The Cumberland Bride

by Shannon McNear

  Kate’s presence seemed confirmed by a single red-dyed quill and a couple of beads lying shiny in the dirt. Thomas stooped to pick them up, then closed his hand around them. The embellishment on her moccasins was wearing out already. Not that they weren’t good workmanship, but he wasn’t sure they’d ever been meant for a long run like this through the wilderness. He’d known that when he’d bought them, had only intended they serve until her feet were healed enough for shoes, impractical though those were, or until they reached the place they intended to settle, where someone might have the time and wherewithal to make a sturdier pair.

  Maybe that someone would be him. He tucked the beads and quill into a pouch at his waist, down deep so they wouldn’t fall out.

  An entire day passed, then another night, and on the next day the country became markedly more flat, like a river bottom. The creeks were trickier to cross, and Crying Bird had to help her more than once. And then, with the growing sound of what she’d come to recognize as a river’s flow, they emerged on the bank of a wide expanse—the widest she’d seen since, well, she couldn’t remember a river this grand, and she’d thought the Shenandoah wide. It hadn’t the Shenandoah’s loveliness, surrounded by long, blue mountains, but in sheer majesty—

  She could only stand and stare, her jaw slack. It was beautiful.

  “Spelewathiipi,” Crying Bird said, pointing at the river. Then indicated the bank. “Now wait here.”

  He and the other brave, Grey Hawk, disappeared into the brush, and after a great rustling, reappeared carrying a canoe and paddles between them.

  They slid it into the water, and Crying Bird stepped in then beckoned to Kate, reaching out to steady her. Grey Hawk took his place at the front, and paddles in hand, they pushed off.

  Seated between them, skimming across the river, Kate felt suspended in time as well.

  “I will come for you.”

  Thomas’s voice, warm as the river breeze. Did he somehow know where she was being taken? He must to make that sort of statement.

  Regardless, God Himself knew where she was. He could see her out here in the middle of the wilderness on this wide, lonely river—indeed, was with her, cradled her in His hands as surely as the canoe did, carrying her in the flow of His will the way the river carried her. And how amazing would that be, if she were taken to a place Thomas knew?

  Even her fears for her family seemed far away in this moment. Because if God held her here, surely He would care for them there.

  Even so, Lord…hold us and keep us all safe! And Thomas, wherever he is…

  As they neared the other bank, they paddled toward the mouth of a smaller river or creek. The canoe glided along, under a canopy of trees, surrounded by birdsong.

  For the rest of the day, they paddled up the creek. Occasionally they’d pass other travelers, both on the water and on land, or settlements. Crying Bird and Grey Hawk would wave and call out a greeting. Only once did they stop to rest and eat.

  They slept that night on the creek bank, then before light the next morning were out on the canoe again. Finally, about midday, with a spate of discussion that Kate wished she could understand, they angled toward the bank. Grey Hawk leaped out as the canoe scraped mud, then turned to catch the vessel and pull it up onto more solid ground. Crying Bird also hopped out, then reached back a hand to help steady Kate. She took it without hesitation.

  Higher up the bank, she stopped and looked around while the two men stowed the canoe. On either side of the creek were hills, but nothing more to be seen other than forest.

  Crying Bird and his companion had caught up to her, and without bothering to retrieve her tether, they beckoned and kept walking. So sure of her following, were they? She shook her head and trudged up the hill behind them.

  The men conversed and laughed as they went, sometimes glancing back at her and so obviously snickering at her, she wanted to stick her tongue out at them as if they were only small boys. Then she’d remember with a jolt where she was, and where they were headed, and a spasm of something like fear would squirm through her.

  As she walked, she wrapped the rawhide thong around her wrist and tucked the end in amongst the strands. At least this way it did not pull at bruised and tender flesh. She put her other hand through the slit in her petticoat and into her pocket. Amazingly, some of the items she’d had there the night she and Thomas were taken were still there—comb, sewing scissors, a small handkerchief. Her steps slowed then she stopped altogether. What if she slipped away into the nearest thicket, then ran back and got the canoe? Paddled away, back down the creek, across the river, and—

  A wave of weariness swept over her, stealing her strength and resolve so thoroughly that her knees nearly buckled right there.

