Trisha watched Jon's approach from a canopied stall a quarter of the way around the ring. For a second, she thought she saw someone stepping out of the mists of the past into the present. Jon's native dress looked very different from the others, except for the two younger boys who had been standing next to him under the canopy. All three had headpieces that appeared to be made from animal skins. The two younger boys, identical in dress to Jon, followed him like a duet of ducklings. She smiled at the image. The crusading picture of Jon in the cafeteria seemed a far cry to the gentle warrior who approached.

"Wow, now that's gorgeous," Nita whispered, and Trisha heard her gasp.

Luckily, Trisha didn't have to answer. The drums had stopped. The flute music had ceased, and Jon's smile brought a new kind of music to her heart.

Jon stepped directly in front of them. "What are you two doing here?"

"Oh, we just came to pick up some things for Trisha and thought we'd check out the powwow," Nita answered.

"I see."

From the tone in his voice, Trisha had a feeling he knew exactly why they were here. "And you?" she asked.

"Competing. We did the first round earlier. I enter several dance competitions each year."

"Your costume is different. Except for those two boys with you, I haven't seen anyone else wearing animal skins."

Jon glanced down at his outfit. "Lakota."

"Lakota?"

"Yeah, that's my tribe. The others are representing Plains Indians and their dress is more buckskin and cloth. This is the traditional dress of the Lakota tribe."

"You look absolutely marvelous all dressed up like that," Nita said, her approval dripping like honey from a bear's mouth. "Mind if I touch your skins?"

Jon took a giant two-step over the first stand and wedged himself between the two of them. "I've got some time before I go on. Why don't I explain the next couple of dances."

If Nita would have sat any closer to Jon, she would have been smack dab in the center of his lap. They watched as the ring filled with women dressed in cloth and buckskin. One young woman stood in the center, quietly waiting. Trisha noticed she was the only one dressed in white buckskin and wearing a sash with lettering. "Who is she?"

"She's the Intertribal Princess. Every year the Intertribal Council elects a Princess to represent them at formal functions, including powwows. This is her final event and the new Princess will take over at the end of the day."

Trisha stared as the young woman stepped to the music, her long shawl swinging like a pendulum, back and forth, back and forth, in time to the beat of the drums. "She's very beautiful."

"Do you know anything about the dance they're doing?" Jon asked.

"No."

"The Shawl Dance is only performed by the women of the tribes. It's very controlled and takes years of practice to perfect." Jon leaned in toward Trisha and pointed out an older woman at the far side of the ring. "Watch her steps. How precise they are. She and the shawl are one and move on the beat of the drum."

"None of them are smiling, why?" Nita asked, leaning closer toward Jon.

"That's the traditional way of cloth dancers. They perform an honored dance, one that demands a dignified facial expression and body language."

Trisha watched, mesmerized by the swing of the shawl, each step taking the shawl higher and higher. Then, suddenly and as if on cue, the drums ceased, the footsteps stopped and the shawl fell silent. No one missed a beat. Trisha let out a small gasp. "How did they know?"

"Practice, practice, practice," Jon answered.

Nita pulled on Jon's arm and pointed to a woman dressed in a fiery orange cloth dress loaded with bells. "What about her?"

Jon smiled. "She's wearing a jingle dress. The dress itself creates music. When she dances, she must move exactly in time with the rhythm of the drums and when the music ends, she must stop at the exact moment of the last drumbeat."

"Wow. What else can you tell us about these dancers?"

"Over there are the grass dancers. When they move, their bodies and their clothing are supposed to flow just like the wind blowing through tall prairie grass. And, of course, there are the hoop dancers. I'm sure you've seen them."

"I never knew there was so much to the dancing," Trisha said, fascinated with the graceful movement of the dancers and their shawls, still swinging to the drumbeats. "Have you spent a lot of time at this?"

"I lived on a reservation up in the Dakotas with my mother."

"Your father--"

"He's a geologist and an environmental engineer. He left the reservation when he graduated from college. My mother remained with my grandmother, and so did I."

"But now?"

