by Vella Munn
He became aware of a slight pull in his arm and realized he'd been holding his spear aloft longer than he usually did—longer than he needed to. One of the garfish was within easy reach. He drove the spear at the fish, aiming slightly ahead of it because the water distorted its location. The fish instantly curled its body upward as if trying to embrace the spear now protruding from its back. He yanked the spear and its prisoner from the water and gave thanks to Breath Giver for this gift of food. He pulled the fish free, flipped it onto the ground, and focused on the pond again, hoping the other garfish hadn't been frightened away.
That was when he heard the sound. Yes, Piahokee was never silent—its wild music only changed from day to night creatures—but this was something different. Something that didn't belong.
Stepping out of the water, he crouched low. He held his spear at the ready and judged the distance between where he stood and the closest gumbo-limbo tree. He could reach it in two steps, but that might be too long if a bluecoat had spotted him.
No, not a bluecoat. Two Seminole scouts kept a constant eye on the army camped near Raccoon Point. If any of the enemy had been sent into Piahokee, he would know.
Watching, listening, smelling, he pulled his surroundings into him until it told him what he needed to know. There was one, a stranger who walked without wisdom or direction or strength. In no hurry now, he faded into the shadows and waited. After a few moments, he heard erratic footsteps and quick, tortured breathing. Although many of the plantations were still inhabited by whites, none of them would be so foolish as to come out here alone. That left only one thing: a slave seeking safety.
For no longer than a heartbeat, he wanted to turn his back on the newcomer and fade into the wilderness. Tastanagee they called him. War chief. Head of the Egret clan. The weight of those responsibilities never left him, only increased with each passing day. The child he'd once been had delighted in watching turtles lay their eggs in the sand, had known where to search for alligator holes. Freedom had been something he took for granted; now it was precious and precarious.
The newcomer's breathing became louder. And because Gaitor and others had told him what it meant to be a slave, he couldn't walk away from someone who might need him. Still, he would wait until the stranger revealed himself before stepping out of the shadows.
It was a woman. Her long, black hair was plastered against the sides of her face making it impossible for him to see her features. Still, because her ruined dress left her legs and forearms bare, he knew she was young and so light-skinned that she might pass as a white who spent her life in the sun. She didn't have enough fat on her body, was barely strong enough to hold up her slight weight. Her legs were caked with mud; her arms had been scratched uncounted times. She had no weapon, no shoes.
A whimpering sound escaped her lips. She stopped and looked around. When her gaze passed over where he stood, he noted the bright splotches of color on her cheeks, her dulled eyes, the way her mouth hung open. She didn't see him, and he wondered if she was capable of focusing on anything, of reacting to anything.
When she sank to the ground as lightly as a discarded feather, he felt his hand tighten around his spear. She wasn't Seminole. He wasn't responsible for her. He wasn't!
Dying.
As the word pushed its relentless way into her thoughts, Calida tried to silence it; she'd fought it so many times, and yet it always returned to mock her. She shouldn't care anymore; death would be a relief. But something continued to burn and fight inside her, and she couldn't destroy that any more than she could the belief that she wouldn't live through the day. Forcing her eyes open again, she realized she was staring at the ground. A grub-filled branch was only a few inches away. She concentrated on the tiny white creatures, not with revulsion but with the simple understanding that they belonged here while she didn't.
She wanted to cry, to care. To no longer care.
A prickling of her nerve endings tore her from her study of the grubs, but she had to fight for the strength to look up. She stared at a pair of legs.
Naked. Dark and muscled. Not Master Croon.
The legs became narrow hips, a single piece of leather covering his manhood, lean and hard waist, a too-broad chest. He carried a spear. It was aimed at her.
Not breathing, she struggled to her feet and backed away from the man, the savage. She tried to study his eyes to know what he was thinking, but her mind felt as if it was shattering. It recorded his size and strength, the spear again, the jungle that surrounded him. His mouth was hard. His shoulders seemed to extend forever. Was there any end to him? Heat washed through her. She knew it was the fever and cursed its control over her.