  So—sleepy—

  There was no possible way she had the strength to do all that on her own.

  Dear Lord, forgive me for not even wanting to try right now. I know Mama and Papa must be frantic with worry. I just—oh Lord, help me!

  As the day wore on, the Indians grew more lighthearted, if possible, while all she could do was trudge behind them. To the best of her reckoning, they were going slightly northwest now.

  Would Thomas truly be able to find her? And what might happen to her in the meantime, even if he did? Somehow his assurances that she could hope to be treated well, if they’d not killed her on the spot, seemed to fade to naught. She’d heard tales of captives being made to run the gauntlet—would they make her endure that dread custom?

  Almost certainly Thomas would not reach them before she had to find out.

  Mug in hand, Thomas stood on the porch outside the tavern in Maysville, on the edge of the bluff overlooking the Ohio River, and eyed the storm clouds rumbling in from the west. His only consolation was that Indians liked rain even less than he and would likely go to ground until it was past.

  Lord, keep her safe. I know I’ve asked that a hundred times at least, but please…

  Peace like a cool breeze trickled over him, easing the knots in his shoulders, untangling the threads of his thoughts.

  You truly are here, aren’t You, Lord? I can hardly believe it, but…somehow, I do.

  Who was it in the Bible that had said words like those? “Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief.” It was another thing he’d puzzled over so many times—how one could say they believed but then confess the exact opposite.

  In this moment, he understood.

  “She must indeed be something, this girl,” came a gruff voice, and Thomas turned to find himself joined by Abel Carter, a grizzled character who’d been running the traces of Kentucky and Ohio nearly as long as Dan’l Boone.

  “She is, that,” he admitted.

  A peal of thunder punctuated the words, and the older man laughed. “You say you’ve asked after her at every station and settlement from here to Harrodsburg, aye?”

  “I have.” Just on the outside chance Crying Bird or his companion wearied of her and decided to sell her along the way, rather than drag her all the way to the upper Scioto.

  “Any word?”

  “None.”

  Carter sucked his pipe for a moment. “I wish you well in finding her. I never knowed you to let a skirt turn your head.” He sucked for a moment on the stem, contemplating the storm alongside Thomas. “Life holds little enough comfort, ’specially out here on the frontier. Best take it where it’s offered and not think too hard about it.”

  “This is the way.”

  He tried not to flinch at the way the inner exhortation echoed the spoken one.

  “I plan to,” he said quietly, “just as soon as that storm clears.”

  Kate woke, snug in her nest, amazingly dry after a long night’s soaking rain under the tiny bark lodge the two Indian men had constructed as the rain began the afternoon before. For a moment, she could almost believe that she was safe in camp with her family—merely waking from an unsettling dream, with the warmth on either side of her coming from siblings and not these two strangers who seem
ed to know nothing of propriety, though neither had laid a hand on her in any untoward way.

  Except, could she even think of them as strangers after so many days in such close quarters?

  Crying Bird’s gaze had taken on a little more of a gleam the last day or so when it landed on her. What thought lay behind that?

  She opened her eyes and blinked in the gloom at the ceiling of their shelter. What if Thomas never came? What if—what if Crying Bird’s intent was—something she’d rather not contemplate?

  Be brave.

  Her eyes snapped shut. How weary she was of hearing those words.

  To her right, Grey Hawk stirred, and with a groan, rolled out of the shelter and to his feet. Crying Bird moved as well, but when his hand touched her hair, she twitched away and scrambled outside, blanket clutched to her chest.

  The lean Indian followed, looking ridiculously unmussed—as far as she could tell from the past days of travel—his chin tucked, one dark brow quirked, his dark eyes holding curiosity, a silent challenge, and not a little admiration.

