by Mike Rhynard
“Yes, Great Leader.”
“When the time comes to attack these white men in force, we must spare no one . . . including the Chesapeakes, who befriend them. And after we have rubbed all of them out, we will destroy every sign that they were ever here. For when the next white men come, they will look for these people and surely blame us if they find any trace of them in our territory. Even then, we must be prepared to fight them each time they invade us, until we finally convince them to stay away forever.”
“You are wise, my chief. I will do as you say. And you are right; the Chesapeakes should also die, for they are unworthy allies. But I shall first use them to gain information about the whites. I shall be in their village, so I can watch the Whites, know their numbers and habits, even until the moment we turn on them.” The Panther made a slight bow then turned, left the lodge.
As he walked across the village, each step found him more troubled about his plan, for his plan did not include killing all the white people. There was one he’d planned to spare, so she could be his second wife— she, the brave, young white girl he’d dreamed of and desired every day since the Roanoke attack, the one who’d aroused wild, new passions in him. So he would now have to devise a way to obey Wahunsunacock while somehow saving the girl for himself. A few steps later, a smile creased his lips. Wahunsunacock will honor my victory by giving me the girl to use as I wish; and then in respect for his great wisdom, I shall promise to kill her and burn her body if white men ever again come to our land. And though I will not wish this, I will do it.
Emily wore a heavy wool shawl and Shines a fur cape as the two sat silently on a mat beside the fire outside Shines’ lodge, weaving baskets. The bases of the baskets were eight-inch-wide circles of thick, interwoven strips of corn stalk. Multiple rod-like pieces of vine were woven two inches apart into the bases, like spokes of a wheel, then bent upward into the desired vertical shape for their intended use and held in the proper form by succeeding layers of weaving material. Shines wove with thin strips of cornstalk, while Emily used long, thin sections of vine thinner than the rods. Emily stared intently, yet emptily, at her work; Shines regularly rotated her concerned gaze back and forth between her basket and Emily, as if waiting for her to speak. Suddenly, she took a deep breathe, set her basket on the mat, stared at Emily with a look that invited a response. After several seconds with no response, Shines said in English, “ Em’ly makes no talk.”
Emily continued working for a moment, finally looked up at Shines with a strained, fragile look that seemed ready to erupt into tears. She hesitated then spoke with her hands and a few English words. “I’m sorry, Shines. I worry about my father. I must return to him soon.”
Shines replied with hand signs and a few English and Chesapeake words. “Em’ly thinks too much these days. Something else troubles her.” She patted her heart. “Something hurts her here. Perhaps Em’ly will tell Shines, so Shines can help her be happy again.”
Emily half smiled. “No, Shines. Shines cannot help Emily . . . no one can help her.”
Shines shook her head. “Let Shines try.”
Emily paused for a deep breath. “I can’t . . . ’tis really nothing. I—” She saw Shines look at something behind her, glanced over her shoulder, saw Hugh Tayler approaching. A jolt of panic addled her mind. She whispered, “Shines, you should—”
“Good day, Emily,” Tayler said.
She stood, whirled around to face Tayler. “Go away, Tayler. I’ve nothing to say to you.”
“I must speak to you, Emily.”
Emily’s face flushed; her tight eyes glared with hate. “I said go away!” She glanced at Shines, who was easing slowly toward her lodge.
Tayler’s look softened. “Emily, I . . . I apologize for what happened. I . . . ”
Emily screamed hysterically, “Leave me! Leave me now! Do you not know what you’ve done to me?”
Tayler’s eyes filled with remorse; his voice cracked. “I do know, and I deeply regret it.” He swallowed hard. “Emily, please, I love you, and—”
“You’ve ruined my life, taken it from me, taken my soul, my honor, everything. Do you understand? I hate you! Go away, you wretched scum!” She looked for Shines, glanced around the village, saw several Chesapeakes and colonists watching. She backed away as Tayler approached. He reached for her shoulders; but she pushed him away, stepped back.
