from the grass and followed their mother across the circle of wagons. Ten-year-old Douglas trailed his sisters as they walked across the night ring. "Do you believe what he told us, Bonnie?" "Mr. Wells has been a trapper and scout for a long time. He lived with Indians before he started guiding wagon trains. Why would he lie?" "To scare us!" Mary Eliza turned and made a face at her little brother. Douglas rared back, his blue eyes shining like silver dollars in the moonlight. "Are you scared, Mare-Liza?" "Kinda. Remember that story he told us about the woman who was baking bread in her house, and the Indians attacked and snatched her baby out of the cradle and threw him into the fire?" She shivered as the terrible scene played in her mind. She could see the anguished mother pleading for her baby's life, and the laughter on the braves' demon-painted faces. At twelve going on thirteen, Mary Eliza was old enough to understand the dangers of this journey all too well. But Indians were not the only threat. There were diseases like cholera, and accidents. Just the previous week, a two-year-old boy had fallen from his family's wagon and was crushed when the wheels rolled over him. The emigrants had paused long enough to bury him and say a few prayers over his grave, but they could not stop, there were too many miles to cover until they reached Oregon, and no time to waste. A day of dawdling in the July wildflowers could mean death in October when the heavy snows came. "I wish we weren't so fair-haired." Bonnie stroked the tail of one of her golden braids. "Mr. Wells said the Indians would just love to have our scalps." Mary Eliza grimaced. "Then we'll just have to keep our hair tucked under our bonnets." The children settled on the ground in front of the wagon as their mother rocked in her high-backed chair and their father stretched out on a blanket and enjoyed his pipe. Someone in the circle strummed a banjo, and soon a fiddle joined in. "Children, I don't want you around Mr. Wells." Libby rocked to the rhythm of the music."He fills your heads with bad thoughts." "But Mama, it's all true." Bonnie applied balm to her hands and face and looked at her mother. "How can the Indians do such horrible things?" "They've not been brought up in a good Christian home like you have, so they don't know right from wrong." Libby rocked faster. "They can't help being savages, but that still don't make it right." Douglas hugged his knees to his chest. "Mama, do you think the Indians will attack us?" Their father pulled his pipe from his lips and propped up on an elbow as he stared hard at his youngest son. "Boy, we've been traveling for three months now. Indians ain't harmed us yet, have they?" "No, Papa." "I ain't saying it can't happen, but I wouldn't worry about it if I was you. If we see any savages about to attack, we'll just shoot them first!" "Honestly, Duncan, what have you gotten us into?" Libby's maple chair advanced an inch with each pump. "Libby, let's don't start that again. You agreed to move to Oregon." "Only because I didn't have a choice. You had already sold the farm by the time you got around to telling me." "The future is in the west." Duncan's voice boomed as he lifted his pipe toward the distant mountains. The curl of blue smoke vanished in the wind. "What was in Ohio for us?" "Just all of our family, and our home, and the land we've spent the last twenty years farming." Libby did not bother to hide the bitterness in her voice. "Nothing much." "You'll love Oregon, Libby. We'll get us a big farm there, even bigger than in Ohio, with land that ain't wore out, and we'll tame it with our own two hands." Libby sighed and stopped rocking. "I already tamed Ohio. Why do I want to tame Oregon?" "Now, Libby ..." "You'll lead us to ruin with your silly dreams." She rose with some effort and kneaded the stiff muscles in her back with small, calloused hands. She looked down at her children. "Go to bed now. Mornin' will come before we know it." The three of them knew better than to plead for more time when their mother was so angry with their father. Libby and Duncan argued openly now, and frequently. There was no bedroom where they could disagree in private, only a small canvas tent pitched next to the wagon. Libby could not hide her resentment, and Duncan spent less and less time with the family at night, preferring the company of the other men who shared his Oregon fever. Libby ducked into the tent as her husband's blue eyes followed her. The children crawled under the wagon, where four-year-old Jean was already sleeping contentedly. The oldest boys, Dunnie and Angus, were still off courting some girls. "Bonnie, when will we reach Oregon?" Mary Eliza spread her quilt next to her sister's on the hard ground. "It seems like we've been walking forever." "Papa said we're about halfway there. Three more months, I guess. He said it would take at least six months." "I don't think we'll ever get there." Mary Eliza wondered what it would be like to celebrate a birthday on the trail. She