I woke with a start. I must’ve drifted off to sleep. A delicious smell filled the kitchen.
‘Excuse me, Puss,’ I apologized to the purring cat as I hoisted her off my lap.
We had all just sat down to table when a tall youth with a high forehead appeared at the door. He said something, nodding his head curtly at me. I put my spoon down, feeling a heavy dread that my peace was at an end, but my hostess was not about to waste good, hot food. She shrieked at the young man, letting loose a barrage of rapid, angry words, completing the performance by driving him from the door with a broom. She then returned to the table, smiling contentedly.
‘Eat, eat!’ she said, waving her hands at me like a goose-girl herding her charges to the trough.
I was not one to disobey such a formidable personage. I glanced at Kanawha to see she was grinning proudly at her grandmother.
‘What did she say to him?’ I whispered.
‘She told him to take his lazy bones on to the porch and wait for us to finish. Even the chief cannot order Puse Fo about.’ Kanawha swallowed a large mouthful of stew and patted her grandmother’s arm appreciatively.
‘Puse Fo?’ I queried.
‘Grandmother Bee – little but with a terrible sting, no?’
Thanks to Grandmother Bee, I had ample time to finish my stew before the second messenger arrived, asking where we were. This time the broom stayed in the corner and it was me that the old lady ushered out.
Kanawha took my arm as we followed the two messengers down the path. The newcomer appeared to be teasing the other for being scared of the little woman’s displeasure, but the boy who had felt the edge of Puse Fo’s tongue was having none of it. I didn’t need to speak their language to understand that he was saying: ‘I’d’ve liked to see you stand up to her.’
‘Where are we going?’ I asked Kanawha as we passed rows of cottages like Grandmother’s.
‘To the chief’s house. He owns lots of plantations around these parts – this is just a small one.’
Small, she called it! I had thought Indians were all about loincloths no bigger than a duster and makeshift forest camps, waving tomahawks and yelling war cries. Shows you how much I knew – and how wrong were those so-called travellers who regaled us with such tales. Imagine it, Reader: a white-boarded house at the end of the trail, fine enough for a rich merchant. A broad porch ran around the house, many people standing or squatting in its shelter awaiting an audience with the great man. Everyone was decently, if eclectically clad, in a mixture of European and Indian styles. Not a hint of war-paint or an axe in sight. It could have been any high-born man’s doorstep in London – the same collection of petitioners: debtors begging a reprieve, creditors calling for settlement of their account, people after favours. The fact that they all bore the tanned skin of the American Indian did not change the essential familiarity of the scene.
Our guides led us straight inside. It was only here that I knew we really were in an Indian rather than European house. The walls were decorated with brightly woven tapestries, some depicting the creatures of Kanawha’s tales. Rush mats covered the floors; spears, shields and other weapons hung above the fireplaces. By the front door, a tall, almost life-size, carving of a warrior wearing a mask snarled at all incomers. I could hear the sound of a child crying in the distance and a woman hushing it with a lullaby. A black servant passed us, carrying a tray of empty glasses. Not a servant – a slave. It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that the Indians would also own African slaves: I’d thought of the original inhabitants of this country as the underdogs, but I now I saw that even underdogs have underdogs. I was relieved I’d left Pedro behind.
‘Go in,’ said the first guide, gesturing to a room to the right of the main entrance. ‘They wait for you long while.’
From his tone, I could tell that satisfying my hunger had probably not been wise. But there was no choice to undo what had happened. I stepped into the room, grateful to have Kanawha at my shoulder. It took a moment for them to notice us standing irresolute by the door, giving me time to take in the scene. A group of some twenty or so Indian men were seated in a circle, Killbuck and Little Turtle among them. Maclean was sitting on a low chair at the left hand of the chief, speaking fast and chopping at the air to emphasize his words. On the right sat Tecumseh, but he was very still, deep in his own thoughts. As for the chief, what first struck me was what a strange mixture of Indian and European he was. His hook-nosed face and pale skin would not have seemed out of place in the streets of my home except for a certain – how can I put it? – immobility in his features, inherited, I suppose, from his Indian mother. It gave him an imposing air as if he was above the low passions that swayed most men. His hair was long and streaked with grey. He wore a tailed jacket and shirt over soft leather trousers; a brightly coloured sash of beads hung from his shoulder to his waist. Despite the splendour of his appearance, he did not look in good health: grey shadows haunted his eyes and lingered in the hollows of his cheeks.
