by Shawnee Moon
“I don’t mean to blame ye. It’s just that I keep thinkin’ about my grandfather and Cailin. Cailin would fault us for leaving Grandfather behind.”
“Your sister didn’t have to listen to a hungry baby cry, did she? She didn’t sleep in caves without a fire or go days without a crust of bread.” He took hold of Jeanne’s shoulders and pulled her against him. “I do what I must, woman, to save the three of us.”
“But Cailin—”
“I want to hear nothin’ more about your sister. She’s gone, God rest her soul. Hanged at Edinburgh Castle.”
Jeanne began to weep quietly.
“Dinna ...” Duncan begged her. “Do ye think I want to hurt ye more than you’ve been hurt already? But ye must face the truth. What we’re doin’ is for wee Jamie. He’ll have a new start in Canada. No one there will know or care what side I fought on at Culloden Moor.”
“Cailin may be dead but Grandfather ... ’Twas nay right to just leave him standing by the road last summer. And there’s still Corey, waitin’ somewhere for us to come and fetch him. He’s just a wee boy.”
“Your grandfather was old and blind. His time was past. He knew it. He urged us to go on without him—didn’t he? If we’d brought him with us to Skye, do ye think any man would take his indenture? We’ve no money to pay our own passage, let alone his.”
“Cailin promised Corey she’d come for him. We should have tried to find him.”
“I’m as sorry as sorry can be for Johnnie MacLeod’s boy, but your sister made the promise—not you. Corey MacLeod’s not our responsibility. He should go to the MacLeods for charity. He’s their blood. Johnnie was naught to you but a stepfather.”
Tears slid down her cheeks. “I ... I don’t want to ... go ... over the ocean ... to a strange land full of savages,” she sobbed.
Duncan swore under his breath. “We’ve gone over and over this. Would ye rather see me hanged for treason and our son with his brains dashed out on some rock?”
“No! No!” she cried. “I just—”
“You’ll just pray for the old man’s soul, and for the lad, and you’ll take ship with me for the Colonies. ’Tis Jamie’s future we must think of now. And the only chance for us is Canada.”
A week later and thousands of miles west across the Atlantic in the Maryland Colony, Jeanne’s sister, Cailin, stood thigh-deep in the river watching the laborers shingle the roof of a new log house. Nathan cut each cedar shake by hand, and Joe bundled them up and carried them to the ladder, so that Sterling and the free Negro, Isaac Walker, could nail them in place. They would have been finished by now, Sterling had told her, if the other two workers hadn’t gotten scared and sneaked away in the night.
“Injuns is bad out this way,” Isaac had said when it was discovered that the hired hands had fled. Isaac had rubbed his bald head and looked pointedly at Joe. “’Course I don’t got to worry like some about being scalped.” Joe’s hair was long and corn-silk white in color. “I hear tell yellow scalps bring top money in Canada.”
Sterling had quickly put an end to the teasing. “Enough of that talk,” he said sternly. “We’ve not seen a single Indian, peaceful or hostile. I hired the lot of you to finish the job. By running off, those two have forfeited their wages.”
Cailin bent over and let the clean river water wash the suds from her hair. The temperature was cool, but not uncomfortably so, and Sterling had brought her a plant he called soapwort and showed her how to pound the roots to make shampoo.
She had been familiar with herbs and flowers that grew in the Highlands, and had often used them for medicinal purposes. Sterling knew of dozens here in the Colonies that she’d never heard of. “My mother knew of hundreds of useful wild plants,” he’d said. “Many are women’s medicine, and others I never bothered to learn. There are no apothecaries in the woods. I’d match a Shawnee shaman against a European trained physician any day. The Shawnee, and especially their cousins, the Delaware, can cure more wounds with roots and herbs than most English surgeons can with scapels and bone saws.”
Cailin looked back at the cabin with pride. It was small, only one room and a hall downstairs, and one long room on the second floor, but there were real steps and bull’s-eye glass in the windows. A stone chimney covered most of the north end. There was a huge fireplace downstairs and a smaller one upstairs. The peak was steep, the walls log, and the roof neat cedar shakes.
