Cherokee Storm

by Janelle Taylor

  It had been her intention to shoot small game or to fish, but when she saw smoke from what looked like a campfire, to the south, she was afraid whoever was responsible might be unfriendly. After that, she was reluctant to fire the gun and signal her presence. As for fishing, she didn’t come upon any spot that seemed right. She knew there were small fish, frogs, and crayfish in all the streams, but it was more important to cover ground than to spend time searching for food when Oona would have plenty to eat at home.

  The second night, Shannon wasn’t so fortunate. She had to sleep in the open, and the night was damp. When Badger lay down, she was all-too-ready to curl up beside him, savoring the heat from his furry body.

  By the third day, she was certain she should be coming into familiar territory, but the gullies and mountains, the rocks and expanses of hardwood forest all looked the same. She was afraid that she’d gone too far south. She hadn’t eaten since she’d found a patch of wild lettuce midmorning, and she was growing light-headed.

  Shannon was fast losing her nerve and wondering if she should have waited for Damon to escort her home, when Badger suddenly seemed to know which way to go. Ignoring her tugs on the rope bridle, the pony broke into a trot, plunged through a muddy creek, and turned even farther to the south.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” she asked. If she didn’t find the post soon, she’d have to spend another night in the woods. Her stomach hurt and she’d had a headache for most of the day. More than anything, she wanted a bath, clean clothes, and the sight of her father’s smiling face.

  Dusk fell, and then full darkness. The ground underfoot was rocky, and twice Badger stumbled. Once they did slide halfway down a slope. Reluctantly, she slid off the pony’s back and led him. When her way was blocked by a fallen tree, she gave up. She was exhausted. They would have to venture on in search of the post in the morning.

  That night was the worst. The forest around them seemed alive. The sound of a hunting pack of wolves echoed from the next mountain, and Shannon shivered at their eerie howls. A deer, she thought. The wolves are after a deer. If they’re on the trail of prey, they’re no danger to me.

  Then, closer, branches rustled, twigs snapped, and a rumbling growl came from the nearby woods. Her pony squealed and laid his ears back. His eyes rolled back and he pawed the leaves under his feet nervously. Shannon scanned the shadows, heart thumping. Minutes passed like hours until sometime in the deepest part of the night, she saw a pair of golden eyes peering at her from a branch ten feet above the ground. And at the same instant, she became aware of an acrid feral stench in the air.

  Mountain lion!

  Badger snorted and reared, stretching his tie rope taut. Shannon jumped to her feet and shouted, “Go! Get out of here! Shoo!” She had the rifle ready, but she was reluctant to fire. If she missed, she would be defenseless against the big cat’s charge. “Get away!” she screamed.

  Pulse racing, she waited, rifle against her shoulder, as the pony kicked and snorted, trying to escape. And then, as silently as the glowing eyes had appeared, they were gone. There was only darkness.

  Badger calmed down. He thrust his head against her and nickered softly. “I know,” Shannon said. “I was scared too. But it’s gone. Whatever it was, it’s gone. We scared it away.” She hoped what she’d just said was true.

  It was the longest night of her life, and she’d never been so glad to see the first orange and purple rays of sunrise. As soon as the shadows faded and she could see clearly, Shannon mounted the pony and gave him his head, letting him pick the way he wanted to go.

  This morning her night fears seemed far away, the mountain lion a dream. Riding alone for so long gave her time to think. Time and time again, Storm Dancer’s image materialized in her mind. She couldn’t help but think how different this journey would be if they’d been together.

  But he was gone. She’d lost him…if she’d ever had him. And she would never find another man to match him. The color of his skin didn’t matter anymore. For one night, she’d known passion, and that memory would have to last her for the rest of her life.

  Within an hour, her decision to let Badger find his own way home proved right when they picked their way around a greenbrier thicket and came out under a giant beech tree that had been hit by lightning. “I know it,” she cried. “I know that tree.” Home lay to the left, just over that hill and down through a flat valley. Soon, she’d be safe in her father’s arms.

  Her first indication that something was wrong at the trading post was the absence of smoke from the cabin chimney. It was midmorning now, but even if Oona had cooked breakfast at dawn, she’d still have a kettle on over the coals.

  Shannon told herself she was worrying needlessly, that last night’s encounter with the big cat had made her jumpy. In no time at all, she’d be sitting at Da’s table, telling him about her adventure. Mention of the mountain lion would bring stories from her father about other near misses from lions. They would both laugh about her choosing not to fire, but chasing the cat away by outscreaming it.

  But as she rode through the meadow, she could smell smoke. The odor was strong, but she couldn’t see any smoke. The front gates were closed tight, but the dogs weren’t barking, and Da’s horses weren’t in the outer pasture. If they were still on guard against an attack, why were the hounds quiet?

  Shannon kicked the pony hard in the sides, and he broke into a canter. As she neared the creek crossing, she saw a flurry of movement in the tall grass. A dozen buzzards flew into the air, startling Badger so that he leaped sideways, and she nearly fell off.

