This Fierce Loving

by French, Judith E.

  They had traveled four days from the village when they met a man and a woman who had escaped the Corn Creek Delaware town. Simon Brandt and his men had passed that way on their way back to the English fort. Now only ashes marked the place where twenty and four wigwams had stood. Eleven people had died, five of them children. The Delaware woman had seen with her own eyes as Simon Brandt dashed her sister’s newborn babe’s head against a tree.

  These deaths are on my conscience, Talon thought. If he had killed the white scout when he had the chance, that village might still stand and that tiny boy still cry for his mother’s breast. So many years he and Simon Brandt had played the game of fox and hare; first one would be the rabbit, then the other. It was time for the game to end. Simon Brandt must die.

  Or it might well be him, Sh’Kotaa Osh-Kah-Shah—Fire Talon—who would die.

  That was another urgent reason for taking Sweet Water to the English. For days, he had felt a sense of foreboding that he’d never experienced before. He’d always known that a man’s life may be extinguished as easily as a spark, and as war chief or even before, when he was just a brave of the Shawnee, he’d never shied from taking chances. Men were killed in war. He did not welcome death, but he didn’t fear it either.

  Now, he heard the rustle of Wing ee yox qua’s dark feathers around his head and the faint echoes of his own death chant. This man will meet his end as a warrior should, he vowed. But he had taken the precaution of asking Fox to hunt meat for his sister and his aging aunt if he didn’t return.

  He glanced at Sweet Water and thought how short their time together had been . . . not even the turn of a single season. And he wished with all his heart that he and Sweet Water could have seen the wild strawberries blossom in spring and the does lead their young, wobbly legged fawns to the river to drink. He wished they could have lain in each other’s arms and watched the sun go down on a warm summer’s night. He wanted to show her the morning mist on the Ohio, and the first flight of a young eaglet.

  He wanted to make a child with her . . . a child of their love . . . and see that infant nurse at her warm breast and grow strong and wise.

  Sweet Water and I could sit by a fire in the autumn of our lives, while shared memories of love and laughter drifted around us like bright fall leaves, he mused . . . while grandchildren tumbled around our feet.

  “You think too much,” Osage Killer intruded brusquely. “Life is a mountain to be climbed. Sometimes the way is smooth and easy, but most of the time rocks and briers bar our path. When spirits speak, it is good that a man listens. The woman must go back.”

  Counts laughed and made a show of looking all around him. “Osage Killer has become a poet,” he quipped. “Beware when a man of few words begins to spout wisdom. Something unusual is about to happen.”

  Osage Killer made a sound of derision. “It is true that I am not a man who wastes words like water,” he admitted. “But I have sense enough to heed the spirits.”

  “Do they speak to you often?” Counts needled.

  “Sometimes. And now they tell me that we are being followed.”

  Instantly, Talon motioned Sweet Water down. “Behind that rock,” he ordered her in English. She obeyed without question, and he turned back to Osage Killer. “You saw something?”

  The lean warrior shook his head and tapped the nape of his neck. “Here. I feel it here.”

  “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Talon demanded.

  “Whoever comes means us no harm,” Counts’ companion said.

  “Who comes?” Talon asked.

  Osage Killer shrugged.

  Counts had already slipped away into the surrounding forest. Only the slight quiver of a young cedar gave evidence that something living had passed.

  “What is it?” Rebecca asked Talon. “What’s wrong?”

  “Osage says we’re being followed.”

  “Are we?”

  Talon checked the priming on his rifle. “He’s never wrong.” He listened. Crows chattered in the treetops, and from a little way off, he heard the clear whistle of a white-throated sparrow, two sharp notes followed closely by three quavering ones. Whatever was out there, it hadn’t frightened the birds.

  “Talon—” Sweet Water hissed.

  “Quiet.”