"My mother and grandmother are both gone; my father remarried and now I live with him."

The conversation fell silent as they continued to watch the dancing. Colorful and twirling Hopi Dancers, barefoot Fancy Dancers, and urban natives all melded into one kaleidoscope of color and motion. A cool wind chased through the bleachers and swept across the grassy dance floor. Trisha glanced up at the sky; dark clouds tumbled across the sky like dirty cotton balls.

"Looks like we're about to have some rain," Jon said. "I'm not up for any more competition until much later. How about some Indian fry bread, and maybe a wander through the tent?"

Nita rose quickly and grabbed Jon's hand. Trisha tried to hide a smile at Nita's show of possession and watched her half-pull Jon to the food vendor. Jon ordered three pieces of Indian bread and three ears of roasted corn. Trisha's mouth watered even before she took the first bite. Armed with a couple of colas, the trio wandered into the tent where they were met by an oppressive, sweltering heat. Beads of sweat ran down Trisha's neck. She instinctively pulled a banana clip from her purse and swept her hair up off her neck.

"Lawd, it's way too hot," Nita complained as they pushed their way down one of the aisles. Jon remained in between them both, but Nita still held claim to his hand. Every minute or two, Nita would stop and finger the bold silver earrings, the fragile silvered dream catchers, the carved Zuni fetishes. Each time, Jon would patiently nod and explain the meaning of a symbol; the legend attached to a design, the purpose of a carving.

Trisha fell behind as she stopped to examine a row of Hopi Kachinas. One in particular caught her attention, and she played her fingers down the deeply carved shape, tracing the design of a bundle of corn etched into a squared mask. Her hand moved to another, a painted black and red clown, then another. She admired the detail and wondered how long someone had spent carving these ancient gods. As her attention left the Kachinas, she heard the sound of the flute again. Turning slightly, she followed the sound of flute notes to a stall where an older man, dressed in buckskin pants and shirt, beaded moccasins and wearing a single black threaded dream catcher in his ear, sat on a wooden stool and played a wooden flute. Trisha stood off to the side and pretended to search among the discs of Native American music, all the while listening, captivated by the sweet melodies. A line of wooden flutes lay on the table in front of her.

"Ever played?"

Startled, Trisha turned and found Jon holding a flute. She'd been so mesmerized by the music she hadn't even noticed him pulling one of the flutes from the table. "No, not at all. You?"

"Some--when I lived on the reservation I used to go off into one canyon in particular and practice." That said, Jon lifted the flute to his lips and trilled out a couple of notes.

The flute player stopped his own playing and smiled. "It would seem at least one of you is familiar with the flute. You know Carlos Nakai, then?" he asked Jon.

"Some."

"And you," the flute player said to Trisha. "You're aware of the custom of the flute playing?"

Trisha looked at both of them, then shook her head and smiled. "No, but the music is beautiful."

"Long ago the flutes were used as a courting instrument. Young men would sit outside the tipi of their loved one and play one love song after another in an attempt to win her heart." The old man tipped his flute toward Jon. "You are looking for a good flute, perhaps? One that sings from the heart?"

Jon accepted the flute the old man gave him and put it to his lips. Fingering the flute, he played a delicate and pure melody that wrapped itself around the chambers of Trisha's heart and she felt herself stop breathing. The sweltering heat of the tent only intensified the moment. The smell of burning sage tickled her nose, the parade of people pressed past, the ringing of conch bells ran counterpoint with the flute. Trisha had never heard anything so beautiful as the song Jon played on the old man's flute. When he had finished he offered the flute back to the old man, but, with tears in his eyes, the man refused, saying, "No, no, she's yours. She's never played so sweetly for me. You must take her and name her and she will be yours forever."

Jon nodded, his dark eyes shining. "Thank you," he said, his voice soft as the prairie wind blowing over the fields. "I will listen for the name and treat her with the honor she deserves." With that said, he placed the flute inside a leather pouch at his side.

The old man smiled and nodded gently toward Trisha. "You have a captive audience already."

Jon waited a beat, then smiled and spoke quietly. "One I fully intend to use."