The Roar of the Falls: My Journey with Kaya

Kaya says it’s a coyote. But luckily, it doesn’t come closer, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I’m hopeful when I can hear the sound of the falls nearby, a low, steady roar that means we’re almost home. Finally, I can spot some small orange lights ahead, flickering points in the darkness—the campfires of the village. Panting, we stumble into camp, my legs burning with every step. Kautsa and Eetsa jump when they see us. A tall, older man, Kaya’s grandfather Pi-lah-ka, comes outside the tepee and says he was worried about us.

Gasping for breath, our words tumble out as we explain about the raid, and the injured filly, the story spilling out faster than either of us can properly tell it. Kaya says we need to go back for the injured horse. Pi-lah-ka responds that nobody is going anywhere. It’s dark out, and danger still lingers. We can’t argue with Pi-lah-ka, so Kautsa wraps us in warm buckskin cloaks and feeds us bowls of boiled salmon. Fish isn’t my preference, but it has a delicious smoky flavor, warm and filling after the long night. I eat it all, realizing how hungry I am.

When I set the bowl down, I think of my parents, picturing their faces so clearly it aches. I realize I feel as if I haven’t seen them in a very long time. A wave of longing washes over me, but I know I can’t leave until I know that Kaya’s family and Little Girl are safe.

Later, I lie under a rabbit-skin blanket in the tepee next to Kaya, grateful for its warmth against the cool night air. My belly is full, but my legs and feet ache from the running. Everyone around us sleeps, but I cannot. I can’t stop thinking about Little Girl and wondering if Toe-ta is safe. I stare at the fire until my eyes finally give in to my weariness.

We wake up in the morning to cries from outside the tent, sharp and urgent. A man proclaims that it is morning and everyone is alive! Kaya sits up and we climb out of the tepee. The man is there with a few horses, but not Little Girl.

So Pi-lah-ka, Kaya, and I ride out to where we left Little Girl. I strain to look as we draw near. There is the little patch of grass, but it is empty. We slide from our horses and search every inch of the clearing. But Little Girl is nowhere to be found.

Kaya cries out, her voice cracking with worry. Pi-lah-ka scans the ground and says there’s no broken grass, so no signs of a struggle. Perhaps Little Girl got up and wandered away. We mount our horses again and leave the clearing. My throat aches with the effort of keeping back tears. Kaya swipes at her cheeks.

We are quiet for a minute, both wondering if we should’ve stayed with her. I tell Kaya that Little Girl knew we were doing our best. Before we left, Kaya told her not to be afraid. I can tell Little Girl listened. Kaya squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back.

Then, Pi-lah-ka calls back to us, his voice carrying across the clearing. He has seen something we should see.