  Osage looked toward him, and he nodded. The brave cautiously retraced their trail up the bluff and entered the woods a few hundred yards below the overlook. Talon moved to crouch beside Sweet Water. “Come,” he said to her. “This isn’t a good spot to—” The whir of a grouse’s wings as it broke from cover silenced him. Only seconds later, he heard the cry of a jay. Counts’ signal, he thought, letting out his breath with a sigh. “It’s all right,” he assured Sweet Water.

  She stared at him in bewilderment

  “Wait,” he said, “and you will see. The jay walked on two feet.”

  Shortly, Osage Killer came into sight. Walking beside him was Talon’s sister, now known as Kedata. Counts followed close behind her.

  “Brother,” Kedata called. She was dressed for travel, with a pack on her back and her bow and hunting bag slung over her shoulder. “Num ees—my sister.” She waved at Sweet Water.

  Anger washed over Talon. “What are you doing here? I left you in Fox’s care at the village.”

  His sister laughed. “Since when do I need a man to watch over me? Meshepeshe and I have come to join you. We thought Sweet Water would need female company with so many sour-faced men.”

  “You brought the mountain lion?” Talon said. He glared at her. “This is not a pleasure trip. You will go back to the village at once.”

  “I will not,” she said sweetly.

  “There will be danger when we near the white settlements.”

  She scoffed. “And I have lived a life sheltered from danger—have I not, Brother?”

  “First the witch invades my wigwam; now she shadows my trail,” Counts said. “Send her back where she belongs.”

  Osage Killer looked grim.

  “Kedata—” Talon began.

  “I will stay.” Stepping around him, she went to Sweet Water and embraced her. “Num ees and I have little time together before she leaves us forever.”

  Talon turned his scowl on Sweet Water. “Tell her she should go back,” he ordered in English.

  Sweet Water shook her head. “You said that Shawnee women were free,” she reminded him. “Surely, our sister has a right to decide for herself if she will come or go.”

  Kedata laughed merrily. “You have taught her our ways too well, Sh’Kotaa Osh-Kah-Shah,” she teased. “You have made a proper Indian woman of her, and now you must deal with the consequences.”

  Rebecca did enjoy the company of Talon’s sister in the following days. With her encouragement, Rebecca tried out her newly acquired words of Algonquian. Between her meager Shawnee and Siipu’s broken English, they managed, sharing jokes and knowledge about each other’s customs. Siipu seemed to have left her sorrow in the sweat house, for she quickly become a cheerful friend.

  So much of Rebecca’s adult life had been spent alone at the cabin with Colin that she’d never had a real woman friend in America. It was something she’d missed, and the warmth filled some of the void of her sadness and hurt at leaving Talon.

  Siipu was full of stories of Talon’s childhood, and she was quick to embarrass him with them. One night, by the campfire, she was telling about her brother’s desire to capture a young hawk for a pet. “. . . climb tall tree, high—high,” she explained in a mixture of gestures, English, and Algonquian. “Mother hawk angry. Fly at bad boy. Boy frightened. Limb break—crack! He fall, catch belt on branch.”

  Counts laughed. “This one remembers that day well. His father—the shaman whose name we must not say—have much anger to see only son dangle upside down.”

  “Forty feet from ground,” Siipu continued with barely contained giggles. “All while hawk dive at bottom.”

  “Bare bottom,” Counts supplied.

  “
Yes, it was very funny,” Talon said, banking the tiny fire.

  “Take three men with rope to get him down,” Siipu said.

  Rebecca smiled at him. “I wish I’d been there.”

  “This man is sure you do,” Talon answered grimly.

  Later, when the fire had died to coals, Rebecca had lain awake staring at the cold stars overhead. Talon was only a few feet away, but he might have been miles. Already, he’d left her. She wondered if he had ever felt for her what he’d said he did . . . what she felt for him.

  After tossing and turning, she rose and ventured quietly off into the trees. Osage Killer was standing guard on the far side of the camp. He saw her and waved. She waved back, realizing that he didn’t want her to go too far from the fire.

  She had no intention of doing so. Siipu’s cat was out here in the darkness somewhere, hunting, Rebecca supposed. The animal had rarely showed herself, a glimpse of tawny hide here and there. Once, she had come close to Siipu when they crossed a stream.

