Judith E. French

by Shawnee Moon

  “I still don’t understand ...” she began. Lachpi silenced her with a look.

  “Mohawk strike Cailin. You Shawnee, he not do this thing,” he said. “Lachpi take you as sister. Make you Delaware. Give white woman ... ” He shook his head and searched for the right English words. “Will make Cailin more safe.”

  “Lachpi has lost his entire family,” Cameron explained. “When he dies, his blood line will die out. And he has a bad feeling.”

  The Delaware spoke at length in the Indian tongue.

  Cameron translated. “He was born into the Turtle Clan of the Lenape. On the trail here, he saw a turtle and a crow together. He believes that the turtle came to tell him of his impending death. He wants to adopt you into his family, to give you his sister’s name and clan. Then even if you are held prisoner, you will have some position.” He exhaled softly. “In other words, the Iroquois doubt you possess a soul. If Lachpi makes you a Delaware—that’s what we call the Lenape—you will gain status and become a human being.”

  “He wants me to become an Indian?” she asked.

  “Aye. Normally, you’d be born—rather, brought into the tribe—by a woman. But this is an emergency. Lachpi assures me that such adoptions have been done before and have been recognized by the civilized tribes.”

  Cailin shook her head. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Lachpi, but I’m Christian. I could never—”

  “It’s not just for you,” Cameron said. “It’s to preserve his family. His children are dead, his sister and brothers. His parents. If you will accept his sister’s name, his line will continue.”

  “I still don’t see—”

  Lachpi put two fingers over her lips. “You carry a child,” he said. “You white slave of Mohawk. Child of white slave must be given away to good Mohawk family to be raised as human. Child of Lenni Lenape, First People, remain with mother even if she is captive. You become Lenape, no one take your child from you.”

  Cailin put her hands over her belly protectively. “How did you know about the baby?” she asked. She couldn’t imagine being a prisoner long enough to have her baby, but the thought that Sterling’s bairn might be taken from her was chilling. “I’m still not sure I am,” she hedged. “Did Moonfeather tell you?”

  Lachpi smiled. “Your eyes tell this man.” He touched her cheek with one finger. “Face tell him.” He nodded. “You with child. Must think of child.”

  “Take his offer,” Cameron urged her. “It will do you no harm, and it won’t endanger your Catholic soul. Many Delaware are Christians.”

  She glanced at each face in turn. “Why does it have to be Delaware? Why not Shawnee, if I must be an Indian?” she asked.

  “There is no difference,” Kitate said. “Our cousins the Delaware have joined with us since the English drove them from their home by the sea. To be Delaware is a great honor. Besides ...” He shrugged. “Lachpi is willing to take responsibility for you.”

  She looked at Cameron. “I don’t see why you couldn’t—”

  “Descent is reckoned through the female line,” he said. “My mother was Scot. She had no clan. It has to be Lachpi.”

  “All right,” she agreed. “Whatever makes ye happy.” She’d only thought of Sterling, not of what might happen to her if he died. Pray God, she never had to.

  The ritual was short. Cameron held her arm steady while Lachpi scratched the outline of a tiny turtle on her left shoulder. Cailin gritted her teeth as the sharp knife point bit into her skin. When Lachpi was satisfied, Cameron rubbed ashes into the figure.

  Next, the Delaware poured a gourd full of water over her head. “Should be sweat bath and river cleansing,” he said. “But Turtle will understand.”

  Cailin wiped the water out of her eyes and stood with dripping hair as the gnarled old warrior laid his hand on her forehead.

  “From this day, you are no longer white, born without a soul,” he said solemnly. “You are Lenape n’hackey, Indian, of the Lenni Lenape, and your name is Wing-an O-tah-ais, Sweet Spring of the Turtle Clan, and brother to Lachpi.” His heavy-lidded eyes narrowed. “And you must remember to show proper respect for your totem.”

  “Never eat or injure a turtle,” Cameron finished. “In fact, you show more respect for your totem if you refrain from mentioning his name.”

  “I think I can manage that,” Cailin said. Her shoulder was smarting, and she felt foolish. A turtle, she was a turtle named Wing-an O-tah-ais. She tried not to smile. Her cousin Alasdair would have thought this all hilarious.

