by Jamie Carie
Isabelle threw back her head and threw her arms out wide. “I want to kill him. I know it’s wrong and … forgive me, but I want his life. Give me his life.”
She heard nothing but the gentle wind blowing through the trees.
Clicking to the horse, she mounted. It no longer mattered that it was dark. Something beyond her eyes and ears was guiding her. She decided to trust it, determined that nothing would cause her to let it go. Speaking softly to Samoa, she headed back into the woods.
The horse, too, seemed to sense some kind of supernatural guidance. She easily sidestepped fallen branches and thick patches of stinging nettle. She turned, and Isabelle had a shaft of doubt, wondering if they shouldn’t go around a grouping of bushes the other way. As she stopped, searching her feelings, an owl hooted off to the left. She grinned, turning Samoa toward the bird, then seeing in the faint moonlight the recently broken branches of a tree going that way. It was as if evil was all around them but could not touch them. She rode in the moonlight like water sliding through the grooves of a streambed—such was their path, laid out before them.
* * *
SAMUEL CAME TO with a strangled gasp as a strong, stinging smell engulfed him. He struggled to breathe, realizing as he rose to consciousness that a wet rag was being pressed over his nose and mouth. The sucked-in air stung as it made its way down into his lungs, causing them to spasm, giving him a moment’s panic as he wondered if he was to rise to consciousness only to die now.
Then, behind closed eyes, he saw a vision of Isabelle’s face. Saw her on a brown horse. Saw her coming to them.
She was alive.
Turning his head, he fought, kicking, rising up, jabbing with his shoulder. He heard a grunt of pain as his shoulder struck something solid, the rag suddenly gone. Taking great gulps of fresh air, Samuel’s eyes opened and blazed with anger at his captor. A stout Indian woman glared back at him as she backed away. She threw the rag into the fire, where it quickly caught, turning bright blue with a sudden blaze, soon engulfed by the whole.
Samuel spit the evil taste from his mouth.
“Water,” he demanded, looking hard at the woman.
She considered him for a moment, then acquiesced. She turned away, coming back with a hollowed-out gourd.
His hands were still tied behind his back, so the woman set the edge of the gourd on his lower lip and tilted it up. Water trickled down his chin. Samuel gulped down as much as he could before she took it away. The woman smiled, showing a gap-toothed grin, as if his earlier attack had pleased instead of riled her.
Samuel struggled to adjust his sitting position, swinging his legs toward the edge of the sleeping pallet. He rolled his neck and shoulders, trying to lessen the ache in his muscles.
“Your name?” he said to the woman.
The woman shook her head, not understanding.
Samuel gestured to himself with his chin. “Samuel.” Then he jutted his chin toward her. “You?”
The woman’s face broke into a smile, pleased she understood. “Chinkachook.”
Samuel nodded gravely, relishing this small success. If he could keep any kind of upper hand with the enemy, he could win. He tilted his head to the side and swung his hands out from behind his back as far as he could, gesturing. “Untie?”
The woman comprehended immediately, shook her head no and scowled as if to say, Do you think me a fool? Samuel couldn’t help but acknowledge that it was a ridiculous request. Sighing, he settled for another. “Food? Eat?” He imitated chewing with his mouth, thinking that he had to keep her focused on sustenance, something women everywhere knew womb-deep.
The woman nodded and brought out a bowl of what looked like corn mush. Samuel made himself swallow as fast as she ladled it into his mouth, knowing any food would bolster his strength.
Sunukkuhkau stepped into the wigwam midway through the bowl, causing the woman to shrink back and avert her eyes. “Get up,” he demanded in thick English.
Samuel glared at him from under scowling brows. But he obeyed, scooting to the edge of the pallet, shifting his weight to his feet, then struggling to gain his balance.
“Why didn’t you kill us when you had the chance?”
The Indian smiled, spreading his lips over straight teeth. “I want the honor of your death, Glorious One of the Long Knives.”
Samuel scoffed. “Let Julian go. He is only a traveler on an errand. He is nothing to you.”
