The pains started up again, and they were saying...something about loss of blood....infection? Another said, “We must continue to watch, feed...invoke the Spirits on his behalf...”
“Why must we do that?” argued another. “After all, he is a Huron lover...”
The sentence stopped him dead and fear seized his insides. At first, he thought he had misheard it, but the more he listened, the more certain he became. They were Iroquois...the most ruthless and detested of all!
He’d known a few Iroquois prisoners—the child Shanata; the turncoat Iroquois trader Tehane, from whom he had learned some of the language. But this was his first contact with the community. A memory stirred...a story he had once heard of a captive, healed by the Iroquois, only to succumb to their fiendish brand of brutality. It seemed the unfortunate victim, having been tortured and unspeakably defiled, was then burned at the stake, his entrails gorged upon by his tormentors.
Nicholas could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand. Was he to become fodder for their peculiar appetites and terrifying brand of amusement?
No one would be the wiser. Had they found Benoit’s body, he too, would be presumed dead, or possibly drowned. He had to face the truth. They had likely given up hope of finding him alive. With what he now suspected, they were soon to be right!
He was miserably tired, the pain momentarily abated, but it was all but impossible to relax, though he reasoned, he must. He wouldn’t make a mile in a week with only one good leg. He needed all of his strength to make a break. If their intention were to fatten him for slaughter, there would be time enough for planning...
When next he opened his eyes, in this windowless abode, smoke rising to the roof, the women had left him, all, that is, save one.
She bent over him now, dampening his face with a clump of moss. He hadn’t seen as much of her in his previous semi-wakefulness, but something in her quiet demeanour and careful ministrations made her seem more compassionate than the others.
Seeing her in the dying firelight, she appeared fair of feature, very beautiful in fact, though not much younger than he, with her long, black hair pulled into severe plaits. She never looked directly, immersed as she was in the task, but he, partly out of need to assuage the pain, focused on her sensitive expression, allowing himself a moment to withdraw his defence and be comforted by her lissom touch.
Hampered in her ministrations, she was forced to lean over him. He felt the soft pressure of her breasts through the skin robe, the erect nipples grazing innocently against his belly as she redressed the wound, her faintly sweet aroma, brushing past his nostrils with each sweep of movement. Despite his condition, he felt himself responding to her womanliness, to the point of distracting his mind from her, lest his body betray the arousal.
He had been close to many women over the years, but none had so immediately moved him to attraction and he was at a loss to explain it.
She lifted her hand to wipe a stray hair from her forehead. He caught sight of something that had previously not been felt. The skin on both her arms and hands were badly scarred—worse, the first, three fingers on her right hand, were rigidly melded into a grotesque claw. The shock was palpable; his immediate revulsion raised to a pitiable gnawing at his insides, not only for the incongruent ugliness on a woman of such beauty, but in her ability to adapt to it, to the point he had been fooled by her deft sense of touch.
Despite the throbbing pain, and his initial scepticism regarding his captors, a wave of pity overtook him, charging his mind with the obvious question. What disaster could have resulted in such disfigurement? Was it accidental? Had she been deliberately set upon? He somehow wished he had been there to comfort her, as she had for him…
Completing her task, she tucked the deerskin cover around his naked shoulders, and stared down at him for some seconds, unaware of his wakefulness.
He waited for her to move. From the corner of his eye, he saw her reach for his uniform, draped over one of the wooden supports. To his amazement, she began to run her damaged hand the length of the material, tracing the buttons, sleeves, over the cuffs; her expression, like one intent upon reviving a memory.
A tear glistened on her cheek, then another, and another, spilling out in mute eruption from the darkness of her eyes.
She was an enigma. What did it all mean? Was she merely fascinated by the clothing or did it hold a deeper meaning?
He wanted to give some consolation, but she left his sight. A shooting pain put a temporary halt to further thought. He closed his eyes, waiting for it to subside. When he reopened, she had returned and knelt on the floor before him, uniform on her lap...something shiny in her good hand.
Her tears were drying, but a silent fury simmered behind the swollen eyes. Before he had time to identify the item and register a reaction, he witnessed a most bizarre event. Laying the garment upon the earthen floor, and bending over it on all fours, without uttering a sound save the laboured breath of her effort, she began to slash and tear at the item, venting her passion upon it like the wearer were still within, obliterating its appearance until it was rendered nothing more than a pile of blue shreds.
The horrifying brutality finally spent, scarcely able to stand from the exhaustion of her effort, she brought the tangible remnants of his past, to the fire. With the ritual of a high priestess making an offering to the gods, she slowly fed the flames, He winced as the last of the threads twisted into charred nothingness, carrying with it a private meaning and the knowledge that the violation of his identity was made complete.
His fear and disgust were matched by feelings of self-approbation at having initially allowed himself to become emotionally affected by this woman, to feel truly sorry for her physical malady and mental suffering. She had given every indication of gentleness and consideration in her dealings with him. Now he was left with the truth of her unstable and violent nature.
