Wind Dancer

by Jamie Carie

  There was so much laughing and shrill yelping going on that Isabelle had to call out at the top of her lungs when she saw that Sinchi, a young woman who had only shyly smiled at Isabelle these past weeks, had actually managed to grasp the ball. The woman was surprisingly quick footed, darting in and out of the groups of men following her. One of them grasped hold of her skirt as he went down, dragging her to a stop. Before he could rise to his feet and shake her, Isabelle yelled, “Sinchi! Here!” Isabelle raised her hands high, hoping the woman would understand. There was a smile, and then the woman reared back to throw it. All eyes watched in some amazement as the ball sailed through the air, straight into Isabelle’s outreached arms.

  “Whooo!” Isabelle yelled, her moccasins turning in the grass, her legs straining against the blasted dress. She ran toward the goal with all her might.

  Suddenly she felt strong hands grasp hold of her shoulders, felt panting breath on her bare neck. Thinking it was Samuel, by the excited rise in her chest at his touch, she half-turned toward him, pulling away from the grasp as hard as she could, with a huge grin on her face. But it wasn’t Samuel. It was Sunukkuhkau.

  And he looked like he wanted to win something bigger than a ball game.

  Isabelle’s grin faded. Her eyes slanted in determination. He would not get this ball. He would not.

  She’d kept moving forward through the exchange, just within the reach of hands, but he didn’t have a firm grip on her yet. Jagging quickly to the right, she was able to dislodge one of his hands from her shoulder. Now she twisted suddenly, elbow out and sharp, and was able to drive it into his ribs, catching him off guard. The moment his hands lost their contact, she drove her feet the other direction, running as fast as she could toward the goal.

  Sunukkuhkau had recovered quickly though, and now there were about twenty more braves at her heels. She’d lost precious time, and there was no one closer to the goal to throw the ball to. She had two choices: throw it toward the goal, which was still a good distance away, or keep running.

  The choice was made for her as Sunukkuhkau and another brave grasped her, hard this time, nearly knocking the wind from her. But she fought on, dragging them along in her slow steps. Sunukkuhkau shook her hard, but Isabelle raised the ball high above her head, as tight in her hands as her teeth were clenched together, knowing that he couldn’t touch the ball.

  “You won’t have it,” she shouted in his face, knowing he alone could understand her. “I can fight you here, in this game, with your rules.” The ball now represented her freedom. “I won’t give it to you!”

  He grinned, wicked and determined. “Yes, you will,” he answered, following his proclamation with a long howling scream.

  The scream, more than his words, caused a shiver to snake down her spine.

  The whole crowd was crushing them now, surrounding them, but Isabelle remained on her feet with the ball above her head. Then she heard her name being called. She turned her head, saw Sinchi, a little ahead of her, her face glowing, her head nodding, arms long and outstretched. Isabelle reared the ball back and threw it with all her might, going down to the ground now, beneath some kicking feet as the crowd burst away from her and toward the ball.

  Sudden hands reached down and snatched her bodily from the ground, placing her on her feet and then stood, blocking her from harm. She looked up to see Samuel saving her from being trampled.

  “Did she catch it?” she yelled.

  Samuel pointed. “Look!”

  Isabelle turned toward the women’s goal just in time to see Sinchi cross it with the ball still in her hands, dragging four or five braves behind her, like trailing barnacles on a canoe. She’d done it! They had done it! Isabelle ran with the rest of the woman toward the goal, cheering and yelling and jumping up and down together.

  It was the best moment she’d had with these people, and Isabelle let herself feel the joy of it.

  * * *

  SHE HAD EATEN so much at the feast that Isabelle didn’t know if she could move, much less dance. But the women of the tribe didn’t seem to care about that, dragging her with them into the middle of the ceremonial ground, giggling at some mysterious joke that she was once again left out of due to her lack of understanding their language.

