Seneca Surrender

by Gen Bailey

  It said, “I will make this into a robe for John Rathburn, who will enjoy it because it is made from your skin. He will like it because he owns you, body and soul.”

  “You shall not do this.” Now it was Miss Marisa speaking, who had suddenly appeared in the middle of the Ottawa camp. “Miss Sarah’s parents are guarding her and they will not let you do this to her,” continued Marisa. “Come this way, Mr. and Mrs. Strong.”

  And then, there they were, Sarah’s parents, staring at her with such loving expressions, they might have been alive. But they weren’t alive. They’d been dead since …

  Suddenly they were gone. They disappeared, and in their place came the Ottawa warrior once more, knife in hand. Closer and closer he came, and always he smiled. He brandished his weapon in front of her face. Then he reached for her, he cut off part of her hair, then plunged the knife into—

  Sarah screamed and screamed and kept on screaming. White Thunder, now awake, sat up and pulled her into his embrace. He said nothing. He simply held her closely, pushing back her hair to caress her.

  “It was so real,” she cried. “It was as though he were here again, as though he had come for me.”

  White Thunder didn’t reply. Nor did he ask who “he” was; perhaps he knew.

  Gradually, he began to rock back and forth with her still in his arms. At length, he said, “It is possible that your body is not in harmony with itself, and that it might need some food and water to bring back its accord. Come, we have food here and water. Eat. Drink. Then let us sleep again—only I think you should remain within my arms for the rest of the night.”

  She nodded.

  Because all their needs were close to hand, her requirements were met quickly. But Sarah was far from ready to go back to sleep. She was too frightened. Still, she settled back down, hoping against hope that because White Thunder’s arms were around her, she would simply drift off to sleep again.

  However, it wasn’t to be.

  White Thunder must have realized this also, because in due time, he spoke to her, saying, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “I … yes. It was the Ottawa, but it was only his head and his arms that threatened me. However, this time he didn’t stop at simply cutting my hair. This time …”

  White Thunder’s arms increased their pressure around her. He said, “That time is not now. Though it is possible his spirit might haunt you, the danger from him doing you physical harm is gone.”

  “Aye,” she said. “Yes. Because of you, I am still here to speak of this. Again, Mr. Thunder, I thank you.”

  He nodded. “Does the Ottawa’s spirit haunt you?”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “I’m uncertain how to judge that. But something else happened. I dreamed of my parents, and when I did, something good occurred. My memory of them returned, and …” She fell silent.

  “And?” he prompted.

  “My full recall has returned to me, sir. I remembered how my parents died, how I came to be an indentured servant and what those two separate experiences have to do with one another. I recalled that Miss Marisa and I were fleeing from Albany, and I remembered why.”

  With his arms wrapped securely around her, he nodded, and said, “Go on.”

  “It is complex, I fear. My parents were Dutch. They’d owned a farm, a house and had much to live for. They were happy, successful. My father was investing in raising tobacco as a crop, and had borrowed the needed finance for this from John Rathburn. All seemed good until they were raided by ‘Indians,’ who set the farm, the house, the barn and the fields afire. My parents died in those fires. In the end, there was nothing left with which to pay the debt to John Rathburn. No crops, no house, no barn. So Mr. Rathburn took my family’s farm, he took their land and he took me into servitude for twenty years.”

  “He is an evil man.”

  “Yes, sir, I think you’re right. But the terrible part is that through Marisa, I came to learn that it was most likely not Indians who started the fires that night, but Mr. Rathburn, himself, or people he had hired to do the deed for him. In other words, it was never his intention to help my father. Mr. Rathburn financed my father simply to bankrupt him and take from him what he had.”

  “If this be true, then your services to him were obtained through lies.”

  “That they were. Unfortunately, it changes nothing in the eyes of the law. I’m still duty-bound to honor my bond, sir, no matter how ill-gotten it was obtained.”

  “How can this be if he gained what he did through dishonesty? ”

  Sarah tossed her head. “Because it is hard for poor people to fight rich people in court.”

  “Then it is a bad system.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “How is it, then,” he asked, “that you came to be in the woods, so far from your home?”

  “That’s another story altogether. Through a series of incidents, Miss Marisa found out what Mr. Rathburn had done, and when she did, she arranged to get me out of John Rathburn’s reach—she was taking me to some friends who live far away from Albany. I think it was her intention that I should serve out the rest of my debt there.”

  “And now she, too, is gone from you.” It was not a question.

  “Yes.”

  He sat silently, as though lost in thought. After a few moments, he said, “All those years ago, when your house was set afire, did you try to stop your mother from going to the aid of your father?”

  “That I did. How did you know?”

  “Because when you were delirious with fever, you called out to your mother. And I knew there was something that haunted you. Now I understand that it is their deaths that possess you even to this day.”

  “Aye, sir, that is true. It is a thing from which I have never recovered.”

  He dipped his head in agreement. “Perhaps,” he said, “it is time that I speak the Three Bare Words to console you in your grief, no matter how long ago that sorrow occurred. If I do this, it has the power to relieve the dead, who might surround you, so that they, too, may go on their journey. Would you like that?”

