The Jewelry Maker

            He was hunched over the small display table, unmindful of the world around him. His long, lithe fingers worked meticulously as barely visible beads were laced into pretty earrings, bracelets and necklaces. These would sell for a fraction of the price it cost the tall man with the thin frame to create stunning designs from semi-precious stone.

            His arrow straight black hair revealed centuries of his ancestry in this native land. Outside, the grey sky hung heavy with rain clouds. Momentarily distracted, he stopped to polish stones with a bit of fine grained sand paper and chamois polishing cloth. Dark, nearly perfectly arched brows knitted to form an intense focus on his work.

            Children noisily gathered at various large display cases throughout the museum. Still, he worked without noticing. The history of his people surrounded him in these displays. Their hardships, struggles and near-extinction went unnoticed by museum patrons. In some strange way, sitting at his table surrounded by these reminders of his past, he felt disconnected.

             A woman dressed in jeans and a woolen sweater stopped to watch the jewelry maker at work. She remained at his table for several minutes as if to try and force his attention upon her. He refused.

            Yet, he felt the words from her mind entering his own. How was she able to do this? He wondered. He sensed her question, “Why won’t you look at me?”

            After more than five minutes, he realized there had been whole exchanges of thoughts between them.

            Finally, he looked up to see a tiny frame of a woman. Her dark hair reminded him of the deep color of the earth. Her eyes were large pools, as dark as river silt after a fresh rain storm.

            When finally he looked into her eyes, something from long, long ago rushed forth. It was as if he’d seen her face many times. In his mind, he felt the rush of the strong winds across the plains in her expression. She stood as still as he at his work bench.

            Many people came to Browning to this museum. Each day, patrons passed for hours through the halls and past displays. None ever paid him more than a few seconds attention. Why did this woman? Who was she really? Why did she evoke feelings in him of some long ago memory?

            Browning sat amid Montana’s flat lands with the Great Rocky Mountains off in the distance miles away. The museum was located away from the squalor of the government homes his people were forced to accept for living quarters. All that remained of the history of the great nation of the Piegan and Blackfoot were sealed up in the museum’s display cases.

            Even the displays didn’t tell the whole story of the suffering his ancestors endured at the hands of explorers, settlers and the renegade US Cavalry. The displays were gentled so patrons wouldn’t take offense at the cruel realities of what really occurred less than one hundred and fifty years ago.

            Gazing into the eyes of this woman, he sensed she was reading his thoughts as well as his past:

            You are unhappy, she read.

            Yes. It is true, his thoughts answered.

            A slight smile crossed his lips. He didn’t know why he understood her words. She was not one of his people. She should not be able to do this. He saw a smile on her face.

            You wonder how I know your thoughts? She asked silently.

            A great fear took over his mind. He dared not allow another thought she would read so easily.

            You have trained your mind to speak the language of the ancients. Your people and mine knew this special gift. It will do no good to force the door to your thoughts to close. What is your name? Your real name, she asked silently.

            He felt such fear of responding in this way. The words were already in his mind.

            Your name is “Soaring Eagle.”

            How do you know this?

            The wind surrounds you as if you wish to spread your wings like an eagle.

            Soaring Eagle is my name. That’s true.

            He knew her name nearly from the moment he sensed the strength of the winds she seemed to evoke around her: Wind Dancer. Was she his people’s mythological wind sprite?

            No. I am not named Wind Dancer. I am, like you, unbound by the ties of the world. Your people are as old as mine, though they are from different parts of the world. It’s only by freeing our minds to allow our thoughts to come forth we can speak in this way. I must go now. I wish you peace and happiness all your days.

            The jewelry maker handed her a pair of earrings he had worked on as they exchanged thoughts. They were a deep brown color of her hair and eyes. Tiny droplets of rare smoky quartz mined in Montana. He had saved these gems for a special person.

            He handed the earrings to her. She reached into her purse to pay for them.

            No. I give them to you.

            I cannot accept these beautiful works of art for free.

            You will remember only the jewelry maker who made them.

            She accepted his gift with her eyes wide with gratitude.

            Just as she had come, she was gone. Like the wind upon which he believed she dances.

            The man returned to his work. The sun was setting low in the sky. The museum would close in just a few hours. Soaring Eagle would return to his small ranch style bungalow on the outskirts of Browning. He wondered if he had dreamed of the events of this day.

            Never in the decade of making jewelry for the museum had he met the Wind Dancer of which his people had spoken many times. He searched the perimeter of his work area. She had vanished as if she had been an ancient spirit.

            He bent low again over his work. His heart felt lighter. He didn’t know why. His nimble fingers flew over a sparkling blue sapphire bracelet. Then, he finished a golden sunburst agate pendant. It was as if the wind had taken his fingers. In one hour, several semi-precious stone pieces of sapphire in green, pink and white were ready to be sold.

            Without diverting his attention to his work, he had sold more of his jewelry than he had in the past year. At day’s end, his table was empty. He would spend his evening polishing stones for the next day.

            He ate his evening meal in silence before a warm fire. Outside, a gentle wind reminded him of the woman he met that very day. Never would he forget her elfin face with the large, wide eyes and the gentle expression. Most of all he would never forget the words that flowed between them on the winds of silence.