  It had been a … fun day, the first day she’d had brief moments where she had forgotten what they had done, how they had destroyed her family, and she felt waves of guilt roll over her for allowing it. They didn’t deserve her happiness, even Sinchi, as they had jumped up and down together, forearms clasped in glee over their victory at the ball field.

  She stiffened her body in renewed rebellion as the group of women approached a brave who had always appeared tall and silent to Isabelle. Now though, he drummed, came to life as only music brought out some people, pounding on a round drum cradled against his bare, crossed legs.

  “What is it?” Isabelle asked Sinchi, her new best friend it would seem.

  The girl had barely left Isabelle’s side since their combined feat, eating next to her, always nodding and smiling at whatever Isabelle said, laughing when Isabelle made a face as she ate their food. There couldn’t be another woman in the tribe more her opposite—Sinchi was shy, thin, and open-faced, but she’d attached herself to Isabelle’s side nonetheless; and, really, what choice did she have but to let the girl follow her around like a new puppy. She seemed innocent enough.

  Sinchi made the motions of a chicken, clucking in her throat, her eyes bright with glee.

  “Chicken?”

  Sinchi nodded, giggling. Would she ever stop this girlish laughter? It was starting to grate. Then Sinchi swayed her hips and took tiny steps to the left and right. Isabelle couldn’t help her answering smile.

  “Dance?”

  “Chi-ken-dace,” the girl nodded, so proud she’d made Isabelle understand. Isabelle was just glad someone was trying to speak English instead of the other way around.

  The brave started singing, a chant really, to the beat of the drum. His voice was low and rich, his tone clear and full of … some meaning. She’d noticed something, living with the Shawnee for a few weeks: This people knew something of music. Theirs was the kind of rhythm that could take over a person’s pulse, as it was commanding hers now.

  All the women had gathered around the drummer, and then they began to sing with him. She didn’t know the song, didn’t know their words, but … it was happy and made her want to dance. At Sinchi’s nudge, she began to catch on, singing along, not knowing what she sang but starting not to care. It was music. It was dance.

  After two more songs, Isabelle learned the steps if not the words, then the women suddenly stopped. Eyes aglow, they turned away from their drummer and faced the men, sitting in a tight circle around them. A few giggled, a few looked determined, a few fluttered their hands. Isabelle didn’t know what would happen next, but she could feel these women’s excitement.

  Sinchi rushed over toward her, ready to instruct, as the whole party grew quiet. There was quiet laughter among the men as they whispered together and looked excitedly toward the women.

  “Choose,” Sinchi said in Isabelle’s ear, pointing at the men.

  “What?”

  “Choose a … man.” The girl had learned more English than Isabelle had thought, and she decided that she might be a worthy friend after all.

  “For what?”

  “Peleewekaawe … dance … man to be dance with.” And then she was off, running to her choice, a tall young brave with bold features and a long eagle’s feather trailing from his hair. She was the victor today, and Isabelle smiled as she watched her slim form run with abandon. Sinchi could have any man she wanted this day.

  Isabelle’s eyes found Samuel’s over the red-orange glow of the firelight between them. He had been watching her, she knew, as she danced with these deerskin-clad women, watching the way she moved, the way she put her own hip-sway into the movements and twirled, arms over her head. She’d caught his glance, known it like the heat that it was
, turning, consciously and unconsciously toward him, growing closer, then further, then closer and closer, their eyes locking and holding every now and then.

  And now, it would seem, she could choose any man.

  She should choose Sunukkuhkau; it would be expected of her. But the thought of going to him and extending her hand when she had a choice … she found she could not do it. She glanced at the warrior, saw that he was watching her intently, expecting her to turn toward him. Instead, she looked down at her moccasins.

  These were their rules.

  “I can choose anyone,” she assured herself as she watched her decorated feet turn toward the only man she wanted. A tiny laugh escaped, and then she quickly smothered it, keeping her head down, watching them make their way toward Samuel.