  “Very much, I think.”

  “Good. Come and sit up. Though it is dark, we can climb down to the nearby stream, where I will speak these Three Words to you.”

  She nodded. “Very well.”

  He added, “I only ask that you forgive me if I make any mistakes, for I have long been gone from my village, and my memory of the ceremonies may be at fault.”

  “I would forgive you most anything, sir. Know, however, that you don’t have to do this. I’ve managed to make my way in life so far, and I dare say, I’ll continue.”

  “But why should it be difficult for you? Neh, you are important to me. So come, it’s late, but though night has taken over the evening sky, let us set a path to the water, where I can conduct the Condolence Ceremony as best I am able.”

  Grasping hold of his bags, his weapons and his rifle, he threw the straps over his shoulders, situated all his weapons on his person, then crawled out through the entry flap. Turning, he held it open for her.

  As she crawled out through the flap, she froze. Not from fear, rather because it was an unusually beautiful night; it was dark, cool and still. The air was crisp, cold and scented with pure oxygen, as well as the fragrance of pine. Without the warmth of the sun, the cold bit right through her skin, and she was thankful that White Thunder had taken the time to fix her dress.

  Above her, the moon was full, though at present it was half hidden behind a cloud. A million or more stars glimmered above her, some twinkling more brilliantly than others, and the Milky Way stood distinct and clear in a sky that seemed broader than eternity.

  Space, she thought. Had she ever seen so many stars?

  There was something about the atmosphere this high up that gave her a feeling of gaining room, and as she gazed around the moonlit summit, her thoughts seemed to spread out, away from her. Interestingly, it brought her a feeling of relief.

  But there was little time to s
pend in admiration of the surroundings, for White Thunder was quickly pacing toward the edge of the slope. She hurried to catch up with him, and once again, she followed him down the steep incline, clinging to him more often than not when she lost her footing.

  At last they traversed the level ground that led to the shoreline of the stream. She watched as White Thunder looked around their surroundings, took note as he indicated a large maple tree and followed him toward it.

  There, after spreading out his blanket over the ground, he indicated that they would sit. She followed his lead, taking her position opposite him.

  “Please forgive me if I err in the performance,” he repeated.

  “Of course,” she replied. “But, sir, I wouldn’t know if you made an error.”

  “Although that is true,” he responded, “it’s still important that I do it right. We will begin,” he said, and he pulled out eight different strings of wampum from his bag. Holding them in his hand, he began. “Tears, Throat, Heart. These are the words that were first spoken by the Peacemaker to Chief Hiawatha, to comfort Hiawatha in his grief.”

  White Thunder took a string of wampum, and leaned forward to wipe it over Sarah’s face and eyes. “With this string,” he said, “I brush away the tears from your eyes so that henceforth, you may see more clearly, and not be blinded by the madness that true grief can bring.” Then White Thunder handed her the string of white-and-purple wampum.

  Sarah accepted the gift and sat before him silently. As the moon cast down its misty beams to the earth below, the light caught White Thunder in its glow. Under its silvery effect, his profile looked more like an artist’s depiction of male beauty than that of a flesh-and-blood man. Though she had always found White Thunder to be handsome, to describe him as merely attractive wouldn’t have done him justice. He looked warm, approachable, magnificent.

  White Thunder took hold of another string of wampum and brushed it over her throat, saying, “With this string of wampum, I take away any hindrance that would keep you from speaking freely.” Again, he handed her the string of wampum.

  Slowly and with great deliberation, he repeated the ceremony with the other strings of wampum. With these, he wiped away the blood that had been spilled due to her parents’ death; he covered her parents’ grave, that they would bring her no grief; he collected up all the bones of all her relatives and buried them deep so that not even they could cause her grief; he made the sky beautiful again and he expelled the insanity of grief. With each step, he handed her another string of wampum.

  When White Thunder had only one string left in his hand, he said, “With this last string of wampum, I banish the weighty thoughts that encircle you. From this moment forward, light and sunshine shall again be a part of your life.” As before, he handed her the string.

  Then he came up to his feet, held out his hand to her and said, “Come.”

  She followed his lead, standing up to her full stature and taking hold of his hand. He then led her to the fast-moving creek, where he squatted and gathered water from a pool that had collected there.

  “Today,” he said, “as we were playing, I saw that this part of the stream, because of all the waterfalls that drain into it, is the clearest and cleanest.”

  She nodded.

  “Now I’ll pour this water, which is the cleanest water I can find, into your body so as to clear your mind of any distress.”

  He guided the water to her lips, and when she had drunk it, he said, “And now you must return the wampum to me, strand by strand, as I did to you, and give me your reply.”

  She understood what he meant without having to query him, and one by one, she gave each string back to White Thunder, replying to him in the same manner by which he’d given them to her. When she stumbled on the words, he encouraged her, until the last string of wampum was returned, and with it she said, “I thank you for banishing the dark thoughts that were troubling me. I can now behold the beauty of the world around me.”

  He inclined his head. “And now it is finished,” he said.

