‘And your young man: what is he like?’
She grimaced. ‘Too old. Not so kind. But it is a good match for my family. I am content. He will be away often on his father’s business. His other wives are friendly.’
I swallowed a protest at the mention of multiple wives.
‘Why marry him if you don’t like him?’
‘I am content,’ Kanawha repeated, signalling that the conversation was at an end.
That evening I was led to the village meeting place – a space in the centre of the settlement marked by a circle of poles. All the clan had gathered, a fire had been lit in the middle and everyone was talking and laughing. Feeling like a cow led to the shambles, I allowed myself to be walked three times round the outer edge of the ring, then guided to the feet of the chief. Gentle pressure on my shoulder indicated I should kneel. My heart thumped desperately: I wanted to run but there was nowhere to go. I had no choice but to let this happen.
An exchange took place in the Creek language as Tecumseh petitioned the chief to allow me to join the tribe.
‘Enka, enka!’ chanted the chief. He bent forward and kissed my forehead. ‘Welcome, daughter.’ He placed a string of beads around my neck.
I bowed in acknowledgement, hands on my thighs as Kanawha had taught me.
‘Rise, Cat of the Wind Clan,’ announced the chief, bringing me to my feet. He led me three times round the tallest pole – the totem of the clan, carved with the creatures of their tales, guardians of the village. After the final circuit, he placed my hand in Tecumseh’s as the eldest male in Kanawha’s family. ‘Look after your sister,’ McGillivray told him. ‘She is now your kindred.’
Tecumseh bowed.
My adoption complete, the celebrations began. Musicians processed into the ring, Little Turtle was chief among them, proudly beating on a set of drums. His eyes sparkled when he saw me watching him. I looked away, aware that we had not yet broached the subject of my unwillingness to wed. A group of young men leapt into the centre and began a spirited dance with spears and masks. One carried a rifle that he fired enthusiastically into the air. Despite struggling with low spirits, I attempted to show some interest.
The men gave way and next came some young girls performing with the picturesque addition of garlands and baskets. Kanawha explained that the dance told the story of how the clan first learned to grow corn.
‘Do all your dances tell stories?’ I asked, intrigued.
Kanawha was tapping her feet in time to the drums. ‘Yes, don’t yours?’
‘Sometimes. In the ballet, yes, I suppose they do, but not usually. Sometimes we just dance for the fun of it, men and women together.’
‘Together!’ She looked shocked at the suggestion. ‘You teach each other the dances?’
‘Of course. Rich people have dancing instructors, us poor pick it up as we go along.’
‘But do men and women not have secret knowledge, dances that are passed down from father to son, mother to daughter?’
I laughed at the idea. ‘No, there’s nothing mysterious about our dancing. Balls – or dances – are usually about courtship – finding a mate – not about secrets.’ My cheeks flushed as I remembered my own humiliation in Bath, an evening that seemed to belong to another age but in truth was less than half a year ago.
‘Ah.’ She nodded her head in understanding. ‘Courtship, yes, I see.’ Her eyes lingered on a tall man a little older than the others dancing now.
‘Is that your future husband?’
‘Yes.’
I watched him dance for a minute or two; he went about it with an intensity lacking in the other performers, face set in a frown. He did not seem a very suitable match for the gay-spirited Kanawha, but then, what did I know?
There was a sudden outburst of whistling and clapping. Kanawha gripped my arm in excitement.
‘Look, Tecumseh is dancing.’
My new brother had sprung to his feet and whirled into the centre of the dance. He ducked and dived, twisted and turned, performing handsprings with an agility I’d not seen since Pedro played Ariel. Obviously a favoured performer, the audience beat their appreciation with their feet. If this had been Drury Lane, they would have called for an encore. I joined in the applause at the end, jumping up in my enthusiasm.
Face shining with recent exertion, Tecumseh caught sight of me and grabbed my wrist.
‘Come, sister. Kanawha say you dance for us.’
