Despite the warm summer night, a shiver ran down my arms as I stared into the young Indian's face. The disgust in his eyes made me flinch. The right corner of his mouth was turned down and his right eye was narrower than the other, giving him a sneaky look.
I tried to wriggle my arm out of his grip, but he was far too strong and only held me tighter when he felt my resistance.
"Let go of me," I yelled, hoping the yelling would alert the other villagers.
He made a gruff noise and shook my arm roughly, my teeth chattering. I opened my mouth to scream, but he clamped his free hand firmly over my mouth and nose. I couldn't breathe anymore. Did he want to kill me?
My mind went into panic mode. I remembered a self-defense lesson we were given in gym class. At the time I thought I would never have to use something like this...
Gathering momentum, I slammed my heel down hard on his moccasin-clad toes. Too bad I wasn't wearing heels. But that also worked. He probably didn't expect me to put up a fight.
The hand on my mouth loosened, allowing me to breathe again. I pulled my knee up to punch his crotch. But he was faster than I would have thought. As soon as he recovered from his initial surprise, he dodged my knee, so I just hit his thigh. The corners of his mouth twitched a little, but anger flared in his eyes now.
Oh oh.
He pushed me backwards with such momentum that I staggered and fell. I landed backwards on the floor with a hard thump. The air was pressed out of my lungs and everything became blurry for a moment. When my vision cleared, he was standing over me, legs apart.
A call sounded. At first I thought he'd uttered it, but he turned his head, looking around for the new voice.
I looked to the side and my heart galloped away. There stood Ohitika.
He was apparently talking to the guy who pushed me. Ohitika seemed perfectly calm while the other made angry-sounding replies. I didn't know what to think when Ohitika finally walked towards us with measured steps. The attacker moved a little away from me. He was clearly afraid of Ohitika, even if he tried to cover it up with his hateful expression. When Ohitika was only an arm's length away from him, he hissed something and then turned on his heel. In the next moment he was gone in the dark undergrowth.
I was left alone with Ohitika. He turned his back on me. I was still breathing heavily from fear and exertion and didn't dare sit up. He had every reason to be angry with me. After all, I had escaped. Maybe he had the right to punish me because I lived in his tent... Who did I know about the customs of these people?
Very slowly he turned to me and looked down at me. I couldn't read his expression in the dark. I waited for him to say something, scold me, or at least help me up. But he did nothing of the sort. Instead, he just walked past me, in the opposite direction of the other Indian, and didn't bother to look at me again.
Would he just leave me here? Didn't he want me with him anymore? That was good! I could just jump up and continue my escape. But I was beginning to realize that it was pretty foolish to leave in such a hurry. I had no idea how to survive in the wilderness.

I suddenly got scared at the thought of being alone in the woods, running into the guy's arms again. So I struggled to get to my feet and run after Ohitika. As I walked, I brushed the dirt from my dress. Oh dear, now I had made it dirty after all. What would Wihinapa say?
He ran through the forest so quickly and with practiced steps that his feet hardly made a sound. Sometimes I feared he would disappear into the shadows in front of me, and I hurried even more. I probably sounded to him like a raging wild boar bursting through the undergrowth.
Shortly thereafter, the village reappeared in front of us. I was almost relieved and shook my head at myself. So here I was, a prisoner voluntarily running after her guard without shackles. But...he finally saved me. And not for the first time.
In the tipi, Wihinapa was awake and crouched in front of the fireplace. She had made a small fire to see something. The glow of the flames was reflected in her large eyes. When she saw me, she jumped up and ran past Ohitika towards me. She grabbed my shoulders and talked like a waterfall. But she didn't seem angry. Rather relieved. My bad conscience hit me again.
Ohitika didn't say anything, nor did he look at me. He just ignored me. And that disregard hurt me more than I wanted to admit. As Wihinapa continued to whisper to me, he lay down on his bed near the entrance and turned his back on us. I, on the other hand, couldn't fall asleep for a long time.