  Nearly there, she raised her head and locked gazes with him, amber and gray-blue colliding. Everyone else faded—all their noise, their watching eyes, their judgments. Her hips swayed as she stepped toward the only man in the world that she would willingly call “husband.” Then she smiled down at him as she reached for his hand.

  He sat on the ground with the rest of them, legs loosely crossed, his face tilted up toward her, a small growth of beard on his chin and cheeks.

  “Will you dance?”

  Her token gift, a few blue stones, smooth from the water that ran beside the camp, passed from her hand to his. She hadn’t known why the women had gathered these treasures yesterday, but she’d been told to put them in her pocket, and now she understood. It was a token, a payment for the dance. He reached for them, feeling them with his fingers, then tucked them safely within his jacket, rising to his feet while his gaze never left hers.

  He took her hand. She noticed how brown his hand had become from the summer sun. Their fingers touched and grasped, the fringe of their Indian dress meshing, but for this moment she would be as the woman she was—English from her mother’s side, French from her father’s, and American—because that was the future. That was what she had decided she would be.

  Samuel uncoiled, rising gracefully to his feet, taking a firmer grasp of her hand, an ownership, a wicked grin on his face that spoke of nothing evil, only more good and a night of dancing under the moon.

  She laughed with the joy of it, her throat exposed as only a trusting person would do to a true friend. She clasped his strong hand and led him to their dance.

  The drums were loud, pounding in the air around them, resounding in her chest and causing her heart to rise up to match it as they followed the simple steps of the chicken dance. Samuel followed along, she leading, as she taught him with touch and step and nod and glance.

  He was a quick learner.

  Then he led her into the Virginia Reel, a twirl. Suddenly it didn’t matter where they were and what they were supposed to be. It only mattered that they matched one another, step for step, close then far apart. Isabelle was dipped into a backbend, her black hair pooling in the grass, her back bent so that the onlookers must think it would break in two.

  They forgot the chicken dance. They forgot everything and everyone. They made the music their own.

  Her breath came fast and heavy. She had danced alone so many times, had twirled and writhed and undulated in front of no one save God. Now this. Who could have known Samuel could lead her in something she could never do alone. He lifted her, and she flew. And this native company, this audience, was left breathless watching them.

  And they were afraid.

  The song ended, suddenly, as if someone had said, “Enough!” But no one had said anything aloud. They had only watched.

  Samuel stood beside her, panting. “That was good.”

  Isabelle raked her long hair from her face, shook it back and smiled, leaning against him. “Yes. The best thing we’ve shown them yet.”

  Another drum began to beat. Only this was different. Not as light and fun. More masculine.

  Now the men would choose.

  This was the Horse Dance.

  23

  The drumming began again. Isabelle stood, not knowing what to do, as the tribe regrouped. The women once again gathered around the drummer. The men faded back into a tight group, watching them, their eyes dark and wide, their lips curved in smiles. A song was sung by the men now. They gathered closer, intention on their faces as they sang to the women.

  Then the song was over.

  Several of the men were looking at her, making her wary.

  Sunukkuhkau approached her. He held out a single arrow with dappled feathers at the end. Looking down, she recognized it; it was from their kill. It was his dance fee.

  His eyes were intense as he stretched out a sinew-thin arm.

  She wanted more than anything to reject him and his gift, looking around for Samuel and what he might advise. There he was, being detained by a seemingly benign group of friends who appeared to be congratulating him on his skill as a dancer. He looked up, saw her dilemma. His amber-lit eyes were slashes of pain and caution. Then he nodded once, telling her to accept it.

  They both knew an ambush when they saw one.

  Isabelle had a feeling of being measured. Even though these were their rules, that the woman could pick the man and now, the man the woman, she knew they fully expected compliance. It was part of the deal she had made at the river’s edge. She reached out and took the arrow, her head down in every appearance of modest acceptance.

  But they didn’t know her.

