Seneca Surrender

by Gen Bailey

  Where was she? Why was she naked? What had happened to her?

  All at once, a tantalizing scent of pine added its fragrance to the aroma of food, and she wondered at its source until she moved slightly and realized she was sleeping atop pine boughs. She was definitely not in her bedroom.

  She exhaled and slowly moved her head so as to take in more of the features of her surroundings. Perhaps if she could see a little bit of it, she might recall what had happened to her and why she was here. Her name would be a good place to start.

  Turning her vision to the right, she soon realized there was little to see except the blackness that seemed to penetrate this place. However, in the flickering light off the cave wall, she made out the silhouette of a man. Firelight seemed to paint his shadowy image in glimmering flashes of light and dark.

  She could tell very little about him, save that he appeared to be as big as a bear. If she shifted just so—not so much as to draw his attention, but enough to look toward the fire—she could see him in the flesh.

  For a long moment, she studied him. Then she lay back. He wasn’t so big after all, though he did look to be tall, perhaps six foot or more. He was an Indian, also. Odd that she should know that detail about him, but not remember her own name.

  He wore his hair like the Mohawk did. Except for a section of longer hair styled atop his head, he fashioned his hair clipped close to the head. However, a section of his mane was allowed to grow to great lengths in back, and tied to this longish hair were what appeared to be eagle feathers.

  Her gaze ranged down over his body and she noted that, excluding several tattoos covering his arms, his chest and arms were bare. He wore necklaces of stones and beads around his neck and the ever present breechcloth that the Indian male seemed to favor was tied around his waist. There was also a red cloth sash fashioned around that slim waist, and leggings that came up high on his legs outlined the muscles of his thighs. Undecorated moccasins covered his feet.

  Was the man a Mohawk warrior? Perhaps. But Sarah knew there were six tribes that made up the Iroquois Nation, though how she knew this piece of knowledge when she couldn’t recall who she was, was not quite clear. However, she decided that this man might originate from a different one of the tribes that made up the Iroquois Nation, since his hairstyle mimicked the Mohawk, but was not exactly the same.

  Hopefully he was not Ottawa.

  Sarah frowned. Why would she hope he was not Ottawa?

  Again she tried to concentrate. But her mind seemed to draw nothing but blanks.

  The man was handsome, she decided, and Sarah allowed herself several more glimpses, admiring the clean look of bare chest and that strange mixture of short and long hair. Odd, too, that she wasn’t afraid of him.

  Shouldn’t she be?

  It did strike her as peculiar that a man so muscular, so incredibly male and so obviously fitted for manly tasks was at work over a fire, doing chores considered feminine. He was cooking a meal. Despite herself, his image made her smile.

  But why should she smile? She was naked beneath this blanket and couldn’t remember the most elementary things about her life. Logic alone would dictate that she should be afraid.

  But she wasn’t.

  Did she know this man? Was that why she wasn’t frightened? Frustrated, Sarah let out a soft moan, and returned to her assessment.

  He was young, perhaps younger than she. There was also something about him that stirred her curiosity. His demeanor was very sexual, although why she should think so, she didn’t understand, unless … perhaps he was her husband? Or maybe it was his attire—or lack thereof—that caused the consideration.

  Unfortunately that thought had the effect of reminding her that she was scantily dressed. Had this man taken advantage of her? Now came the fear, and a sensation of vulnerability swept over her.

  Again she wondered, who was this man? Who was she? Wretchedly she realized that there was nothing else for it but to find out what was going on, and after chasing the knot that seemed to have collected in her throat, she asked, “Excuse me, sir, but have I had an accident? ”

  The man looked up from his work and glanced askance at her. He said, “You are awake at last.”

  He spoke English. Sarah frowned at the thought, marveling again at how much she “knew” without knowing. However, he hadn’t answered her question, and she tried again, “Yes, sir, I am. But please, I beg you to tell me, have I had an accident? ”

  “You have,” he said simply.

  “Do you know what happened? And if you do, sir, could you please relate it to me?”

  “I do not know exactly what happened to you,” he replied. “I was hoping that you might be able to explain the story to me.”

  “Oh.” Gazing quietly toward her hands, she found them to be nervously clutching her blanket. Their color was pale, she noted, at least when compared to the sight of this man’s hands, which were brown. Perhaps her next question wasn’t the right query to ask, given their circumstances, but she couldn’t help herself as she probed, “Sir, are you my husband?”

  He hesitated a moment as his gaze scanned her features. “I am not,” he said at length.

  Sarah took in his reply with some bit of shock, again more than aware of her state of undress beneath the blanket. She said without thinking, “I am deeply unhappy to hear that, sir.”

  He frowned. Seeing his reaction, she asked, “Sir, please excuse my coming directly to the point, but I would know immediately, if you please, if it is your intention to torture or rape me.” She stopped and cleared her throat, realizing she was more than a little afraid of his reply.

  But he answered her readily. “That is not my intention.”

  Sarah paused as she let out a breath. “I am very happy to hear that.”

  He nodded and returned to his work next to the fire, presenting her with his back.

