Free Charity by Paulette Callen

longed to take even the shift off and run naked across the prairie.
    The rough grass under her bare feet made her feel real and grounded. Her hair was loose and blew around in the breeze. Gustie held her glasses folded up in her hand so nothing would obstruct the wind from her face. For a moment she forgot everything but her sense of freedom. She stood, her head thrown back, face to the sun, and let the wind blow through her.
    She could feel the wind blowing from as far back as the early 1800s, maybe even before—before this earth had been stuck by the plow, before Dorcas’s people had known the scourge of the white man—his diseases, his wrath, his greed. A purer, sweeter wind blew now, she thought, than would ever blow again. She felt it blowing straight into the future and she wondered what, if anything, of herself would be on that wind, except the scent of rushes from her hair. Tiny seeds born in tufts of white cotton filled the air around her as the cottonwoods let loose upon the wind their own hope of the future. Gustie raised her arms, closed her eyes, and began to turn. She could feel the wind billowing her shift, lifting her hair, buffeting her gently from all sides as she turned around and around. She felt light as a seed pod, transparent as a snail’s egg.
    Gustie stopped turning and opened her eyes. She was light headed, and the sun was suddenly so brilliant she thought she was seeing an apparition—the dark figure veiled in a steamy radiance astride a pale horse, poised like a flame on the grass. Gustie covered her eyes with her hand, took a moment to clear her head, then she put on her glasses, and shielding her vision from the direct rays of the sun, looked again. The figure was still there. An Indian woman. The horse, not of fire but very real horseflesh after all, was cream color, almost white. Her long mane blew about and looked like sea-froth. The woman rode without a saddle.
    Gustie remembered her manners. “Can I help you? Dorcas isn’t here.” As she moved in closer to the side of the horse and looked up into the woman’s face, she was met with large black eyes that held her in a studied gaze. The eyes looked out from a face that might have been carved by a consummate, bold hand in love with stone. Sharp cheek bones, high and wide, balanced a strong wide chin and a full, sharply chiseled mouth. Her large nose sloped straight down in line with her wide, sloping forehead. Her black hair was cropped short just above her ears. The woman was young—younger than Gustie, to be sure. When Gustie tore her eyes away from the face and looked down, she found herself level with a dark, sleek expanse of thigh where the woman’s skirt was hiked up and tucked under her allowing her freedom to ride. Her leg was well muscled, relaxed, but ready to meld into the sides of her horse. Gustie barely restrained herself from touching it the way she might have touched a piece of fine sculpture. The young woman said nothing. Just continued to study her.
    “Would you like something to drink? Some water? There’s coffee, I think.”
    The woman unfastened a bag that hung around her waist. Something moved inside it. She handed it down with a strong large hand and Gustie took it from her. Whatever was inside struggled harder. The bag was not heavy.
    The woman said, “I will be back.”
    The horse, responding to a command that Gustie could not discern, edged away from her, turned and trotted off. Gustie stood with a wiggling bag in one hand, her other hand once again shielding her eyes so she could watch the retreating figure. She sure knows how to sit a horse, thought Gustie. Remarkable eyes. Remarkable face. Could have been struck out of stone, it was so perfect, so defined. Gustie looked down and recalled how she was dressed—or, rather, undressed—bare feet, and her hair a mess down her back. She took a deep breath. Well, it can’t be helped.
    She opened the bag a crack and saw brown and white feathers. She released