‘So, you see, sir,’ Maclean was saying, ‘the girl has to come back with me. If she doesn’t, my captain will be very displeased and I’m sure McGillivray of the Wind Clan does not want to be at odds with Captain Barton of His Majesty’s navy. One girl is not much to buy peace.’
The liar! Captain Barton did not know I existed, much less care what became of me. If Maclean had any sense, he would have long since given up any idea of rejoining the ship – his stratagem had failed once I gave him the slip. But it appeared he was not throwing in the towel yet. I feared all that he wanted now was revenge and I would never leave this forest alive if I went with him.
McGillivray now raised his eyes, noticed me standing by the door and beckoned me forward. The Chief’s gaze was cold – no comfort for me there then. Kanawha pushed me gently in the back and I took a few paces to come just within the circle opposite him.
‘Girl Cat, what is this man to you?’ the chief asked quietly.
At least he was interested in my side of the story.
I took a breath, trying to calm the torrent of accusations that were queuing up to spill out. ‘An enemy. On the orders of his master, he abducted me and my friends, sir. He tried to kill one of them, a rich young man, son of an English noble, but he didn’t manage it.’
‘Lies,’ growled Maclean. ‘This little trollop was running away to sea after her lover. I’m to take her back to her father – he’s a great friend, a good man. I wouldn’t want to see the family shamed.’
‘Is this true?’ asked McGillivray.
I shook my head. ‘I’ve never had a father; in fact, I have no parents at all.’
McGillivray looked at me in silence for some time, his fingers arched together, lips touching the tips. I guessed that as a man surrounded by enemies – American settlers to the north, Spanish and French to the south, other tribes on all sides – he was well used to weighing up what would be most advantageous to his people. He must be skilled at it if the wealth of this house was much to go by.
‘Sit,’ he ordered at length. ‘I have heard something of you from Tecumseh. He says you have travelled far to escape this man. Tell us about yourself.’
About myself? I sat cross-legged on the carpet and pondered my answer. How could I make the most of this chance to win over this audience? No one seemed to like Maclean much so maybe they would be readier to believe me? I noticed Little Turtle on my right watching me closely; he smiled slightly as if to encourage me.
‘It is a long story. What would you like to hear first, sir?’ I asked.
Chief McGillivray settled back and closed his eyes, his face drawn. ‘Tell me of your home,’ he replied in a distant voice.
‘London?’
‘Yes, I have heard many marvellous tales of that place, home to the king who was once my chief.’
I glanced around the circle of men, all waiting expectantly. Well, if I wanted to win the hearts of the Creek people, I should do it in a language that was familiar to them. I remembered how
Kanawha had told me the history of her people, not as a list of names, dates and places, but as a series of animal stories. That gave me my cue.
‘Then let me tell you the story,’ I began, ‘of how the wily sparrow stole a diamond from under the nose of the greedy shepherd boy. Once upon a time, there lived a sparrow at the top of one of the tallest buildings in the great city of London far, far over the seas . . .’
A murmur of approval ran round the circle. Tecumseh’s eyes brightened, Little Turtle nodded and McGillivray himself sat up. Maclean tried to interrupt but the chief threatened him in no uncertain terms with ejection.
I continued, warming to my theme as I turned my friends into the creatures of Kanawha’s myths. I imagined Pedro as a black hare, capering madly on stage; Frank was transformed into a raven; Syd took shape as a bull, pawing the earth angrily as his domain was threatened; I darted in and out as the sparrow.
McGillivray ordered refreshments to be handed round and signalled to me to continue.
