by Karen Kay
He leapt toward her with the swiftness and agility of a cat, and within seconds, he had thrown her to the ground hard, knocking the breath from her. She had no more than caught a bit of air when he pulled her up, forcing her to kneel before him, he standing at her back. Then he said in English, “And how would you like to die, English woman? By fire? By knife? Either way, it will be slow. You will scream much.”
Dragging her up by her hair, the Ottawa thrust his knife against her throat. Marisa was beyond terror, and she screamed. She kept on screaming, too, until her voice began to ache.
The knife dug into the skin upon her neck, and as soon as it did, she fainted. Perhaps it was for the best.
Chapter Nineteen
It was dark by the time Black Eagle returned to their shelter. He had tracked the warrior to the base of the falls, had seen the man embark in a canoe, had watched the Ottawa paddle downstream. Of course it was possible that the man might come ashore and backtrack, but Black Eagle was fairly confident that he had not given his presence away to the man.
Besides, he was worried. He had been gone from Ahweyoh for the entire day, and she would be frightened and alone. She might even be worried. He began to run, sprinting through the forest, passing by game that would have been easy for the taking. Perhaps some other time, they would know of his prowess as a hunter. For now, onward he sped. Something was wrong. He could feel it.
Upon approaching their shelter, Black Eagle gave the usual meadowlark call to announce his return, but there was no return signal. Every nerve within him kicked into alert.
Coming up onto the shelter in a crouch, it took him but a moment to determine that the shelter was empty. She was gone.
Gone? This he had not expected.
Nor could he ascertain much from the tracks left here. Certainly her emotions were excited. Certainly she was overwrought. But he didn’t think her agitation was due to the Ottawa warrior returning to haunt her. The enemy’s tracks were here from earlier, but there were no fresh ones.
Why would she have left? She would have been safe in their shelter, particularly so because she had been cleaning their weapons, making them ready for use. With these she would have had an advantage, and she could have made an invincible stand if it had been necessary.
Though he could little understand her reasoning, he set about following her trail, made more difficult by an overcast sky and the darkness of night. But staying on her trail wasn’t impossible.
On he sped, his attention on her tracks, but also alert to all around him. Now and again, he bent to trace a deep impression of a track. From these, he extracted what might be her train of thought, and he painted a picture of what he thought might have driven her from their home. Worry.
She was worried for him.
Part of him warmed to the concept. Part of him, however, wanted to scold her for putting herself in danger. But mostly, he simply wanted to find her, if only to hold her in his arms again.
But what was this? Another trail, one following Ahweyoh’s. It was a track made by the Ottawa warrior. He was back.
No sooner had Black Eagle determined this than he heard Ahweyoh’s scream. His blood ran cold.
He cursed himself, for the Ottawa warrior had outsmarted him. The man must have sensed he was being followed.
With his heart in his throat, Black Eagle hurled himself through the forest, his feet barely touching the ground. He saw them, up ahead. And it was a sight he thought might haunt his nightmares for days on end.
The Ottawa held Ahweyoh by the hair in front of him, his knife against her throat. Even in the dark, Black Eagle could see the blood dripping from the wound.
Was he too late?
The time for thinking was over. Black Eagle propelled himself into furious action. With hatchet drawn and with a yell like the roar of a lion, he threw himself forward with such speed and force that the Ottawa, though the bigger of the two of them, was thrown off balance.
Taking advantage, Black Eagle swung his hatchet at the man, hitting him in the forehead. It was a fatal strike. The man lurched backward. Black Eagle followed him down, and the hatchet came down on the Ottawa’s shoulder, then, to be certain, Black Eagle struck him again in the head.
It was over. The Ottawa lay dead. The man would hurt her no more.
Black Eagle turned toward Ahweyoh, fearing what he would find. Was she already dead?
Marisa had fallen to the ground, where she lay still. Too still. Black Eagle paced up next to her and touched her on the shoulder as if he were merely reminding her to rise up.
She groaned.
It was like music to his ears.
She turned over so that she was lying face up.
“Black Eagle?” she whispered.
“It is I,” he said, his first action being to place his fingers against the cut on her throat, to see the damage made.
He let out his breath. It was a surface wound.
Unbidden, tears streamed down his cheeks. She would be all right.
She sat up, and at last they came together, hugging and holding on to one another as though the world might end if they were to draw apart.
He brought his head down to her, nuzzling his face against hers, memorizing the beauty of the fragrance of her hair, her skin, the sweetness of her tears. He inhaled deeply, over and over again, thankful he was alive, that she was alive.
“Is the wound bad?” she asked.
“It is only a scratch. I promise you it is no more than this. Come, I will take you back to the shelter and tend to the wound. And then I think it is time that we leave. I am sorry, but it is no longer safe to remain here.”
She nodded, but even as she did so, he could feel the sobs that racked her body.
And then he kissed her, once, then again, over and over. He kissed her eyes, the trail of her tears, her cheeks, her lips. He made a path to her ears, then found her lips again, wrapping his fingers in her hair, as though he would never release her. It was only then, while they knelt there in each other’s arms embracing, that her tears mingled with his, for he too was crying.