Were these people mad? Had he merely witnessed a ritualistic destruction of items commonly carried out captives? The fact that she had perpetrated the act alone, caused him to believe it had a more direct, personal bearing, but of what, he could not say...
Whatever the reason, he did not want this woman to touch him, but he was powerless and in their control. His mind coursed with danger and expectancy.
If they intended to heal him for the sacrifice, he would feign sleep, listen and plan. When the time was right, he would find the opportunity to break free. But try as he might, he knew he would be forever haunted by the strange enactment of a scarred and tragic woman.
Chapter 15
Shanata gestured to her mother in childlike delight, staring out the coach window, as the vehicle jostled along the broad promenade leading to the impressive estate.
The gates were arrow straight, flanked by shrubbery, extensive gardens and Folly’s, no less beautiful, but much more elaborate than the de Béarnais grounds.
To the fore, stood the chateau, austere and very grand, built in the older style, with ancient stone works, turrets, and fortifications, in place of large windows, gargoyles and flourishes of the present age.
Drawing near to the coach house, the ladies were shockingly amused to find the Duc, having taken the unprecedented step, of awaiting them on the drive, resplendent in a silver thread brocade frock coat and trousers with powdered white wig, lending him an air of distinguished statesman, or at very least, a wealthy aristocrat. Judging from the night of the ball, Louise knew it was not his usual comport, and privately applauded his sartorial efforts, knowing there was discomfort in the bearing.
Smiling warmly, he offered his hand as they alit the carriage, wearing an expression, which betrayed a hint of nervousness, though obviously more at ease in his own surroundings.
“My sincere welcome, Madame and Mademoiselle,” he said, adding with humour, “I am pleased to see you survived the journey. If you would be so kind as to step this way, I shall reacquaint you with my humble abode, and see to your comfort.”
With that, the he
avy oak doors were noisily drawn into a cavernous vestibule, stretching skyward to ceilings ribbed in wooden beams and down a hallway upon flagstone floors, smooth with the weight of countless footsteps. Shanata stared at the illuminated walls along the corridor, aglow with relics, shields, and swords, where ancient tapestries hung alongside contemporary portraits, and a series of small, stained glass windows of biblical reference blazed patterns of colour across them.
“I trust you will find your stay most accommodating,” he said, uneasily, mistaking the quiet of his guests for disenchantment.
“...Perhaps, you are tired from your travels...One of my maids will escort you to your rooms...Or would you like...wine...brandy? Something else you may prefer?”
He seemed eager to please, unused to the advent of guests into his insular world.
“I’m certain we shall find our stay, more than agreeable, Monsieur. At present, we require nothing more than your charming company.” Louise responded, in an effort to allay him.
Surrounded by finery for much of her life, Louise was jaded by ornamentation, but what she found exceeded previous recall, and astonished even her.
Priceless engravings, hand-painted Chinese porcelain, gold chalices studded with emeralds and rubies, graced expensive furniture of different periods, alongside medieval weaponry, armour, bookshelves piled high with nameless editions and an enormous desk of black oak upon which lay, a number of natural specimens.
Toward the back wall, she spied an alcove, which housed a small shrine, where a plain marble statue of the holy mother stood upon a pedestal. Nearby, tables held religious curiosities including icons, wooden carvings of intricately inlaid ivory and jewels.
The whole was an incongruous mix that Louise could not recall having previously seen, a luxuriant blend of masculine and feminine elements, as intriguing as it was strange. Shanata was more impressed with the interesting array of items than in their extensive value.
“I apologize for the arrangement of the furniture. This is my refuge, where I spend much of my time in private...reflection. Of course, there is the chapel in the far wing where I attend daily mass, but...”
He paused, his words in measured tones, laden with remembrance, and gestured to the alcove, and said simply,
“This was my mother’s shrine.”
A dolorous pain etched across his face, and quickly passed.
“She loved this room very much, and I have kept it, just as it was when she was alive... As you will recall, Duchesse, my parents were deeply religious, and although it was some time before I found God, I have since...”
“Your home is very beautiful, Monsieur... Even lovelier than I remembered!” Louise interjected, guiltily, not wishing to hear the ramblings of the devout—a now-confirmed fact, nearly as disappointing as his dissipated reputation. Belief in the beneficence of a supreme being had long since faded from her. Whatever goodness had befallen her had been attributed to fate or circumstance; divine intervention having floundered into nothingness on the death of her beloved Armand. Shanata had not been baptized in the church, nor to her knowledge, set foot in one, despite the presence of the private chapel on their estate; closed and overgrown with vines, long reduced to neglect. Even the estate workers attended service in the village.
To call upon a God who would not listen; what purpose did it serve? Had this ‘heathen’ child, with her kindly gestures and warm ways, not shown more “Christian” acts, than any of her churchgoing accusers?
She glanced at Shanata, glowing with dark-eyed wonder at her fascinating surroundings, and the strange man who had allowed them into his private world. He seemed to like her very much.
She supposed he had long ago heard the rumours relating to Shanata’s “savage” origins, and was pleased to see it did not matter. Perhaps, he was a better man than she thought...