  “Pardon me, again, sir, but I feel I must bring your attention to the fact that I am in quite an ill state of dress beneath this blanket, and I was wondering—”

  “It was necessary to remove your things after I brought you here,” he explained, interrupting her. “Your clothes were wet and you were very warm with fever. It was done to tend to you, and for no other reason.”

  “Ah,” she said, and she paused while she sought to test her failing memory. Once again there was nothing there to steer her in any direction. It was as though her memory had been wiped clean.

  He continued, “I little understand the English woman’s style of dressing, nor did I recall which piece of cloth went where, and so I did not attempt to re-dress you once your fever had abated.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

  The man turned to regard her. It was the first time she had looked upon his face in full. It would have been most reassuring had a memory of recognition stirred to tell her something about him, or about herself. But it was not to be.

  Again, not able to help herself, she asked, “Do I know you well, sir? ”

  “Neh, no.”

  She took in this fact well enough, then asked, “Do I know you at all? ”

  “We have never met.” So saying, he presented his back to her.

  Sarah remained silent, unsure of how next to proceed. If this man didn’t know who she was, how then was she to discover it herself?

  In the end, she decided to change the subject and commented, “That smells delicious.” She came up onto her elbows to see if she could discover what it was he was cooking. “I think I’m hungry.”

  “That is to be expected.”

  He didn’t turn around or say anything further, not even to indicate when she might eat, and so after a while, Sarah lay back against the soft bed of blankets and pine boughs that cradled her. Somehow, she didn’t feel strong enough to make a point of it. If he didn’t desire to share his meal with her, it was beyond her to do anything about it.

  But she had reckoned too soon. Within moments, he had moved to kneel beside her. Sarah shivered. Up close, he looked formi
dable, dangerous, alien and alas, handsome.

  It seemed, however, that he had nothing more in mind than feeding her. In his hands, he held a large shell. Its contents were steaming … and smelled like heaven.

  He said, “I will require you to sit up if you can. Since it is soup, it is best eaten in an upright position.”

  Sarah gazed up at him, noting several things that she had missed when he’d been sitting next to the fire: the proud tilt of his head; the healthy look of his skin tone, even though its color was a few shades darker than her own; the long fingers that looked capable enough to snap her in half, if he desired. As she gazed up into his eyes, she beheld a gentle look about him as well, and it was toward that spark of kindness that she responded. “I think that I can sit up. Shall I try? ”

  He nodded and waited.

  She struggled to do it. But to her chagrin, she was too weak to accomplish more than coming up onto her elbows. Moreover, even that small movement sent her heart to beating heavily in her chest. Her breathing quickened as a result, which caused her some anxiety. Not knowing him, fearing he might be untruthful about his intentions toward her, she was afraid the movement of her chest might attract his attention toward her bosom, a thing she wished to avoid.

  But it didn’t. His eyes seemed focused on her facial features alone. However, he made no move to help her sit into a better position, either.

  At last, casting him what was probably an irritated glance, she said, “I fear ’tis as far as I can come.”

  Again, he nodded, and setting the shell carefully to the side, he placed an arm around her back, bringing her up into a full sitting position. Only then did he say, “It is good that you tried to rise up on your own. There is no other way to regain your strength.”

  His voice was low and pleasant, a deep baritone, and his face was so close to hers, the intake and exhale of his mint-scented breath was soft upon her.

  However, it caused her to wonder at the odor of her own mouth, and she closed her lips, as if that might keep any offending smell at length.

  Keeping one arm wrapped firmly around her, he picked up the shell that contained the delicious smelling liquid, and brought the concoction, to her lips.

  “It is hot,” he warned. “Beware. Do not drink too much at first.”

  Eyes wide, taking in his image, she obeyed, for there was no reason not to. She took a tentative sip of the brew and decided at once that it was good. Indeed, in her state of mind, it tasted as if it might be the nectar of the gods.

  “Hmm …” Briefly she closed her eyes. “’Tis an excellent cook, you are, sir.”

  A simple nod of his head acknowledged her compliment.

  “I’d like some more, if you please,” she said.

  He accommodated her, bringing the shell once more to her lips. But he said very little to her, making her wonder if there were a reason why he was niggardly with his words. She brought her hands up to his, helping him to guide the shell toward her, and every now and again she gazed up at him. His features remained handsome even so close up, she noted, though she was amazed to discover there was not even a hint of a beard on his countenance. Did he shave it, or did he honestly not have one?

  She tried to recall what she might know of the Indians, but unless her mind volunteered the information, there was little for her to gain from her memory.

  As she stared directly at him, she noticed that his eyes were dark, almost black in hue, and as he stared back at her and their gazes met, she recognized a strength of spirit that was at odds with her impression of what the Indians were about.

  But what impression was this? Was it a memory?

  Sarah tried to bring the recollection back to mind, though it was impossible to keep it from fleeing. Her brow knitted in a frown.

  “Do not worry,” he said as he reached out to smooth the lines between her brows. “You will regain your strength. Here, eat more. If you are to recover, you will need to nourish your body.”