The floors were made of wide pine boards, sawed in Annapolis and hauled there at great expense along with a walnut table, four straight-back chairs, a six-board chest, and a bedstead. A few basic cooking pots, an iron spit for the kitchen hearth, and pewter dishes had been brought in by oxcart. As Sterling had told her more than once, they were starting out close to the bone. But he’d assured her that when he had time to trade with the tribes for furs and bring in a crop, they’d start to accumulate financial security.
“It’s not as though the land isn’t mine,” he’d explained. “I hold directly through the Crown, not by leave of any royal governor. My father took pains to ensure that my mother’s gift would be safe from greedy hands. The king owed my father a favor. By giving us the land outright, His Majesty satisfied an old debt without spending a shilling of his own money.”
Land ... Cailin turned her head and stared east along the river. Their property ran that way farther than she could see; it ran in every direction farther than she could imagine. Thousands of acres of forest, stream, hills, and meadows belonged to Sterling ... and to her too, she supposed. Enough land to put many a Highland laird or English lord to shame. Enough land to feel free of rules and quarrelsome neighbors.
She sighed with regret. It wasn’t really hers because she didn’t intend to stay with Sterling. He belonged here; she didn’t. Where were the open fields of heather? The stone crofter’s huts and herds of shaggy Highland cattle? The castles and enchanted hollows? Maryland was too big, too green—and yes, even too wild for a Scotswoman.
What I’d give to hear Jeanne’s babe cry now, she thought ... or even to hear her sister complain about something. She missed her family terribly.
Absently, she fingered the amulet at her throat. “You’ve brought me far and far,” she murmured.
“’Tis true that I’ve been cursed ... but where is your blessing?”
A loud hurrah sounded from the house site. When she turned back, Sterling was waving at her. “We’re finished!” he shouted. “Come light the first fire!”
The first fire ... Another ritual to ensure luck for the house. They’d already buried a shiny new shilling under the front doorsill and hung horseshoes over each entrance. Sterling had thought that the horseshoes were silly superstition, but Isaac had agreed with Cailin. “A new house needs protection from witches and other evil spirits,” she’d said. “My grandfather was an educated man, but he believed it. If it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.”
She’d made a joke of it, but horseshoes over the doorway were customary among the people she knew. She would have felt strange if they didn’t hang them. It went along with the old saying that guests should always leave the house by the same entrance they’d come in, and the one that insisted the first visitor on New Year’s Day should be a man rather than a woman. If a woman came in the door first, people at home thought that meant the wife and not the husband would rule the household until the following year.
Isaac had climbed the ladder to nail the horseshoes, open side up, to keep the luck from falling out, before the doors were even hung. “It don’t pay to fool around with witches,” he said. “Out here in the big woods—who knows what haunts there might be?”
Cailin wasn’t sure about ghosts, but she had seen a witch with her own eyes. Old Granny MacGreggor could take off warts and heal burns overnight. And she had the sight as well. People for miles around used to bring their newborn bairns for her to bless. Granny was a Christian, she was sure of that. Granny never failed to pray before each laying on of hands. But her religion was the old kin
d, and Granny had powers that few people were born with. Ghosts—maybe so or maybe not, but Cailin knew about witches. Besides, she told herself, the horseshoes would do no harm, and they might do good.
“Cailin!” Sterling shouted. “Are you coming?” She closed her eyes and turned her face up to the sun. Truth was, she hated to leave the river. The sound of the rushing water was soothing to her ears. The sunshine was warm, and the music of birdsong came from every direction. Here, for the first time in weeks, she’d been able to step back from all the hard work and lose herself in her thoughts.
“I’m torn,” she said with a sigh. “I’m torn by wanting ‘him and knowing it canna last.” But part of her wished it could last ... wished her life could start over here in this clean, cool river.
Straightening her shoulders, she opened her eyes, took hold of a thick section of her hair, and squeezed the water from it. “I’m coming,” she called.
