“So good of you to stop in today,” he’d say, absently bandaging up one or another of Jesse’s injuries. “I’d felt the urge for a celebration, so now we may share it. Did you know, Jesse,” he’d ask, eyes bright with amazement, “that the planet Jupiter has four moons? Imagine that! Look here, Jesse, in my telescope.”
Or he’d spin the large globe in the corner, indicating continents and oceans with one slightly crooked finger. “If it hadn’t been for explorers over two hundred years ago, you and I might still be living somewhere across the sea . . .” Occasionally, Doc stuck a finger somewhere on the globe and declared himself determined to discover something about the place. Geography books filled with drawings and facts, both amazing and dull, found their way in front of Jesse.
On slower, more reflective days, when words seemed almost to weary him, Doc pulled out books of art, showing Jesse paintings from all over Europe, leading the boy through a maze of sculptures and architecture from ancient Egypt and Greece. On those days, he rhapsodized with a kind of wistfulness, marvelling at the greatness of the human spirit, the voice of the heart. Those were the days when he sat Jesse down afterward, looked into his eyes, and tried to convince him that he carried greatness within himself. He told Jesse he could be whatever he wanted to be, if he strove to live well and always worked toward that goal.
Jesse never fully bought into that particular lesson. While Doc might be able to lose himself in lessons and faraway stories, Jesse was stuck in his father’s shabby house on a flat pile of nothing in the middle of the Carolinas. And as much as he’d love to discover something new in his life, he really didn’t see a whole lot of options. But Doc had persevered, telling him that even if he did nothing but raise horses and marry a good woman someday, the way that he did it meant the most of all.
“Your time will come, Jesse. You are a great man, and you’re here for a reason.”
Jesse held his tongue. Despite everything Doc tried to tell him, there was always a part of Jesse—a small, scared part of him—that dreaded what he might become. He was Thomas Black’s son, which made him the son of the devil.
Doc seemed oblivious to Jesse’s worries. “A man such as you,” he said, “is not one to fritter away his days on nothing at all. Remember the great Shakespeare, the poet and storyteller?”
Jesse nodded. “Hamlet,” he said. “You read me that.”
“And Macbeth?”
“The old man and all the blood. Yeah. I remember that one.”
“Then remember this, my boy:
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts . . .”
“Uh-huh,” Jesse grunted.
Doc showed him books of the stars and showed him how to read them, how to use their light if he was ever lost in the wilderness. He taught him the origin of everyday things, told him stories about inventors and scientists, about explorers and adventurers who had made history. He expanded Jesse’s vocabulary, teaching him words that made Jesse feel intelligent.
Most important of all, Doc taught Jesse to read. They laboured over books, with Doc demonstrating the different sounds each letter made and Jesse throwing regular tantrums when his brain reached its limit. But he kept coming back. When written words became familiar to Jesse, he had to be careful not to let his father know. Thomas couldn’t read, and never even once suggested Jesse should learn. But because of Doc, he had. Jesse devoured books. One of Jesse’s favourite pastimes was losing himself, and reading gave him a whole world to escape into. Though he politely refused to read Doc’s library of philosophical, medical, or political books, he read other books for hours, ensconced among Gulliver’s Travels, Leonidas, and the works of Daniel Defoe. He must have read Robinson Crusoe five times.
He wondered if that little blond mouse could read. She looked smart, but he didn’t know how long she’d lived here at the village. Or where she’d come from. He didn’t know much about her at all. She wasn’t exactly the sharing type. Tended to clam up at anything that even hinted at a personal question. But that was okay. Jesse had time. He knew he could eventually crack her, find out what she was all about. All he had to do was wait, then use that charm the girls back home couldn’t resist.
CHAPTER 14
Target Practice
When Jesse returned from the river, he was met by Dustu. The scowling warrior was leaning heavily on a thick branch that had been stripped of bark. He used it because Jesse’s wicked twist had done a painful number on Dustu’s ankle. It was going to be a long time before the warrior was able to stand on two feet again.
“U yo,” the smaller man said, his upper lip lifted in a sneer. “Too bad river does not clean ugly skin off. You are still white.”
Any pleasant thoughts of Adelaide and the river instantly vanished. Jesse kept walking. He had his own limp, but he did his best to mask it as he passed Dustu. “Yeah? And you’re still a turd.”
He was surprised to hear a steady shuffle thump shuffle thump behind him, then realized Dustu was following him.
“What is turd?” Dustu wanted to know.
“What comes out the back end.”
A moment, then Dustu laughed. “Turd. I will use this.”
“Go ahead. It’s all yours.”
“I say you will burn, turd.”
Jesse stopped and took a slow breath. He turned and met Dustu’s spiteful glare. “What?”
“You will cook like awi i nage ehi.”
Jesse stared through his lashes, then shook his head very slowly. “Eh?”
“Awi i nage ehi,” Dustu said slowly, like he was talking to a two-year-old. Then he raised his free hand and spread his fingers over his head like antlers.
Jesse started walking away again, but Dustu wasn’t finished. Relentless little bugger kept on limping behind him, tossing barbs.
