by Karen Kay
He stepped back toward her. “And who gives these people special rights that others do not have?”
“Why the king of course.”
“The King of England?”
“Naturally.”
“Not the Creator, who made all men?”
She frowned. “Say what you mean.”
“Did not the Creator make the king, as well as all human beings? Are we not all here in His image? And if this is so, then all people should have the same privileges, not simply a king.”
She frowned. “Sir, what you are saying strikes at rebellion, and I cannot consider it. For, if all of us have the same privileges in the eye of the Creator, then the king would have no authority at all.”
“But think, do your own Black Robes not teach that He favors no one man over another?”
She paused. Frowning, she said, “You have taken the concept too far, sir. If what you say were true, then we would all of us have the same intelligence, the same talents, the same beauty. This is easily disproved. Therefore, the Creator must favor some over others. Besides, most people are happy to have no responsibility, to do no more than to serve another.”
Black Eagle shook his head. “I have not observed what you say. All people want the same things. They want to eat and be well, to marry and have a family, to watch their family grow and to help them along the way. Where are these people who are happy to have no life of their own, but live only to apply themselves to the will of another?”
“Sir, you confuse me. There are those who command and those who serve. It has always been so.”
“It has not always been so. Not with my people. A man is not quite a man unless he is free to determine his own destiny.”
She smirked. “This is easily contradicted, sir. If what you say is so, there would be no leaders. Are you telling me that you have no leaders?”
“We have leaders, but a sachem amongst my people would never presume to tell another man how to live or expect him to do no more with his life than serve the sachem. In my village, a man or a woman is free to make up his or her own mind about all matters concerning their own needs.” He stepped toward her. “Our chiefs meet in council, not to force people to do their will or command them, but rather to straighten out problems and determine how to serve the people better.”
“How to serve? A leader, a mere servant? I find that hard to believe. How can a man be in charge of a group of people and not only not tell them what to do, but act toward them in no more capacity than a servant? How is anything to be done?”
“We do much. Do you not have ample proof?”
“What proof?”
“We have fed the English and the Dutch when they were starving. Even the German was welcomed into our homes when his children were crying. We tend our fields, we protect our boundaries and our enemies fear us, for we are unequalled in war.”
Marisa wasn’t certain what to say. Such thoughts were ideas she had never considered, and she wished to have more time to mull them over. However, when she didn’t respond, he went on to add, “All men are and ought to be free to determine what is best for themselves and their families.”
She shook her head. “Yes, but, sir, consider. If this were so, who then would cook the dinners? Who then would do the many menial jobs that need being done for any society to exist? It sounds like chaos to me.”
“It is not chaos. You come to my village and see for yourself.”
“I may do that one day. But not now. For now, it is my intention to reach Portsmouth, New Hampshire. That is quite enough for me. All I know is that there are those who rule and those who serve. And I am quite happy with the arrangement.”
“Perhaps that is because you command. Tell me, do you consider yourself superior to me? Or perhaps to Miss Sarah because she is your maid? Do you think Miss Sarah would be happier waiting on others or devoting her energies to making her own life?”
“I…” Marisa hesitated. She didn’t know how to respond to such radical thoughts, and she stammered, “I…I…”
Picking up his musket, Black Eagle stepped toward her. “Although I realize that you may have been taught that some men exist to be subservient to another and not to follow the path of their own lives, I do not agree. There are some aspects of life that cannot be taken from a man.”
“Oh?” She scowled at him. “And what things are you speaking of, sir?”
He paused directly in front of her. “A man who is a man, regardless of who rules over whom, will think his own thoughts, he will have his own opinions, and he will speak those opinions even if someone tries to keep him from doing so. These qualities are well known to my people. It is why we encourage debate, and why a man must speak well for himself.”
He reached out toward her, but realizing what he was doing and the direction his hand was taking, he drew back. “The ability to think for himself is as natural as the blood that runs through a man’s body. But I dare not mention the one matter that cannot be taken from a man…”
“Oh? And that is?”
“He will admire whomever he chooses, regardless of what others might try to enforce on him.”
“Sir, are you saying that you no longer adhere to your grandmother’s advice? Or to that of your people?”
“No. Always I must have the good of my people uppermost in my mind, and I will consider the advice of my elders.”
“So truly,” she argued, “you are not really as free to think your own thoughts as you would like me to believe, since your beliefs must adhere to others’ wishes.”
“I…” He frowned at her. Then he smiled. “You surprise me.”
“Sir?”
“I will have to give your words some attention.”
“Why?”
“Because you speak wisely.”
“Me? Wise?”
“Beauty and wisdom.”
She was stunned and silent for the space of a moment. At some length, she observed, “What a strange land this is, where a man does not bow down to a monarch. And where a man is free to not only think his own thoughts, but to speak them.”
“It is the land of the Mohawk, the land of the Iroquois.”
