Under the Same Sky

by Genevieve Graham

  One day Adelaide came to sit with me on the stony riverbank, where the women went to do the washing. She needed to talk. I could see the lines of concentration on her brow. Ever since we had come to the village, we had avoided speaking about important matters. I suppose it was the fear of upsetting her that kept me from talking about those things, possibly opening a wound not quite healed. So it was a relief when she, not I, spoke first.

  We dangled our toes in the cold running water and let the current tickle between them. She held a small chunk of wood in the palm of one hand and was slowly shaping it with a short, sharp blade that she held in the other.

  “What are you carving?” I asked.

  She held it up to eye level, considering. “I’m not sure yet,” she said. She lowered it and resumed cutting into the soft wood. “Do you remember their faces?” she asked, eyes on her work.

  I thought I understood whose faces she meant, but it didn’t matter. I remembered them all. Strangely, the face I saw most clearly was that of the man whose throat I had slit by the river. I couldn’t rid my memories of his stunned expression under thin red curls, darkened by sweat.

  “Mm-hmm,” I said.

  “I sometimes have trouble seeing Mama’s face,” Adelaide said, her words barely more than a whisper. “I speak to her at night, when we’re falling asleep. But sometimes, when I really want to, I can’t see her face. Does that happen to you?”

  I thought for a moment before I answered. If I closed my eyes, without concentrating, then yes, the soft features of our mother’s face might escape me. But because of my dreams and their clarity, she was always with me. She and Ruth. I saw them from before, and I saw them as I hoped they were now: together, at peace.

  “I think we’re supposed to let them go,” I said gently, my eyes trained on the tiny carving in her hand. There were no sharp angles cut into the wood, only curves and curls. Soft. Like Adelaide.

  She turned toward me, gripping the small wooden figure in one fist until her knuckles whitened. She blinked quickly over unshed tears and her cheeks flushed. She looked much younger than her fifteen years.

  “I can’t,” she said. “Maggie, I can’t let them go. I won’t. Sometimes I hurt so much. I need Mother so bad, and now when I can’t see her, I get scared that I can’t do anything without her. I’m afraid, Maggie. I’m afraid of everything.”

  I wanted to hold her. But there had been too many times when I had held her and taken away her fears. She needed to learn how to fight them on her own. I kept my arms at my sides.

  “It’s okay to hurt, Addy, and it’s okay to be scared. Do you think I’m not? Ever since we were little, it was you who always showed me how we should go on when I was unhappy or frightened.” I took a deep breath, then reached out and held her free hand. “We have to learn to understand our lives now, Addy. Everything is different. But they are our lives.”

  Her eyes were rimmed with red. She was trying hard to smile. “Help me, Maggie.”

  I held her then and thought I needed her as much as she needed me.

  Chapter 18

  The Green Corn Ceremony

  Every few days the men of the tribe went hunting. They disappeared into the woods, each with a quiver of arrows and a bow slung over his back, a sharpened tomahawk tucked into his breechclout. Bronze, tattooed skin and dark eyes made the men as visible and invisible as the trees and shadows around them. They became the forest.

  Sometimes they travelled on foot, sometimes on horseback. The Cherokee didn’t use saddles, or even bridles. They rode bareback, their intuitive balance strong enough that their legs hung freely down the horses’ sides.

  The brothers, Soquili and Wahyaw, decided to teach Adelaide and me how to ride. As the summer wore on, I became more comfortable urging a horse forward, changing direction, and pulling my mount to a gentle stop using only my legs. I loved the movement, the sensation of flying a horse could give me.

  Adelaide could ride, but didn’t enjoy it like I did. She preferred knowing exactly where the ground was at every step. While she stayed in the village to sew or bead with the women, I often asked the brothers to let me go with them when they went hunting. Wahyaw was unsure, assuming I would somehow alert their prey. I persisted and promised I would be quiet, so Soquili persuaded Wahyaw to let me come once in a while, as an observer. Sometimes their father, Ahtlee-Kwi-duhsgah, or Does Not Bend, joined us. He was as powerful as a bear. An impressive fountain of feathers adorned his black comb of hair, still untouched by the white of age. His eyes flitted incessantly, constantly aware, like those of his elder son. He was a quiet man, issuing short commands only when necessary. His tall gray stallion had no patience for other horses.