would turn thirteen before they reached Oregon, but there would be no time for a party, unless it was at night when everyone was worn out from walking. She wondered if her mother would even remember it was her birthday, let alone spare flour and eggs for a cake. Bonnie settled down on her bedroll. "I wish we could have stayed at Fort Laramie longer. A couple of the younger trappers were kinda handsome, and they kept smiling at me, did you notice that, Mare-Liza?" Mary Eliza had noticed how the rough men at the trading post had taken a shine to Bonnie, who, at fourteen, was a younger version of her pretty, blue-eyed mother, with a softer voice and gentler disposition. Their winks and leering grins had only made Mary Eliza uncomfortable. Even the Indians milling around the place had noticed the blonde-haired girls, although their stares were not as overt. Fort Laramie was a nice respite for a couple of days, a place to rest tired feet, wash clothes in the river, buy fresh oxen teams and even post letters home, but it was not a place she wanted to linger. "We haven't been attacked by Indians yet, but I know they're out there, probably watching us right now." Bonnie pulled her nightgown over her head and wriggled out of her brown calico dress. She folded the dress carefully, as if it was more than a worn and faded rag, and made a pillow out of it. Then she slid her bare feet beneath the top quilt. "Hush, Bonnie, I don't want to think about Indians anymore." Mary Eliza took off her worn and dusty black leather shoes and stood them beside her pallet. She pulled off her black cotton stockings and draped them over her shoes, then curled up on her side with the quilt under her chin. She had decided to sleep in her dress in case the Indians attacked. Douglas lay down as close to his sisters as he could get without looking like a sissy, but as they tossed and turned, it was plain that the three of them could not get Silas Wells' stories out of their heads. Wells had been telling stories about the Indians ever since the wagons had rolled out of Independence, Missouri, on April 2, 1845. The Indians they had met along the way had not seemed so bad, and one small group of warriors had even helped them haul their heavy wagons by rope up and down steep Windlass Hill, for a price, as their mother had reminded the old mountain man. But Wells was full of stories about the cruelty of Indians, especially toward whites. And the traders and trappers at Laramie had warned them as they had headed out the day before that they were in hostile territory now. Sioux territory. Mary Eliza had seen some of these Sioux at Fort Laramie, where they traded hides for food, liquor, ammunition and other goods. The women wore tunics of soft buckskin adorned with shells, elk teeth and beads, and the men wore fringed leggings or, because of the heat, nothing but breech cloths. She had not looked at their dark, sleek bodies without blushing. "Don't go near those savages, girls," Libby had warned them upon arrival at the fort when they saw all the Indian camps nearby, their conical hide dwellings dotting the hillsides in small circles. "Lord only knows what evil they have in mind for two pretty young girls like you." The traders had said the Sioux sometimes harrassed wagon trains on the trail just to throw a good scare into the whites, and to collect a toll, but there had been a few attacks recently, enough to make everyone wary. "Lord, please protect me from the Indians," Mary Eliza prayed as she snuggled beneath her tattered quilt and moved closer to her sister. Snoring could be heard from a neighboring wagon, and somewhere in the circle, a woman wept softly, overcome by exhaustion and despair. A lone fiddler played into the night, lulling Mary Eliza into a deep sleep. Copyright 2003, Robyn Jackson Reviews 'Lakota Moon' is tale of courage, spirit By Kristen Twedt Book signing Hattiesburg American features editor Robyn Jackson will sign copies of her novel "Lakota Moon" ($16.95, Timothy Lane Press) from 4-6 p.m. Thursday at Main Street Books, 201 Main St., downtown Hattiesburg. "Lakota Moon" chronicles a legendary tale of human courage, stamina and spirit with a historically resonant story. The McElroy family embarks on their personal odyssey to Oregon in July of 1845 in search of what so many before them had sought: a new land of promise under the wide open sky. What befalls the family in the form of tragedy unleashes a wild yet liberating turn of events for 13-year-old Mary Eliza. Taken in a raid by Lakota warriors, the terrified girl witnesses not the brutality reported by countless white settlers before her, but the very humane and civilized ways of her Native American captors. Travel along the Oregon Trail proved perilous for many westward bound settlers, but Mary Eliza's capture by the Lakota set in motion a metamorphosis of faith, growth and discovery experienced by few women of the time. "Lakota Moon," the first novel of a trilogy by Robyn Jackson, spans the early years of Mary Eliza's life with the