  “Meshepeshe not like Counts His Scalps,” Siipu had told her.

  Not Siipu, Kedata, Rebecca reminded herself. This Indian business of changing names was confusing. It made no sense at all to her, but Siipu wouldn’t answer to her old name, and Talon acted as though Becca had never existed. It’s just as well I’m going back, she thought. They can say I’m an Indian, but I’ll never understand their ways.

  A stick snapped behind her and she whirled around.

  Talon stood an arm’s length behind her. “I would speak with you, Sweet Water,” he said quietly.

  “Becca. I’m Becca.”

  “Your heart is hardened against this man.”

  “Shouldn’t it be?”

  He touched her cheek.

  She shivered as a lump formed in the back of her throat. “I loved you,” she said.

  “As this man loves you.”

  “You can’t. If you did, you couldn’t send me back to Simon.”

  “Not to him, never to him.”

  “It is the same thing.” Her chest tightened, making it difficult to breathe.

  “No, it is not.”

  “I would have stayed with you and become Indian,” she whispered. “I would have left everything I’ve ever known behind. I could even forgive you for Colin’s loss, but—”

  “You must understand,” he answered hoarsely. “The ceremony was done not to bring you pain but so that you might go on living.”

  “Why couldn’t you simply admit that you’d made a mistake? Is your pride so important that you’d throw away my love, our future life together, rather than say you were wrong?” she flared. “What kind of man are you that you can’t say you were wrong?”

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She stood as stiff as a wooden doll, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of letting him know how much she wanted his embrace . . . his touch.

  “Sweet Water,” he murmured hoarsely. He kissed her again.

  She didn’t fight him, but she gave no response to his caress at all. “No more of your lies,” she said. “You don’t love me as I love you. That’s the truth.”

  “My heart, my little fox-haired lion. Ask anything of this man but his honor. Ask for my eyes and I will cut them out and give them to you.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “Try to understand, ki-te-hi. Try. A Shawnee man—a warrior—is judged by his word. A solemn vow may not be broken. This one must keep his promise or become an outcast, lower than the bile that spills from a drunkard’s lips. By asking that you be accepted into the tribe and reborn as a Shawnee woman, this man witnessed the death of one he swore to kill.”

  “I can see that,” she whispered. “It’s not logical by my way of thinking, but—”

  “My love for you is one thing you must never doubt,” he said, caressing her hair with his cheek. “It is as sure as the rise of the sun and the turning of the seasons. And it will remain steadfast until dawn comes no more and the earth has ceased to give life to her children.”

  “Then why must I go back?”

  “For peace. To honor my father’s memory, and to keep mothers from weeping over the graves of their lost ones. If we do not send you back, more long rifles will come. The English king’s soldiers will hunt us, and we will find no place to raise our corn or build our wigwams.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  He kissed her mouth, slowly, tenderly. She slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her.

  “This man does not want you to go, but there is no other way.”

  Not forever, she thought. I can’t stand it if I’ll never see him again. “But if peace comes . . .” she said. “If the killing stops, then why couldn’t we . . .”

  “In my lifetime there has been no peace,” he replied.

  “But there could be. Promise me that you’ll come for me or that I can come to you if things get better between the whites and the Indians. Promise me, Talon. Please, give me something to hope for.”

  For a long moment, he stood there holding her in utter silence. “If there is peace, this man will come for you.”

  “You promise?”

  “On my mother’s grave. This one will not forget you, my Sweet Water. If we can be together again in honor, it will be.”

  She sighed deeply and snuggled close to him.

  “We should go back to the camp,” he said finally. “We have far to walk tomorrow.”

  “Should we?” she asked. Her lips tingled from his kiss, and tears spilled down her cold cheeks.

  He groaned and pressed her roughly back against a tree trunk. Frantically, his hands moved over her body and his mouth sought hers.

  Her blood flared as he strained against her, seeking confirmation of their mutual need. There in the darkness within earshot of the camp, they came together in one last desperate act of loving. And when they finally returned to their blankets by the fire, they walked hand in hand.