“I will sing song for you while you burn, Awi i nage ehi. Special song. I will dance.”
Jesse snorted. “One-legged dance. Sounds great.”
They kept moving, and Dustu surprised Jesse with how fast he could go. He’d hoped to simply outpace the man. Just like a cockroach to keep on going no matter how many times you step on him.
“I will take your golden hair. It will fly like bird’s wing over my house.”
Jesse spun to face him, gritting his teeth. “What is your problem, bat face?”
Dustu’s smile was broad. Satisfied. And missing a couple of important teeth. “You are problem. I do not want you here.”
Arms crossed, Jesse leaned closer. “That makes two of us.”
“Leave.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Of course, since I already busted your leg, you wouldn’t be able to be in the war party that guts me, but you could watch.”
“You are not Cherokee. You do not belong here.”
Wasn’t that the truth? “Thanks for the information. I’ll be sure to think on that.”
Dustu either didn’t understand the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. His snicker didn’t sound the least bit contrite. “You will die, white man.”
“We all gotta go sometime,” Jesse muttered, then squinted hard at the warrior. “Some of us fall faster than others.” He stepped toward Dustu, set his hands on the man’s chest, then shoved hard. Dustu, already off balance, flew backward and landed in a gasping heap a few feet away.
“I kill you,” Dustu growled.
Jesse pointedly observed him, letting his eyes travel over Dustu’s fallen form. Then he nodded and turned away. “Or I’ll kill you first, little man.”
Dustu didn’t follow, but his shadow did, casting darkness on Jesse’s entire outlook. The man had been right. He didn’t belong here. They probably would kill him eventually. But he had no say in anything. He was stuck here, lef
t to wait and wonder and bang his head against a wall if he wanted. The only thing he wasn’t allowed to do was leave the village. That was driving him crazy.
He stormed past a house and purposefully whacked his hand against a fish-drying rack, knocking the thing over and dropping a dozen fish into the dust. A little boy with shoulder-length black hair stood nearby, looking up at Jesse with round, nervous eyes, and Jesse drew back his hand as if he was going to hit him. He’d never have done it. Wouldn’t hit a woman or child if his life depended on it. But he wanted to scare the kid. God help him, he wanted to terrify him. It worked. The little boy took off without a word, the weathered soles of his feet pounding the earth as he ran.
Furious energy buzzed through Jesse, taking his mind off all the aches and pains in his body and pushing him to walk faster. He needed to get some of this anger out. He needed to take it out on something or else he might just explode. When he passed the next house he slammed his fist against the wall and growled like a trapped animal but kept walking. A woman popped out of the house, squawking, demanding to know what he was doing, he supposed, but he just flapped a hand at her.
Half a dozen horses milled around in the corral, and Jesse had to fight the need to vault onto one of those broad backs and race far from this place. But that would mean certain death, and he was too angry to allow that just yet.
He’d had to deal with anger before, obviously. But then he’d had the wide-open outdoors, where he could run all by himself. He could gallop across the spaces, navigate through the forest paths, or simply hide out awhile in a cave or by the water. If he could just keep moving, maybe this need to throttle something would fade.
A pile of still-hot ash from an earlier fire sat directly in his path, so he kicked it, scattering dust and gray coals, then stepped over the mess. When one of the friendly village dogs came pounding over to him, leaping and curling its tail in anticipation, he leaned down and roared at it, teeth bared, until it slunk away.
He reached the other side of the village and stood on the outer edge of the forest, looking in. He couldn’t run, obviously, because they’d kill him. And because of the restless fury pulsing within him, he certainly couldn’t just sit and ponder the situation. He wasn’t that kind of man, anyway. He needed to keep his hands busy. Needed to take out some of his anger on something. On impulse, he stooped and grabbed a rock at his feet, then threw it into the trees. The thud it made when it hit an unseen tree trunk or ricocheted off a boulder hidden within the shadows was mildly satisfying. He scouted the ground, looking for more, then stopped short at the sight of a weathered pair of moccasins beside his own. He looked up into the slightly amused gaze of Soquili.
The Indian didn’t say anything, just narrowed his eyes and studied Jesse for a second. It was unexpected, Jesse thought, seeing so much calm in those black eyes. Something you didn’t expect from what he’d always known as savages. Then Soquili set his hand on Jesse’s arm to move him out of the way, and Jesse was instantly back on guard, fists raised. But Soquili only laughed and shook his head. He turned away and stepped a few paces back, then waved at Jesse to get out of the way.
Jesse frowned, not understanding. Eventually, when Soquili jerked his head to one side, he gave in and moved. As soon as he was far enough out of the way, Soquili drew his tomahawk from its place around his waist, swung it back over his head, then flung the weapon toward a large dead stump a few feet away from where Jesse now stood. The blade did a perfect spin, then planted itself in the middle of the wood with a rewarding thunk. Soquili walked up, grabbed the handle, and tugged it out, then walked back and did it all over again, this time from a little farther back. He repeated the same action five times, then stopped in front of Jesse and folded his arms over his broad chest.
“You.”
Jesse looked up at him from under his lashes, then huffed. As he walked back to where Soquili had thrown from, he muttered, “It’ll be you I’m aiming at, brother.”