Lakota and was inspired by a true story. Mary Eliza moves through the adaptive stages of a hostage, to the status of adopted daughter and, in spite of her strong doubts and misgivings regarding her Indian companions, eventually into the arms of a Lakota man. Mysterious Medicine holds his own deep uncertainties regarding the willful white woman thrust into their midst. The pair engage in a test of their unspoken love for each other as well as the inherent complications of weaving together two lives separated by culture, beliefs and the savage nature of their warring world. With the majestic expanse of the Great Plains as a backdrop, "Lakota Moon" envelops the reader in a vibrant and untamed setting where the frontier challenges the survival of its inhabitants with blizzards, blistering heat and the ever-present threat of animal attacks. Living from the land in the symbiotic relationship so integral to the Native American way, the Lakota teach Mary Eliza the inherent value of nature's abundance, from buffalo hides to the seasonal winds of change. As she weighs the love of her biological family with a newfound attachment to the Lakota, the scale tips in favor of a life that awakens a spiritual and emotional catharsis in Mary Eliza that drives her to accept the bond she forges with Mysterious Medicine and his people. This story, based on the historical events that shaped the West as we know it today, bears close and moving witness to the savage beauty, loss and triumph of a people who suffered the crippling reduction of their numbers and their free range of the land at the hands of the wayward settlers and the soldiers deployed to protect U.S. government interests. Far from the traditional plots of so many Wild West books and films, "Lakota Moon" captivates the reader with natural details that bring its landscape and its characters to life. With chapters subtitled with seasons of the moon, "Lakota Moon" incorporates the strength of a native people with the power of love that transcends all obstacles. Kristen Twedt is a Hattiesburg freelance writer and author of "My Crazy Christmas Catastrophe Cat." E-mail her at fanmail@kristentwedt.com. Originally published in the Hattiesburg (Miss.) American, Sunday, December 7, 2003 FAQs about "Lakota Moon" QUESTION: Where did you get the idea for "Lakota Moon"? Is it based on a true story? ANSWER: Yes, it is. I think it was the spring of 1988 when I went to visit my mother and stepfather in San Antonio, Texas, where he was stationed in the Air Force. The first night, my mother gave me a big stack of Texas Highways magazines and told me to read them and see if there were any interesting little towns nearby that I wanted to visit. Each issue had a page of little vignettes about Texas history, and as a lifelong history buff, I enjoyed reading them. One issue had a very brief write-up about the life of Cynthia Ann Parker, who was captured by the Comanche when she was nine years old, and who later married into the tribe and chose to remain with them. She was also the mother of Quanah Parker, the last great Comanche war chief. Cynthia Ann was eventually "rescued" and returned to her white family, along with her little daughter, who died a year or two later. Cynthia Ann never saw her husband or sons again, and, as the story so poignantly put it, Cynthia Ann died of a broken heart. My first thought when I read that was "God, that's the most tragic story I've ever heard." My second thought was "But what a great novel it would make." I knew at that moment that I would someday write a novel inspired by Cynthia Ann's life, but I wasn't ready to embark upon such a project at that time. I kept the idea in the back of my mind for years, until all the pieces of the puzzle came together. QUESTION: Why did you create your own characters and story instead of just writing a novel about Cynthia Ann? ANSWER: I figured that had already been done (I was right, as I discovered years later). Mostly, though, I just wanted the freedom to tell my own story. The story of Mary Eliza McElroy purposely bears a lot of resemblance to Cynthia Ann's life, because truth really is stranger than fiction, but my story is about the Lakota, not the Comanche, and the outcomes are different. QUESTION: Have you always been interested in Native American history and culture? ANSWER: As far back as I can remember. My maternal grandmother, Mildred Hudson Anderson, told me when I was five or six years old that her mother was part Choctaw, and I think that's where my fascination began. I have also learned just recently that there is Cherokee ancestry on my father's side of the family, so I think I come by the interest genetically. My first introduction to Native American culture was in 1975, on a big driving trip out West. I was 15 then, and I fell in love with the West. I have vivid memories of attending a dance performance by some Apache Boy Scouts in Carlsbad, N.M., one night. I had control of the movie camera and shot miles of film of those cute guys doing the hoop dances. As we