  More and more often, when the successful hunters emerged from the shelter of the woods, Soquili’s eyes would meet mine. His dark brown gaze suggested he was interested in more than simply a friendship with me. I liked Soquili very much. We always seemed to have a lot to say to each other, and we laughed a great deal. It didn’t hurt that he was handsome and cut from the rugged cloth of the bravest of warriors. I liked watching him move, and I liked the way he made me feel: confident and desired.

  We spent the summer as friends, getting to know each other better. By August the corn had grown taller than anyone in the village and the stalks were heavy with fat, ripe cobs. The harvest heralded one of the biggest ceremonies of the Cherokee year: the Green Corn Ceremony. Soquili and Kokila told me what to expect over the four-day festival, but its reality still impressed me. Hundreds of Cherokee from other villages crowded into our longhouses, filling them with laughter until the early morning hours. The days and nights were filled with dancing, singing, and drums.

  The festivities involved everyone, but the most obvious participants were the unmarried young people. It was impossible, in such a huge gathering of people, not to form new relationships, and not all of them were based purely on friendship. Anticipation of sex hovered like a cloud, low and thick in the air, adding heat to the fires where we all danced.

  On one of those nights Soquili sat beside me and took my hand in his. He raised one eyebrow and grinned. Then he leaned forward and kissed my lips.

  I wasn’t completely surprised, but had no idea what to do or say. So I simply looked at him, smiling faintly, studying the tiny lines around his eyes, the soft pinkish bronze of his lips, the curl of his lashes when he blinked. I had noticed them all before. Now I took the time to see them.

  My only other contact with the mouths of men had been brutal. This was a completely different sensation. Like a question, asked with intimate care. He reached forward with his free hand and placed it gently behind my neck beneath my braid. With smooth pressure he pulled my face closer to his and I closed my eyes. I felt the warmth of his breath touch my skin. Then his mouth was on mine, moving slowly, tenderly, not pushing but wanting. I could smell his musky scent under the smoky air. The taste of him was intoxicating, and the combination of his touch and the wildness of the celebration made me dizzy. I returned his kisses, giving in to the desire that tingled through me. His other hand released mine, and still kissing me, he moved his palm to the side of my face. He stroked my cheek, and his thumb traced the line of my jaw. His caresses were as soft as rabbit’s fur, but unmistakably male.

  I wanted this; I wanted to kiss and touch and feel and breathe him in.

  But another layer of emotion emerged, one I had tried to ignore for the past few months. It bubbled up like sticky black tar: the fear, the outrage, the disgust, and the horror of my rape. The panic pushed upward in waves, and I shoved it back under. I trembled with the effort, and Soquili felt my movement. He pulled away.

  “The night air is cold on your skin. Stay here, Ma-kee. I’ll get a blanket for you.”

  He stood and smiled down at me, looking pleased with himself. Then he turned toward his longhouse, leaving me to my reverie.

  The fire snapped in front of me, jerking me back to my surroundings. Across the flames from me, men and women huddled clo
se together in pairs, smiling, touching, kissing.

  The closeness they shared still reminded me of the men in the woods, and it terrified me. And yet I craved touch. I craved closeness. Would I ever be able to want a man like the girls across the fire did? Would strong, male hands ever soothe instead of panic?

  Soquili strode back toward me, a blue woven blanket slung casually over his shoulder. He turned to laugh at something another man said, then swung back, still smiling, still walking with his dark eyes focused on me.

  Suddenly my world dropped and I hung suspended in disbelief. I stared at Soquili, but it was no longer him that I saw.

  In my vision, Wolf’s hair fell in long, brown waves. His thick eyebrows were raised slightly in the middle, almost meeting under a well-defined widow’s peak. His eyes were deep, flecked with gold.

