When he was finished, he set it in the new room in the patch of sunlight from the new window. He did not stop there. The protective joyful energy consumed him. He carved small, simple toys. His mind filled with the image of a small hand reaching.
He carved a deer, its head high in memory of her dream. He carved a small, smooth bird. He carved a rough solid horse just like Sully. He lined them up on the windowsill, a small, silent herd waiting. As her time grew near, their roles reversed.
She, who had learned his world, now began to teach him hers. In the evenings, she would hum the low, melodic songs of her people. "You must learn," she told him, her hand on her belly. "The baby, it knows my voice. It must know yours."
"I can't sing, tie in," he said. his voice rough. "You can," she insisted. She began a song, a simple repetitive chant. It was a lullaby, she explained to soo the child. It spoke of the wind in the pines, of the hawk on the wing, of the safety of the fire.
He tried. His voice was a low, tuneless rumble, butchering the soft Apache words. She laughed, the soundlight, and made him try again and again. He sat beside her, his head bent, and he learned. He learned the songs of a people he had once been paid to fight so that he could sing his own child to sleep.
The old primer lay on the table, unused for a time. One night, Tyen picked it up. She had learned to read the simple words, "Dog, run, house, fire." But now she pointed to the one that had puzzled her. L O V E.
"I know this word," she said, tracing the letters. It is the warm. It is what stays. She looked up at him, her dark eyes serious. But it is more now.
He took the book from her. He did not need it. He took her hand and placed it on her belly where the child was moving. a small strong kick. "This," he said, his voice thick. He then put her hand on his own heart, which hammered steadily beneath her palm.
"And this," he pointed to the cradle, to the small carved deer, to the new walls of the room he had built. "That," he said, "is love. It is not just a word. It's the It's the work." She looked at the cradle, at his hands, at her own belly.
She finally understood. It was not a feeling. It was a thing. A solid thing you could build and fight for and hold. She nodded.
A slow, deep understanding. "The work," she repeated. Yes, they had to go to town. The baby was coming and they needed flour, salt, and more than anything, cloth. Soft cloth.