Bewitching Familiar

by Caroline Burnes

  We haven’t come across Abigail’s trail. Not yet. But I have the strong sense that she is still alive. No man with breath in his body and testosterone in his blood is totally immune to Abigail’s charms, and I can only hope that she has figured out it is her beauty that is keeping her alive. I also hope we get to her before she becomes the unwitting bride of one of her captors. This marriage business was carried out with great expediency in the New World. I mean, people didn’t live long. They had to marry and reproduce, or else where would the millions of Americans have come from? I don’t think these Indians are keeping Abigail because they think she has great style in choosing her clothes.

  I daresay Pilgrim Man is having some of these same thoughts. The way he’s clamped his jaw shut and continues to trudge through bramble and briar without a complaint tells me that his only concern is reaching Madame Mysterious.

  Abigail and I should never have left Salem without him. But then, on the other hand, I don’t think the Indians would have been interested in taking him along for the hike back to the village.

  I only wish Sanshu had been available. He was my biggest hope. Now it’s up to me and Samuel. One smart cat, and one smarter-than-average humanoid, which isn’t giving him a lot of credit for gray matter. Well, Abigail is counting on us, and we aren’t going to let her down.

  THE COLD WATER made Abigail gasp as she washed her face in the clear, running stream. As soon as the ripples in the water stopped, she could see the Indian standing behind her. She had come to call him Tonto. Not because she thought that was his name, but it was a familiar name that gave some comfort, and he smiled when she said it. So far, he made some type of grunting sound when he looked at her. It did not bode well for future communications, but Abigail, at the moment, was more concerned with being able to lift one foot in front of the other.

  Never before in her life had she been so tired. Or sore. And she was thankful for that, or else she’d be so frightened that she’d probably die on the spot.

  Tonto handed her a piece of jerky, which she accepted with a smile and a nod. As long as they were feeding her, they weren’t going to kill her. Unless, of course, they were keeping her meaty for the cook pot. Even as she thought it, she knew it was absurd. Native Americans weren’t cannibals, except in extreme ritualistic cases. In particular, they didn’t eat their white captives because they felt the white people did not have any qualities they wanted to ingest.

  Tonto motioned for her to rise, and they set off through the woods again. This time the pace was slower. Abigail didn’t know if it was because they were being more cautious, or if they were drawing closer to home and felt more comfortable. She didn’t care, at the moment. She wanted only a cool creek to soak her burning feet and a place to lie down. A hard bed of rock would do just fine.

  She had lost count of the nights and days they had been traveling. Her mind was as numb as most of her body. The only time she felt exquisite pain was when she thought of Samuel. Had Familiar been able to get to him? Had he understood? Was he looking for her even as she continued on her forced journey away from him? That thought brought fear as well as comfort. Samuel was no woodsman. He wouldn’t know how to traverse the dense forest, or how to communicate with the Indians.

  She cast a look over her shoulder at Tonto, who watched her with what she had begun to recognize as fascination. She had a bad feeling about what was going to happen when they finally got to their destination. So far, he’d been a perfect gentleman. But it was obvious to her and all the others that she was now Tonto’s property. He took care of her and slept near her, guarding or protecting, and she felt sure it was more of the former than the latter.

  Her captors slowed their pace even more as they approached a tree-covered knoll. Abigail didn’t bother looking up. She was just thankful for the respite to catch her breath as the small party slowed to a near standstill.

  When she did look up she was surprised to see several women looking down at her with open curiosity. Two of them held babies. There was no hostility in their faces, merely shock. And they stepped back from her as she walked up the hill, as if they were afraid she might bite.

  A lengthy conversation ensued between her captors and the women, and then one of the women motioned for her to follow into a small clearing where structures made of slender trees and hides had been established.

  Abigail stopped at the opening of one of the structures. Inside, the Indian woman waited for her with a puzzled look on her face. But Abigail was helpless to move her feet an inch. Hanging from the central pole of the tepee was an animal mask face. The grizzled bear looked back at her with blank eyes.