  Instantly, the image of Alasdair’s freckled face rose in her mind and she laughed aloud. A warm feeling enveloped her. Alasdair was dead, but he could still make her laugh ... and as long as she remembered him, he wasn’t really gone.

  She looked at Lachpi. He’d obviously loved his sister as she’d loved her cousin. And he was trying to live with his loss as she was. She smiled at him. “Thank you for the honor,” she said sincerely. “I will try to be worthy of your sister.”

  He nodded. “Sweet Spring has gained wisdom,” he said. “Tell your son of Lachpi, so that he will not be forgotten.”

  “If it’s a boy, he’ll be your nephew,” Cailin replied. “You’ll always be welcome under our roof and at our table. You can tell him yourself.”

  The Delaware shook his head. “The wind calls this man’s name,” he said.

  “Don’t—” she started to say, but was interrupted by the abrupt arrival of the surly Mohawk woman.

  “Come,” the squaw ordered. “Watch death of your peace woman.”

  Kitate led the group out of the ceremonial longhouse into the dark night. They walked through the chanting, shouting Mohawks, past Ohneya and his followers, to the place where Moonfeather stood near the center of the clearing.

  Cailin’s frantic gaze sought Sterling and caught a glimpse of him still tied upright to the stake. His eyes were open, and he looked alert. She wanted to call out to him, but she knew that he’d never hear her voice above the thunderous drumming and the wild cries of the inflamed Iroquois.

  Instead, she whispered a prayer under her breath and tried to keep pace with Cameron, who held her firmly by the right arm. Lachpi strode directly in front of her, his rifle cradled in his arm.

  Cailin had wondered why the Mohawk hadn’t stripped the Shawnee of their weapons, but Cameron had told her that it was a mark of arrogance on the part of the Iroquois. “They don’t think of us as a threat,” he’d explained earlier. “We’re outnumbered twenty to one. One reckless move on our part, and our scalps will decorate a Mohawk lance.”

  Cailin didn’t think that Kitate, Lachpi, and the others looked particularly peaceful. The Shawnee had painted their faces and appeared as savage and bloodthirsty as the Mohawk. Young Koke-wah’s chin jutted out defiantly, and his eyes glittered in the firelight as fiercely as any wild creature’s. Joseph, a solid wedge of coiled muscle, kept one step behind the boy, planting each wide foot with deliberate purpose, and eyeing the Mohawk with black hatred.

  Moonfeather looked up and smiled when she saw them coming. Her features were tranquil. She wore no paint, and her hair was covered with a fringed shawl of blue and red. Her feet were bare.

  Stretching out in front of the Shawnee peace woman was a bed of glowing coals, a yard wide and four yards long. The Mohawk medicine man stood at the far end of the fire pit. He was garbed in an overpowering bear skin and a wooden mask of black and yellow with tufts of black hair and teeth of bone. The carved mask was huge, at least a third the size of his body. Jit-sho raised his staff and shook it defiantly at Moonfeather.

  She ignored him and extended a hand to Cailin. “Sister,” she said softly.

  Cailin embraced her. “You can’t do this,” she whispered. “There has to be another way.”

  Moonfeather chuckled. “Believe me, I wish you were right.” She looked into Cameron’s face. “Don’t worry,” she said. “A peace woman can walk on fire.” She glanced back at Cailin. “Bear Dancer has promised me that St
erling and the rest of us can leave if Jit-sho is proved wrong.” She nodded to Kitate and said something to him in Shawnee.

  He growled a reply, and Moonfeather repeated her statement. Kitate shrugged and shoved a small French pistol into Cailin’s hand. “Don’t shoot your foot off,” he warned. “It’s loaded.”

  Moonfeather smiled.

  Bear Dancer came through the crowd and stopped midway between the peace woman and the Mohawk shaman at the edge of the white-hot coals. A group of dignitaries joined him. One motioned to the Shawnee.

  “Go,” Moonfeather said.

  Bodies pressed in around Cailin. Hands pushed and tugged at her; strange Mohawk eyes glared at her. She and Cameron were separated by the mob, and she found herself only a few feet from the Mohawk leader, Bear Dancer, in the midst of Ohneya’s warriors.

  A hard hand settled on the nape of Cailin’s neck. She twisted around to see the war chief Ohneya glaring down at her.

  “You will learn to like my touch, Fire Hair,” he said. “Please me, and I will make you my third wife.”