Though Louise could see that he was struggling, quite successfully, to play the part of friendly host, she noticed his attention drawn primarily to Shanata, as he outlined the history of his house, and all of his possessions as though the inventory were a selling feature on a proposal of friendship, an offer Louise found understandable, given his many years of solitude.
She pictured him amongst his antiquated articles, in study or in prayer, slipping in and out of honeycombed rooms, busying himself with unshared pursuits, while surrounded by servants who neither truly knew, nor cared for him.
He attempted to mask it, but as the day passed, whether shadowing Shanata on their travels in or out-of-doors, or bending across the long, richly appointed dinner table, to impart an anecdote, the glow in his pale eyes was enough to show that he looked at her daughter, as a man attracted to a woman, and she had unsettled feelings about it.
In many ways, he was a good catch; young, wealthy, well learned, though not conventionally handsome, pleasant in appearance. On the adverse side, he was quiet, if not brooding, introspective, and it was said in circles privy, prone to heavy drinking. Could it be he had renounced his former vice for religious fervour? Which was worse?
By the end of the visit, Louise was aware of a decided change in her daughter, and when, in the silence of their carriage ride home, Shanata was struck by an dissilient need to discuss every aspect of their stay in minute detail; expounding on the friendly hospitality and scholarly ways of their host for the umpteenth time; each, with obvious admiration and scarcely hidden affection, Louise was forced to acknowledge for the first time in her young life, that Shanata was smitten.
……….
Little more than days had passed, when Shanata was again invited to his estate, this time for a ride, to which Louise declined to attend. When it became clear to her mother that she might return with an announcement of impending nuptials, she at last, decided the time had come to express her concern.
“Duc de Lorraine seems to be a kindly gentleman,” she began, matter-of-factly as her maid and chaperone, assisted Shanata in packing for the brief stay.
“Oh, yes Maman, is he not?” Shanata replied, brightly, donning a Fissue over her gown of petal pink Grisette, in striking contrast to her midnight tresses. “He is a most kind and gracious host, and I do so enjoy his company. He has committed his life to such careful study! Do you know he has tagged and catalogued hundreds of plants and insects on his estate? He plans to show me his collection during my stay. Imagine!”
Louise asked the maid to leave, and sat on the edge of Shanata’s bed.
“My darling, you have not known many men in your young life, and there are things that...have the power to harm you...that you do not understand…”
“...Oh, but I do!” she quickly interjected. “I know that I have learned a great deal, through talking with him ... Nature, history, art...I know that I like to be with him. He makes me feel...well, like you...a lady.”
“But, you must remember, my darling, the Duc is unknown to us beyond that of a dinner companion. He may not...share our ways”.
Shanata looked puzzled, uncertain of her mother’s point.
“What could be wrong with him?” She asked, with a slight frown. “Has he not shown himself to be a gentleman...a man of honour?”
Exasperated, Louise reiterated the rumours of his drunkenness, solitary peculiarities and finally, his religious devotion; the latter which she briefly expounded.
“You observed the shrine, and have been informed of its use...and still you say he is intelligent. How could an intelligent man adhere to such a myth?”
Shanata did not answer, but sat on the other edge of her bed, staring pensively out the window; her ebon hair and titian complexion in profile; a totem of her people.
“Maman, have you ever asked yourself how we came to be?”
“I don’t engage my mind in nonsense’” she vent, more disparaging then was her intent. “
Louise watched in bafflement, as her daughter’s eyes took on an almost eerie aspect.
“Since I was a little girl, I’ve had a strange dream; a dream about which I feared telling.”
She raised a hand unconsciously to her throat, fingering the top of the necklace, which dipped from sight down her décolletage. She had long outgrown the original coarse hemp and deerskin lace. It was now stored in a drawer. But the carved deer now hung from a gold chain and never left her person. Shanata merely regarded it as much a part of her as hair and teeth; its significance lost in the mists of time.
She continued in a hesitant voice above a whisper,
“It is always the same. In the dream, the earth is covered in deep water and I am in the middle of it, surrounded by great monsters. All at once the air is filled with gigantic birds and their song calms me. I looked into the sky and I see a beautiful woman, falling through them from above.
“The birds gather with me below to decide on how to save this beautiful woman. They entwined their wings, and break her fall slightly, but when the monsters see that she is continuing to fall into the water, the birds must decide who will protect her from the terrors of the deep.
“Of all the creatures, only the giant tortoise offers to take her on its back, and to stay there, protected, forever. The tortoise becomes bigger and bigger until it turns into a large island. The woman has twin boys; one is the Spirit of good, who causes all good food to grow; and the other, of evil, he creates weeds and vermin. Something called the Skyholder appears. He says that from the beautiful woman, a special people will be born, who will surpass all other, in beauty, strength and bravery. There will be six pairs of people-destined to become the greatest of them all. The first pair is left near a great river...they are called Mohawk.”
Louise gasped, and turned to where her expression would remain, undetected.
Shanata failed to notice her mother’s reaction, and continued,
“In the dream, they are shown many useful arts...and the families are named after animals, each according to where a certain animal is hunted...mine is the deer.”
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