  “The dancers were Indians.” Abigail spoke out loud, though she didn’t intend to. The sound of her voice broke her paralysis and she stepped forward into the dwelling and examined the mask.

  It was intricately made and used the skin and skull of a bear. She could tell by the care that had gone into crafting it that it was a sign of great power to the owner. Carefully she put it back and turned to the Indian woman who was staring at her.

  Abigail gave the woman a smile. She had one small element of the puzzle of Salem Village figured out. The masks had been made by Indians, of that she had no doubt. They were not satanic at all. Very possibly they were for some ritual of summer bounty or some paean to the earth. She had no doubt that the masks used by the Salem dancers had been stolen by members of the village. Someone was using the idea of devil dancers as a tool of manipulation.

  “Yes,” she said as she took the bowl of hot soup the Indian woman gave her. She ate the corn chowder hungrily, hardly noticing the fact that the woman had come close enough to examine her hair.

  When she first felt the teeth of a comb being dragged through her unruly curls, she closed her eyes and relished the delightful feel of someone attempting to bring order to her hair. The warm soup had filled her and she was so very, very tired. What a pleasure to close her eyes and relax for a few moments. She felt safe with the Indians. As soon as she figured out a way to talk to them, she felt sure they would set her free. Maybe even help her get back to the village.

  As she surrendered to the luxury of someone combing her hair, she thought that her Indian experience had been mostly positive. She’d been treated with firm kindness. Her blistered feet were the only pain she’d suffered, and that was due to poor-fitting shoes and the fact that she wasn’t used to wearing moccasins. She had been delayed on her journey, but the Indians didn’t know that. They had no concept of what was going on among the villagers. So, all in all, it was a far better experience than she’d anticipated when she’d first realized she was being followed.

  The gentle strokes of the comb were combined with the woman’s soft singing. Abigail didn’t understand a word of what she was saying, but the melody was sweet and the voice pure. With a sigh she gave up any attempt to think at all.

  STIFF AND CRAMPED, Samuel awakened with a feeling of panic in his heart. He’d been going deeper and deeper into the Massachusetts wilderness for four days, and still had no clear sign that Abigail was alive. The cat kept up a steady and dogged pace, correcting their course at several points during the day. Samuel knew only that they were traveling west—northwest, a slight change in course from the first day.

  There were signs that humans had passed—the remains of a small fire, a bit of tanned deer hide that was snagged. On rare occasion a footprint in the soft, damp soil of the forest floor was evident. They were on a path, and Samuel trusted the cat enough to believe that Familiar knew where they were heading.

  But with each hour he felt the pressure of Abigail’s safety and the fate of the Salem Villagers who were undoubtedly being tried in his absence. He would not allow himself to entertain thoughts of what might be transpiring under Appleton’s eye.

  Samuel had grown so hungry that he no longer registered the fact that his body was demanding food. They found enough fresh water to drink along the trail. Food was a handful of berries, or a cache of nuts they found and carr
ied. Familiar had grown lean and hard. He was all whiskers and big green eyes, yet he never slowed. He was one dedicated feline.

  Even as he thought about the cat, Samuel caught sight of him ahead. But he had stopped completely and was sniffing the air as if a new scent had arrived on the westerly wind.

  “Meow.” Familiar looked over his shoulder.

  Samuel eased up beside him, trying his best to ascertain what the cat found so fascinating.

  At first he thought he was imagining things, but then he was certain he heard the sound of soft singing. Female singing. It was not a language he understood, but it was obviously some type of lullaby. He wasn’t at all surprised when a young Indian woman came down a narrow trail that he hadn’t noticed before and stopped at a clear stream to collect some water in an earthen bowl. On her back was an infant, and she was singing to the baby.

  Samuel watched with fascination. The woman was intent on her chore and taken with her baby that cooed and gurgled on her back. When the bowl was full, she stood and started back up the slight incline.