Sunukkuhkau reached for Samuel’s arm and jerked him toward the door. “I wanted the woman. I will settle for the brother.”
13
Isabelle startled awake to a shaft of pain, feeling like someone had thrust a knife through her skull. She righted herself in the saddle, blinking rapidly into the morning sun, realizing that she had fallen asleep on her horse and was about to fall off. She touched her temple where it throbbed, hoping these tortuous episodes would soon pass.
She licked her dry lips, realizing that she must stop, get her bearings, and locate traces of the captive party. Water, too, was a telling need hovering at the edges of her mind. Food and water. Her stomach was gnawing with hunger despite the pain-induced nausea.
A sound, shrill and heart-faint familiar, pierced the dawn. She felt her flesh crawl, started to panic with recent memories, hauling on the reins to stop and listen. She knew that sound well now.
The scream died off, giving way to the cheers of a crowd. Isabelle nudged Samoa’s flanks in sudden urgency. As the woods gave way to a well-traveled path, she leaned low over the horse’s neck whispering words of encouragement.
“Venez la rapidité le jour, mi, mon doux.”
The sounds grew louder as she approached. It had to be the Shawnee camp. She reined Samoa in behind a large stand of trees, then leaned over and petted the horse’s silky withers. “Make no sound,” she admonished.
She hefted the rifles and ammunition, checking the powder, ascertaining that the guns were loaded and ready. She then carefully guided Samoa through moss and brush, deeper into the tall trees, hoping the uproarious shouting coming from the village would cover any sounds the horse made. As they gained ground, she nudged Samoa to the edge of the trees, then stopped, took a deep breath, and pushed a large, leafy branch out of her way.
Then she saw them.
* * *
SAMUEL WAS PUSHED and prodded like a recalcitrant mule into the bright morning sun, the wind whipping through his gilded hair. Much of it had torn loose from the twine he used to secure his ponytail and now hung in his face. He allowed his head to fall back for a moment, soaking in the illusion of freedom, his gaze sweeping the tops of the tall poplars and white ash surrounding the campsite. The wind sounded like the rush of waters over stones in a creek bed. His arms ached, his shoulders ached, and the wound on his head throbbed red and pulsating like an angry hive of bees … swarming … needling … constant in its demand for attention.
In the center of the village stood two lines of Shawnee. Whole families stood strangely excited with clubs and sticks in their hands, their faces wearing varying degrees of paint.
And Julian. Julian stood at the head of the gauntlet, trembling and blindfolded, unaware of what was about to happen to him.
Samuel yanked free of Sunukkuhkau’s grasp, and looked up into his captor’s dark eyes, so unreadable, so deadened.
“No,” he heard himself appeal. “Take me instead. I’ll do it.”
The Indian gave him the same smile as before, that look of certain death and the preeminent relish of it. “Have no fear. You are first.”
He shoved Samuel to the beginning of the gauntlet, pushing him into Julian, who fell to the ground, his face a fear-mask around the scarlet cloth of his blindfold.
One of the Shawnee bent to untie Samuel’s hands, ignoring Julian.
“Samuel? Is that you?”
“It’s me,” Samuel replied grimly over the yelps and excited chatter of the Indians, the feeling rushing back into his arms in waves of prickles and heat. He reached to help Juli
an up.
“What are they doing? What … what’s happening?” The young man’s voice trembled, reminding Samuel of himself as a small boy, afraid of noises under the bed, in the wardrobe, in the dark.
“We’re to run the gauntlet. Looks like I get to go first.”
“The gauntlet?” Julian’s knees buckled.
Samuel reached out to steady him. “I see you are acquainted with the tales of such a test,” Samuel said with forced levity, trying to cheer him. “It’s nothing but sticks in the hands of children. Brace yourself, man.”
Julian nodded, his hair sweat-pasted against his forehead, his lips trembling and compressed in a white line. He was too young for this. Too frail. Everything in Samuel wanted to protect him from it, but there was nothing he could do.