Backing away she again struggled to concentrate on his eyes, but all she knew was that they were black. His spear was pointed at her heart.
He was going to kill her.
Not dying anymore. Dead.
The last of her strength seeped from her legs. Still she willed herself to turn and run. She managed four, maybe five steps before he overtook her. His free arm snaked around her waist, and he lifted her off the ground, pulled her tight against him. She felt his cool skin, tried to scream, dug her ragged nails into his forearm. Growling, he flung her away from him. She tried to regain her balance, but there was nothing left of her.
Nothing except darkness.
* * *
Gaitor had just finished replacing a wind-torn chunk of bark from the roof of Panther's chickee when Panther stepped into the clearing. His friend carried an unconscious or dead woman over his shoulder, his burden barely heavy enough to unbalance his stance. Although others were already hurrying to Panther's side, Gaitor remained where he was, looking not at the woman but into Panther's eyes. The Seminole war chief returned his steady gaze and ignored old Pascofa who was trying to lift the woman's head.
Gaitor knew Panther had already taken note of what he'd been doing. Two days ago, Gaitor's hands had still been raw from the effort of digging his way out of the prison Reddin Croon had thrown him into. They were now healed enough that he no longer felt useless. To show his gratitude to Panther for having risked his own life coming after him, he'd been working on the chickee. He expected no gratitude, just as he knew Panther didn't want to hear the same words from him.
They were friends; that was enough.
"I never seen a fish like this one," he said when he joined those clustered around Panther. He indicated the woman. "She puts up much of a fight?"
"Not much." Panther shrugged to reposition her but made no move to put her down or turn her over to someone. Maybe she was dead. "Has there been any word about the bluecoats?"
"No. But Osceola—"
"My chief?" Panther glanced around. "Where is he?"
"Not here," Pascofa said before Gaitor could speak. Suddenly everyone was talking at once. Thinking to let the others explain, Gaitor turned his attention to the woman, but Panther called his name. Again he met the war chief's gaze.
"Tell me," Panther ordered as if the nearly one hundred Seminole and Negro men, women, and children who made up the village didn't exist.
"Osceola sent a runner with a message," Gaitor explained. "He wants to talk to you, but he don't feel up to leavin' his village."
Panther didn't say anything, but then he didn't have to. The day Gaitor made his way back to the village Panther had told him that Osceola the Great Warrior had again been taken by swamp sickness. Malaria, whites called it. Osceola lacked the strength to visit the far-flung clans that made up the Seminole nation.
"I tole the runner you'd come soon as ya could."
"Hm." Again Panther shrugged. When the woman started to slide off his shoulder, Gaitor leaned forward and took her slight weight in his own arms. She stirred and opened her eyes just enough for him to see that they were tinged with fever. She felt hot. Maybe she, like Osceola, had caught swamp sickness.
"Where you fine her?" he asked.
Panther's answer did little to satisfy Gaitor's curiosity, but he knew b
etter than to push for more information. Once, he'd been told, Panther had been as talkative as any other, but the closer the army came, the more silent he became. Gaitor understood, maybe more than anyone else, that when a man's heart is heavy, there is little room for words.
The woman groaned and stirred again. Others crowded in around him eager for a close look at her. Her Negro blood had been thinned until she was the color of pineland brush. No one had to tell him why; some white man had fooled around with her mother, and maybe with her mother's mother. She was beautiful. At least she would be if she wasn't such a mess.
"She saved my life," Panther said.
"Saved? I don't under—the woman at Reddin Croon's plantation?"
Panther nodded but said nothing more. His eyes stayed on Calida. When Pascofa tapped his elbow, indicating he should carry his burden to the healer's chickee, Gaitor turned in that direction but kept his attention fixed on Panther who, like him, was taller than most of the others. "You know what Osceola wants, don't ya?" he asked. "He hates this runnin' en hidin'. He wants we should stand and fight."
"I want the same thing."