  The village was likely at the top of the hill, which meant that lookouts were posted somewhere nearby. They should have discovered Samuel, sleeping within fifty yards of their settlement.

  Samuel eyed the cat. Had Familiar known the Indians were camping here? Had he come here for help in finding Abigail? Or was this where she was being held?

  Since he had no answer, he decided to stake out the settlement and watch. Familiar assisted in that decision by scurrying up the slight incline until the temporary village was in sight, and then climbing a tree for a better vantage point.

  “You’re one wily cat,” Samuel said as he followed the cat up the big beech tree that provided a comfortable fork to sit in, the cover of thick foliage, and a great view. Fascinated, Samuel watched as what appeared to be four women and two children went about their morning chores.

  There were no men apparent in the village, and Samuel settled into the fork of the tree to relax and wait. If no men appeared by dusk, he’d approach the women in a friendly manner to see if he couldn’t communicate his dilemma to them. If he didn’t frighten them, surely they would take pity on a man who was determined to find the woman he loved.

  With visions of Abigail’s safe return dancing in his head, he leaned across an enormous branch and drifted into a light sleep. The tree shifted gently in the small breezes that stirred the forest and brought the sound of an Indian lullaby to him. In his sleep he smiled.

  He awoke with Familiar’s claws digging into the tender calf of his leg. Startled out of sleep, he nearly fell from his perch in the tree, but he recovered in time to grab the limb and hang on.

  “You black devil. I can’t believe you did that.” He bent to rub his leg. “You nearly caused me to break my neck.”

  Familiar let out a low hiss and growl, then turned to the village.

  Samuel looked, also, and felt his heart stop. Coming out of one of the dwellings was a very distraught Abigail. She was wearing a deerskin dress, bleached and gnawed to the point of being near white. It was beaded with an elaborate network of small red and blue stones, and her hair had been caught in traditional braids.

  Samuel could hear her voice but could not determine her words. By the tone, though, he could tell that she was distressed. He could also tell that the Indian woman was completely ignoring her.

  When the five males walked into the center of the village in a procession that spoke of some type of ceremony, Samuel knew exactly what was going to transpire. The tallest of the Indians was planning on a marriage with Abigail.

  Familiar, too, recognized the formality of the process. A low growl slipped from him as he gave Samuel a glare that ordered him to get busy and do something.

  “What do you suggest?” Samuel asked as he began to climb down from the tree.

  Familiar leapt past him, jumping from one limb to the next in rapid descent. When he was on the ground he looked up at Samuel, his tail twitching impatiently.

  Samuel dropped the last five feet, landing upright and already moving toward the village. There was nothing to do except claim Abigail for his own. He didn’t know how that would sit with the Indians, but he couldn’t allow the ceremony to take place. The nearer he got, the more he could hear Abigail arguing and resisting. Obviously the male Indians didn’t listen to women any more than the Salem Villagers did. It would do all of them a lot of good to spend a summer in 1995 to learn a little political correctness.

  Samuel crested the small hill and didn’t slow. He ran into the center of the small community yelling, “Halt! This wedding must stop!”

  Before he knew what had happened he found three arrows pointed at his heart. The sight of the weapons and the look in the eyes of the Indians, effectively brought him to a screeching standstill.

  “Samuel!” Abigail’s relief was such that she jerked free of the woman who held her hand and dashed to Samuel’s side.

  He closed his arms around her. “Abigail,” he whispered, fearing that they would draw their last breaths at that moment.

  When he did look up he saw red anger in the eyes of the tallest Indian, the one who had wanted to marry Abigail. Not knowing what else to do, he held Abigail with one arm and touched his heart with the other.

  The Indian stared at him, undecided which course of action to take. He did not have a bow and arrow, but he held a wicked-looking knife, and it was clutched tightly in his right hand.

  “Tonto, please.” Abigail shifted so that she was in front of Samuel. She held her hands out to the Indian, then shifted her gaze to appeal to the Indian woman. “Please,” she said again. “I love this man. And he loves me.”