He lunged forward, seized her shoulders, pulled her close. As he looked into her eyes, he spoke quietly, fervently. “Emily, I’m sorry. I know ’twas wrong. I love you. I want you to marry me. ’Tis the right thing for both of us.”
Emily twisted, tried to push away, screamed at him, “Let go of me! Someone help me! Damn you to hell! I hate you! I hate you! Let go of me!”
He pulled her closer.
Emily kicked his shins, again tried to push away.
He flinched, warped his face into an angry scowl, shook her twice, then a third time. “Emily, you must be with me. There’s no other way. ’Twill preserve your honor. You must.” His eyes suddenly refocused on something behind Emily; he slacked his grip.
Emily looked back over her shoulder, saw Isna approaching behind her at a fast walk, with vengeful eyes and his stone hatchet in hand. He motioned Tayler away with the hatchet, motioned again, raised it above his waist for a strike.
Tayler’s face filled with terror; he released Emily, stepped backward, held his hands up as if to blunt a blow.
Isna stepped faster, closer.
Tayler stumbled, nearly fell, caught his balance, turned, and ran toward the village. Halfway there, he stopped, glanced back at Isna for a moment, then resumed his hasty retreat.
Isna turned to Emily, stared at her with sorrowful, aching eyes that begged her to speak.
Emily, still as a sculpture, tried to speak, couldn’t. Want to hold him, kiss him, cry, die in his arms, escape my sorrow and despair. She stood as still as a hot summer night, felt her eyes fill with tears, her heart melt, burn like boiling water. Must hold him, feel him in my arms again. Lord, let me die now, can’t move, can’t do anything. Unworthy, ashamed. She spoke in Lakota. “Isna, go away. Emily never wants to see Isna again. Leave her . . . now . . . please!”
He said nothing, held his ground, his anguished stare.
Tears rolled down Emily’s cheeks; her body trembled. She whispered in English, “Oh, Isna, please, I beg you, my love, go before I die of sorrow and a broken heart. I cannot bear to see you. I love you, I love you, I love.”
Slowly, he turned, started to walk away; stopped, looked back at her with pleading eyes, spoke a silent message; then turned and walked into the forest.
Emily stared after him for a moment then dropped to her knees, sat back on her heels, and buried her face in her hands.
A moment later, Shines knelt beside her; she touched her gently, pulled her close with both arms, and whispered softly as Emily wept, trembled, abandoned her composure.
Thomas Colman’s eyes opened slowly, had a dull, spent look as they feebly focused on Emily as she entered the cottage. He lay on his side on the dirt floor, several feet from his bed, unmoving, gasping for air as if suffocating.
Upon seeing him, Emily dropped her shawl on the floor, rushed to him, knelt; she rolled him onto his back, held her hand under his head. “Come, Father, I must get you back on your bed.”
He mouthed words, but none came forth.
Emily shook her head, leaned her ear next to his mouth as he tried again.
Faint whispers came in labored, broken phrases. “Emily . . . you’re here . . . can die . . . peace with . . . God . . . saw . . . Mother . . . told her . . . sorry . . . for leaving . . . her . . . she smiled . . . kissed me . . . said I . . . could go . . . if God . . . called me . . . ooooooh . . . so tired.”
“Rest, Father.”
“No time . . . told . . . your brother . . . sorry . . . left him . . . never . . . knew him . . . love . . . him.” He closed his eyes, took three gasping, gurgling breaths. “Now . . . goodby
e . . . my Emily . . . dear Emily . . . love you . . . so.”
Emily whispered, “I love you, Father. Must tell you how sorry I am for—”
“No time . . .” He smiled faintly. “We . . . had . . . good times . . . some bad . . . most good . . . love you . . . survive.” He closed his eyes again, gasped a few more times. “Pistol . . . powder . . . shot . . . in bag . . . you know . . . how to use . . . protect yourself.” He grasped her arms, looked into her eyes. “Emily . . . marry . . . Hugh . . . now . . . fine . . . husband . . . give you . . . children.”
Emily closed her eyes, lowered her face to his shoulder. Oh, Father, thank heaven you shall never know.
