And beyond that, she was an interesting woman. She was Indian, but she was also French. In some small way, she reminded him of his sister, delicate but tough. For all of his want of adventure, there were times when he missed his family.
“I would be grateful for whatever words you think beneficial,” he said.
With a quick curtsy she then stepped back inside, shut the door solidly in front of him. For some strange reason he continued to stare at it. An odd feeling of intrigue and discomfort flittered through him.
He marched to his officers’ quarters. With this change of plans, perhaps Captain Lewis might now allow him to join Captain Clark’s hunting party. To Pierre’s disappointment, however, Clark had already departed the fort. Lewis sent him instead to split wood on the parade ground. Working within sight of Mademoiselle Manette’s door did little to clear her from his mind.
* * *
“You should have let him come in,” Evening Sky whispered from beneath the buffalo skins. “He has tasks to complete.”
Claire laid the parchments on the desk and stirred the small fire. “I told him I would work on what I could. He did not insist on being present.”
“He is a kind gentleman.”
“Yes. I think so.”
“I’m pleased you are letting go of your fear. Not all white men are like Mr. Granger.”
Claire nodded slowly as she studied her mother’s face in the candlelight. Her coloring did not look good. This is more than the strain of last night, she thought.
“Shall I make you some tea?” Claire offered. “Something to ward off the chill?”
Evening Sky shook her head. “No, Bright Star. Not today.” She grimaced. The expression was almost imperceptible, but Claire recognized pain when she saw it.
“Where does it hurt, mother? Your legs?”
“No, child.”
“Your loins?”
Evening Sky simply closed her eyes.
“The Frenchman offered to ask for a remedy from his captain. Shall I fetch him?”
“No, child. Do not bother the men.” Evening Sky shifted beneath the skins, turned toward the wall. Claire understood the movement. It was a sign that her mother did not want to be questioned further. Claire would honor her wish, but she wasn’t the least bit happy about doing so.
If I do not know exactly what is wrong, then how can I help her?
Whispering a prayer, she then went to the desk. She unrolled Mr. Lafayette’s parchments and, after studying them for a few moments, wrote down a few more phrases of friendship and some words that would be useful in trade.
Trade. Her heart squeezed. She remembered all too vividly what Running Wolf had wished to trade last night. How could he? she thought. He is my uncle. My mother’s brother. My own flesh and blood. Being given in marriage to a fellow tribesman was bad enough, but at least she could understand his reasoning. That was the way things were done here in the wilderness, and it was an arrangement that would benefit the tribe. She might not like it. She might seek to change it, but for now that was how it was done.
In a land of war, one way to assure the continued existence of the tribe was by begetting new families. But to offer me to strangers, to men whose customs are so different from his own...? Did he think she would be happier bound to a white man, or did he simply wish to be rid of her? Had her curious ways, her faith, been a thorn in his flesh for too long?
She could feel the tears pooling in her eyes but quickly steeled her resolve. There was no point thinking such things. She was safe for now. There was still time to find a Christian husband. God could do mighty things. As much as she feared being bound to a man to whom she was not well-suited, she was not against marriage. What would it be like to know love, to share a deep, abiding commitment, to experience the joy her parents had once had? What would it be like to be held tightly on cold, dark nights, have words of endearment whispered in her ear?
But I will live without such things if it means being asked to marry a man who does not serve God.
Claire cast a glance in Evening Sky’s direction. She was now sleeping peacefully. Claire returned to her parchments and tried to focus on the task at hand.
Outside someone was chopping wood. Claire scratched her list in time with the rhythmic thwacking of the ax. Morning moved toward noon. There was no window in her hut, no way to mark the sun’s advance across the sky, but Claire could estimate the time by the sounds. She could hear the second changing of the guard.
She kept on writing. The captains wished to learn about the Mandan’s religious beliefs, so Claire gave an account of their beliefs on creation, the great flood and the story of the Lone Man. Her heart grew heavier with each paragraph, considerably as she listed out the details of the Okipa ceremony.
She had never actually seen the ceremony take place, for women were not allowed to view it, but she had witnessed the effects of it when she first arrived in the village. Hoping to gain the Great Spirit’s favor, young warriors were starved and mutilated. The parents of those who did not survive the process bore their shame.
How different life would be for my people if they could come to understand that God’s favor was not earned through suffering but given by grace... How different my life would be.
Claire dipped her quill in the ink. Evening Sky continued to sleep but stirred just before the call to supper. Her body was slow to rise, but her coloring had improved.
“Feeling better?” Claire asked.
“Yes.” Evening Sky then said she thought she might take a little nourishment.
“I’ll make you some tea and there are corn cakes keeping warm by the fire.”
Evening Sky nodded.
Claire brought her one of the cakes and then prepared the tea. It didn’t take long to warm the snow water and steep the herbs over the fire. As Claire brought the cup to her mother, the bugle sounded.
