The Golden Dove

by Jo Ann Wendt

  Master bobbed to the surface shouting, flailing his arms, and spitting water. 44Hulp! I dinna swim! Hulp!"

  Her heart pounded wildly. She didn't like Master. But he was her master! He belonged to her and she belonged to him. Bystanders laughed, and Pax galloped back and forth, barking merrily, thinking it a game.

  Meanwhile, Master was in terrible straits. Air had billowed under his jacket, lifting him just enough to keep his nose out of water. But the tide had turned! Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly he was floating down the canal toward the river. Like a great croaking bullfrog riding a lily pad out to sea.

  Feeling the tide, Master shrieked. 44Hulp—hulp!"

  The bystanders only laughed harder and strolled along the canal bank, accompanying him, watching him go. Jericho's throat constricted violently.

  44Dove, that's enough!"

  She whirled. A brawny young man with angry brown eyes came running across the tap-house yard hand-in-hand with a servant girl whose eyes were huge with fright.

  44Damn you, Dove!"

  4 4Lor' Dove, ye promised, ye promised—" the girl wailed.

  44He started it," the goldenhaired man shouted back at them, and Jericho whirled.

  44I don't care!" the brawny young man shouted back,

  dropping the girl's hand and barreling up onto the footbridge. "Fish him out! Damn it, Dove, one more fiasco in this colony ..."

  The man called Dove didn't like it. But he gave in. "All right," he snapped crossly. "I'll put the creature out of its misery." In his lightning-quick way, he loped from the bridge to the tap house yard, halted, and looked around. Heart pounding, Jericho thought he was looking for a pole to fish Master out. Instead, he pounced on the woodpile ax, grabbed it and loped back to the canal.

  Jericho's pounding heart rose to her throat. Master spied the ax coming, and his weak, watery yelps grew to shrieks of terror. "Neen! Neen! Stoppen ye young fool!"

  Strolling along the bank, keeping pace with the tide, buckskin clad sutlers and trappers threw back their heads and loosed roars of laughter. Jericho clutched her bundle. Wasn't anybody going to do anything?

  Positioning himself at the edge of the canal, Dove hoisted the ax. Master screamed. So did the frightened servant girl. Dove hovŁ, and Jericho squeezed her eyes shut, flinching, waiting for the awful thud. It didn't come. Instead, the flat of the blade cracked water and droplets flew like a rain shower. Laughter roared. When Jericho's eyes flew open, Dove was leaning out into the canal, grinning, extending the axe handle to Master.

  After a dazed moment, Master thrashed toward it. He was hauled up the steep bank and dumped there, like a gaffed fish. He heaved and gasped for air. Jericho felt faint with relief.

  "Stoppen, stoppen," Master begged pitifully, crawling away as fast as he could, sodden clothes trailing in the dirt, his boot tops spurting canal water. As bystanders howled and the golden Dove grinned, Master twice tried to find his feet, fell, tried again and at last went careening down the lane as fast as his weaving pitching steps could carry him.

  Jericho clutched her bundle and bolted after him, glad to go. Pax came galloping, too. As she ran, she threw a scared look over her shoulder. Dove? He wasn't any "dove," he was a hawk, a vulture.

  She caught up with Master at the bottom of the lane. Feeling sorry for him, she gently reached for his elbow to steady him, but he wheeled in his squishing boots and cracked her so hard her ears rang. "Begone, wart," he growled.

  Holding her smarting ear, she backed away with a scared pounding heart. "W-w-what?"

  "Begone," he thundered. "Ye stupid, stuttering brat. Ye be goldy hair's problem now. And good riddance!'' He cursed her, then humped his shoulders and stomped off. He didn't look back. She watched him go.

  For a long while, her heart beat painfully. She'd belonged to Master for a whole year. She'd begun to think he might keep her. She'd begun to pretend he was her father. Sudden hot tears scorched her cheeks. She knuckled them away.

  "I don't care," she said shakily. "I don't care."

  Sitting at her feet, gazing up at her with curiosity, Pax cocked his head. She put her bundle down, knelt, and hugged him. She hugged him for a long time, burying her face deep in his coat. She cried. When she felt better, when the pain had dulled to a throbbing ache, she wiped her eyes, picked up her bundle, and stood. Heart pounding, she slowly made her way up the lane to her new master.