The sandy bottom felt good under her bare feet as she turned toward shore. She’d have to change into another skirt and bodice; this one was soaked through, but—
“Holy Mother of God!”
Coming directly at her—not twenty yards away—was a boat full of feathered savages.
“Sterling!” she screamed.
The birch-bark canoe shot forward, cutting between Cailin and the riverbank. Kneeling in the bow was a copper-skinned man wearing little more than a scrap of deerskin around his loins. His head was shaved except for a rooster crest, from which several eagle feathers dangled in the back. He held a paddle in his hands, but a long rifle lay propped against the side of the boat.
Behind him, in the center, Cailin saw an Indian woman of indeterminate age, with a face as beautiful as a rose-marble madonna, dressed all in red with a white beaded headband decorated with black and white feathery plumage. She was armed with a rifle as well.
The paddler in the stern of the boat was the fiercest-looking one of all. His face was painted with yellow slashes, and he wore his black hair long and streaming around his tattooed shoulders. Around his neck hung a string of bear claws, and his fringed leather vest bore bits of hair that Cailin feared might be human scalps. In his ears gleamed ornaments of bone, and a silver pin was thrust through the soft underpart of his nose.
He drove his paddle deep into the water, and the canoe glided to a halt. He said something in Indian to his companions, and the man in the bow traded his paddle for the rifle.
Cailin froze. “Sterling!” she cried again.
The Indian woman smiled at her and lifted a hand, palm out. “Do not be afraid,” she said in perfect English. “We mean you no harm.”
Cailin was so startled that she couldn’t speak. Her heart was pounding so hard that she was certain the Indians could hear it. “Who ...” she began. Her voice cracked, and she tried again. “Who are ye?”
The Indian woman’s smile widened, and her dark eyes twinkled. “I had heard that Ko-nah had taken a Highland wife.”
Cailin’s eyes widened in astonishment. Had she heard a trace of Scottish burr? “I am Cailin MacGreggor,” she said. Then she corrected herself. “Cailin Gray. I dinna ken this Connor.”
The lady in the canoe laughed. “Ko-nah Ain-jeleh. In Shawnee, it means Snow Ghost. It is what we call your husband, Sterling Gray. Moonfeather greets you, Cailin Gray.”
Cailin swallowed. “Moonfeather? Be that your name?” It fit her. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. She was not as young as Cailin had first thought. When she looked close, she could see a sprinkling of gray frost in her ink-black hair, and there were tiny laugh lines around her eyes. But her face ... Cailin had never seen such oval perfection. True, her nose was strong and her eyes faintly slanted like those of some Oriental queen, but her skin was russet silk and her features in exquisite balance.
She nodded her head graciously, and Cailin lost her fear. Moonfeather radiated trust. Despite her wild companions, it was natural to believe that this woman came in peace.
“Come ashore,” Cailin said. She wasn’t certain how one made Indians welcome, but Sterling would know. “Can I offer you something to eat?” Feeding guests must be universal ... at least if they ate the same kinds of food as the English and Scots.
Moonfeather said something to the paddler in the stern of the canoe. He frowned but steered the boat toward the bank.
Cailin splashed after them, suddenly conscious of how she must look, hair wet and stringing, clothes soaked through. A fine hostess I am to greet our first visitors, she thought.
“Moonfeather!” Sterling hurried toward the canoe with open arms. “Moonfeather! Kitate. Chee-tun-ai, it’s good to see you.”
The men brought the light craft as close to the bank as possible, then one stepped out and lifted Moonfeather in his arms. He set her lightly on the grass and returned to help the brave wearing the bear claws beach the canoe.
“Cailin.” Sterling took her hand and helped her up the bank. “We are honored by a visit from Lady Leah.” He draped an arm around Cailin’s shoulder. “Cailin ... Moonfeather, Lady Leah.”
“I dinna ken—” Cailin said.
Moonfeather laughed. “Call me whatever you like. Leah will do if Moonfeather sits uneasy on your tongue. But here in my mother’s land, this person does not need the title of lady.”