proceeded to the Grand Canyon, we drove through part of the Navajo reservation, and I was fascinated to discover that such beautiful, vibrant and unique cultures were surviving in America against all odds. QUESTION: When did you start writing fiction? ANSWER: I was 12 when I wrote my first short story. I loved to read, and I had a vivid imagination, so it was just natural that I would want to create my own stories. I wrote constantly when I was growing up, but I never let anyone else read it. No one even knew I was writing, I hid my notebooks under my bed. I wasn't writing for publication, I just loved the physical and mental act of creating stories and characters. I wrote for my own enjoyment, to find my own voice. I took a creative writing class in college, and that's the first time I ever let anyone read my fiction. When I graduated and started my journalism career, I stopped writing fiction. I had an audience and I was being published every day in the newspaper, so the need to write fiction wasn't as strong. Plus, I didn't have time, I was working 12-hour days. But I woke up one day in September, 1992, after 10 years as a journalist, and I realized how much I missed writing fiction, and that I'd be happier if I was working on a novel. I joined a local writer's group, but I still didn't know what I was going to write. It would be another year before I figured that out. I told my mother and grandmother that I was thinking of buying a word processor in the summer of 1993, and they surprised me by giving me one for Christmas that year. That was a real vote of confidence, and I was determined to write something good so they wouldn't be disappointed in me. My first thought when they told me I was getting a word processor for Christmas was "Great, now I can write that novel I've been talking about." My second thought was "But what am I going to write about?" That's when "The story about the captive," popped into my head. I knew that the time had come to tell this story. QUESTION: Had you been researching Cynthia Ann Parker's life all these years? ANSWER: No. I bought a children's book about Quanah Parker because it told a little about her life, so I knew some very basic facts about what happened to her, but I had not made much of an effort to learn about her life. The idea for the story about the captive had stayed in the back of my mind for five years, but I hadn't gone out of my way to learn anything or to even come up with a plot. I wasn't ready to write at that point. QUESTION: What changed? ANSWER: Around the end of 1992, I had started reading some genealogy materials that my grandparents had, and I was determined to find out if we had Indian ancestry or if it was all just family mythology. I couldn't imagine my grandmother making up such a story, and my great-grandmother looks Native American in photos I have of her, but I couldn't find any documentation that she was Choctaw or anthing else. Around the same time, a friend at work lent me some Tony Hillerman mysteries, and I rediscovered my teenage fascination for the Navajo, which started on that trip out West in 1975. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was learn about Indians. I read and watched everything I could get my hands on. It became my passion. I think it was in the spring of 1993 that I watched "Dances With Wolves" for the first time. I'm not exaggerating when I say that that movie changed my life. I sat there, enthralled, for three hours while that movie played, and when it ended and the credits started to roll, I sat back in my chair and these are the words that poured out of me: "My life has just changed. It will never be the same after watching this movie. Somehow, my life is going to be connected to these people." I was stunned. What did I mean by that? Was I going to move to a Lakota reservation and teach? I was very unhappy in my job and considering a career change, but all I really wanted to do was write full-time. But writing a novel about the Lakota had not occurred to me than. It wasn't until I found out I was getting the word processor, months later, that all the pieces of the puzzle fit, and I could see that everything in my life had been leading up to writing what would become "Lakota Moon." QUESTION: How long did it take to write "Lakota Moon"? ANSWER: Almost a decade. Mom and Grandma told me at the end of September 1993, that I was getting the word processor, but they wouldn't let me have it until Christmas, so I had three months to do some research and think about the plot. I started writing on Jan. 1, 1994, and I wrote for two years, finishing in December, 1995, two weeks before the end of the year. I thought I was finished with it, and I began to write "Mitawa," which picks up 11 years after the end of "Lakota Moon," on Jan. 1, 1996. I loved my characters and the story so much that I wanted to know what happened to them later, so I wrote the sequel, but I knew I had to go back to "Lakota Moon" and do another draft, to make them go together better. Tashunka Ska (White