  They do not generally ravish women, came Thomas’s voice.

  Kate fought to steady her breathing. “I am—not afraid of you,” she whispered.

  Crying Bird’s mouth tipped in a smile she might have found handsome under other circumstances. “Are you his woman, or no?”

  That question again…and a distant memory of that very thorough kiss.

  She felt her cheeks reddening, and could do naught about it.

  The Indian laughed softly. “Since you will not answer me…if Eyes-of-Sky does not come for you by your next moon, you will be my woman.”

  Her heart plummeted.

  The storm had erased any hint of a trail, and none had seen Kate and her captors—or leastwise admitted to it.

  Thomas knelt beside a stream, filling his canteen. He’d exhausted all the main settlements south of the Ohio, and finally, early this morning, had taken the ferry across the river. From here on remained what truly felt like a leap of faith.

  He stoppered the canteen and slung it over his shoulder, then with his rifle in one hand and Ladyslipper’s reins in the other, he paused. Scanned the forest around him. Shut his eyes and drew a long, deep breath, savoring the early summer woodland sweetness.

  Lord God, I’ve thrown an awful lot of prayers at You these past days. Been pretty sure I heard You speak in return. I ask now, if I have Your favor at all, give me direction. And protect Kate. Help her be brave.

  Let her be alive…and waiting for me.

  A single, hard breath heaved through him, and he lifted his face and opened his eyes.

  Thank You, Lord God.

  Resolute, he hung his rifle in its scabbard and swung into the saddle. To the town that was Crying Bird’s home—and once, his. He’d find Kate or die trying.

  There through the forest was a cluster of dome-shaped huts.

  Crying Bird pointed. “Hotewe, town,” he said, then pointed to the ground. “Sit.”

  Kate complied without question. She wasn’t sure she could have stood.

  For the last day, he’d been trying to teach her various words. She tried to repeat them after him, but weariness of mind had overcome her at last, and in disgust, he’d given up, until just now.

  Grey Hawk stood, arms folded, while Crying Bird ran toward the town.

  She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms about her legs, then laid her cheek against her knees.

  Here was where she needed the most strength and where she felt she had none.Too many days of walking.Too many dark nights, tucked between these two men. Merciful and gracious God, Giver of peace, Maker of the world and of peoples. Forgive my weakness. You promise to be with us to the end of the world, and I know You are here. Help me to face whatever may come next.

  She kept her eyes shut until the sound of Crying Bird’s voice called to them. She started to unfold, but Grey Hawk’s hand on her shoulder kept her where she was. The two men spoke back and forth for a moment as Crying Bird approached and came to stand in front of her. Behind him, folk were trickling out of the town and forming a double line, a few paces apart.

  Her heart nearly failed her completely at the sight.

  Crying Bird finally acknowledged her again, a strange excitement lighting his features. “Stand up.” When she’d risen, brushing off her petticoat by habit only, he nodded at the gathering townspeople. “I will give you the word to run. You should run as fast as you can, all the way to the end, to the old man standing there. If you slow down, these boys coming will whip you. Do you understand?”

  She wanted to heave up whatever was left of her breakfast, then curl into a ball and cry until she had no more tears left, but she nodded. Lord in heaven, have mercy.

  A wave of dizziness swept over her, but her vision cleared. A pair of young boys, no older than Betsy, came trotting down the hill, switches in hand.

  Crying Bird gave a hard nod as well, then moved her to stand in one place, while he positioned the boys a few paces behind. The line of people stood quiet and waiting, dark faces gone still and expectant, only the breeze stirring their glossy raven hair or the brightly colored shirts and the fringing on their leggings.

  Kate clutched her petticoats in both hands. She tried not to look at the switches and clubs they held in their hands. Or the fact that the women and children looked as fierce as the men. Fiercer, perhaps, for all that they outnumbered the men.

  For a moment, the entire forest seemed to hold its breath, then—

  “Run.”