Coming to the matter at hand, I told how the half-tailed fox – I cast a dirty look at Maclean – had plucked the raven from his roost and run away with him to sea, taking the hare and sparrow too. The fox threatened to kill the little bird with a snap of his jaws or turn her over to the wolves if the raven and hare did not do his will. But the sparrow had taken flight one day, flying into the unknown to draw the fox away from her friends. Now she had landed here and knew not what would become of her, but at least the raven and the hare were free. She would not lead them back into the trap set by the fox, for all his growling and nipping at her heels.
A chuckle followed this remark. A bowl of tobacco was passed around the circle, pipes filled. Soon I was sitting in a smoky fog worthy of any gentlemen’s club in St James.
‘You are clever, Girl Cat,’ said the chief at last, resettling his sash across his chest. ‘Cleverer than Maclean here.’
‘What!’ spluttered the purser.
McGillivray ignored him. ‘He comes among us with shallow friendship and weak threats, forgetting we have more reason to hate than love him. We have suffered for his actions on behalf of that man Barton. But you, you come with nothing but yet give us a treasure of stories to win us over.’ He sucked on his pipe stem, the tobacco glowing red for a moment. He expelled a wisp of smoke. ‘How old are you?’
‘I’m not sure, sir.’
‘You cannot be more than fourteen summers, maybe less.’ He tapped the bowl of his pipe thoughtfully. ‘So wise so young. Perhaps it is not natural. Are you a witch?’
‘No!’ I protested.
Maclean leapt on the word. ‘That she is, sir. Don’t listen to her or she’ll get you under her spell.’
A mutter ran round the room. Some of the eyes that had been friendly but a moment ago were now looking at me with hostility.
McGillivray gave me a sour smile. ‘Oh, we were all under her spell, I have no doubt about it. But what to do with her – and you – that’s another matter completely. I will sleep on it.’ He turned to me. ‘You can go; but send no nightmares to haunt me. I cannot be swayed by any witchcraft of yours.’ He looked back at Maclean. ‘And issue no more threats: they do not impress me. You are a man of crooked tongue, Maclean, as you have ever been.’
With that, we were both dismissed. I hurried away as fast as I could to keep out of Maclean’s reach. Kanawha had to run to catch up. As soon as she was in earshot, I blurted out over my shoulder: ‘I’m not a witch! I’m not!’
I was more distressed by the accusation than I cared to reveal in that gathering. I knew that in our enlightened age I shouldn’t believe in witches but the age-old fears seemed particularly powerful in this wild place. For all I knew, they still burned witches at the stake. I had thought I was being clever, trying to fit my world into theirs; instead, I had only called down yet more suspicion on my head. Was I always destined to be in the wrong?
‘Cat is upset?’ asked Kanawha in confusion.
‘Too right she is,’ I muttered.
‘But witch is not always bad. Grandmother is one too, our heles-hayv, our medicine maker. She makes good medicine for us. Your stories are good medicine.’
I paused at the gate, collapsing against it after my dash across the village.
‘Oh, Kanawha, what do you think is going to happen?’ I felt at the end of my tether. ‘If I were a witch, I wish I could really magic myself into the sparrow and fly home.’
‘I think,’ she said, taking my arm in hers, ‘that now we go to bed and sleep. You can do nothing; Mac Clan can do nothing tonight.’
She was right: it was out of our hands.
The next morning Grandmother Bee turned us out of our blankets at dawn. She had three split-cane baskets carried by a buckskin strap across the chest and a knife for each of us.
Kanawha sighed. ‘Come on, Girl Cat. There is work to do.’
We staggered blearily after the old lady and out into the dew-damp of the early morning. The earth smelt rich; you could almost hear the plants stirring after their winter sleep, roots thrusting a path through the soil. Then the birds began their performance, starting with a lone voice singing its aria in a bush, then second soprano swooping in, closely followed by third. The song built until a whole host was competing to dominate the territory. Some cries were so shrill they seemed to shred the air.
‘What are we doing?’ I yawned.
‘Collecting for medicines,’ Kanawha explained. ‘Try not to stray. The forest is full of swamps, very dangerous if you do not know the land.’