Horse), who is a major character in "Mitawa," was hardly mentioned in "Lakota Moon," so I had to find ways to beef up his character, even though he was just a boy then. I worked on "Mitawa" for about a year and a half, then went back to "Lakota Moon" for another couple of years. I had skipped over a very important time in Lakota history, the years of Crazy Horse and Custer and the loss of their freedom, so I decided to write "War Cry," which became the second book in the series. I started it on Jan. 1, 1999. After I wrote it, I had to work on "Lakota Moon" again. I ended up doing complete rewrites of all three books in about a two year period. Then I said "Enough." All in all, it took almost eight years, from 1994 to 2001 to write all three books. There was a lot of death in my family during the next two years, I lost my grandfather, mother and father in a 15-month period between June 2002, and September, 2003. This was a terrible time, the worst of my life, so I didn't do any fiction writing during this period. I decided to publish "Lakota Moon" after my mother died, on Feb. 5, 2003, because I needed something positive to focus on. QUESTION: Do you like to research and revise? ANSWER: I love it. The first draft is only the beginning, the way I figure out the plot. I don't use an outline. I research constantly when I'm writing historical fiction, and I try to include all the details I can to make the story come to life. Writing is a learning process, you only get better the more you do it. QUESTION: How did you research your novels? ANSWER: I read every book about the Lakota I could get my hands on and I watched "Dances With Wolves" over and over, as much because I love the story as to pick up on details, like how the little bells tinkled on warriors' clothing and weapons when they moved, or how the dust swirled through camp. To recreate a world, a lifestyle, that no longer exists, you have to engage all the senses, and watching movies and documentaries where camp life or battles were reenacted helped. I have a pretty extensive personal library now, ranging from general information books about Indians to some that are very specific about some aspect of Lakota history and culture, including a Lakota dictionary. And after I'd been writing for three years, I visited South Dakota for the first time. I was able to see the Black Hills, the plains and Pine Ridge reservation, all places that figure prominently in the books. I was also able to visit Fort Laramie and see portions of the Oregon Trail, including the spot where Mary Eliza could have been captured. I've been to South Dakota three times now. It's an incredibly beautiful place, very different from Mississippi in appearance, but I feel very at home there and can't wait to go back. QUESTION: Why did you decide to start your own publishing company? ANSWER: I was tired of waiting for someone else to make my dreams come true, and I realized that I had the power to do this. I had an agent for a while and got a very nice rejection letter from a major publisher. Her worst criticism was that the story was "old-fashioned." I'm not writing one of those "Sex and the City" chick lit novels that are all the rage right now, so I realized that it would be hard to place "Lakota Moon" with a traditional New York City publisher. It doesn't fit neatly into a genre. It's a love story but not a romance novel. It's a Western, but it's not about cowboys. I just call it historical fiction, but that's a very broad category. The New York publishers also seem to be uninterested in writers who don't already have some name recognition and a built-in mass audience. Unfortunately, I don't write a column in the New York Times and I'm not a movie star or politician, so my chances of getting published by one of the big publishers didn't seem very promising. I could have tried to get published by a small regional publisher, but they can't afford to pay much of an advance, so if I wasn't going to make much anyway, why not publish the book myself? I have wanted to have my own business for many years, I just never had the courage to go for it before, and I wasn't really sure what sort of business I should start. I am passionate about books, and after 21 years writing, editing and publishing newspapers, moving into book publishing just seemed like a natural career progression. It all finally made sense. And, losing my grandfather, mother and father in a 15-month period changed my life and the way I look at the world. Life is short, and if you have a dream, you need to do everything you can to make it a reality. I decided it was worth a small financial risk to publish "Lakota Moon" and see what happens. I believe that you create your own luck. Starting Timothy Lane Press was a leap of faith, but I believe I will be blessed, and I hope that people who read the books I publish through it will be blessed, too. I don't know if I'll be successful or not, but at least "Lakota Moon" will be in print, and that's the important thing. Copyright (c) 2003, Robyn Jackson