He’d thrown knives before, when he was younger. Aimed them at a certain spot on the barn wall. One he’d set in his mind as his father’s face. He wasn’t bad at it, but he’d admit to not being the best. Never thrown a tomahawk before, though. He pulled the one from his belt and stared down the five long paces from the trunk. He wondered if he’d even be able to hit the thing. Might just lose it in the woods. He started to swing his arm back, then stopped and glanced at Soquili, whose wry grin didn’t help Jesse’s confidence one bit.
“What?”
Soquili moved his hand, thumb edge up, in a straight line, indicating how Jesse should throw.
“Yeah, yeah.” Shaking off the tip, Jesse drew back the tomahawk and hurled it with all his might at the trunk.
It hit the trunk, which was a great start. Then it hit it sideways, then fell uselessly to the ground. Unable to stop himself, Jesse looked over at Soquili, but the big brave had his eyes glued to the ground at his feet. At least he didn’t have to answer to any teasing. Jesse picked up the tomahawk, moved his arm in a practice swing, then hurled it again.
Same result. This was not helping Jesse’s mood one bit. Twice more he tried, and twice more the tomahawk ended up lying like a stick on the ground.
“Forget it,” he finally said, jamming the weapon back into his belt.
“Do not kill it.”
“What?” Jesse snapped. The last thing he wanted right about now was a lesson.
Soquili didn’t seem to notice. He walked to Jesse’s side, holding his own tomahawk as an example. He showed Jesse how loosely he held the weapon, then slung it back and casually nailed the trunk.
Jesse eased his grip a little, weighing the thing in his hand. Soquili stepped away and nodded, looking confident, then folded his arms again while he watched. Nothing like a little pressure, Jesse thought, setting his feet one ahead of the other. He’d tried to look like he didn’t care when Soquili was showing him what to do, but in truth he’d studied every move. The hard part, he figured, was not making it hard. Easy does it, as they say. So he pulled his arm back and swung through in one fluid motion, and the tomahawk floated end over end, planting itself in the dead wood. Just like Soquili’s.
Jesse stared at it, shocked it had been that simple. Soquili was smiling easily now, and he nodded in the direction of the weapon, but he didn’t have to. Jesse was already walking over to pull it out and do it again. After a few perfect throws, Soquili carried over another log, one that was a little smaller in diameter. He took a turn, hitting the centre with annoying accuracy. Jesse missed a couple of times, then sunk the blade nice and deep. He experimented, moving back farther from the target, twisting his wrist to see what happened, then let Soquili coach him on how to make his shot even better. Then Soquili left and Jesse stayed.
For an hour, he threw that thing, throwing harder and farther until his shoulder screamed at him to stop. But the satisfaction of seeing and hearing that delicious success was exactly what he’d needed. He took out his aggression, his frustration, his indecision on the little trunk, and when he finally came away, it was with a feeling that he could, after all, survive all this. He hadn’t answered a single question about any of it, but he’d at least gotten ahold of his anger and used it in a good way, rather than getting himself in trouble by starting a fight or something. It wasn’t the last time he went out to that spot for target practice.
CHAPTER 15
Tloo-da-tsì
He’d gone hunting with Soquili and a few others, showing them he knew how to use a bow and arrow. They watched him constantly, suspicion thick in their black eyes, but they all assumed he’d fall in line eventually. Join their Cherokee family. As if he had any choice. Over time, he forced himself to become more polite with Salali and Ahtlee but could never call them Mother or Father—though, God knew, Ahtlee was without question a better father than the one he’d originally been given. But to look these black-haired people in those slightly slanted eyes, set above flattene
d noses and broad cheekbones, and call them his family? How could any white man do that?
Adelaide didn’t seem to be part of any one particular family, but she was close to Soquili’s. He would have to ask her about that someday.
He’d noticed that among the Cherokee, there were elders, people who looked after the decision making in council, and who decided the fates of others with a blink of their milky eyes. The women seemed to be the ones in charge, even over the elder men. Above them all floated an ancient crone named Wah-Li.
“Come,” Soquili said one day in his halting English. “Wah-Li see you.”
“What if I don’t want to see her?”
“Not a question.”
So he’d gone, after some last-minute primping by Salali, and ducked under the opening of the big council house in the middle of the village. The heat of the place sucked his breath away, yet the only warmth radiated from a small hearth fire where the old woman sat, tiny and shriveled by time, wrapped in blankets Jesse would have found smothering.
“Sit,” she croaked.
Jesse didn’t sit immediately. Nor did he speak. He paced the entryway of the house, studying every corner, making himself aware of exactly what he was getting himself into. But the room was almost completely black, save the red embers and the wrinkled woman. He squinted, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness, but could see nothing. He didn’t like the darkness behind her. It felt . . . occupied.
At length he sat, but he kept his gaze on the hidden place behind her. He didn’t think she’d notice anyway, since her eyes were masked by a murky layer of white.
“Tloo-da-tsì,” she muttered with a smile, then poked a twig into the fire. “I thought so.”
Somewhere to Dream (Berkley Sensation) Page 9