I pulled away. The idea of performing a ballet after his wild display was as incongruous as entering a boxing ring and trying to entertain the spectators with an embroidery class. ‘That’s not a good idea,’ I begged off.
But Tecumseh was adamant, as was Kanawha, who pushed as he pulled me into the centre. The cheering died away and everyone waited expectantly.
Rescue me, I pleaded to the heavens, hoping for a friendly downpour or bolt of lightning.
Nothing.
My dithering became embarrassing. I had to do something, but dancing with no music was out of the question. I decided I would sing instead, the choice of a lesser evil. One of the wild Scottish poems by the bard Ossian came to mind. I had first heard it at a concert in the drawing room at Boxton, but the ballad seemed fitting for this company with its story of warriors and spears, wind, rain and stars. The mournful tune lifted me from that wilderness for a time, connecting me to my old life. My existence here among the Creeks had become like Thomas the Rhymer’s time in faerie land: my past had faded, becoming like a dream as the new life took hold. What was Frank or Pedro to these people? Syd and Bow Street? Drury Lane? They were myths from my history.
‘My life flies away like a dream:
Why should I stay behind?’
My voice caught on these words and I could not continue.
Unaware the song had not yet finished, the Indians gave my performance a hearty round of applause. Though few had followed the words, the sad tune had appealed to these people all too familiar with loss and separation. Kanawha, however, gave me a strange look as I returned to my seat. Perhaps she alone had understood.
SCENE 3 – WHITE MEN
Weeks passed. Maclean had long since disappeared to the nearest trading post, hopefully for good, and I was getting used to my new identity as clan maiden until I had worked out what I was going to do.
Then one April morning, a canoe arrived at the landing stage carrying two white men. Those of us in the village went down to see what brought them to us. According to Kanawha, they had to be either traders or missionaries because no one else would bother to make the arduous journey to Chickamauga. I peeped out from behind Tecumseh as the men warily came ashore. The older of the two, a man with grey hair and a round brimmed hat, bowed low; his companion perched on a barrel behind him, sketching the people as they clustered around the canoe.
‘I come in peace!’ said Grey Hair dramatically, holding up his hand, palm open. ‘Do you understand?’
Grandmother Bee darted forward and prodded the man’s big belly. She squawked with laughter. Looking discomfited, the man spoke louder, obviously thinking this would help us learn English.
‘I COME IN . . .’
‘We heard you first time,’ said Tecumseh softly.
‘Oh!’ The man flushed and tried to wipe his sweating brow, but in the interim some enterprising child had made off with his silk handkerchief. ‘Well, as you speak English, let me introduce myself. I am John Davies. I have come on the behest of Mr Jefferson himself and am making a tour of the district, learning about local Indian customs.’
‘Come to spy out our land and steal our hunting grounds more like,’ muttered Kanawha for my benefit.
I sympathized with her but that was not the reason my heart was beating so fast; to me, these men represented a lifeline. If they came from Mr Jefferson, the American politician I had heard Johnny praise, then they were my way out of here, back to cities, ports and ships headed home to my friends.
‘Please take me to your leader,’ Davies continued.
‘We have heard the great name of McGillivray of the Creeks and wish to pay him our respects.’
Tecumseh nodded and beckoned them to follow. Davies’ eyes fell on me briefly as they set off, attention caught by my telltale red hair and pale skin. He frowned but said nothing.
I made to follow them, thinking I might be able to make my appeal for assistance, but Kanawha pulled me back.
‘Leave them,’ she whispered as if she knew my intention. ‘They are bloodsuckers, those men, like Mac Clan.’
She was right: I should be more suspicious of my fellow whites. For all I knew, they might even be here on Maclean’s behalf and I was stupidly about to cast myself on their mercy. Besides, I knew my adopted family would have a thing or two to say about my desire to leave. Only Kanawha seemed to understand my desire to escape a future others had decided for me. I had to be cleverer than that.