“Thank you, Bright Star,” she said. “Now go. Take your own meal at the big fire. I’ll be alright. I need nothing more.”
Claire had smelled the camp food cooking for more than an hour. She was hungry for more than corn cakes indeed but did not wish to leave her mother unattended.
Thankfully she did not have to, for a knock sounded upon the door. Claire opened it to find Mr. Lafayette standing at the threshold. He’d come bearing bread, venison stew and chicory coffee.
“I know you said you were not hungry earlier, but I couldn’t let you miss out on a feast such as this,” he said. When he smiled, Claire suddenly found herself wondering what he would look like without the beard. She imagined him quite handsome, in a polished, gentlemanly way.
“Thank you, monsieur. You are most kind.”
“How is your mother?” He asked.
“She is much improved.” She took a half step to the side so that he might see Evening Sky for himself.
He smiled once more. “I am pleased to see that you are up and about, madame.”
Her mother smiled back at him. He then looked at Claire. “Have either of you need of anything else?”
“No, but thank you.”
He nodded but did not bid them good-night.
“I have added to your lists,” Claire said.
“Oh? Wonderful. We can review them tomorrow.”
“Yes.” Why did she suddenly feel a sense of anticipation at that prospect? She told herself she was only lonely. Although Claire was glad for the rest her mother had gained today, she had missed her conversation. “Thank you again for your kindness, Mr. Lafayette,” she said.
“I am your servant, mademoiselle.” He bowed, smiled once more. She curtsied politely, and then shut the door.
* * *
The following morning, after breakfast Pierre made his way to the women’s hut. Madame Manette was looking much improved this morning. She was sittin
g in the corner of the room, sewing on a large piece of red broadcloth.
Mademoiselle Manette received him in her usual reserved but stately way, although she had offered him the barest of smiles when she had opened the door. They moved to the desk, where she unrolled the parchments and explained what she had added.
“The grammatical forms are different for addressing a man as opposed to addressing a woman,” she said. “Please, allow me to demonstrate.”
“Of course...”
She ran through the list.
Pierre was struck by the ease with which she spoke. She shifted between Mandan and French effortlessly. When he tried to repeat the words, he stumbled and became hopelessly tongue-tied. She stifled a smile or two at his attempts but for the most part did her best to encourage him. Actually she was quite patient. She truly wished for him to learn the skills necessary to communicate with her people.
“Do not lose heart,” she said. “You will master the words in time.”
“Thank you, but I believe that will have very little to do with my efforts. Any fruit will be the result of your skilled cultivation. You are a patient teacher,” he said. The compliment brought a slight blush to her cheeks and then a slight heat to his ears. She was pretty. “Have you taught others before?” he asked.
“My cousins’ children have mastered a few French words, but one must be careful not to introduce too many or people assume you wish to make them white.”
“And then you lose the opportunity to share with them what is most important,” he said knowingly. “Les bonnes nouvelles.” The Good News.
Her eyes flickered with a small measure of delight.
“Yes,” she said. “Exactly.”
“Have you had any success in sharing the gospel?”
The light in her eyes faded. “The children and some of my female cousins show interest in the stories from the Bible, but that is all.”
“It is a start,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Pray, tell me, which stories do they particularly enjoy?”
“Noah and the great flood.”
“Why that one?”
“They know him as the Lone Man, the one who endured a great deluge and survived, according to the Mandan legends.”
Pierre marveled. Here was a tribe who knew nothing of the Scriptures, and yet bits of God light had penetrated the darkness. “And they accept that the Creator rescued him from the flood, used his family to assure the continuation of the human race?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “You see, to the Mandans, there were once two rival deities, a creator and then the Lone Man. The creator brought forth the land south of the Missouri River, and the Lone Man was responsible for creating the land of the north.”
“The land in which you now reside.”
She nodded again.
“So he is, in a sense, a god to them?”
“Yes.” A deep sadness came into her expression. He sensed the heavy burden she carried. Pierre sadly had to admit he could not completely relate to the enormity of her task. It was not that he had no burden for the lost. He did—but in reality, while growing up he had known very few people who had never heard of the Savior. Although not everyone in New Orleans served God faithfully, everyone he had ever encountered knew the basic accounts of Creation, man’s fall from grace and God’s redemptive plan.
What was it like for her and her mother to be the only believers in this village? What pressures did they face to conform? No wonder she is so guarded. She has to be on guard at all times.
“Then your tribe has no idea of Jesus?” he asked. “Of his sacrifice? Of eternal life?”
“My people believe that souls live forever, but that they continue on as stars or birds, some as spirits hovering in the village. They worship creation.”
“I see.”
“They honor courage, strength and bravery but without understanding where these things originate. I wrote down for you the details of the Okipa ceremony,” she said.
“I’ve never heard of that. What is it, exactly?”