  Then he was gone, and Soquili stood in his place, draping the blanket over my shoulders. He sat beside me again and pulled in close, lifting one side of the blanket over his own shoulder so we shared our warmth. I smiled in gratitude, but felt empty inside.

  I looked into the fire, forcing reality back into my head. Wolf wasn’t here. Soquili stayed beside me, holding my hand in his.

  Later that night, the longhouse was filled with women, babbling in girlish excitement. I slept on my regular pallet beside Adelaide, but my mind was elsewhere, floating by the fire, remembering Wolf’s soft brown eyes. Every time I saw him in my visions, he seemed closer, but still so far away. He is coming, I told myself. He has to come.

  In the morning I awoke feeling confused. It took a moment before I remembered why. Then the evening’s intimacies raced back into my mind. Soquili. I liked Soquili a great deal. He was a good friend. His touch and his kisses felt wonderful. I wanted more.

  On the other hand, I didn’t want to hurt him. If I encouraged more than a friendship with Soquili, in the end I would leave him. My heart was already claimed, by a man I knew almost as well as I knew myself. By a man I had never met, but had to believe I would someday touch.

  I dressed and stepped out of the longhouse, joining some of the others who were celebrating another day. Drums were beating already, hoarse morning voices beginning to sing. I told myself I would keep a friendly distance from Soquili, but as the day went on, it became apparent he was having none of that. He was with me whenever possible, holding me, brushing his lips against my skin and hair. His arms felt good around me, his sweet mouth warm and comforting. Despite my earlier conviction to avoid precisely this kind of attention, I did nothing to stop him.

  Sometime after the midday meal, we walked through the village, holding hands, headed for the corrals. We wanted to escape conversations and other people for a while. He gave a low whistle from between his teeth, and our horses broke away from the herd. They walked toward us, their dark heads bobbing with every step, and when they were close enough, Soquili leaned over to help me mount. I stepped into his interlaced fingers, and he hoisted me onto my horse’s back.

  The day was hot and the breeze almost nonexistent. The sun burned down, attracting flies to the horses so they shook their heads and whipped their tails. We guided the animals toward the trees and slipped into the forest. It was cooler beneath the oak and birch. Soquili turned his horse toward the sound of running water.

  The path led up a hill, along a rough game trail that was too narrow for both horses to walk side by side. I followed Soquili, and from my vantage point I admired the smooth lines of his naked back as he flexed with his horse’s movements. Soquili glanced at me over his shoulder, smiling and talking with his hands as well as his voice. I returned the smile, encouraging the stories as I always did. His voice was gentle but confident, and it flowed like syrup.

  At the top of the trail, Soquili dismounted and held my horse while I slid off, then he led the way to a pretty little glen, flickering with yellow butterflies. Rocks and flowers were scattered around a tiny stream, illuminated into a golden ribbon by the sun. Soquili sat by me at the edge of the pool.

  It was wonderfully quiet away from the village. Only the cheery sounds of birds and the voice of the stream met our ears. Soquili didn’t speak, only leaned back against our shared boulder and closed his eyes.

  A dead tree beside me gave no shade to the boulder. The brittle gray stubs of its branches extended like bleached-out bones, reaching for the sky despite the fact it no longer required the sun. A woodpecker hopped up and down the trunk, cocking his head at various angles, looking for food. A puff of wind fluffed the soft black and white down on his chest, but the little hunter didn’t blink. He drew back his head, then hammered into the trunk with blinding speed, puncturing the still air. A moment later, a squirming insect hung from the long black beak. The bird glanced to his left then flew off, carrying his wriggling meal.

  The sound of his flight brought back to mind another bird: the raven who had watched me that night in the forest as I lay tied and bleeding. At that time, I would have given anything for the power to fly. Now, as I breathed in the cool, clean air, gazing at Soquili and knowing he cared, listening to the unintelligible chatter in the trees around me, I had no desire to fly anywhere. My heart yearned to meet Wolf in the flesh, but I knew he would come in his own time. For now, this was my impression of heaven. I sighed and closed my eyes.