But whether his weeping was from the backlash of his joy at finding her alive, or because his heart was breaking, he wasn’t certain. Perhaps it was a combination of both. And he knew in his heart that although they had agreed to end their marriage when they left here, he would never say the words to her, perhaps not ever.
Black Eagle insisted they break camp at once. “More Ottawa will come,” he explained. “We must leave here with all speed. They will follow us, and they will find us if I do not continually backtrack to erase our footfalls from our Mother, the Earth.”
“Where are we going?”
“North.”
Marisa simply nodded. “And Sarah? Do we leave her to her fate?”
She watched as Black Eagle hesitated. He frowned before he reached out to take Marisa in his arms, then he murmured, “I am sorry, for we must. I wish I could do more to help her and to ease your mind. Know that we have carried out a thorough search, and it is all we can do for now. In these weeks, we haven’t even found a trace of her.”
Marisa bit her lip.
“We must leave,” he repeated. “They will come here.”
“Yes,” she agreed at last, and it was all she could say at the moment, if only because she felt as though her world were spinning. Truth was, at present, she would have followed him anywhere, even though mentally she wasn’t prepared to set out on the trail.
With a kiss placed atop her head, he set her away from him and began his work.
“Might I help?”
“Yes. You could gather our things together. Take only what we will need and pack them into bags. Now. Quickly.”
Marisa nodded. They had so few possessions that the task was easily accomplished, and as she turned toward Black Eagle, she watched with sadness as he erased the evid
ence of their stay, disposing of their hideaway and returning it to its natural state. It was done quickly and efficiently—too efficiently, as though by this action, he wiped their happiness out of existence. Instinctively, she thought to intervene and beg him to spend a few more days here, but reason kept her silent, since she understood why they had to go.
However, reason aside, no amount of understanding could stand up under the destruction of that shelter. Just as it was gone, so too was their marriage ended. And although she despised the institution of marriage, the loss of it was still too much. First the loss of Sarah, then the shock of the Ottawa and now their happy refuge lay destroyed, and along with it, her marriage to Black Eagle. One incident coming up on the tail of another was a little like drowning, she thought.
Yet, whether they were ready or not, life went on, and within moments they were headed north. She wondered why. Why north? But she didn’t ask. Black Eagle was so hurried to set out that she decided the question could wait.
He led the way. She followed. On her back were a few of the packs she’d filled with their meager possessions, including food; on his back were more of the packs that carried extra food, extra moccasins and other necessities. Around his waist were weapons and ammunition, knives and tomahawks. Around his shoulders were two muskets, one on his right, and one on his left.
They traveled fast, faster than Marisa could easily follow, and many times she stumbled, trying to keep up with Black Eagle. She was aware that there was a path of sorts they kept to, but the underbrush was thick beneath her footfalls, and more times than she cared to think about, she found she simply couldn’t keep him in sight. Not that she worried overly about it. Now and again, he would pause and wait for her.
Oddly, she discovered that their speed over the land helped to ease the pain in her heart, at least a little. She found herself thanking the good Lord that Black Eagle set a hurried pace.
Still the tears were never far away, and at present, they blinded her so greatly that she worried she might be wandering from their path. What would she do if she became lost?
As she rounded a tree, she almost bumped into Black Eagle, who had stopped there, waiting for her. She breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t lost after all.
He steadied her, and as he leaned in close, she asked, “Please, Sir Eagle, I know why we hurry, but why do we go north?”
He reached up a hand and traced the tears she could not hide. With a gentle finger, he trailed the wetness down her cheeks and onto her breast.
“We go north into the Queen’s Land,” he answered. “I am on an errand for my people and for my grandmother.”
“You are? I did not know that.” She frowned. “Will we have to travel through the Abenaki territory to reach the Queen’s Land?”
He took her hand in his. “We are already in Abenaki territory. We will break here for morning because the day is almost upon us.”
“It is? But it is so dark.”
He smiled and squeezed her hand. “That is because we are in the time of night that is the darkest—’tis the dark before dawn. From this moment onward, we travel through the night only; perhaps not as quickly as we did tonight, but fast enough to reach the land of my people in the north.”
“I didn’t know there were Mohawk people in Canada. I thought your tribe centered in the area of Albany.”
“So it does. But our land extends far and wide, and many years ago, Black Robes came amongst us and took part of our people to the north. But come, we will speak of this later. For now, you are tired, and I must backtrack over our path this night and erase our prints, for the Ottawa will follow us, if they can. It is my intention that they will have nothing to lead them to us.”
She couldn’t quite bring herself to smile, saying instead, “I am glad that you do this.”
“Hurry, then. Gather some branches together for our bed while I set up our lean-to.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I will.”
She was about to turn away, when he put an arm around her and brought her in closer. “Soon we will be again in the territory of the Mohawk, where I hope to relax our pace and indulge in the needed sleep we both might crave. Bear with me a little longer.”
Leaning down, he kissed her, and then he turned away so quickly and was gone so silently, that even she, who was close to him, barely heard him leave.