"But—"
"I am a tastanagee," Panther interrupted. "It is not in my heart to hide like a deer." He looked around, his attention finally settling on a couple of Seminole boys so young that they couldn't run without falling. "I want them to know the world I did when I was their age. I want—I do not know when I will be back." Reaching out, Panther pushed hair away from the woman's face. His features didn't soften. He gave no sign of his emotions, and yet Gaitor understood. Panther, tastanagee of the Egret clan, owed his life to this maybe dying woman.
Just as Gaitor Man owed his to Panther.
* * *
The healer wanted to treat the woman in private. His magic, he said, would be strong only if nothing came between it and his patient. But Panther had asked Gaitor to watch over the woman, and he would do what his friend and chief wanted. Still, he knew enough to sit at the far end of the chickee so he wouldn't disturb the spirits and witches the healer would try to drive out of her. Because the chickee had no enclosed sides, others occasionally peeked in. When they did, the healer chased them off. He left Gaitor alone, however. There were, Gaitor admitted, benefits to being a head taller and much broader than most men.
The healer had ordered his wife to clean the patient. Calida stirred and moaned while water ran over her lacerations. Although she kept opening her eyes, Gaitor guessed she had no knowledge of her surroundings. It had taken his own strong legs more than three days to reach the village. This woman looked as if she'd been walking for much longer than that.
The healer took various herbs from several small baskets and dumped them into a larger one. Then he mixed them together with his sacred turkey feather and sprinkled water that he'd blessed over that. Next he put one tip of his hollow cane medicine tube in the mixture and blew on it. Only then did he take a handful and place it on the woman's chest. He chanted and called out to the evil spirits, exhorting them to leave her. His voice dropped to a whisper so no one could steal his magic words.
"Mama. Ma-ma."
Gaitor leaned forward, concentrating. She repeated herself, the single word both harsh and soft. Her surprisingly strong-looking fingers clenched and unclenched; her eyes fluttered several times but didn't stay open.
"Mama. Mama, please..."
Grunting in satisfaction, the healer placed more sacred herbs on her forehead. She tried to brush them away, but he grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the ground. A shudder worked its way through her body. She bucked and tried to escape.
"You will help me," the healer ordered Gaitor. "I can do nothing if she fights me."
Gaitor hurried over to the woman and did as he'd been ordered. Her eyes were wide open now but not focusing. Although her flesh still felt hot to the touch, her teeth chattered. Her chest heaved under what there was of her thin dress. When she sucked in her breath, her ribs stuck out.
"You lissens to me," Gaitor said. "If you wants to live, you gots to do as we tells ya."
"Mama?"
"I ain't yur mama, gal. I's a runaway, just like you."
At the word runaway, her eyes became bright and sharp. She stopped her struggling, blinked once. "Who—are you?"
"Ya don' know me. My massa called me Benjamin. Now I's Gaitor. I ain't never goin' back ta Benjamin."
"Gai... Where am I?"
He told her that she was in the village of the Seminole Egret clan but doubted she knew what he was talking about, or that she was capable of holding onto the explanation. Her recent struggle, plus the fact that she'd made it here alive, told him there was a hidden strength to her, but she barely looked sturdy enough for the lightest house chores. Of course if she'd been used as he figured she had, a strong back wasn't important.
"What ya doin' here, gal?" he asked. "Where ya come from? Panther, he says ya saved his life. Ya belon' to Massa Croon?"
"Croon?" She tried to sit up, fell back on the ground. "Where—?"
"He ain't here. No one is 'cept for the Seminole and fifteen, maybe sixteen runaways."
"Seminoles? This—I made it."
A sob caught in her throat at the end. She blinked at a tear, then closed her eyes. "Mama." She barely whispered the word. "Mama."
"Yur mama ain't here, gal."
"Not—I didn't want to leave her. I begged her to come. Told her I couldn't live without her, but..."
"But what?"
"He was going to kill me."
He wanted to ask who, but she might not be willing to say any more than she already had. He knew the fear, the horror of knowing someone held the power of life or death over him. He didn't talk about that helplessness and sensed she didn't want to either. "Tell me 'bout yur mama," he prompted. "She knows where you is, does she?"