  “Go to hell,” she spat. Diving between a wrinkled old woman and a Mohawk warrior in a military coat, she looked around for her father.

  “Here,” Cameron called. He put a hand into the middle of a seasoned warrior’s chest and thrust him back. Cailin wiggled into the spot between her father and Bear Dancer. The Mohawk stiffened. Cailin flashed him a wide smile, and he blinked in astonishment.

  Bear Dancer raised his arms over his head and began to speak. This time, his words were few. When he dropped his hands, the Iroquois shouted something that sounded like “Hoo!”, then they fell silent.

  The drums stopped.

  Several of Ohneya’s braves pressed through to the edge of the fire pit. Others surrounded Bear Dancer and the council members. The old woman that Cailin had jostled was lost from sight.

  It was so quiet that Cailin could hear the breeze through the fish-drying racks, hear the hiss of the fire and the breathing of the Mohawk around her. Lachpi trod on the heels of a council member, and when the man stepped forward, the Delaware moved into the vacant spot directly behind Cailin.

  “Courage, little sister,” he murmured.

  Cailin looked down at the carpet of fire.

  It was impossible for Moonfeather to walk over that and not be horribly burned. Cailin wanted to scream, to do anything to stop her. Instead, she waited with bated breath and thudding heart like the rest of them.

  Kitate began to chant, one Shawnee voice in a sea of hostile Iroquois. The Mohawk shaman shook his rattle.

  Moonfeather stepped out onto the bed of coals as lightly as a dancer. Cailin shut her eyes. When she opened them again, the peace woman was directly opposite. Her eyes were closed; her lips were curved into a faint smile.

  Cameron’s whisper filled Cailin’s head.

  “She comes, the peace woman,

  See her come, walking lightly,

  Hear the wind call her name,

  See her, holy woman of the Shawnee,

  Walking lightly, on the rainbow ...”

  Gooseflesh rose on Cailin’s arms. Why wasn’t the fire scorching Moonfeather’s bare feet? Why? What was happening?

  Then the peace woman reached the end of the fire pit, stepped onto solid ground, opened her eyes, and smiled.

  The Mohawks shouted in approval.

  Bear Dancer spoke.

  The Mohawks cheered.

  “She is worthy,” Cameron called. “The chief has declared that we are to go in peace.”

  A Mohawk brave shoved Jit-sho. His rattle fell onto the coals. Instantly, the air was filled with the scent of burning turtle shell.

  “Jit-sho!” a woman cried.

  “Jit-sho,” echoed a man with one arm.

  The carved mask trembled.

  The shaman began to sing in a thready voice, a voice that did nothing to hide the fear in the man’s heart. A warrior gave him a push. Jit-sho shrieked and leaped into the fire pit.

  His scream filled the night. Cailin shuddered as the bearskin caught and became a sheet of flames. She tried to imagine the high-pitched squeal as something other than human, the awful stench of charred flesh as burning pork. Sickness rose in her throat.

  She shut her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, she saw that Moonfeather was bending over something black and smoking. Her hands were touching what could have been a man’s head.

  The wailing had ceased, but his feet thrashed. When the peace woman stood up, he was still.

  The Mohawks shrank back.

  Cailin heard a sharp hiss of breath. She turned her head and saw the gleam of a metal blade in the firelight. Ohneya twisted the knife in Bear Dancer’s back, and the old sachem’s eyes widened. He sagged forward, and one of Ohneya’s braves caught him.

  Cailin seized Cameron’s arm and pointed.

  Ohneya leaped into Bear Dancer’s place and raised a clenched fist. “The Shawnee have murdered our sachem and our shaman!” he shouted. “Burn them! Burn them all!”

  Chapter 27

  An Iroquois war whoop shattered the night, and the angry Mohawks surged around them. A shot rang out. A woman screamed.

  Cameron swore in Gaelic.

  Cailin couldn’t understand Ohneya’s words, but she had seen him stab Bear Dancer with his knife. And when the war chief seized her left wrist and yanked her against him, she brought her right hand up and jabbed the barrel of her pistol into the soft place under his chin. “Breathe and I’ll blow your head off,” she threatened as she cocked the weapon.

  The ominous click of the hammer stopped Ohneya in his tracks.

  Cailin caught a glimpse of a flailing war club and heard an agonized groan. Another musket boomed. Fighting broke out around the fire pit between Shawnee and Mohawk warriors.