  Tense seconds ticked away as they held each other in a locked gaze.

  “We love each other,” Abigail tried again, touching her heart and then turning so that she could touch the place on Samuel’s chest where his heart would be. She started toward Tonto, but he lifted the knife half an inch higher and the anger in his eyes hardened.

  “I don’t think he likes the fact that you’ve chosen me over him,” Samuel said in a soft voice to Abigail. “I don’t think he likes it at all. I must be a sorry sight in his eyes.”

  Abigail realized the truth of Samuel’s words as she saw the pride and hurt in Tonto’s eyes. Swallowing her fear, she stepped toward him. “You are my friend.” She lifted a hand up. “Tonto.”

  She saw him pull his arm back, as if he intended to stab directly into her heart, and she closed her eyes, knowing that she’d made the wrong decision. What a travesty to come all the way back to 1692 to die in a misunderstanding with a man who wanted to marry her.

  “Samuel! Abigail! What business brings you here in the deep forest?” Elizabeth Adams’s voice rose sharply, then fell into lower tones as she spoke in Huron.

  Abigail opened her eyes to see Elizabeth and a very worried Sanshu rushing toward them from the other side of the village.

  “So, good sense prevailed and you fled the village?” Elizabeth asked. She had stepped between Abigail and the Indian, and she put a gentling hand on the man’s shoulder. Again she spoke in the Native American tongue as Sanshu shifted slightly behind the man so that he could grab him if it proved necessary.

  Abigail didn’t understand a word of the conversation that passed among Elizabeth, Sanshu, the man she called Tonto, and the Indian woman who looked as if she was about to cry. By the look on Samuel’s face, she could tell that he was trying to follow the exchange—without any more success than she had.

  Samuel’s hand pulled her out of the midst of the controversy and against his side. “I see you decided not to wait for me to propose. I never realized you were mad to marry,” he whispered.

  Abigail never looked at him. “My grandmother always told me that the early bird gets the worm.”

  “Your grandmother was full of great wisdom.” Samuel felt the need to smile. It was totally inappropriate under the circumstances, but worry about Abigail, hunger, lack of sleep, exhaustion and
the ultimate relief of finding Abigail on the precipice of marriage to a man he’d never laid eyes on were all too much.

  Reaching behind her, Abigail pinched his thigh. “I thought you were supposed to ride up with the cavalry and save the day. Instead you creep out of the woods looking like a bone the dogs gnawed and buried, then you disrupt a perfectly lovely ceremony.”

  “Hush,” Samuel warned her. “It appears that they’ve come to some resolution.” Even as he spoke, the small group turned to look at them.

  “Abigail, Lotuk feels that he found you alone and uncared for, and that has given him the right to take you as his wife,” Elizabeth said, glancing once at Sanshu to make sure he was following her translation.

  “But—” Abigail didn’t get to finish. Elizabeth signaled her to be quiet.

  “I have explained to Lotuk that you are already bound to this man, Samuel, and that he has come a great distance to claim his right to you as husband.” Sanshu nodded when she looked at him.

  “So, the choice is yours. Lotuk wants me to tell you that he is willing to take you as his wife, a high honor for a white woman. You will have the love and respect of his people. He, uh, also feels that you should not necessarily have the right to decide.” Elizabeth looked nervously at the warrior. “He did find you alone in the forest, a woman without a man to keep her safe.” She swallowed.

  “You choose.” Sanshu pointed at Abigail. “You will be safe with my people. Like Elizabeth. The life we live is good.”

  Abigail reached behind her and squeezed Samuel’s hand in a gesture that no one noticed. Taking a breath, she stepped forward, staring directly into the eyes of the Indian who had given her food and made sure she hadn’t fallen behind.

  “You have given me many gifts.” She hesitated. “You are a friend to me, Lotuk. But my heart—” she touched her chest and then opened her palm “—belongs to Samuel. I cannot love another man because there is no room in my heart.” She closed her fist tight. “But I thank you for your kindness, and I am honored by your offer.”