  “Are you happy, Ma-kee?” Soquili asked.

  “Yes.” I sighed, not bothering to open my eyes. I was smiling, though, and I heard the smile in his voice when he spoke again.

  “Ma-kee?”

  “Mm-hmm?”

  “Are you happy with me?”

  The question was so simple, but finding the answer was not. I opened my mouth to speak, but he heard my hesitation. The tone of his voice changed.

  “Have I done something wrong?” he asked.

  I opened my eyes and turned to him. He was watching me closely, his dark eyes anxious.

  “No, Soquili, you haven’t done anything wrong. And everything about living in your village makes me happy. But…” I paused, not knowing if I should say anything more. No one knew about Wolf. No one but me. “There is something else, and I need to talk with you about it. It’s important.”

  “What is it?” he asked. “Tell me what you need and you will have it.”

  “What I need, Soquili, is for you to listen and understand.” I reached out and took his hands in mine. “It isn’t something you can do or have done. It is something I have always known.”

  A flicker of unease crossed his expression. I squeezed his hands, feeling the warmth of his tough skin against my palms.

  “I know it might be difficult for you to believe what I’m going to tell you. You can’t see what I do. But I need you to listen and believe what I say. It is something I have always dreamed—”

  “Wait,” he said. He pulled his hands out of mine and sat up straight, evidently wanting to end the conversation. “Say no more.”

  “I have to,” I said. “I can’t let you think that you and I—”

  “I want you by my side, Ma-kee. I would like us to be wed.”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His handsome features were drawn into a frown. Of confusion? Of anger? I couldn’t tell.

  “No,” I said gently. “Soquili, the—”

  “Ah, I understand,” he said, his face suddenly brightening with an easy smile. “I know why you think this. It is because you consider yourself to be a member of our clan already and know we cannot marry within our own clan. You do not need to worry about that. The law is different because you are a white woman. We have brought you into our family, but you and I can still marry. I’m sure of it.”

  “No, Soquili. What I’m trying to say—”

  He frowned again and looked down at his hands. “We can ask when we get back, to be sure, but I don’t think—”

  “Soquili, stop. I’m trying to tell you something. I’m trying to tell you that no matter what the laws of the tribe are, I cannot marry you.”

  There was a pause. I watched his exp
ression go through a number of changes.

  “You do not want me,” he stated, his words falling dead on the rocks.

  “That’s not it, Soquili. What I’m trying to say is that my dreams—”

  “Your dreams! Ha!” He slapped his hands on his knees and stood, towering over me. The corner of his mouth pulled in, almost into a sneer. “I knew it!”

  I had never seen Soquili angry before. I didn’t dare move. His black eyes flashed on me, and he spoke in a low, growling voice.

  “Your dreams, your magic, your gift from the spirit world. Pah! You can make them say whatever you want. You do not want me, you blame the dreams. You are wrong about something, and you blame them, too. If you do not want to marry me, Ma-kee, you should be strong enough to say it. And if that is so, why do you kiss me and hold my hand? Why do you look at me the way you do?”

  “I—” I said in a tiny voice, but stopped, having no idea where to start.

  “This is what I mean,” he fumed. “You cannot answer a question without consulting your dreams. You do not know what you want. I waited for you, Ma-kee. I trusted your eyes. Do not tell me some story about your dreams. Do not treat me like an idiot. The others may listen to every word you say, but I know you.”

  He disappeared into the trees, crackling twigs under his feet. I didn’t watch him go, but stared at the dead tree beside me, feeling wretched.

  He was right and he was wrong. To be fair, I did listen to my dreams, and paid close attention to them. But they didn’t rule my every decision. I thought for myself and always had. The dreams only provided insight and guidance.

  What hurt was when he had said I didn’t know what I wanted. It hurt because in many ways he was right. I didn’t know why I allowed myself to grow close to Soquili when my heart already belonged to Wolf. I liked being with Soquili, doing what we’d been doing. Before he came along, I had never felt protected or cared for by anyone other than Wolf. I had never expected to want to touch a man after what had happened to me in the woods.