I'd been in the village for three days now, and I figured I'd better plan my next escape—if I tried again. I decided to look around here for a while, get to know the area and maybe learn more about how to get to a city. So I kept my head down and tried to do whatever was expected of me. Because I knew, even if he wasn't obviously doing it, that Ohitika was keeping a close eye on me. He had stayed in the village for the past few days, still withdrawn from me, suspicious—how could I blame him?
The creepy guy who intercepted me in the woods had crossed my path a few times in the village. Each time I'd felt his scornful look and tried to ignore him. One day I asked Wihinapa what his name was. With words and gestures we could understand each other halfway.
"Thokala-gleschka," she said softly, scowling.
I would have liked to know more about him.
Wihinapa generally tried to make my life as easy as possible, and I was grateful to her for that. She made an effort to teach me her language whenever she had the opportunity. At least a few words I could now sometimes pick out from the conversations around me. In particular, the word for white people, vashichu, came up a lot when I was around...
Because I got up in the morning with the sun and was busy all day absorbing everything new around me, I was so tired in the evenings that I hardly had time to long for my family and friends. Would I ever see her again? Of course — I haven't given up hope yet!
On the third night I sat in the tipi with Wihinapa. The tent entrance was thrown back far to allow the gentle breeze that had picked up after a day of sweltering heat to get inside. I watched her adoringly as she embroidered a piece of leather with dyed porcupine quills in the last light of day. She was so skilled at it! I myself had never been enthusiastic about manual work and hoped that I would not have to learn it.


"Where are your parents?" I asked Wihinapa in English. Sometimes we talked like this, I in English, she in Lakota. We both had no idea what the other was saying, but it took away the loneliness a little. " Are you here in the village?" Maybe they died?
"Wawichak-upi Ohitika," she replied with a nod to her embroidery work and wet the nearest porcupine quill in her mouth to make them more flexible.
"This is for Ohitika?" I said, nodding. "Very nice." It looked like the pattern for new moccasins.
As if summoned by his name, Ohitika slipped into the tent—almost silently, as always. I winced. Not because his presence always made me a little nervous. I couldn't exactly say why.
Wihinapa quickly folded her piece of leather before he saw it. So it really should be a gift. With that she retreated to the back of the tent. I wanted to come with her, but a gesture from Ohitika stopped me.
"Ena," he said in a commanding voice, and then something else, from which I could only make out "Tatanka Wakon," the name of the old man who spoke some English.
He went out of the tent again and I followed him through the village to the teepee, which was painted with strange characters and hung with objects. Inside I actually found Tatanka Wakon and his wife who had looked after me so nicely. She gave me a smile from behind that revealed a gap in my teeth.
"Tatanka Wakon invite Malie to his fire," said the old man sitting by the cold hearth, leaning on a tripod. I had come to believe he was something like the village shaman, a medicine man Herbs in here, the scent was invigorating.
I thanked him kindly, accepted his request and waited anxiously to see what was to come. Ohitika sat cross-legged across from me. My eyes widened slightly as Tatanka Wakon pulled my backpack towards him and pulled out the book that had caused me so much trouble already.
He opened it, put the book on my lap — upside down — and nodded encouragingly. His gnarled index finger rested on one of the words.
"Oh... you want me to read that?" I asked indecisively.
"Tatanka Wakon does not know the secret language of Vashichu. Malie can?"
I took the book and turned it over so I could see what he was pointing at. "It means flute."
His small black eyes, lined with wrinkles, glittered—perhaps amazed, perhaps amused?
When he said nothing but continued to wait, I just started reading. I worked my way through the paragraph that explained how young Sioux men played flutes at night to charm the girl in their hearts. These flutes are said to have magical powers that the beloved could not resist. In fact, I had already heard the soft, melancholic music of flutes in the distance in the evening and thought it was a dream, the distorted sounds sounded so surreal. I looked up again and met Ohitika's piercing gaze. He had listened to me carefully.
Damn it, why was I blushing again? Surely he hadn't understood any of it. I quickly bent over the book and pretended to look for my spot.
"These leaves talk to you," said Tatanka Wakon in awe. "Tell stories. Secrets of the Lakota."
"Yes." I nodded. "But they're just words. I can teach you how to read them. Then they won't be secrets."
Tatanka Wakon nodded slowly. “Ohitika will learn. I've seen too many winters. My eyes..." He searched for the right word.
"You're bad?" I asked.
He confirmed. "But not Ohitika."
"But," I objected. "I can't teach him to read if we can't even understand each other."
"Help Tatanka Wakon."
Ohitika had been listening seriously the whole time and now nodded when Tatanka Wakon addressed him directly.
So that's how it would work. Tatanka Wakon would act as our interpreter until I could speak better Lakota or better Ohitika English.
"Why don't you teach him English?" I asked the old medicine man.
He shook his head. "English very . . . bad," he said, grinning as he remembered the word I'd just said to him.
I could have mentioned that white people also had different languages ​​and that English wasn't my first language - but I didn't. Because I kind of liked the prospect of spending more time with Ohitika...