Samuel turned to the parallel lines to study his tormentors, saw their faces change from celebratory to malevolent, saw where the strongest braves stood, noting with rising concern that Sunukkuhkau held a tomahawk.
He meant to kill him.
Their voices rose in a cacophony of frenzied, fatal intent. Samuel braced his legs, ready to run like he hoped he could, thankful for the coaxed gruel of the morning, wishing he wasn’t so stiff from yesterday’s battle and that his shoulders didn’t ache so from being bound all night. He leaned into a starting position as he had when racing his friends as a boy. With shallow, rapid breaths, he waited for the signal.
The Shawnee, seeing a man determined and showing no fear, grew more animated, ready for their chance. Even the children glared with murderous eyes, waving sticks above their heads in his direction. Samuel took a deep breath and blocked them from his mind. With extreme focus, as if he were looking down the sights of his long rifle, he directed his full intent onto the grassy space at end of the line, his landing place in this trial of pain.
Without warning, a brave shoved him suddenly forward, causing him to falter at the beginning, almost falling beneath the sticks of the children before even reaching the real test. He righted himself, feeling the hits against his legs and chest. The yelps around him intensified as he plunged forward, blows now raining down on his head and shoulders, back and thighs. Long shafts of pain radiated through his body. But he ignored everything, blotted out all feeling except the motion of his feet, the solidness of the earth beneath his moccasins. He took mighty strides, his whole body straining for that patch of grass that would mean he had passed their test.
* * *
ISABELLE LET OUT her held breath as Samuel collapsed to his knees at the end of the line, not realizing that she held her rifle trained through the leaves on the man who had shoved Samuel into the line of torture. She had heard of such tests but had never seen them, and she didn’t know what to do. What did it mean that he had completed the gauntlet? Would they make him run it again until he succumbed to their blows?
She dashed tears away, but her arms remained strong and steady. Her heart might be galloping, but her thighs kept the horse still beneath her. She felt her determination grow into something rock hard, and she knew she had to stand and watch this horror. To wait for an opportune moment.
* * *
THE INDIANS SEEMED glad of Samuel’s accomplishment, cheering for him now and regarding him with respect. Samuel, lying on the grassy patch of hope, could only pray that meant he was safe, for now anyway.
He was heaved up, bloody and torn, his flesh open in areas, his head light and fuzzy but mostly in one piece. They stood him at the end of the line so that he could have a clear view as they took up the next victim. The atmosphere turned from one of admiration to sneering hatred, their voices renewed with whoops of victory.
Samuel watched as they removed Julian’s blindfold, his eyes sweeping the crowd with their clubs and sticks waving at him, not comprehending what was about to happen. Samuel could see his knees begin to shake. Fear coated his gaze as it finally settled on Samuel.
“Keep your eyes on me,” Samuel shouted. “Julian, do you hear me? Don’t fall. And run, Julian. Run as fast as you can.”
Julian nodded that he had heard, but his whole body was visibly shuddering now.
A long, singsong scream pierced the air, causing the Indians to quiet and raise their weapons in anticipation. Another cry was raised, and Julian was shoved forward. He nearly fell right away.
“Run, Julian, run!”
Julian darted forward, sinking toward the ground as a club came down on his shoulder. He tottered but, with a giant step, caught himself and continued running, arms covering his head, a feeble shield of flesh and bone.
Samuel watched in dismay as the blows rained on the young man, slowing him to a crouching, staggered sideways motion. Samuel ignored his own screaming flesh, legs that wanted to collapse, and instead cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled encouragement, wanting badly to be able to explain that if Julian failed this test, the Indians would likely burn him at the stake. He wanted to shout that the Indians understood only strength and courage and that he must make it to the other side. There would be no second chances. No mercy.
Julian was bleeding profusely now from his face, his shoulders, arms and legs. Samuel cried aloud as he saw him falter again, almost stopping in the middle of the line. “God, help him! Help him!” he heard himself beseech. “Look at me, Julian!” he shouted with all his might above the yelping of the tribe. Julian stumbled, one knee nearly touching the grass, but he looked up, and Samuel lifted his arms, his muscles quivering with the effort, wanting to infuse some of his strength into Julian. Julian rose up, stood against the war club that slammed into his back, and sprinted a few more feet forward.
