Blackwolf's Redemption. Sandra Marton

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      “It’s almost time,” one of the grad students said breathlessly.

      Sienna drew her thoughts together and focused on the jagged peak ahead of them. Half an hour, was more like it, but the waiting was part of the experience. She’d been on lots of ancient sites; she’d seen the summer sun rise at Chaco Canyon, traced the glyphs on the great temple at Chichén Itzá. One magical night, she’d been permitted to walk among the monoliths at Stonehenge.

      And yet, there was something special about this place.

      She could feel it. In her bones. In her heart. She would never say such a thing to anyone—she was a scientist, and science scoffed at what people claimed to feel in their bones. Still, there was something special here. About this night. About being here.

      She must have made a little sound. A whisper. An indrawn breath, because Jack Burden leaned toward her.

      “Aren’t you glad I brought you with me?” he said.

      He made it sound like a gift, but it wasn’t. Sienna was months away from her doctorate; she had studied Blackwolf Canyon for two years. She had earned her place on this expedition. She knew everything about the canyon, from the ancients who had settled it, to the Comanche and Sioux warriors who had fought for it, to its mysterious last-known owner, Jesse Blackwolf, though what had become of him was uncertain.

      He, too, had been a warrior. He’d fought in Vietnam a decade before she was born, returned home in what should have been triumph—and virtually disappeared.

      She’d tried to find out what had become of him, telling herself it had to do with her studies, her thesis, but it wasn’t true. The man had captured her imagination. Ridiculous, of course. Cultural anthropologists studied cultures, not individuals. But there was something about Jesse Blackwolf…

      “Here it comes,” one of the grad students yelled. “Just another couple of minutes!”

      Sienna nodded, wrapped her arms around herself and waited.

       Blackwolf Canyon, Montana, 5:34 a.m., one hour before the summer solstice, June 22, 1975

      Jesse Blackwolf’s horse shifted impatiently beneath him.

      “Soon,” Jesse said softly, stroking a calloused hand along the animal’s satiny neck.

      Eyes narrowed, Jesse looked at the jagged peak ahead of him.

      Half an hour, and he could ride out of this place and never look back.

      His ancestors had come here to celebrate their gods. He had come to say goodbye to them. There was no room in his life for nonsense.

      He hadn’t planned on this final visit. What for? A summer solstice was a summer solstice. The earth reached the top of its northernmost tilt and that was that.

      His ancestors had figured it out and they’d venerated the process. They’d made a big thing out of these final minutes that marked the start of the longest stretch of daylight in the year.

      Not him.

      It wasn’t belief in superstition that had brought Jesse here. On the contrary. It was disbelief. Looking at this foolishness as it happened seemed vital. He’d accepted it as a boy but he was a long way from boyhood. He was a man, older and wiser than the first time he’d ridden out to view the solstice.

      The big gray stallion snorted softly. Jesse’s hard, chiseled mouth turned up in what might almost have been a smile.

      “Okay,” he said, “maybe you’re right. Older? Absolutely. Wiser? Who knows.”

      The horse snorted again and tossed his massive head as if to say, What are we doing out here when we both should be sleeping? Jesse couldn’t fault the animal for that. Trouble was that an hour ago, he’d awakened from a fitful sleep, taken Cloud from the warmth of his stall, slipped a bridle over his head and obeyed the sudden impulse to ride out to the canyon and watch the sunrise.

      Damn it, Jesse told himself coldly, be honest!

      He was here by plan, by design, by the need to sever, once and for all, whatever ties remained between him and the old ways.

      Impulse had nothing to do with it.

      He’d known that the solstice was coming. You didn’t have to be part Comanche and Sioux for that. His mother’s Anglo blood was more than sufficient. So were the three wasted years he’d spent at university. The sun reached a certain declination, a certain height and angle in the sky, and twice a year, you had a solstice.

      Solstices were real.

      It was the god myths that were bull.

      The stuff about the renewal of the earth, of the spirit. The nonsense about what it meant to a warrior to be on this very spot at the moment the sun rose behind the jagged peaks of Blackwolf Mountain, shone its light between the two enormous stony slabs on the rocky shelf some forty feet above the ground, then centered on the spiral the Old Ones had etched into the horizontal stone between them.

      The idiocy about how viewing this particular rising sun could change a man’s life forever.

      Jesse gave a bitter laugh.

      His father had believed in all of it, as had his grandfather, his great-grandfather and, most probably, every Blackwolf warrior whose DNA he’d inherited.

      For most of his thirty years, he’d believed in it, too. Not all of it—a twentieth-century man with the better part of a university degree under his belt wasn’t about to buy into mythology.

      What he had believed in was respecting the old ways. Respecting the continuity of tradition. And, yes, he’d even believed in honoring, if only a little, events like the solstices.

      What harm could there be, even if a man knew the scientific reasons for why such things occurred?

      His father had brought him to this place when he was twelve.

      “Soon the sun will rise,” he had said, “and the light of time past and time yet to come will fall on the sacred circle. The vows a man takes at the summer solstice will determine his true path forever. Are you ready to make a vow, my son?”

      At that age, Jesse’s head and heart had brimmed with stories of his warrior ancestors. His father had told those tales to him all his life; his mother—born in the East, to parents who had never met an Indian until they met their new son-in-law—had read them to him from the children’s books she wrote and illustrated.

      And so, of course, Jesse had been ready.

      As soon as the sun began its slow rise into the heavens, he’d tilted his face to its light, arms outstretched, hands open and cupped to receive its gift of brilliance and warmth, and he’d offered himself, everything he was, to the spirit of the warriors who had gone before him.

      His father had smiled with pride. His mother, told of his vow when he and his father rode home, had hugged him. Even as he grew older and slowly began to understand that the old stories were just stories and nothing more, he’d been glad he’d made the vow, glad his father had included him in СКАЧАТЬ