She sighed, then whispered, “Perhaps it is simply the manner in which I was raised, but I fear I still disagree with your philosophy.”
“It is your right.”
“So it is. Still, Sir Eagle, you must agree that some men are more able than others.”
He nodded.
“And because this is so, such a man should rule another.”
Leaning down toward her, he whispered in her ear, “A man might have more natural talent than another, but if he should give in to the impulse to enslave another to his will, he is doomed.”
It was becoming apparent to her that they were speaking of one thing yet doing another, and to counteract the urge to throw herself into his arms, she took a step backward, away from him. “Did you say doomed, sir?”
“I did.”
“At risk of repeating myself, I dare to disagree.”
Again, Black Eagle shook his head. “Being able to foresee events and problems that others cannot envision gives a man the duty to help others to see. As our elders have taught us, he who would stoop to enslave always becomes himself enslaved in the end. His destiny is forever damned.”
She blew out her breath, mayhap to show him that she still disagreed, but instead the motion came out as a sigh, and she barely controlled the urge to swoon toward him.
He continued, “Perhaps the Creator made it so as a test of a man’s nature. But as our elders have often counseled, he who abuses his power over another is ruined, and from that moment on, is forever cursed. He might amass material things, but that is all he can, all he will ever have. His future, his soul, is forever destroyed.”
She gasped. Whether he knew it or not, Black Eagle had
struck a chord with her. In telling her what he had, he might have been discussing her step-uncle. Her step-uncle had amassed material wealth, he commanded others, he had in the past destroyed others for profit. Was he forever doomed? And, since she was raised by him, was she also doomed?
Stunned momentarily, she became restrained. Turning away from Black Eagle, she paced back to the bridge and placed a dainty foot upon its edge. She noticed that the moon was higher in the sky and had changed color. Now, instead of the water reflecting orange-colored jewels, it looked to be a cascade of shimmering diamonds, floating aimlessly toward an unknown source. She was tired, however. Moreover, she wanted time to consider these matters at her leisure. “Let us not argue about this. Can we not agree that we do not agree?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice close behind her. “Again, you speak wisely.”
She stepped out farther onto the bridge, and silence fell over the two of them, until she asked, “Won’t you join me here?”
“No, I can better protect you from where I am.”
“Protect me?” She turned too suddenly, and the bridge swung out from underneath her. Quickly, she took hold of the railing, and gaining her footing, righted herself. “I was about to say that I felt we were in a safe place, but perhaps I had better state such things once I reach firmer ground.”
She smiled and had barely uttered the words, when a shot rang out beside her. As though in slow motion, she realized that she could feel the air of that passing musket ball as it sailed much too close to her head. Was it intended for her?
“Get down!” shouted Black Eagle.
But the bridge was already swinging to and fro, and she was slow to action, and as another shot rang out, she felt again the wind of the passing bullet. This time the reality of what was happening became a horror, and she screamed.
Meanwhile, Black Eagle had leapt toward her, and tackling her, he pushed her down onto the bridge. Their action only served to set the bridge, which was already swinging, into further motion, and within moments, one of the ends of the bridge came loose. It shot downward, then stopped.
“Stay with me,” Black Eagle coaxed. “We will slowly crawl back to solid ground.”
But it was useless. No sooner had they started a crawl toward the shoreline than another shot rang out, but this time it hit the knots holding the bridge secure. At once, the rope unraveled, came loose from its ends and the bridge collapsed.
Marisa screamed, and Black Eagle yelled, “It’s going down, hold tight to me!”
They plummeted feet first into the cold, liquid depths of the stream. The water wasn’t deep, perhaps no more than six feet, and they hadn’t far to fall. Although it was a given that they would most likely survive the dive, the mere shock of the cold water might have caused Marisa to panic and drown herself, were it not for Black Eagle, who kept a firm arm around her.
A wooden log from the bridge came down fast and hit her in the shoulder as it went sailing down the stream. She screamed under the impact, and then the undertow took hold of them, washing them downstream.
“Do not fight the water,” Black Eagle shouted at her, as she kicked out against him.
“But we’ll drown!”
“We will not drown. I will not let you. Hold tight.” A strong current momentarily tugged them below the surface. He quickly emerged, bringing her with him.
They were riding out what seemed to her to be a watery highway. There were sharp rocks and shoals waiting, however—she remembered seeing them from her former perch on the bridge.
Soon she realized her feet could touch the bottom, and she could stand up against the flow of the stream, though the water came up to her chin. But she couldn’t move, the impact of the water was that strong.
A muscular arm still held her round the waist, and she looked up to see that Black Eagle was forcing his way to the shore, bringing her with him. Only a few feet stood between them and safety.
It might have been a hundred feet if only because the power of the water barely allowed for movement. This man must be made of pure determination, she thought, for it wasn’t easily done. He doggedly plodded his way to shore, even though the current kept tugging them farther and farther downstream.