  With the spectacle over, the gamesters had drifted back into the tap house. Only the golden Dove and the brawny, brown-eyed young man stood in the lane, and they were arguing.

  "Thank you very much, John," Dove snapped, his bright, irritated eyes sweeping her in as she gingerly approached. She halted at a cautious distance; she couldn't swim, either. Pax kept his distance, too. He crouched in the lane, his perplexed eye on Dove, his battle-scarred ears curling up and down like flags on a flag pole each time the curt voice spoke. "Do you have any other wonderful ideas to ruin my birthday?"

  Jericho swallowed uneasily.

  "Don't whine, milord. It don't become you. Great day, have a little patience, can't you? It's only until the bondslave market opens tomorrow. Though why you can't play a simple game without bashing a tap room to shambles is beyond me,

  Dove, it is. Sometimes I think you're insane. Gimme your purse."

  "He came at me with a knife!"

  "Do tell!" John grabbed the pouch handed him, yanked it open, shook coins into his palm and angrily flung the pouch back at Dove. "You know a hundred ways to take a knife away from a man without starting a brawl. I've seen you do it. No, Dove. You brawled because you just plain wanted to. And now there's Lizzie cryin' her eyes out, hiding in the kitchen, scared for Dieter Ten Boom to come back." He gave the coins in his fist an angry shake. "I'll try 'n make it up to her. And I'll try 'n make it up to Ten Boom. Though prob'ly he'll prefer your scalp to your money."

  Bondslave market? Was she going to be sold again? Wasn't this master going to keep her either? She anxiously pressed her lips together.

  "And in the meantime, what do I do with that?1' Bright hazel eyes scorched her. The eyes were as bright and roily as a bucket of minnows.

  "Great day, use your common sense. Take it home and feed it. The child looks starved."

  "This is my birthday!"

  "So, natal day felicitations, milord. It's my natal day too, if you'll but stop to give it a second's thought. And you've done precious little to make it a happy one."

  With that, but with a gender glance at her, John tramped up onto the stoop and disappeared into the tap house. Jericho watched him go with anxiety. She wished he would stay. She liked John. He had a kind face. She whipped scared eyes back to Dove. He was sighing gustily.

  "This is the worst birthday I've ever had in my life." He suddenly winged a glance at her. As if looking for sympathy. Was she supposed to feel sorry for him? She had never had a birthday. She didn't know where she'd been born or when. She only knew the year.

  "Do you speak English?" he demanded. She nodded hastily, hoping it would please him. She'd had English masters as well as Dutch. But nothing pleased him. "Is that ridiculous moth-eaten bear rug yours?"

  She followed his glance to Pax, swallowed anxiously, but nodded firmly. Pax was hers. She wasn't going to part with him. Not even if the golden Dove took a stick and beat her. Pax belonged to her. He'd belonged to her ever since the day she'd found him in the woods, a puppy in pain, his eye gouged out, probably by mean vicious boys who'd thought it a prank.

  'This is the worst day of my life."

  It was a low moment.iier soul seemed to drown in misery. She felt miserable and anxious and unwanted. This master wasn't going to keep her, either. She knew by the disgusted way he humped his shoulders. She bit her lip and concentrated on a trail of ants that were heading for a damp spot near her toes, where someone had spilled beer in the lane.

  He sighed and studied her disspiritedly.

  "Look, sucker, are you hungry?"

  Her eyes flew to his in startled surprise
. Although the words were mean, the tone wasn't. The tone was civil, almost friendly. She gazed at him with rising hope. "My-my-my dog is hungry, too."

  "Oh, hell! Somehow I feared he would be." He sighed, then sighed again, this time in resignation. The golden Dove was a constant sigher. "I'll get my coat and hat. Wait right here, understand? Don't move an inch. I don't want to have to hunt for you all over the whole damned settlement."

  In his lightning-quick way he was in and out of the tap house in seconds, emerging as he buckled on a sword, his coat and hat slung over one arm. He swung off down the lane with long rapid strides and was across the footbridge in a flash. She breathed anxiously. Was she supposed to follow? He'd ordered her not to move. Maybe he only meant to send food from his house, by servant.

  He was halfway down the lane on the other side of the canal when he looked back, halted in exasperation and draped his hands on his slim hips. "Well, what are you waiting for," he shouted. "A written invitation?"