Samuel’s throat was raw. “Run! Run! Run!”
Sunukkuhkau stood near the end of the line. He turned and stared into Samuel’s eyes. The Indian’s chin jutted up and forward and, without even looking to see where Julian was, he swung his tomahawk around in a slow arc toward Julian’s head.
Samuel heard screams. He didn’t know if they were his or Julian’s, but he saw the sudden red stream, watched as the young man faltered and folded, the culmination of an easy victory. Oh God, have mercy!, Samuel silently screamed, head thrown back, eyes clenched and then open again.
Then, in all the confusion, he heard another kind of scream.
“Nooooo!”
It rose and fell like a lilting eulogy song from the trees in the distance. His head jerked toward the woods. He knew that voice, knew it deep in the core of his being.
Isabelle had come.
14
As Isabelle watched Julian run the bloody line of torture, and as each blow landed, odd flashes away from this time and place played across her consciousness. She saw him as a little brother, as he’d been in her mother’s house, peaceful natured, sweet, the very opposite of her own fierce-eyed bravado. She remembered how afraid of the woods he had been, eyes wide and shaking his head at her, how she’d had to goad and tease him to follow her into its dark recesses. She remembered his resistance at trying anything new and outside his range of comfort, the bow and arrows their father had brought home for him ending up her first weapon, so little he’d touched it, and finally, how he had held the bow out to her with that look. Julian couldn’t bear to take a life, not even to fill an empty stomach.
The guitar had become his favorite pastime. And as they grew together, they learned how to depend on one another’s strengths and cover for the other’s weaknesses. They would support or deny, concealing and protecting, depending on the circumstances. She may have been braver, but when her foolhardy ways got her into trouble, he had been her lightning rod, grounding her to the solidness of the earth, and giving her the perspective of an unchangeable nature.
Now her brother lay in a heap on the dusty ground, as if his bones had dissolved and left only a small mound of flesh, his ghost hovering over him.
She watched, heartsick, horror filling her as they dragged him to his feet, shook him awake, then shoved him toward the front of the line again. One of his legs collapsed beneath his weight
, broken and twisted away from his body. He fell with a weak cry. Isabelle’s stomach turned over as tears raced down her dirty cheeks. They couldn’t make him run it again! He couldn’t do it.
The Indians must have thought otherwise as they raised him up and carried his limp frame to the front of the line. Samuel was straining against the two captors who held him, trying to get to Julian. Isabelle could hear his cry ring across the camp. “Let me! I will run it for him!”
They ignored him, tightening their hold on his struggling body.
She couldn’t help what happened next, her protective spirit rising and compelling her forward. She heard the scream leave her throat, felt her heels kick Samoa into action as involuntary as breath. She charged to her beloved brother’s rescue, abandoning her hidden place among the trees.
Just as they shoved Julian forward once more, the sticks of the weaker women and children at the head of the line beginning to rain down on his battered body, Isabelle shot out of the woods, a banshee war cry ripping from her throat, a shot ringing from the rifle in her arms.
* * *
THE INDIANS STOPPED, frozen by the chilling scream, and turned as one toward the vision from Hades that was charging at them from the woods. Leaning low over the horse’s neck, Isabelle rode as the wind, her long, black hair whipping like a living, black flag behind her, her eyes blazing with the certain promise of death.
One of their braves, the one next to Sunukkuhkau, crumpled to the ground. They could barely comprehend that he had been felled by the rifle, such was the distance between them. This dark rider could not be human. As one they backed away from the oncoming she-devil, fear in their eyes, shrieks like even they had never heard coming from her throat.
All were terrified but for Sunukkuhkau and Samuel, both of whom were smiling. But it wasn’t the same smile, not the same smile at all. Sunukkuhkau said aloud in English, “She was dead. She has risen from the dead!” He let out a war whoop and shouted again in his native tongue.