MacFarlane's Ridge

by Patti Wigington

  She woke abruptly in the middle of the night, panting, from a somewhat disturbing dream. She had been hunting for Rob, and before she could find him Wayne Sinclair appeared, laughing and lunging towards her. Every time she thought she caught a glimpse of Rob, Wayne jumped in front of her, grabbing at her.

  Cam shook her head to erase the memory. The moon was full and bright, and she took the opportunity to tiptoe behind a large tree to relieve herself. As she put her skirts back in place, there was a soft noise behind her, and Cam spun around instantly.

  Gavin O’Toole stepped from around a thick tree, his rifle held casually across his chest.

  Cam exhaled sharply. “Geez, Gavin. Don’t sneak up on people like that,” she hissed.

  He spit a gob of tobacco juice at the ground. “Sorry. I just wanted to talk to you a bit,” he grinned, and Cam suddenly had the feeling he had been lurking behind the tree for a while, waiting for her.

  “Well, Gavin, it’s the middle of the night, and I’m tired. We can talk tomorrow, during the day, if you like,” she said abruptly, turning on her heel.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder, gripping her hard. “I just thought we could get to know each other a little better,” he said determinedly.

  She looked back at him, and the look in O’Toole’s eyes told her that he was not, as she had initially assumed, merely some lovestruck teenage boy. This was a grown man, a man who, according to Basham, had already killed others in the name of patriotism, and was clearly not to be trifled with.

  “Get your hand off me,” she said firmly.

  “You’re pretty,” he offered, licking his lips.

  “O’Toole, take your hand off me,” she repeated.

  The woods were silent now, even the crickets had stopped chirping. There was no sound at all from the camp, just twenty or so yards away.

  “Is it ‘cause I’m younger than you?” O’Toole asked, a slight whine to his voice. “I don’t care about you bein’ old, you know, ‘cause you’re real pretty,” he panted. “And it ain’t like I haven’t had women before.” He raised a dirty hand and squeezed Cam’s breast.

  She yelped and almost without thinking, swung her knee up into his groin as hard as she could, catching him off guard. She whirled around to run, but her skirts tangled around her feet and she toppled to the ground face first.

  Suddenly, large hands were grabbing her and pulling her to her feet. She opened her mouth to scream at the top of her lungs, and one of the hands clamped over her mouth.

  “Shh,” said Ambrose Meador softly. The crucifix around his neck glinted in the moonlight, and she thought of grabbing it and twisting, hard. “You got to be quiet, miss.”

  Paralyzed with fear, Cam could only nod her head. Dear God, they are going to rape me together, she thought in horror. Trying not to let the panic rule her, she wondered if she could bite his hand and then yell for Wanda and Basham before Meador could grab her again.

  And then, to her utter amazement, he brushed a stray hair out of her face. “You go on back to the camp now,” he said. Meador looked at Gavin O’Toole, who was still clutching his testicles and making a squeaking sound. “Ah’ll take care of things here,” Meador said pleasantly. He patted her on the shoulder and pushed her back towards the camp. “You go on now, miss.”

  Startled by this unexpected turn of events, Cam did as she was told, and stumbled back into the clearing, where Basham was still asleep and Wanda was snoring daintily on her bedroll. Cam sat, shaking, for a moment. When she had finally calmed down a little, she strained her ears to hear what might have been going on in the woods. There was no sound at all, and eventually, from sheer exhaustion, she slept.

  When she opened her eyes once again, the sun was out, and Wanda had made coffee over the fire. She was picking handfuls of Queen Anne’s Lace and tucking them into her pouch. The men were nowhere to be seen.

  “Where is everyone?” she croaked. “And what are you doing with those leaves?”

  Wanda glanced up. “They’re off getting the lay of the land, I guess. Sleep well?”

  “Um… yeah. What do you mean, the lay of the land?” asked Cam.

  Wanda looked troubled. “Well, nobody’s asked me for my opinion, so I kept it to myself, but I think we might be a little bit lost.”

  “Lost?” Cam sat bolt upright, and looked around. “That’s not a good thing. Are you sure?”

  “Well, not a hundred percent. Just a feeling I’ve got. I think we’re too far north.”