  On. the walk to his house, Jericho tried her best to please him. But it was impossible. Nothing pleased him. Whenever she didn't walk fast enough, he turned and said, "What are you, a snail? Hustle!" And if she broke into a trot, trying to keep up with his rapid strides, he said, "Where's the fire?"

  Pax made his own judgment. He slunk along in the rear, tail low, his perplexed, glowing eye on Dove. Each time Dove glanced over his shoulder, Pax bounded to a tree and hid behind it.

  At one point, Dove glanced at her with bright, irritated eyes and wrenched her bundle out of her arms, slinging it over his shoulder, carrying it along with his coat and hat. It was a nice thing to do, and she was surprised. Still, he didn't think much of her. That was plain. Whenever he glanced at her, his glance dismissed her with disgust. But by and by, he got used to her and grudgingly began to talk.

  "What's your name? Your indenture's written in Dutch. Hell, I can't read Dutch."

  "Jer-Jer-Jericho." She took care not to slacken her pace.

  He shot her an impatient look. "That's not a name."

  Startled, she looked up and nearly tripped on a gnarled tree root that was working its way up through the hardpacked dirt surface of the lane. "It-it-it isn't?"

  "Hell, no! It's a place. You know. Jericho. The trumpets blew, the walls came tumbling down, Joshua fought the battle, all of that?" She didn't have the least idea what he was talking about, and it made her nervous. "It-it's my name," she said firmly.

  He shrugged. "Have it your way."

  They skirted a pile of pig droppings. Squashed, the droppings sent up a rank odor. Black flies glittered in the muck like the bits of shiny black obsidian that Indians prized and used for arrowheads, when they could find it.

  "What's your last name?"

  "I-I-I don't have-have one," she said softly. It was a deep hurt, not having a last name. Other bondslaves had last names. She didn't. Her mother, whoever her mother had been, hadn't liked her enough to give her one. Her mother had sold her at birth, nameless. It was the birthmarks, she'd long ago decided. The ugly birthmarks. And the ugly freckles.

  Dove studied her with those bright, keen eyes.

  "Well, hell," he said, "that's nothing to be so down-in- the-mouth about. It's easily solved. There're a million names in the world. God's soup, just pick one! Take it and make it yours. There's no need to mope like a ninny about a problem that's easily solved."

  Her head popped up and she nearly tripped on another tree root. She gazed at him with gripping interest. The sun was starting to go down and goodwives were out in the lanes, performing their last task of the day, sweeping their stoops.

  "W-which-which-which name?"

  Dove shrugged. "Hell, any name. Why ask me? Use your head. You don't want a fancy name, of course. You want something plain. Something in keeping with your station in life. Smith, Brown, Jones. One of those."

  She drew an excited breath. She walked along, her gaze intently on the ground. She silently mouthed each name, saying it to herself. She tried "Smith" and stuttered. She tried "Brown" and stuttered. She didn't stutter on Jones.

  "Jones!" she said excitedly.

  "Jones, it is," he agreed. "You're Jericho Jones now." In an unexpected spurt of generosity he added, "I'll write it on your indenture tonight, if you like. Make it official, eh?"

  For a moment, she forgot she was scared of him and gave him a happy smile, and, for a fleeting moment, he returned it. "You've a nice smile, grubworm," he said. "Now, you can stop moping like a gutless ninny, eh? Hell's bells, what are you, a man or a mouse!"

  She was a girl, she remembered in a scary flash. If he found out, he would throw her into the canal. A girl's indenture wasn't worth anything. That's why Master'd made her dress like a boy. Nervous, she edged away from the golden Dove and walked on the outside of the lane. But she walked a little prouder now. Now she was somebody. She wasn't a nobody anymore. She had a last name. It was going to be written into her indenture. She was Jericho Jones.

  "Are you a boy or a girl?"

  She almost jumped out of her skin. Tripping over a tree root that jutted up in the lane, she caught herself and threw him a scared look. He was a duivel. He could see into minds.

  "A b-b-boy," she said quickly.

  "Well let me tell you, Pansy Eyes. You're the queerest boy I ever saw."

  They trod along in silence, Lord Dove brisk and easy and flirting with goodwives who batted their eyelashes and called greetings, Jericho treading on eggs, every muscle tight, tense. But when he didn't flush out her secret, she breathed easier.

  "Lor-lor-lord Dove?'