Resolving to keep close to my guides, I walked in Kanawha’s footsteps as we pushed our way into the woodland. Near the village, trees were sparse, many having been felled for building materials and firewood, but further in the wild took over. We walked among pines and magnolia just beginning to bud. We passed under woody vines that spread from trunk to trunk like green-fringed shawls, and through clusters of trees I’d never seen before and could not name. Beard-like moss drooped from oak trees, transforming them into giant old men standing still as statues. Startling green ferns sprang up from fallen trunks, snapping open like a coquette’s fan at a ball at the touch of Spring sunshine. It was all so foreign, so bewildering, so beautiful.
From time to time, Grandmother Bee would stop and cut something, signalling us to do the same; a root or a bulb, a fresh leaf or dried berry – all were thrown into our baskets. I could see that Kanawha was fretting, bored with this work as I had so often been with darning at Drury Lane. That made me smile, but I was just relieved to be doing something that didn’t involve climbing a thirty-foot mast.
Towards midday, we approached a part of the forest where the ground was stagnant and shifted underfoot. Cypress and cane grew in thick clumps in muddy water. Midges hummed in the air, feasting on my freckled skin as if they had never seen anything so delicious. Seeing my discomfort, Grandmother rubbed me with an ointment she carried in a pouch at her side. Now able to look about me without the constant attention of the flies, I spotted a crop of bright red flowers in the distance.
‘What are they?’ I asked, taking a step towards them.
Kanawha caught the back of my tunic as my foot went ankle-deep into the mud.
‘Opelika – big swamp,’ she said. ‘And they are a warning – only grow here.’
‘Thanks for telling me.’ I sat down and emptied the water out of my shoe. It was certainly good to be with someone who knew her way around.
We were released from our botanical duties after noon. Kanawha was in a hurry to return home, leading me back to Chickamauga at a punishing speed.
‘What’s the rush?’ I asked, wiping the sweat from my brow. Though it was early spring, I was finding this land of Georgia hot and stuffy in the middle of the day; it must be nearly unbearable in high summer. A more complete contrast to the cool drizzly weather of London I could not imagine.
‘Brothers are breaking in new horses,’ she said excitedly. ‘They let us ride if we get there in time.’
‘
Oh.’ The memory of my experience of riding side-saddle at Boxton came to mind. I had hardly coped with a docile mare; unbroken horses were definitely not for me.
Kanawha jogged out from the trees to a paddock at the edge of the village. Tecumseh and Little Turtle were already there, leaning against a fence as they watched three horses cropping the grass a few yards away. They were smaller than horses I was used to in London, not built for heavy work or pulling a cart, but they looked tough enough for riding. One was a piebald with a scraggy black mane, the other two were a lovely honey colour.
The two men looked up as we approached. Little Turtle made space for me to lean beside him. Tecumseh pointed to the trio of horses.
‘Magnificent, do you not agree, Girl Cat?’ he said.
I nodded. ‘Yes, they’re lovely.’
‘White man brought many curses with him when he came to our land, but one blessing followed him: our brother, the horse.’
‘Where did you get them?’
‘The chief bought them in Florida from a Spanish officer.’
Kanawha interrupted us, chatting away in her language. Her brother shook his head, replying in English.
‘Only the piebald is broken; the other two are as wild as the day they were born.’
‘I ride, yes?’ she asked eagerly.
Tecumseh thought for a moment, then held out a bridle. ‘If you are careful. I do not want to be stung by Puse Fo for getting your head broken. Sasakwa is still nervous.’
Little Turtle snorted and shook his head dubiously.
I waited next to him as we watched Kanawha walk slowly towards the piebald. The mare stared at her, nostrils flaring in suspicion. The Indian girl held out her palm, allowing the horse to smell it. Next she laid a hand on Sasakwa’s neck, talking in a low, melodic voice. All was well until she produced the bridle: Sasakwa was off like the wind to the other end of the paddock.
Little Turtle laughed. ‘She does not like you, sister.’
Kanawha frowned and marched back to her brothers, throwing the bridle on the ground.
‘You said she was broken in,’ she muttered angrily to Tecumseh.
Cat O'Nine Tales Page 15