Tecumseh and Little Turtle came back from the meeting at the chief’s house with news of the outside world – news that concerned me closely. Davies and his artist companion, one Gilbert Stuart, had told the Creeks that the American navy had chased the Courageous out of her waters some weeks ago. Shots had been exchanged causing casualties on both sides, but both the British and American authorities were playing the incident down, having no desire to spark off a new war over an old grudge. The citizens of the American Republic looked on the encounter as a victory and had celebrated their enemy being sent packing for the Caribbean with his tail between his legs. I heard the news with mixed feelings: the retreat meant that Maclean could no longer hold out any hope of rejoining the ship immediately, but it also meant that my friends were too far away for me to reach them – even if the Courageous had survived the American bombardment.
As the sun set in a blush of pink clouds, I retreated to the fence behind the house to consider the news. I refused to believe that any of my friends featured on the casualty list. Surely Syd would have kept them safe for me? With a groan, I hugged my sides for comfort, knowing I was fooling myself by assuming that Syd stood between me and the unpleasant reality of life, as he always had when we were little. He could not save Pedro from every flying splinter, or ensure that Frank manned a gun far from any hit. He himself would have been exposed as any of them to the dangers of battle. I had to face the fact that any of them could be dead.
There was a light touch on my neck, making me almost jump out of my skin. I slipped from the fence and turned to find Little Turtle standing right behind me. He leaned against the log stretched between us and patted my arm.
‘You are troubled, wife.’
‘Yes, I am worried for my friends,’ I replied, deciding to let the wife bit pass. I’d tackle that another night when I was feeling stronger.
Little Turtle pulled me towards him and enfolded me in a reassuring hug. At first tense, I then relaxed against his chest, hearing his heart beat slow and steady. Calm seeped into me. It felt very chaste with the fence between us and I hungered for some human sympathy, having spent so long struggling to survive on my own.
‘You must not worry for them,’ he said. ‘In your story, the bull, raven and hare were strong and clever creatures. They will find their way home.’
It was strange to be so close to a man like this. Little Turtle’s voice rumbled deep in his ribs, tickling my cheek with the vibration.
Stop it, Cat. Concentrate, snapped that determined side to my character. Do not succumb to the temptation to be looked after. You have to resist if you want to be yourself and not end up as some Indian wife, one among many in Little Turtle’s cabin.
I pulled myself away and gave what I hoped he would understand to be a cool smile.
‘Thank you for your concern, sir.’ What was I doing, addressing him as if we were in a London drawing room? ‘I feel happier now.’ I retreated quickly into the house before he could say another word.
Little Turtle sat next to me at supper that night, first placing in my lap a flower.
‘For you,’ he said with a blush. Kanawha and Tecumseh looked on approvingly, evidently pleased by their brother’s newfound boldness.
I didn’t have the heart to crush him so publicly, particularly after his kindness. ‘Thank you,’ I replied, tucking the flower into my braid. How could I tell him that I had not the least inclination to marry him? He was sweet, but the only reason my pulse beat faster when he approached was because I was fighting the desire to run for the hills.
Grandmother Bee cackled, then put her arms around us both and hugged us close. I had a sudden panic that maybe in this culture accepting a flower was tantamount to accepting his proposal. The old lady jabbered away in Creek to the other three, punctuating her talk with vigorous hand gestures, flicking my hair and pulling Little Turtle’s nose. I guessed she was saying that it was about time the pair of us named the day.
I had to do something – and fast.
‘Did I ever tell you, Kanawha,’ I began conversationally as I stirred my bowl of stew, ‘that I am betrothed to a man in England?’
The four of them stopped talking abruptly.
‘Oh yes, I am pledged to him by most solemn vows, taken in the presence of my . . . my ancestors – you know, the sort of vows that are unbreakable.’ A petal fell from the flower and fluttered into my lap.
Little Turtle choked on his last mouthful.
‘No, Cat, you had not said. Who is this man?’ Kanawha was suspicious.
‘His name . . . his name . . . yes, he has a name . . .’ But who? ‘His name is Syd Fletcher. He is the chief warrior of my clan back in London. Thunder Fists, they call him,’ (they didn’t but I was getting carried away). ‘He is the size of a bear and . . . and roars like a buffalo.’