  "Give over! If you can't say 'Lord' without carrying on like a chittering squirrel, then call me Dove. Holy Mary, you sound like your tongue is caught on a washboard."

  "Dove." She tried hard not to stutter. "Dove, are-are y- you going to keep me?" She had to know. Not knowing was always the worst part. It made every day a worry.

  "Hell, no," he said cheerfully. "I'm going to sell you. The very first chance I get."

  "Oh."

  She didn't know if she was sad or glad. She stole a glance at him. Queer? She wasn't queer, he was. He was the queerest master she'd ever had. Knocking tap rooms to smithereens. Throwing people into canals and fishing them out with axes. Carrying bundles for bondslaves. She stole another quick glance at him. She'd never known a master who would carry a bundle for a bondslave.

  "Besides," he said, slamming the door on hope, "you stutter. It would drive me stark raving mad."

  Jericho drew a glum breath. Nobody wanted a stutterer.

  The sun had just set. Light was being leached from the canal, leaving an afterglow. Twilight had descended, and shadows were gathering in the lane like velvet, hiding the tree roots that twisted up in gnarled loops, trying to trip her. Dove's pace didn't slacken. Nor could hers. Hurrying in his wake, she followed him around two grunting sows that were bedding down in the lane for the night, hollowing out cozy sleeping places with their snouts. Just as she picked up her pace, hurrying to keep up, a hairy tree root snaked out of nowhere and brought her down. She hit the ground hard.

  Shock was the first thing she felt. Then, pain. Dragging herself up, she crouched in the lane and clutched her knee.

  "What now!" Lord Dove called. "Holy Mary, but you're a lot of trouble."

  Her chest heaved. "I-M fell."

  "Oh, hell." He strolled back to her and disgustedly draped his hands on his hips. "I suppose you're going to cry about it."

  She had been. But not now. Now she wouldn't cry even if he poked her with a sharp stick. Blinking hard, she shook her head no, and when Pax came nosing she shoved him away.

  Dove sighed. "Let's have a look."

  Unbuckling his sword, he tossed it aside along with coat, hat, bundle. He squatted and they examined the wound together. Beneath the torn breeches, the skin lay as scraped and pink as a peeled peach. Tiny pinpoints of blood were rising.

  "What should I do?" Dove asked uncertainly, and she looked at him in surprise. She'd thought he knew
everything. But suddenly he sounded young and unsure.

  "Do y-you have-have a handkerchief?" Her knee burned.

  "Of course! What do you think? I wipe snot on my sleeve?"

  "I mean may-maybe we could tie it a-around my knee."

  "Oh." Generous, he produced the handkerchief at once. But when she worked clumsily, he wrenched it out of her hands. "Oh, for God's sake, let me." He sat down in the lane, Indian fashion. "I don't believe this," he muttered. "The fourth spn of the earl of Arleigh, sitting in a lane full of pig shit, playing nursemaid to a grubworm."

  She braced herself for rough treatment, for rough hands and pain. But to her surprise, Dove's touch was as gentle as a kitten's. Even when he had to flick bits of pebble and dirt out of her scrape, he did so with featherlike touches and concerned glances, demanding over and over again, "Did that hurt? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

  She watched him in utter wonder. Queer? He was the queerest master in all the world. She didn't know what to think of him.

  Twilight deepened all around them, descending like a soft, glowing blanket. Sounds faded. The sharp distinct outlines of trees and houses blurred pleasantly. It was cozy huddling in the lane with Dove as the day throbbed to a close. In the tree branches that arched overhead, birds twittered frantically, having one last conversation before tucking head under wing and going to sleep. Pax yawned and curled up in the lane, too. All of New Amsterdam seemed to pause, waiting for the last stroke of day, waiting for the cannon boom that would signal it. Even the tap houses grew peaceful. So did Lord Dove.

  "Better?" he murmured.

  "Y-yes. Much b-better."

  To show him she meant it she smiled, and to her surprise, he smiled back. Not an impatient one this time, but a peaceful one. He's veiy handsome, she thought softly. His clean golden hair possessed a life of its own, glowing even without the sun in it. She liked his sweaty smell. He smelled young and healthy.

  The cannon boomed down at the tip of Manhattan Island. Sleeping birds awoke and screeched as if their tree were afire. A moment later, the boom rolled upward over the island, over the rivers, and then out into the wilderness, echoing.