  “How far?”

  “Mm. New York, would be my guess.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” snapped Cam, leaping to her feet, and rolling up her blankets. She began to pull on her boots, which were a little roomy because they were technically Wanda’s. “You could have told someone!”

  Wanda poured herself a cup of hot coffee, and offered one to Cam, who took it gratefully. “I could have, yes, but I didn’t. Peyton Basham doesn’t exactly trust me, and to be honest, your turning up in the middle of nowhere makes him trust me even less.” She closed her eyes for a moment, basking in a ray of sunlight. “He only tolerates me because his boss says he has to.”

  “George Washington,” said Cam, just to make sure she had it right.

  “Yep. Basham knows I get my information from a redcoat soldier, and I am sure he has wondered on more than one occasion what I have done in return for it,” she said softly. “He knows I’m valuable, though, so all he can do is keep an eye on me.” She shrugged. “I figured if I said anything, he’d think I was trying to lead him into a trap of some sort. Besides, Ambrose is supposed to be an expert at finding his way through the woods. I decided it was their problem, not mine.”

  Cam stared at her. “We have to get to Philadelphia, Wanda. That’s south of here, if we’re in New York.”

  “We will.” She nodded. “I am supremely confident of that. Finished with your coffee?”

  “What? Yes.”

  “Good,” said Wanda, fingering her crystal absently, and staring at a point somewhere past Cam’s shoulder. “Because I think it’s time for us to go.”

  Cam turned slowly, wondering who or what was behind her.

  There were eight of them, tall, painted and looking quite fierce. Cam felt her mouth drop open. She felt, not for the first time, that she had been thrown into the pages of some sweeping historical epic.

  In which our Plucky Heroine encounters a Band of Noble Savages, she thought fleetingly. One of the men shouted something at her that she didn’t understand, and she put her hands up as a reflex, to show she was unarmed.

  Wanda drifted over to stand beside her. “Mohawks,” she said softly.

  “Okay,” murmured Cam, not knowing what else to do or say.

  The man who had shouted at her approached her again, and she saw that he was carrying a large club with a spike embedded in the end. He brandished in menacingly, and pointed at her, yelling at her again.

  “I don’t… I don’t understand you,” she whispered, terrified, keeping her eyes on the horrible club. It had dark, rust-colored stains on it.

  Frustrated, he grabbed her wrists roughly. “Down hands,” he growled.

  Obediently, she lowered them, and he whipped a thong from a pouch and lashed her wrists together. Another Mohawk did the same to Wanda, although he seemed to be a bit intimidated by her, and they were shoved forward, stumbling into one another.

  As they set off through the woods, Cam tried to get a good look at her captors. Not like I’ll ever have to pick them out of a police lineup, she realized. The one who had shouted at her, whom she had mentally named Pointy Club, appeared to be the leader. He towered over Wanda’s six feet, and didn’t appear to have an ounce of fat on his body. The sides of his bronze head had been plucked bald, and down the center a strip of glossy black hair remained. He was shirtless, and wearing a pair of what looked like doeskin leggings with a loose breechclout over the top. He was also heavily armed. In addition to the club, he wore a long rifle across his back, a
powder horn tied around his waist.

  They’ve been armed by white men, she thought suddenly, and it was a bit disturbing to her. Here I was thinking I was seeing real, honest-to-God natives, unspoiled by the decadence and greed of Europeans…

  The other men were similar in height and build, their scalps plucked the same way. Cam noticed that while they essentially ignored her, except to poke at her occasionally with sticks and shout at her to move faster, they were all keeping an eye on Wanda, and particularly her purple stone. Nobody poked Wanda with a stick. Cam was struck by a horrible thought.

  What if they’ve never seen a redhead before? Are they going to scalp us? Maybe they think Wanda’s hair would look nice hanging over some chief’s mantel…

  She shivered, and pushed the thought from her mind. They walked all day, and in the middle of the afternoon, arrived at a small stream. Cam’s throat was dry and parched, and she eyed the water longingly.

  Pointy Club caught her eye, and frowned at her. “Drink?” he asked.