  She lifted her skirts and was in motion before she could give thought to it. Faster than she thought herself capable—although her feet slipped a little as she reached the edge of the column—and the sound of a switch cutting the air sent a bolt of fear jagging through her, speeding her along, just before a sharp burn touched her shoulder. A whoop rose just behind her, then another, and suddenly a chorus erupted as she dashed past, along with a couple more licks from the switches. She was nearly halfway along before she realized no one even attempted to actually strike her with the heavier weapons, only brandished them and gave those blood-curdling whoops.

  Petticoats clutched higher, she ran faster.

  And then she was there, at the end. The man standing at the end of the column broke into a smile, and held out his hand for her.

  Crying Bird had called him old, but he stood straight and strong, his face quiet but set in lines that bespoke pride and the same sort of admiration she’d seen on Crying Bird’s face. Silvering hair, cut just below the shoulder, fell from under a turban of blue silk.

  It was the kindness in his dark eyes that made her decide to trust and reach for his outstretched hand. He spoke a greeting in a deep, soothing tone, and turning, tugged her along with him. Kate wrapped her free arm around her middle and, gasping for breath, followed.

  Behind her, the column broke apart and streamed after.

  He led her to a longhouse and inside, where several other older men sat, then pointed to an empty mat nearby. She sank down, dizzy again and still breathing a little hard.

  While the rest of the town assembled—she could only surmise by the numbers that it was the entire town, and had they turned out just to look at her?—she glanced around. Many were so beautifully arrayed, she wished she could get a closer look at their ornaments and perhaps even touch them. And the faces—such high, round cheekbones and proud, beautiful looks. Except for those touched by age, every head of hair was glossy black, the women’s divided into two braids that fell down their backs or over their shoulders. Most of the men wore theirs cut to the shoulder, loose, or in a scalp lock adorned by feathers, shells, or bits of fur.

  The children were miniatures of the adults, although many of the boys wore only breechclouts and moccasins. She noted with an odd detachment that the embellishment on their moccasins was very similar to that on her own.

  Crying Bird stood near the front and began to speak. He’d not gotten far before a woman who looked remarkably like him ro
se and began to argue. Crying Bird argued back, his voice still calm but rising just a bit in a tone Kate could recognize as nothing but defensive. The woman gestured angrily at Kate, spat a long string of words, then turned and stalked out of the longhouse. Brows drawn together, Crying Bird addressed a question to the entire assembly, and the older man who had led her here rose from his place nearby, and spoke, also gesturing at her. Once again, Kate felt her heart calming under his kindly tone.

  One of the leaders said something, and the assembly began to trickle out. Several of the women lingered, peering at Kate with curiosity. She rose, still shaky but trying to appear composed.

  After another exchange, Crying Bird turned to her. “You will stay with Payakutha—Flying Clouds—until it is decided what shall be done with you.” His eyes bored into hers for a moment, and she could almost hear the unspoken, or whether we see if Thomas really comes for you, but he did not say it. “The women will find clothing for you and take you to bathe. They will show you kindness on behalf of Eyes-of-Sky.”

  The older man, who Kate took to be Flying Clouds, beckoned to her, and Crying Bird still followed, though the other women scattered. They went a short distance between various bark and skin huts, until they came to one that Flying Clouds ducked inside. Crying Bird waved for her to follow. “Wegiwa,” he said, and Kate dutifully repeated the word.

  Flying Clouds murmured to her encouragingly as she entered. The inside of the wegiwa was snug, and surprisingly neat and clean. He pointed to a low platform and spoke. “That is to be your bed,” Crying Bird said in a curiously flat voice.

  She blinked and looked around again. Other platforms, for sleeping as well? Her eyes came back to the older man, still smiling and regarding her with a suspicious amount of affection.

  “What did you tell him?” she asked. “And does he speak English?”

  “He does not speak the white man’s tongue.” Crying Bird’s chin came up. “And I told him that you may or may not be Eyes-of-Sky’s woman, that it remains to be seen.”