  They thought they did, but she was about to prove to them the name they had given her—That You Cannot Imagine. She smiled to the ground, the shadowy grass. She would dance with Sunukkuhkau and, she determined within her heart, they would not know how to reckon it.

  The drumbeat was similar to the last dance but stronger, more like a horse, its powerful hoofs beating the earth as it galloped. She’d always loved to ride. She had always made an instant, uncanny connection with any horse she mounted, making this particular beat familiar as though remembering a dream. It beat in her chest now, making her want to ride … or at least dance. Isabelle turned and led her enemy to the center of the grassy floor.

  She followed their simple steps at first, hearing cheers from the onlookers who had no partner. This was a test. Eyes watched to see if she would hold to her end of the deal. She exhaled a private smile. Sunukkuhkau may fight like no one else, but this was a plane where a man’s physical strength did not reign.

  This was the realm of grace.

  Soon she abandoned the simple steps. She closed her eyes, ignoring her partner, and said quietly, “Be it my last dance, my Lord, I give this to you.”

  No one understood, nor even heard her simple prayer, but it didn’t matter.

  She moved to the center of the group, her arms undulating over and around her head, eyes closed. She mouthed a quiet praise, like she had at the river’s edge, or in her yard as a child, in the quiet, God-moments of her life. She turned their drumbeat against them.

  “Holy, holy, holy is the Lamb. Forever and ever to be praised. No one has gone before You and no other will go after You. The beginning … the end … the beginning … the end,” she breathed against their unknown tongue. “There shall never be another like You.” She smiled, joy filling her. “There shall never be another like You.”

  She wasn’t dancing with Sunukkuhkau, and he must have known it, for when she finally opened her eyes, he had stopped dancing and was watching her with suspicion of her power … as had everyone around them. Once again they didn’t know what to make of her wild ways. Once again she held them all enthralled, reflecting God’s glory.

  A halt was called by none other than the chief. He looked at her askance, as if she’d committed some grave crime. She didn’t care. She glared back at him, back at them all, save Samuel, willing them to do something about it.

  The chief approached her, motioning Sunukkuhkau over to translate.

  “He says you have much power.”

  Isabelle exhaled a small laugh. “It was just a dance.”

 
“He wishes that you learn a special song and sing it to us.”

  Isabelle smelled a trap. “I do not know your language. What is this song? What does it say, and what does it mean?”

  Her questions were ignored.

  “It is a great honor, Cocheta.”

  The name again. The reminder.

  “It is called ‘Danna Witchee Nachepung.’”

  “Tell him I will sing a song I know for him. In his honor.” She bowed at the chief, with all seeming deference. “I will sing ‘Amazing Grace.’”

  Sunukkuhkau translated. The chief shook his head in defiance, his eyes ablaze as he gazed into hers. “Shawnee now. Sing Shawnee now,” he commanded to the grumbles of the tribe.

  Isabelle felt the noose tightening. She couldn’t sing their song. She knew it. It would be worshipping another god. As Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego had been ordered to bow to the golden idol in their land, she too was being tested. Her gaze caught Samuel’s on the outskirts of the crowd. Would it mean his death if she refused?

  He stared at her with determination, then briefly shook his head. He was willing to deal with the consequences, knowing them as well as she did.

  She slowly shook her head. “I cannot.”

  The tribe riled, a ripple of disquiet and fear, friends suddenly become foes. She saw that they still abhorred her, that they abhorred her God and everything that she had in Him. They seemed, now, ready to kill her.

  But the chief quieted them with his upheld hand. In a loud voice, he said, “Sunukkuhkau and Cocheta will marry. When the moon is full. And then Cocheta will know our ways.”

  There was a great cry from the Shawnee, their shrill yelping causing waves of fear to travel up and down Isabelle’s spine.

  Isabelle searched for and found Samuel’s frantic gaze. God help them, now everything was lost.

  A sound broke from the trees, a great crashing sound, as many horses pounded into their midst. And there, at their fore, on a white stallion, was the flame-haired George Rogers Clark.