She bit her lip for the slightest of seconds. “Perhaps it would be better if you read for yourself.” She handed him the parchment.
Reading it, he discovered the rite of passage that all Mandan men were expected to make. Young men were led to a hut, where their chests and shoulders were slit and wooden skewers were thrust behind the muscles. Using the skewers to support the weight of their bodies, the men were then suspended from the roof of the lodge.
Pierre was no weakling when it came to pain, yet he winced at the thought. “Why do they do this?”
“So they may gain the Great Spirit’s approval.”
“So they see no need for salvation, but they do seek appeasement?”
“Yes, and approval of the tribe.”
He read on. Apparently a warrior hung from the rafters until he fainted. After that he was taken down and placed under the watch of one of the tribesmen until he awakened. The ordeal, however, was far from over. When the warrior woke, his little finger was severed with a hatchet, an offering to the spirit.
Pierre grimaced. “That certainly explains the high number of missing fingers I have observed among the villagers.”
She nodded gravely. “After all of that, the men must endure a grueling race. They do this to determine who among them is the strongest.” Pausing, she then added, “My uncle completed the ceremony twice.”
And that told Pierre once again what type of man Running Wolf was—what influence he carried in his village. He was a highly honored warrior who would not take kindly to a white man’s interference, especially when it came to a member of his family.
“Do the men ever suffer ill effects from this ceremony?” He realized how ridiculous his question sounded. “What I mean is—”
“I know,” she said. “Yes, they often do suffer. Sometimes a warrior does not awaken, or his heart gives out during the race, or sometimes he later dies from festering wounds. If that happens, he is considered disgraced by the spirits, and his family bears a mark of shame.”
He sighed. So this was the path young men were expected to take. This was the path that one day her sons would take, if she stayed with the tribe and married a Mandan.
“Why do you remain here?” he asked.
She stiffened. “Why? Where am I to go? I no longer have a father. Do you think the world south of the Missouri or east of the Mississippi will afford my mother any more protection than here? That is the reason we came after losing my father. We have learned that the behavior of white men is no more civilized than the behavior of the Mandan in this land.”
He remembered the comment he’d made before about proper society. The one at which she’d taken such offense. The bite in her voice now told him something terrible had happened to her, and it was not confined to her uncle’s attempts of marriage.
“I hope your distress has nothing to do with my behavior?” he said.
She blinked, then immediately looked chagrined. Tears gathered in her eyes. “No...not you...certainly not...” she said.
The look of shame did not fade, nor did the concern on her mother’s face. Madame Manette said nothing, but it was clear by her expression that she was pained for her daughter, and her daughter was further pained because of it.
“Forgive me,” she said to the woman, then to him. “Please forgive me for my outburst.”
“It is I who should beg your forgiveness, mademoiselle. I was under the impression you had been born in this village.”
“No,” she said. “My mother and I arrived this summer.”
“Then your father has only recently passed?”
Her jaw twitched. He saw the pain in her eyes. “Yes. He died of fever, a few days before Christmas last year.”
“I was un
aware of that. My condolences, mademoiselle.” He turned to her mother. “Madame Manette. No doubt this is a very difficult time for you both.”
No wonder she is so conflicted, so agitated. She’s barely had time to grieve her father’s death, and now her uncle is looking to marry her off to a stranger?
She drew in a breath, quickly wiped a tear that had trickled down her cheek. “You are very kind, monsieur.”
He was tempted to ask what specific occurrence had made her so wary of white men but decided against it. Her composure at the moment was tentative at best. She was trying hard to portray propriety, but her wounds were raw. Pierre didn’t want to risk pouring salt on them by asking a foolish or insensitive question.
Not knowing what else to do, he added a few sticks of wood to the fire. Tiny yellow sparks drifted toward the ceiling, sputtered, then died. He could tell the afternoon light was fading even though he could not see it. The room was growing chilly once again.
“You know, I just now realized we never stopped at noon to break bread,” he said. “I apologize.”
“There is no need,” Claire replied. “Mother has wished for nothing more than the corn cakes I baked this morning and we have been busy with our work. I daresay we have accomplished quite a bit.”
“Indeed.”
There was an awkward pause. She didn’t know what to say to him, and he didn’t know what to say to her. Should I stay or should I go?
To his relief, the bugle sounded. “There’s the call for supper,” he said. He looked to her mother. “Shall I escort you to the meal, or would you ladies prefer to eat in private? I could fetch you something.”
Madame Manette seemed to comprehend his question. She looked at her daughter and said something in Mandan. The younger woman translated, “My mother says she does not wish to dine at the fire tonight. She wishes only for sleep.”
“Then something for yourself?”
She shook her head slightly. “Thank you, but no.”
He figured she’d say that since she was obviously still embarrassed by what had happened earlier. To prove he felt no offense, he decided he’d fetch them both something to eat anyway. They had to be hungry. One could not live on corn cakes and tea for very long.
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