Little Turtle squared his shoulders and said something in Creek to Tecumseh.
‘My brother will fight him for you if he comes here,’ Tecumseh translated solemnly.
That wasn’t quite what I intended. ‘No, no, it is the vow that binds us, sacred to my people.’ I crossed my fingers, hoping the Almighty was not listening to my lies.
But Grandmother Bee was having none of this. She poked me in the ribs and unleashed a torrent of words which Kanawha translated.
‘She say that your adoption gives you new ancestors. You must make peace with the old and bring an offering to the new so that you can start your life as a Creek. No word binds you. It is as if you died.’
‘That’s not how I feel about –’
‘It does not matter what you feel,’ Tecumseh interrupted. ‘You are Creek daughter now. You will go into forest and fast for four days. Then you will offer gifts to the old ancestors and to the new. In that time, your spirit guide will reveal itself to you and make peace between them.’
‘My what?’
‘Your animal guardian.’
My reason revolted against the idea; I had been brought up in a world that didn’t believe in such primitive superstitions.
‘I’m sorry but I don’t think so –’
Grandmother Bee clipped me round the ear, sending the flower flying. I jumped indignantly to my feet; I had had enough of being pushed around.
‘I just said that I didn’t want to do it!’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s wrong with being honest?’
Grandmother shook her fist and continued to scold me.
The feelings that had been brewing in me now boiled over. ‘Look, you all know I don’t fit in here – I’m a fish out of water – a . . . a cuckoo in the nest – I don’t know what words you people use to say it but I just want to go home – my home, not yours!’
Little Turtle looked up at me reproachfully. Grandmother Bee dragged on my hand, placing it in his, snapping away at me in a stream of reproofs. I snatched my hand back.
‘I don’t want to marry! Why can’t you just leave me alone?’ I snarled.
The old lady turned her attention to her oldest grandson, urging him in her voluble manner to do something about this rebellion under her roof. Using the same calm approach he did with the horses, Tecumseh waited for
her to finish, then spoke gently to me.
‘Sit down, Girl Cat.’
I was still on my feet, fuming. I had worked myself up into such a passion, there seemed no graceful way of stepping back from it. I had also managed to insult Little Turtle in front of his family.
‘Sit down,’ Tecumseh repeated, this time with a hint of firmness.
‘I prefer to stand.’ I crossed my arms on my chest.
‘I asked you to sit.’
Kanawha edged to my side and tugged at my tunic. I resisted, unsure what to do. I had never been part of a family before and knew nothing of a brother’s discipline.
Tecumseh rose and moved to stand in front of me, meeting my gaze. ‘Sit.’ He pressed my shoulders down. There seemed little choice but to do as ordered or turn this into an unseemly scuffle.
Tecumseh addressed the others, his eyes mainly on Little Turtle: ‘When our chief gave Girl Cat into our care, I knew that we would have many troubles with her. She is Sasakwa: the horse that shies from the bridle.’
My ‘family’ murmured their agreement. Little Turtle gave a rueful smile. I continued to seethe.
‘I say that she shall do as Grandmother says,’ announced Tecumseh. ‘If this vow exists, she must ask humbly to be released from it. Then she must find out which animal has taken on the burden of being her guide before she marries our brother.’
‘But I don’t –’
Tecumseh held up a finger to silence me. ‘She has to learn to accept the bridle; she can no longer run free on the savannah. She must take her place among us.’
The pressure on me was enormous. I could now understand how Kanawha had been brought to accept a man she did not like; it wasn’t through beatings and threats but having to bear the weight of the expectations of others, of your nearest and dearest. But I was not broken in yet – and never would be. I was Cat Royal of Drury Lane still. They compared me to that devilish horse? Well then, that’s how I would act: submit to what I had to, resist when I could. Sasakwa’s spirit was not yet cowed either.
Cat O'Nine Tales Page 17