  “Aye, yes, of course you are right,” she said. “Thank you for helping me, and for this meal. It must be vexing for you to have to prepare it.”

  “It is nothing,” he said. “A man learns enough about cooking to do it a little, since he is often away from his home.” He offered her more of the soup, which she was quick to accept, and it wasn’t long before the entire amount of the liquid in the shell was gone.

  He asked, “Would you like some more?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.” He set the shell to the side, then laying her back on her bed, he rose up gracefully and stepped back to the fire.

  Sarah continued to study him. His was a tall figure, slim and well built. He was young, good-looking and probably had a dozen young maidens awaiting a proposal from him.

  As he gathered up more of the food into the shell, he asked matter-of-factly, “Do you remember who you are?” He returned to her at once, though he didn’t look at her directly, and taking her again into the warmth of his arms, he brought her back into a sitting position.

  Although he had probably already guessed what her answer might be, Sarah didn’t reply all at once. In fact, she was afraid to. Even though his mild manner was allaying her fears, she was wary—perhaps she had been taught to be so. After all, she didn’t know him. If he thought she had no one looking out for her, would it change his intentions toward her?

  He continued, “If you will tell me where you are from and who is your family, I will return you to them.” Then, as though he were aware of her thoughts, he added, “It is the only reason I ask.”

  Something about the look in his eyes caused her to believe him, and she said, “I … I recall nothing.”

  “Nothing? ”

  “Aye, sir.” Nervously she waited. What was going to be his response? When he didn’t answer at once, she went on to say, “What I do know, or what I can recall, seems to come to me in odd ways, for I remember much, but the details I recall are all of them unimportant.” She cast him an anxious glance, and fearful, pulled back away from him.

  But if he was affected by her fear, he didn’t show it. He simply nodded. “Perhaps it is to be expected, since you have witnessed much trauma. Do not fear, however. Your memory will return in time. More rest and nourishment will aid in your recovery.”

  “I hope you are right. But I have another question I must ask you, sir. Do you know how I came to be here? ”

  “I brought you to this cave to provide a place where you could recover, although why you were in the forest alone and unconscious remains a mystery to me.”

  “Oh.” Again she frowned. “I was unconscious? How did you find me, then? ”

  “You were lying atop a large, flat rock. I assume that you had been washed ashore by the waves of the Lake-That-Turns-to-Rapids. You were alive, but barely.”

  “Oh, I see.” She bit her lip. “The Lake-That-Turns-to-Rapids. I don’t recall it. But if what you say is true, then you have most probably saved my life.” She had meant it to be a question, but it came out matter-of-factly. Suddenly, Sarah was struck more forcefully by fear. Did this man want something in return for his kindness? Something she might be unwilling to give?

  All at once, the enormity of her vulnerability and dependence on this man became too real for her. He could do almost anything to her, for she would be unable to rebuff any slight whim that might take hold of him.

  Sarah swallowed noisily, and as panic coiled like a serpent within her, she was more than aware of the state of her nudity. Under the possibility of threat, her femininity reacted in an age-old, womanly fashion, perhaps in preparation for the worst. It was not a pleasant feeling, however. Far from it.

  So it was that with wide eyes, she stared up into the dark, dark gaze of her “protector.” Nervously, she swallowed.

  Four

  They stared at one another, as though both were taking in the measure of the other. At length, Sarah roused up her courage, and clearing her throat, she asked, “May I ask, sir, if it is you who has been nursing me
back to health? ”

  “It is,” he replied. “It was not my desire to see you die if I could do something about it.”

  She paused. “Again,” she said, “I admit that I must give you my solemn thanks.”

  He nodded.

  “But, sir, I fear I have another concern that I would voice, if I may.”

  “I am listening.”

  The muscles in her throat convulsed as Sarah tried to gather her courage. She was already much too aware of this man’s touch upon her. The fact that he was very close—so close that she could breathe in his scent—was not helping to ease her mind. Oddly, though her anxiety was almost palpable, she found his fragrance pleasant. Manly and musky … but pleasant.

  She didn’t know how to ask the next question. But because her alarm would not abate, there was nothing else for it but to blurt it out. “Have we … have I … in my stupor … did we … engage in … I mean to say …”

  “On this day,” he interrupted her, “you are as intact and whole as you were before I found you. You have asked for nothing from me and we are still strangers to each other in all ways except one … I have been feeding you each day and caring for you in your fever, hoping it would soon reduce and that you would awaken. I believe there is a fairy tale in your world about a princess who was awakened by a kiss.” There was the hint of a smile within his words and upon his lips.

  “Did we kiss, then? ”

  “Neh, we did not, though I was tempted to test the fairy tale to see if it be true.”

  Sarah settled back with a sigh as her apprehension began to ebb. But it was another thing altogether that calmed her: her recognition that he was trying to soothe her disquiet, not heighten it. Innately she realized that this was the action of a good man, and it drew her to him, if only minutely.

  However, she was curious and she asked, “How is it, sir, that you are familiar with European fairy tales? ”

  “I spent more than three years with missionaries.”

  “Yes, of course. That accounts for your command of the English language, also, does it not? ”