  “Please,” she nodded, holding up her hands so they could be untied.

  Wanda shook her head furiously. “No, Cam, don’t,” she hissed.

  Pointy Club said something to one of the younger braves, who strode over to Cam with a smile. He pushed her hands down, and led her to the bank of the stream.

  Cam was totally unprepared for what happened next. The young man grabbed Cam by her hair and shoved her face in the water. She gasped and flailed her arms, trying to bring her head back up out of the stream. Finally, he pulled her back out, and she gagged, trying to breathe.

  “Drink?” he asked softly.

  Cam stared at him. He was no more than a boy, really, and she thought she something in his eyes, some hint…

  “No thank you,” she shook her head.

  He smiled at her and pulled her to her feet, dragging her back to Wanda’s side, where she stood panting and coughing.

  “I tried to warn you,” Wanda said under her breath.

  “I hate you,” said Cam simply.

  “Next time, don’t look at the water. Ignore it, pretend it’s not there, and they’ll get you a cup or something to drink out of,” advised Wanda.

  Cam said nothing. She watched as the young man who had dunked her – she would call him Damn Near Drowned Me – scooped a hollowed-out gourd into the stream. He brought it cautiously to Wanda, and offered it to her.

  “You drink?”

  Wanda stared at him haughtily. They were almost the same height. Finally, she said, “Yes,” and took the gourd in her tied hands. She sipped slowly, and then, not taking her eyes from the young man, passed the gourd to Cam.

  Startled, Cam took it, and there were shouts of objection from the rest of the men. Pointy Club strode over angrily, and knocked the gourd from Cam’s hands. “No drink!” he yelled. He turned to Wanda and began to curse at her in his strange tongue.

  Cam had to give her credit. While Cam was practically shaking, Wanda didn’t flinch at all. When he had finished his tirade, he turned his back to her and began to stomp away.

  “Hey!” called Wanda. Pointy Club whirled back around, his hand raised as if to strike her. She raised her hands quickly in front of her face, and to Cam’s utter amazement, began to chant something in a strange language.

  “Cait’ a bheil sibh a’ fuireach!”’ Wanda aimed her index fingers at Pointy Club, who began to back away. “Tha sinn a’ fuireach anns an taighosda!” Cam watched, astounded, as Wanda began to spin around, singing, “Moran taing airson do chuideachaidh!’’’

  She whirled in a circle, dancing faster and faster, singing her mystical chant, eyes never leaving Pointy Club, her fingers pointed directly at him. Her red hair framed her face like a wild flame in the sunlight. “Cait’ a bheil sibh a’ fuireach!” she repeated. “Tha sinn a’ fuireach anns an taighosda! Moran taing airson do chuideachaidh!’’’

  Pointy Club yelled something to Damn Near Drowned Me, who scurried back to the stream, re-filled the gourd, and raced over to hand it to Cam. She accepted it gratefully, and watching Wanda out of the corner of her eye, drank the entire thing.

  Wanda staggered to a stop, smiling, and motioned to Pointy Club, who was watching her warily. She nodded her head, and said, “Thank you.”

  They started walking again, and Cam and Wanda were not bothered again. Nobody poked Cam with anything, and they talked quietly as they hurried along.

  “What in the world was that?” asked Cam.

  Wanda grinned. “I don’t know why, but I noticed they were kind of leery of me. That got me to thinking what I would do if they decided to get rough with us.”

  “And what exactly was it that you did? What language was that?”

  “Gaelic. Angus taught me a little bit. I expect they thought I was cursing them, or turning them all into tree frogs or something,” she said quietly.

  Cam frowned. “What exactly did you say to them?”

  Wanda giggled. “Where do you live? We live in the hotel. Thanks for your help.”

  Cam stifled a laugh, and jogged a bit to keep up with Wanda’s long legs. By the end of the day, she was exhausted, and as the sun began to descend beyond the horizon, she found herself staggering down a hillside into a small village, in which there was a great deal of activity.

  There were two rows of longhouses, with smoke wafting from holes in the roofs. Between the rows, children ran and played, chasing each other about, and a few dogs barked to announce the arrival of the war party and their captives. Women in doeskin dresses, their dark hair plaited, watched Cam and Wanda suspiciously.