Never had Marisa swum in water that swirled and dipped and coaxed a person under its surface so furiously. Yet the shore became ever closer and closer until all at once Black Eagle picked her up in his arms and carried her out of the water, up the stream’s steep banks.
They were wet. They were both breathing heavily, but as Black Eagle set her down, not even the mud and the sharp rocks could daunt her from the urge to kiss both him and the ground.
Throwing herself in his arms, she did exactly that. Had she been on her own in that water, she might have given up hope. She might have drowned.
Luckily for her, Black Eagle had been there for her.
He set her on the rocky shoreline, brought himself up over her and bending, kissed her firmly on the lips. She kissed him right back with fervor. The kiss was long, and he seemed to suck the breath right out of her. When she squirmed beneath him, unable to breathe, he must have realized what effect he was having, for he blew breath into her, then he drew away.
She gasped. But the good Lord be praised, oxygen filled her lungs.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his own breath coming in spurts.
“Yes, I believe I am,” she panted between sobs.
“Come. I must apologize, but we cannot stay here. There is no time to relax.”
“Who’s relaxing?”
“We must hurry. I cannot leave you here, because if I did, whoever it was who shot at you could find you. But I cannot stay here while there are fresh footprints to discover and to follow. Whoever fired that shot will try to cover his tracks. Can you walk?”
“Yes.”
He pulled her up, and once he let her lean against him, they began their trek back toward the inn.
“Someone took a shot at me.” She stated the obvious, even as she struggled to keep her pace the same as his.
“Yes, I intend to find out who that was.” He fell into silence. “Have you any enemies?”
“No.”
“No one who would wish to see your demise?”
“No, certainly not.”
He didn’t answer, but rather remained a rock-solid pillar for her as she struggled to put one foot in front of the other.
At last the inn came into view. There were voices, all loud and high-pitched, and as she and Black Eagle came within sight, the first person who rushed toward them was Sarah.
“Marisa! Marisa!”
“I am here, Sarah!”
Tears flowed down Sarah’s face. She took hold of Marisa and squeezed. “I swear I will never leave you again. Thank you, Sir Eagle, for your assistance and for saving her.” Sarah placed her arms around Marisa, and Marisa shifted her weight from Black Eagle’s embrace to Sarah’s.
“Are you all right, miss?” It was Stiler, the innkeeper, who was followed by his wife. “’Twas Jacob, miss. He was drunk. He said he thought you was a deer.”
“A deer?” It was Mrs. Stiler speaking. “Why I never heard of such a thing. Come here, child. I’ve got a nice fire ready to warm ye and some soup to give ye back yer strength.” Coming up on Marisa’s sides, Mrs. Stiler and Sarah helped Marisa walk back to the inn.
Mr. Stiler followed. “We’s sobered ole Jake up, ma’am, if’n you want to come and speak to him. Yer man, Thompson, was beside himself with worry. ’Twas he who found Jake. I’s a heap sorry for the trouble, and I’ll give ye back yer gold pieces, as well.”
Marisa was beyond words as to how to respond to the innkeeper. She was simply happy to still be alive and apparently well loved.
After a good hot meal and the affectionate nursing of Sarah and Mrs. Stiler, Marisa met Jacob, who had approached her with hat in hand. It wa
s easy to forgive the man, especially being surrounded as she was by such concerned friends.
The only detail that marred her happiness was that Black Eagle hadn’t stepped foot into the inn to participate in the luxury of the hot fire and to taste the delicious soup. She couldn’t help but consider that he had to be as tired as she was.
It was odd because, the Lord help her, she missed his friendly and his sometimes not-so-friendly presence. But of one detail she was certain: This man was her friend.
Chapter Eleven
The imprints left in the earth clearly showed two men’s tracks, not one. One of the men’s prints was indeed Jacob’s. The other was that of Thompson. Black Eagle frowned and rose from the ground.
Looking forward, toward where the footbridge had once been, he could see that Jacob would have had a clean shot. Most likely the man had missed due to the swinging of the bridge, rather than intoxication, as both he and the others had indicated. Had it truly been an accident?
If not a mishap, the incident could only indicate that the action had been deliberately meant. Though it seemed unlikely, he wondered if someone were trying to kill Marisa. And if so, why?
Drunkenness aside, who could have possibly mistaken Ahweyoh for a deer? Could it have happened the way the others explained it?
Perhaps. After all, Marisa had been wearing an ivory-colored dress, a similar color to the underside of a deer.
The only fact that bothered Black Eagle was that both shots had come dangerously close to her, since Marisa had explained that she’d felt the passing whiz of the shots. This alone, because of the swinging motion of the bridge, insinuated that the shots had been carefully aimed and not the result of a drunken escapade.
But there was no proof of ill doing, outside of speculation.
Black Eagle’s frown grew strained. First the cinches, now this. Was this incident, like the other, simply a case of neglect, or was there something about both incidents that pointed to something more sinister?