The scent of rich soil reached out to Marisa long before she and Black Eagle came in sight of the land that surrounded the St. Lawrence River. In the distance she could see the abundant fields of the Mohawk village, Kahnawake. There she could identify the unmistakable pastures of corn, beans and squash, though the crops were well past their prime now. The land stretched out as far as the horizon, and everywhere Marisa looked she saw bounteous rows of yellowish brown and green meadows. There were few people working the gardens at this time of morning, she noted. Here and there, in the distance, she caught sight of a woman and a child or two. But the terrain looked more or less deserted at this time of the year. There was a large difference, however, between the Mohawk farmlands and those that were generally planted by the English. For one, there were few geometrically spaced rows. For another, all three crops—corn, beans and squash—were grown interknit. Indeed, there seemed to be no order to the method of planting. Plus, little black tree stumps dotted the fields here and there, marring the ongoing view of green, yellow and orange crops.
There was another alien aspect to the fields, as well. Outposts, little lean-tos raised up high on poles, were stuck deep within the fertile fields. There weren’t many of the entrenchments, perhaps one or two that she could easily see.
“What are those for?” Marisa asked Black Eagle, pointing toward the outpost closest to her.
“Those are used to scare crows and other birds. Children use them, and sometimes women too. They are built high so that one can see far distances and chase away birds or behold an enemy’s approach. Sometimes, too, the figure of a man is built into the fields. And to keep the crops safe, a crow is ofttimes caught and held upside down to warn away other crows.”
“That is, indeed, an interesting practice. But I thought we were traveling to the village of Kahnawak, which lies close to Montreal. All I see here are fields with no village in sight.”
Black Eagle pointed upward, toward a cliff set high and slightly back from the river. “We build our villages on high ground and far enough away from the river, so that we can look out over the land. In this way if an enemy approaches, we are sure to spot him before he arrives.”
Again, Marisa nodded. “That seems a wise practice.” She fell into silence momentarily, then pleaded, “Black Eagle. Forgive me, but I am nervous. Why are we here? Yes, I know that we have come to this place on an errand for your grandmother and your people. But I do not know what that errand is, or what to expect when we go among these people. How will they view me? Aren’t some of the Mohawk people at war with mine? When they see me, won’t they try to harm me?”
“There are very good questions,” he answered, pausing in his stride to glance around him. “Also, these are matters that I should have already answered. Forgive me. My rush to arrive here and discharge my duty has blinded me from seeing that you have unanswered fears. Come,” he said, taking her hand in his. “I promise that your fears, although understandable, have no basis in fact. Let us wash off the dust of our journey at a private spot by the river. Then we can speak to one another openly of these matters.”
She nodded. “Yes, please.”
Every tree and bush screamed of its journey into the sleep of the approaching winter with brilliant hues of red, green, gold and orange. Stands of maple trees, red, golden and orange, sheltered the St. Lawrence River, endowing the land with a life of its own. The spot Black Eagle discovered was certainly private, there beneath the maples and the overgrown weeds and grasses that reached upward toward the sky. The fact that this morsel of ground was fa
r enough away from the village to ensure their privacy added to Marisa’s well-deserved moment of ease.
It had been a long, hard trek here. Always, they had traveled through the night, and once they had come again into Mohawk territory, they had slept at night in short naps, just long enough to catch their breath, continuing on without pause, both day and night. So tired was she when they broke to rest, Marisa had typically fallen asleep at once.
But not today. It was early morning, with the sun barely announcing its appearance in the eastern sky. So beautiful was it, that Marisa sat doing little more than watching the pink and gray clouds as they greeted the sun.
“Come,” said Black Eagle, “let us say our prayers and wash the grime from our bodies, and have our talk.”
“No,” countered Marisa. “Please, allow us to speak of what must be said first, then we shall pray and wash the sweat from our bodies. I have been worried and tired for most of this quest to arrive here, and I would have a word with you before we commence to doing other chores.”
He nodded, and taking the ever-present blanket from around his shoulders, he set it on the ground. Gesturing toward her, he beckoned her to sit, which she did at once. He then brought out their daily allowance of pemmican from a bag and offered it to her, which she gladly accepted. Water to quench her thirst was quick to follow, and only then did he appear to relax.
He began, “You would know why I have come here in such a hurry…”
“Yes.”
“My grandmother has asked me to speak with the Black Robes here, and also with my people, that I might beg them to stop this war with each other. In this war between the French and the English, the lines are clearly drawn, but not so the Mohawk people. Those of my people here in the North have lived here so long apart from us, they forget their pact with the Dutch and the English, and they have sided with the French in this fight.
“My own people farther south have not forgotten their pact with the English and fight side by side with them. It is a bad war in this respect, for it has divided us as a people, and the Mohawk warriors fight brother against brother, a deed that will destroy us if we do not cease this at once. If we are to remain a tribe of any strength, we must unite. I have come here to speak and to do what I can to persuade my people here against fighting in this war. I have come also to bring my brother back home, for my grandmother fears that if he joins his life force with the French, our family will be forever split.