“Moonfeather is Lord Kentington’s wife,” Sterling explained. “I told you that her father was a Scottish earl.”
“My mother was Shawnee,” Moonfeather said. “Only with the English do I bow to my husband’s wishes and follow his customs. Here this one is only-”
“A peace woman,” the shaven warrior growled. “The peace woman of the Shawnee.”
Sterling smiled. “A great lady in any tongue. We are pleased to welcome you here to our home.”
Any doubts that Cailin might have had about Moonfeather’s identity were quickly extinguished as the workmen snatched off their hats and bent their heads in salute to their mistress.
“Lady Leah,” Isaac said. “Good t’ see you, ma’am.”
“And you, Isaac,” she replied.
“Your Ladyship.” Joe’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he clutched his cap.
“Ladyship,” Nathan echoed.
Moonfeather responded to them graciously, calling each by name, and asking after Isaac’s family.
“Your son and his wife were very kind to us,” Cailin said when the laborers stepped back. “I’m afraid we took advantage of your hospitality for several months this winter.”
Moonfeather smiled. “Forrest wrote to me. I’m glad that he remembered his manners. If he had done any less, I would have scolded him severely. Isn’t his wife a treasure?”
“I liked her very much,” Cailin replied. She wondered why Sterling hadn’t told her that Lady Leah dressed like a savage and lived in the woods. It was all very puzzling. But there was no time to worry about that now. She brought out the food that she’d been planning to serve for the noon meal and put water over the fire to boil.
Within minutes, she, Sterling, and their guests were seated under a large beech tree, sipping mugs of steaming tea. Cailin had offered chairs, but the Indians declined. Instead, the five of them sat on the ground. Indians, Cailin decided, liked a great deal of precious sugar in their tea.
“Tea is one custom that this woman grew fond of in England,” Moonfeather exclaimed after an exchange of gifts and appropriate thank-yous. She had presented Sterling with a magnificent knife with a carved bone handle and a beaded sheath and belt. Cailin had received a beautiful basket woven of pine needles. Sterling in turn had produced powder horns full of gunpowder for the men and a small silver-plated French pistol for the peace woman..
“I’m afraid I canna offer ye cream or lemon,” Cailin said. “We’ve no cow yet, and lemon is too dear for us to afford.”
Moonfeather laughed. “Milk is one of the other European customs I’ve not adjusted to. I find it ...” She spread her hands expressively. “Rather repulsive.”
“I meant to co
me to the village as soon as the house was finished,” Sterling said, changing the subject. “I’ve heard a lot of rumors of unrest among the tribes, and I wanted to hear what you thought about it.”
The Shawnee with the bear claw necklace, the man called Kitate, glowered. He had not spoken since they’d left the canoe. Now, he said, “It is not wise that you build a house in this place.” Cailin noticed that his English was good but heavily accented.
Moonfeather waited until he had finished. “My son speaks truth,” she agreed. “This is not the time to cut this earth for planting tobacco.”
“The land is mine,” Sterling insisted. “Mine from my mother and by the king’s own hand.”
Kitate’s scowl became darker. “Land cannot be owned. From your mother came hunting rights, not the right to carve up the forest.”
“King George—” Sterling argued.
“King George is far away,” Moonfeather said. “His moccasins have never walked these trails. He has not the blood of the people—he is not Shawnee. The English king does not matter.”
“You, Snow Ghost, have returned to us,” Kitate said. “But you do not come as our brother. You come as one of them.”
“War is coming between red man and white,” the second warrior said. “Which side will you choose, Snow Ghost? Will you fight against your mother’s—”
Sterling’s features became as hard as Kitate’s. “Half of me is Shawnee,” he said, “and half is English. The peace woman knows my heart. I am torn between mother and father.”
“My father was a Scot,” Moonfeather corrected softly. “Not English. My children are more European than Shawnee. Those closest to me have pale skin and light eyes, but I always knew my loyalty lay with my mother’s people.”