  Suddenly, Cameron was beside Cailin, aiming his pistol at the war chief’s ear. “Tell them to back off,” her father ordered breathlessly.

  “You cannot escape me!” Ohneya snarled.

  “Maybe not,” Cailin said, “but we can give it a try, can’t we?”

  Ohneya barked a command, and the Mohawks around him halted their attack on the Shawnee. Gradually, those at the back of the mob stopped shouting and grew still.

  Cailin poked Ohneya’s throat with the pistol. “Free Sterling,” she said.

  “The white Shawnee,” Cameron added hoarsely. “Let him go. And let the others join us. Now!”

  Ohneya called out to his people in Iroquoian. A group parted, and Cailin saw Joseph and Kitate moving toward them with Moonfeather. Joseph’s face was covered in blood.

  “This man will get Na-nata Ki-tehi,” Lachpi shouted. Boldly, he strode through the enemy ranks to the torture stake and slashed the leather thongs that held Sterling prisoner.

  Kitate stepped behind Ohneya and knotted his lean fingers in the war chief’s scalp lock. Bending Ohneya’s head back, Kitate laid the razor-sharp edge of his knife at the Mohawk’s exposed throat. “Leave this one to me,” he growled.

  Cailin glanced into her father’s face. He nodded. “Kitate will hold him fast for us.”

  Slowly, she lowered the pistol. Her hand was shaking, and she felt cold. Pukasee’s voice came from the right. Mentally, she began counting the Shawnee. Kitate, Pukasee, Joseph, and Lachpi. Where was Koke-wah? And Ake?

  Then Sterling’s strong arm wrapped around her shoulders, and she cried out with relief. He murmured her name, and his fingers dug into her arm. “Don’t fail me now, Highlander,” he said.

  Releasing her, he grabbed a rifle from a scowling Mohawk. “Kitate,” he called. “Tell him to have them throw down their weapons.” When Ohneya passed on the order and the Mohawk obeyed, Sterling picked up a tomahawk, a knife, and a powder horn and shot bag from the gathering heap.

  Using the war chief as a human shield, the Shawnee party began to move toward the outer gate of the village. Lachpi went ahead with Sterling and Ake on either side of the two women. Cameron and Pukasee followed, rifles cocked and aim
ed at the crowd. Kitate and Joseph brought up the rear with Ohneya, Kitate never loosening his grip on their hostage. Amid the Iroquois’ howls of rage, the small band hurried past the darkened longhouses.

  One by one, they filed through the gate. As they passed the wall and stepped out into the open, an Iroquois guard fired from the top of the palisade. Lachpi took a musket ball in his thigh. Sterling swung around, aimed carefully, and picked off the sniper. Lachpi’s wound bled heavily, but he didn’t slow his pace. He crossed the river and stood waist-deep in the water, watching for other marksmen on the palisade.

  When Cailin saw that Sterling was waiting for the rest to pass, she stopped.

  “Go on!” he shouted. “Don’t wait for me.”

  “I’m nay leaving ye to them again,” she warned.

  “I’ve no intention of staying. Do as I tell you, woman. Stay with Moonfeather—no matter what. Stay beside her.” He waved his arms and shouted in Mohawk.

  “He’s telling them that if anyone crosses the river, Ohneya is a dead man,” Cameron said. He squeezed her hand. “Come, lass. And I hope you’re as good a runner as Moonfeather. We must move like the wind to keep ahead of these devils.”

  When they all reached the shelter of the forest on the far side of the river, Kitate slammed Ohneya across the back of his head with the flat of his tomahawk. Ohneya crumpled to the ground and lay as though dead. Sterling took hold of Cailin’s arm, and they began to run through the pitch darkness.

  For nearly half a mile, they ran. Cailin’s lungs burned and her legs felt like lead. She made no effort to speak; she just ran, keeping on the trail by watching the faint glow of Moonfeather’s white doeskin dress ahead of her.

  When they reached an outcropping of loose rock, Lachpi stopped. “There!” Cameron said. “It’s up there to the right.”

  Sterling pulled her off the trail and took a firm grip on her hand. Together, they climbed a steep incline to a spot where a freak windstorm the winter before had felled dozens of giant trees. She remembered Moonfeather pointing it out to her on the way to the Mohawk village.