  Nobody laid a hand on them.

  They were led to one of the longhouses, and Pointy Club motioned inside, gesturing to Wanda and Cam. They looked at each other, and stepped inside reluctantly. Pointy Club pulled a skin over the opening behind them, and there was silence.

  The longhouse consisted of one large rectangular room, with a door at each end. It had evidently been constructed of wooden poles covered with bark. Down the center was a row of hearths. Although it was deserted, the longhouse appeared to be the residence of several families.

  As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Cam realized that they were not, as she had originally believed, alone. On the far end of the room was a single fire, and beside the fire sat a wizened old man. He crooked a finger at them, and beckoned to them.

  “Come, come. Sit beside me,” he croaked. Cam wasn’t expecting to hear him speak English.

  Wanda sat beside him, and Cam parked nervously next to her, and peered at the old man. His face was as wrinkled as a raisin, and although dark, was not as bronzed as the skin of their captors.

  “My name is Man Who Sees Far,” he said, coughing up a glob of phlegm that he spit into the fire. It sizzled and hissed. Cam hid a shudder of revulsion. The old man’s eyes were milky with cataracts, and she suspected that if he could see them at all, he could not see them well. “I once had another name, but that was long ago, before I came to live with the Kanienkehaka,” he sighed. “Long, long ago.”

  Wanda and Cam exchanged glances.

  “Do you know why you are alive?” he asked abruptly.

  “No,” admitted Cam. “I was afraid they’d kill us.”

  “Ah!” he chuckled. “And so they might have. Yet, they did not. I told them about the two of you. That a medicine woman with hair like fire and a purple stone at her neck would be coming here. I had a vision, you see.”

  “A vision?” Cam parroted. That was almost as startling as the idea of Wanda being a medicine woman.

  Man Who Sees Far lit a long clay pipe, and puffed gently on it. “Women do not smoke the pipe here, but then, you are not from here, are you?”

  He handed the pipe to Wanda, who was studying him speculatively. She inhaled deeply, and closed her eyes. “We are not,” she agreed.

  “I saw you coming,” he said. “I told them to find you, and not to harm you. I often have visions when I smoke my pipe,” he laughed.

  “I bet y
ou do,” squeaked Wanda, tears forming in her eyes as smoke poured from her nostrils. She passed the pipe to Cam, who politely declined. Man Who Sees Far took it instead.

  “You will not be harmed. They know that you are like me,” he said gently.

  “Like you? How?” asked Cam. She wasn’t sure that she had anything in common with this wizened old man.

  He cackled again, and pointed to her. “You think that you are not, but that is because you are young, and do not know any better.” He coughed again, and spat into the fire. “I have been with the Kanienkehaka for nigh on fifty years now. I came to be with them when I was just twenty-two years old.”

  Cam tried to hide her surprise. She had thought he was a lot older than that. “Where did you live before?” she asked politely.

  He squinted at her through the smoke, and Cam watched as Wanda took another draw from the pipe. “I was a white man, once.”

  Cam nodded. She wasn’t terribly shocked by the revelation. “I was born and raised in Germany. I was studying to be a schoolteacher, of all things. I spoke English, Latin, and French. My name was Otto Ruehle,” he said. “I had a wife and baby son, and then one day they were taken from me. After they died, I came across the sea to the New World,” he recited softly. “Drunk on whiskey and my own misery, I found myself lost, in a strange place. The Kanienkehaka found me, and instead of killing me for sport, they allowed me to live with them. I have been in this village ever since.”

  There was silence, as they waited for him to continue. But it seemed as though Man Who Sees Far had said all he had to say.

  Wanda spoke up. “We need to get to the English garrison stationed at Fort Wyndham near Philadelphia. Can you make them take us there?”

  He shook his head, laughing. “They will take you there, but it is not my place to make them. You are prisoners of war now.”

  Cam glanced at Wanda, who was scowling. “Prisoners of war? Why?”

  Man Who Sees Far smiled. “The Kanienkehaka are allied with the British. You were traveling with members of Continental forces.”

  “Where are they?” Cam asked quickly.