  She smiled up at him. Soft, shimmering moonlight held him in its trance and cast the planes of his face with silvery light. She was already standing so close to him, she could feel his breath upon her. It was beautiful. He was beautiful.

  Her voice was no more than a mere whisper when she said, “I do see more clearly, and it does seem as if my heart is purer. Thank you, White Thunder. I am trying to remember if anyone has ever performed such a kindness for me. Outside of Miss Marisa, I think there is no one. Please know that I am honored and deeply touched.”

  He bent down and kissed her gently. Then taking her in his arms, he said, “Grief for a loved one can be a terrible thing. It can cause vengeful war to commence. It can bring about paralysis, nightmares. It is like a poison to the system. This ceremony was established long ago by the Peacemaker to wipe away the grief of the people, and by doing so, to do away with war. It is my pleasure to do this for you. Just as it was their hope all those hundreds of years ago that by wiping clean a person’s grief, they could do away with war forever, so it is my desire to wipe away your fear and anxiety so that you may look upon the world again, not as a place of despair, but as a world of beauty.”

  She reached up to run her hands through his hair. “Mr. Thunder, I am again deeply touched. Indeed, I bless the day you came into my life. I know little what the future holds for us, but this I do know: I love you.” She sighed against his shoulder. “I simply love you.”

  He backed up, but only minutely. Placing his hands on the sides of her face, he reached down to bestow one soft kiss after another against her lips. Meanwhile, his hands massaged her face, her neck, her cheeks, her hair, her scalp.

  He whispered, “This is not part of the ceremony—it should never be part of the ceremony—but I want to make love to you.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Please.”

  Twenty-two

  Soft moonlit shadows flickered over the delicate features of her face, her pert nose, her full lips, the dainty bone structure of her cheeks, the creamy-blond tendrils of her hair. Even her complexion appeared flawless beneath the flattering rays of the misty moonbeams, though he knew personally that her skin bore scratches from their journey and her encounter with the Ottawa.

  As her clear blue eyes glanced up at him adoringly, and as he beheld the look of gentleness and trust in her gaze, he knew true happiness.

  Oh, to keep her with him. But how? After the many conversations concerning their future together, it always reduced down to the same objections: He had his duty and she had hers.

  In truth, even if there were no obstacles between them, there was still society’s considerations that would make their life together difficult—both her society and his, but mostly hers. Besides, didn’t he know from experience what the judgmental wagging of tongues could do to a person?

  Hadn’t half-truths and lies driven him away from his own tribe?

  True, he and Sarah had come together under unusual circumstances, and it was an indisputable truth that their love itself was an uncommon sight. However, it didn’t necessarily follow that their love, once realized, shouldn’t be sanctioned. Now that the deed was done and love blossomed between them, there was no going back. Regardless of others’ opinions, they were in love. They would always be in love.

  Perhaps that’s why they were lingering here so long. Because once they had recovered sufficiently—both physically and mentally—he would be obligated, due to his own pledge to her, to take her where she wished to go. And apparently that was back to her own society, back to servitude.

  And regardless of their discussions concerning the crime of slavery, she seemed to be of a mind that she still owed her service.

  He was no sachem, and he couldn’t see into the future, but if there were one detail that was under his control, it was this: He could give her a love neither would ever forget. Forever, they would share this between them.

  Bending down to her, he pressed a kiss again
st her lips, then another and another. Over and over they caressed, as though there were no such thing as quenching their thirst of one another. When she swooned in toward him, and as he caught her and inhaled her fragile scent, it was a stimulant, more potent than a swig of rum. Ah, had he ever loved anyone more? He whispered, “Open your lips to me.”

  She did, and without pause his tongue invaded her mouth. She tasted of pure femininity, both sweet and salty, and he explored her mouth as though he meant to make love to her utilizing nothing more than his tongue against hers.

  His hands explored the contours of her back as she pressed in against him, and he discovered that there were certain advantages to having mended her gown earlier this day. Now that he understood how the garment was sewn together, it took no great effort to unfasten the few hooks and pins that held it up. Within minutes he had her dress falling down around her ankles.

  And still they kissed. The feel of her curvy figure, now clothed in only petticoats, corset and chemise sparked his heartbeat to race like liquid fire.

  Her petticoats, corset and chemise came off without incident. And then there she was … enchantingly beautiful and naked … and encircled within his arms.

  Although they might have made love in the late afternoon, that was then, this was now. As the balmy fragrance of her femininity teased him, and as the silvery beams of the moon emphasized every bend and arch of her figure, he realized that he had never craved the consummation of his passion more than he did at this moment. It was almost his undoing. But he kept himself under control. Slowly, he told himself, one step at a time. In the end, he would give all that he had of himself to her, and fully.

  “Sir,” she whispered against his lips, “again, I fear that you wear too many clothes. You have an advantage over me. Thus far, I have never seen you naked. Is it safe enough, do you think that I might look upon you, too?”

  He groaned. What a thing for a woman to ask a man. Did she know the impact that her words, though soft, had over him? If not, she was very soon to become aware of their effect.