"She told me—told me to follow the river. I didn't want..." Although tears dampened her lashes and ran off her cheeks, she didn't sob. "I didn't want to leave her."
He took her hand and squeezed it gently. The bones of her fingers shouldn't remind him of Lilly's, but they did.
Lilly, his wife.
Lilly, the mother of his son.
Lilly, who he hadn't seen for three years because his master had sold him away from his family and brought him to the godforsaken place called Florida.
Struggling against the memory of another time and place, of lost love, he released the girl's hand. He wanted to stalk away, but if she set to fighting again, she might harm herself, and he didn't want that. "You rest, you hear?" he ordered roughly. "You's safe here."
"Safe?"
"Panther'll make sure."
"Panther?" She opened her eyes again. Tears still swam in them. "Who...?"
"You'll know soon 'nough. Iffen you lives."
Chapter 5
Holding himself to a steady jog, Panther easily made his way through the wilderness. He'd left his chief a little after dawn, and if he didn't stop he would be back at his own village before nightfall. Osceola, weak but clearheaded, had wanted him to stay. There'd been five other war chiefs there, each willing to share his tobacco pouch.
But he wanted his people to know what he'd learned, especially Gaitor, who had to be told that the army had captured fifty-two escaped slaves near Withlacoochee Cove. His thoughts firmly on the Negro who'd become a brother to him since the long night the two had spent telling each other things no one else knew, he divided his attention between the uneven trail and the swampy land, which might conceal alligators or snakes.
Gaitor knew of Panther's hatred for all bluecoats, of his fear that his people would never again know peace and might one day be forced onto a reservation. In return, he knew that Gaitor still mourned the wife and child he hadn't seen for more than three winters.
Their tongues hadn't been loosened by ueho'mee, the white man's drink. When they found themselves the only ones still awake after a successful hunt, he had thought he'd only speak to Gaitor for a few minutes before retreating into the sil
ence that had become part of his nature. That was before Gaitor told him he'd cast off his slave name, that living on white men's cattle, speared fish, and skinned snakes was better than what he'd had before he escaped his master.
Master.
After peering into the underbrush to assure himself that all he'd seen was a small deer, Panther let his thoughts go back to the word. Runaway slaves had been taking refuge with Seminoles since before he was born. He'd grown up hearing the Negroes talk about white men who owned other men's bodies, but he'd never understood what that meant. To be a Seminole was to be free; anything else was impossible. Unacceptable.
Gaitor knew that the color of a person's skin determined whether that person could live as he wanted or remained alive only as long as another willed it.
To have someone else have the power of life and death over him—
Was that why the woman had run? He understood a strong, healthy man like Gaitor fleeing into Piahokees, but the woman who'd cut him free didn't belong here. She'd been raised to live within her master's house. Her soft hands and legs had told him that. Although he hadn't seen her back, her exposed flesh showed no sign of having ever felt a whip. Why then had she risked her life by coming here?
And why had she freed him?
He shook his head in an attempt to remove her from his thoughts, but she remained there, a small, warm presence. She might be dead. If she was, he would never know more about her than he already did. But if she lived—
If she did, he would thank her for saving his life, tell her she would always have a place among the Seminoles. That was all.
* * *
It had rained much of the time he was on the trail, but it had stopped a little while ago, and the ground at the edge of the clearing had begun to dry. Panther took note of that in a single glance, then swept his eyes over the village. It was winter. They should have erected houses capable of withstanding torrential storms, but the twenty-some chickees were hastily erected structures without raised palmetto wood floors, attic storage area, or enclosed sides. Still, watching several children playing while their mothers either roasted ears of corn or pounded the dried kernels into meal gave him a sense of peace. At least they'd been here long enough to have raised their most vital crop along with sweet potatoes, beans, and squash. If they had to leave, they'd be dependent on what Piahokee provided because their cattle were gone, stolen by the army.