“So glad . . . you met . . . him . . . protect you . . . promise . . . now . . . marry him . . . Emily . . . promise . . . promise . . . now . . . please.”
Emily’s thoughts whirled in confusion; she shook her head; tears dripped from her cheeks onto his chest. “No, Father, I cannot. You do not know what you ask me to do.”
He again gripped her arms, looked feebly, pitifully into her eyes; his breath quickened. “Emily . . . Emily . . . now . . . please . . . promise . . . marry him.”
“Father”—she wailed, covered her face with her hands—“ do not force me to do this. Please, I beg you. I . . . I . . .”
“Now . . . Emily . . . please.”
How often and easily she’d defied him, refused his bidding, but all that had evaporated with the life force that seeped steadily and rapidly from his body. “Father, I cannot. Please! God save me.” She paused, closed her eyes. “Yes, Father, I will marry him.” She lowered her head, tried to expel the despair that smothered her mind.
He gasped, gasped again.
Emily’s eyes snapped open; she cradled his head.
His wide, desperate eyes gazed into hers; he squeezed her arms, shook with a violent tremor, released a long, flowing breath, then lay silent and still.
Emily stared at him, her mind and body numb, stunned, racked with anguish and guilt. “Go to God, Father . . . and God save me.” She reached across her chest, gently pulled one hand then the other from her arms, looked into his vacant eyes. “Goodbye, Father. I love you.” She touched his eyelids, eased them closed, then leaned her head on his chest, wept quietly. Oh, God, what will become of me? Mayhap I should end my wretched life now.
After a long while, she sat up. Too drained to think, she stared numbly at his lifeless body until her mind drifted to comforting, youthful memories of them together, memories that had been lost for years. They came in quick glimpses, made her smile: her father carrying her on his shoulders; hugging her after she’d cut her knee on a cobblestone street; showing her how to prepare the soil for planting; teaching her the gentleness owed by human beings to all other beings; holding her on his lap while the family sang Christmas carols; showing her how to pray, how to talk to God directly without the clergy; teaching her his appreciation of the simple joys of life, the land, its creatures, being alone; and lastly, showing her, by example, the value of honor and integrity.
Despair suddenly tore at her heart as she wondered what value such memories and lessons would have in the life that awaited her—a life of shame and dishonor, without love or hope. She looked down at his motionless body. I promised you I’d marry a man I hate, which is the same as being a whore, yet I already am a whore and condemned to hell. But I shall have a child to love and raise despite the sin of its conception. A faint smile creased her lips. And I shall love it with all my heart. Will it be a boy or a girl? Who will it look like? Me, or Mother, or Father? Her smile abruptly faded as she remembered the apology she’d been unable to give. ’Twill haunt me all my days, and—
Someone knocked on the door; Emily whispered, “Who is it?”
“Elyoner.”
“Oh, Ellie, Ellie, come in.” She stood, rushed to the door as Elyoner entered, stopped a foot from her.
Elyoner glanced at Thomas Colman then at Emily’s gaunt, teary face.
Emily nodded then lunged to Elyoner’s waiting arms.
“Oh, my Em, my dear Em. What you’ve endured.”
Three inches of snow lay on the ground in the Chesapeake village as Isna and the other Lakota sat around a modest fire inside their lodge. Isna stared into its blue heart, oblivious to the animated discussion beside him. He’d done little that day but mull the incident with the white man and Emily, try to mold what he’d seen into something he could understand and act upon. But the ache of seeing Emily with another man, particularly one who’d touched her and appeared to mistreat her, had hung sourly and heavily in the pit of his stomach like the aftermath of a bad meal. When he finally pushed his pain to the background, he wondered what had occurred between Emily and the white man, what had caused Shines to seek him out, summon him to help her. She’d told him Emily needed him, but hadn’t said why. He’d then seen the man seize Emily’s shoulders, shake her, speak rudely to her. The remembrance quickened his heart, enflamed his anger. He’d seen Emily scream at the man, kick him, try to escape; had decided at that moment, to kill him and would have, had he not released Emily and backed away.