  Five days later, Rebecca lay belly down beside Talon, Counts, and Siipu, staring at a clearing and two cabins in the valley below. Osage Killer waited in the forest, standing guard.

  Far below where they lay, smoke drifted from stone chimneys and from an outdoor fire where a woman stirred a large copper caldron. A youth and a barking dog herded several black and white cows across a stubbled cornfield toward a lean-to stable. From behind one of the buildings came the distinct sound of an ax splitting wood.

  “There,” Talon said. “Go to the German’s house and tell him who you used to be. They will take you to the English soldiers. And when they do, you must say that war between Indian and white is a bad thing. Tell them that they must come no farther west with their roads and wagons. Tell them that many will die on both sides if they break the treaties again.”

  Siipu touched her hand. “Walk with the sun on your face, sister. We have no word for goodbye. To you, this woman says, when you hear wind in trees, sound be whisper of our love for you.”

  Counts acknowledged Rebecca’s departure with a reluctant nod.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Rebecca admitted stiffly. Now that it was time for them to go their separate ways, she didn’t know if she could keep from weeping. She looked into Siipu’s solemn face. “Siipu . . .”

  The Indian woman smiled and shook her head.

  “Kedata,” Rebecca corrected. “I will never forget you.”

  “Do not forget Meshepeshe,” she reminded.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.” She knotted her hands into tight balls and glanced at Talon. “I don’t . . .” she began awkwardly.

  Siipu motioned to Counts and they inched backwards away from the ledge and got to their feet.

  “It should be safe enough for you to go the rest of the way alone,” Talon said. “Call out loudly in English so that they can see you aren’t an Indian.”

  “Talon—” she whispered.

  “It is time,” he said, backing down the incline away from the edge. She followed and he took her hand, gripping
it so tightly that she thought her bones would crack. His hot liquid gaze burned into her soul.

  “Remember your promise,” she whispered. “If peace comes—”

  “This man remembers,” he murmured. “Inu-msi-ila-fe-wanu keep you from—”

  Without warning, a hound began to bay from the forest behind them. A second dog took up the cry. Then a musket shot shattered the quiet morning.

  Rebecca screamed. “No! Don’t shoot! I’m English!”

  Osage Killer’s gun fired a reply.

  Talon threw up his rifle just as Rebecca saw several white men dash from the trees. The first man fired. Osage Killer groaned and slumped to the ground. Talon’s rifle roared. Counts flung himself over his friend’s body and raised his weapon as the yellow-haired German staggered to his knees, struck down by Talon’s shot.

  “Stop!” Rebecca cried. “Please stop!”

  Talon braced the butt of his rifle against the ground and began to reload. Counts fired at the charging white men. “Take cover!” Talon yelled to the women.

  “No!” Rebecca shouted. “Stop shooting!”

  A tall white man in a striped shirt and fringed hunting coat turned and leveled his rifle at her.

  “Ku!” Siipu cried. Just as the German pulled the trigger, she threw herself in the path of the bullet.

  Rebecca screamed. Something struck her. She put her hand to her breast and drew it away covered with blood. Puzzled, she stared at her hand. She felt no pain, but suddenly, the ground beneath her seemed to sway. “Siipu?” she called. “Siipu?”

  Talon’s sister turned toward her with dilating eyes. The front of her beautiful deerskin was a red blur. “Num ees,” she rasped. “My dear sister, take care of him.” Dark red blood trickled from her mouth, then became a stream. She pitched forward into Rebecca’s arms.

  Rebecca tried to hold her, but her strength was fading. “Siipu,” she murmured drunkenly. “What’s . . . what’s happening?”

  Rebecca groaned as the ground came up and hit her. Then she heard Talon’s war cry as he threw himself at the Germans. Another shot rang out. A loud buzzing filled her head. “Talon,” she cried. It came out a whisper. “Talon . . .” Then the buzzing swallowed her up and she sank into merciful blackness.