Certainly, this man was trying to force her to listen to him, hear something she didn’t want to hear, do something she didn’t want to do. Certainly, she dislikes him; for she screamed at him, tried to push him away. And most certainly, there is something between them, perhaps something deep, deeper than Isna will know from afar. And why does she suddenly avoid Isna, tell him to leave her, never see her again, but then shed tears of sadness even as she commands him away? What did she say to Isna in her own tongue? Perhaps something she felt inside, in her mind or her heart, that she didn’t want Isna to hear. These things . . . these things fit together like a great bear with the head of a deer and legs of the little white four-legged that hops.
He poked the fire with a long stick, laid another log on top. And this white man . . . is he not a weak, troubled one, one with an evil fire burning within him? For none but a self-doubting coward forces his will on a woman. His gaze hardened; he pressed his lips together as he saw Emily’s tearful face, felt the now-familiar ache in his heart. Emily, the little white fawn who forever owns Isna’s heart. Emily, who cries even as she sends Isna away. Isna’s heart burns for you, my little one, and his mind and senses tell him that even as you push him away, you need him desperately in a way not yet understood by either Emily or Isna.
He took a bite of smoked fish, glanced at the others without hearing their words, then looked back into the fire, saw Emily’s anguished, pleading look as she spoke to him in English. Is it not true that a woman will often say the opposite of what she feels? And is it not also true that she will do this most when something pains her deep in her heart . . . or when she hides something . . . or protects someone from something? And is it not so that her true heart can be read in her face like one reads the signs of the forest . . . as when Emily speaks to Isna in Lakota, tells him to leave her, then speaks something in her own tongue while tears flow like a river from her eyes. And when those eyes, the deepest color of the sky, tell Isna she wants to hold him, feel his heart beat with hers, feel his strength, his love, does she not at that moment bare the truth in her heart? Can Isna not read these signs as clearly as he reads the trail of a deer or an enemy? And when she shows Isna these things, does she not tell him without speaking it that a great pain dwells within her—a pain she believes she must bear alone, a pain she fears telling Isna of, a pain she does not know Isna will gladly bear with her, help her lessen, help her destroy? And does she not shield Isna from this pain or perhaps fear it will force him away? His look suddenly relaxed, softened, as if some reassuring thought had taken hold of his mind; a slight smile creased his lips. Emily’s love for Isna lives . . . Isna’s love for Emily lives and will always live. Isna must discover her pain, help her place it on the pathway behind her, help her know that his heart burns for her and that he will love her forever, no matter what befalls her or him, and that he will willingly give his life for her. An
d as surely as only the rocks live forever, this evil one who is without honor is the cause of her pain. And if so, he will know a Lakota death, and Isna’s hand will deliver it. He took another bite of fish then a swig of water, again stared into the soul of the fire.
Shines is her friend. She knows white women, knows some of their words. Would it not be wise for Isna to talk to Shines, learn what she knows of Emily’s heart and her pain, and then find Emily and know her mind? And would it not also be wise for Isna to watch this evil one? His mind churned for a moment as he tried to consider arguments against his plan, but he soon shook his head. No, these things Isna must do.
The naked, towering trees at the edge of the forest beside the graveyard rose starkly above the snow, rendered a gloomy feel to the small, pole-fenced plot and its nine graves. The melting snow had left the ground soft and muddy, particularly in the grassless graveyard; and while a steady, misty rain relentlessly consumed what remained of the snow and worsened the gloomy atmosphere, Elyoner and Emily, their hooded wool capes already heavy with water, held hands, huddled together beside Thomas Colman’s grave.
Graveyards had never bothered Emily, but this one was different. The wintry gloom and her intimacy with two people at rest in this graveyard magnified her grief and discomfort as she glanced between her father’s grave and that of baby Henry Harvie. She’d visited Henry every day before the rape, but her condition and that of her father had since precluded such visits, a negligence that pained her when she thought of it. She relived her father’s last anguished moments, the promise she’d resisted but known was inevitable. Thin tears, masked by the now-pouring rain, filled her bloodshot eyes as she looked at Elyoner with a despairing look. “Ellie, what’s to become of us?”