  “What…” she cried as she locked her hands in the pony’s mane and regained her balance. “What could they be…” A feeling of dread swept over her as she dismounted and ran toward the place where the carrion birds had been feeding.

  There, in the flattened grass sprawled the remains of one of Da’s hounds. Obscenely protruding from the dead dog’s ribs was a black-feathered arrow.

  Shannon dropped Badger’s reins and ran toward the palisade wall. She cut left, intending to enter by the small gate that opened on the spring pathway, and then stopped short and stared.

  A great fire-blackened hole gaped in the upright logs. In the compound, nothing was the same as it had been when she left. Da’s store was gone, burned to the ground, and the house roof was missing. “No!” she cried. “No!” And then, “Da! Da! Where are you?” She climbed over the burned and fallen logs and ran toward the cabin.

  Another dog lay dead halfway between the wall and the store. The grass was blackened, as though fire had raced across the entire area. The door to the house hung by one hinge; the porch, where Flynn liked to enjoy his pipe at night, had nearly been destroyed by flames. Shannon climbed over the wreckage to the kitchen.

  The inside of the cabin had been stripped—every object of value smashed or missing. The charred table lay on its side, one leg shattered, a tomahawk buried in the top. Strewn across what remained of the floorboard were beads, shards of Oona’s cradleboard, and a single torn moccasin.

  “Da!” Shannon shouted. “Oona! Where are you?” She darted to her bedroom, but the flames had been there before her. Her beautiful carved poster bed was in ruins, her mirror cracked and blackened. Nothing remained of her blankets and bed linen, and she could see patches of sky through the shingled roof.

  Her father’s bedroom next. No bodies, she prayed. Please, God, no bodies. The chamber was an empty shell; one back wall gone, the floor burned through to the dirt below.

  “Da,” she whispered, no longer able to control her fear. “Da, please. Where are you? I’m home. It’s me. Mary Shannon. I’m home.”

  The snap of a board at the front of the house made her whirl around, afraid to go and see, afraid not to. “Who’s there?” she called. “Da?” She forced herself to retrace her steps. Whoever it was, she had to know.

  Sweat broke out on her forehead. Her legs moved as though she was wading through deep mud. “Da? Is that you?”

&nbs
p; A whine. As she reached the door, the bitch hound gave a yip and wagged her tail. “Oh, baby,” Shannon said.

  She dropped to her knees and embraced the dog, then realized that the bitch must have had her puppies. The dog’s belly was no longer full; her ribs were visible, her teats swollen with milk. “Where’s Da? Where’s Oona? Are you here by yourself?” Wiggling with joy, the hound licked Shannon’s face and hands.

  Shannon went into the yard. She couldn’t panic. She’d found nothing dead here but the two dogs. Maybe her father and Oona had been warned. Maybe they’d gotten away before the Indians attacked the post. That’s what it had to be, she told herself. That’s what had happened.

  But even as she tried to convince herself, she knew differently. Da would never have left his dogs behind. If he and Oona had fled, they would have taken the hounds.

  Dazed, she wandered aimlessly around the house and found in Oona’s garden what she’d been dreading most. There, amid what had been green corn sprouts and spreading squash plants was a mound of earth heaped high with rocks that could only be a grave.

  Tears blurred her eyes as she stumbled forward. A grave didn’t mean her family was dead, she told herself. It could be anyone, a stranger, someone who’d come to trade at the post and been caught in the fighting. “Who are you?” she whispered. Not her father…she bargained. Not Oona, who’d already suffered so much….

  But as she drew near to the grave, her heart sank. At the foot of the mound was a hunting knife, thrust blade first into the earth. And at the head, rose a crude cross fashioned of sticks and held together by a leather binding. And dangling from the cross was Flynn O’Shea’s pipe and tobacco pouch.

  Hours passed before Shannon ceased her weeping, finished her prayers, and began to think about survival. Whatever she was going to do to save herself, it had to be here. There was nowhere else to go, and it had been too long since she had eaten a full meal. She was Flynn O’Shea’s daughter. She’d have to face him in heaven some day, and she’d be ashamed to admit she’d given up…she’d laid down and died because she was too weak to fight.

  Her first thought was to find the pony, but Badger hadn’t gone far. Shannon found him standing in the lean-to behind the house. She turned him into the pound, raised the bars, and tossed in an armful of hay. The water bucket stood full, thanks to the rain and no animals to drink it dry.

  Now that she’d seen to the pony, she could try and find dinner. Nothing edible remained in the house, but there were young squash on a half-dozen plants that had escaped the garden’s destruction. She nibbled them raw as she walked down to the creek to check Oona’s fish trap.

  Two trout swam in the woven cage, and Shannon lifted it gratefully onto the bank. In minutes, she had a fire, and fish cleaned and grilling. The dog came to the fire, and as hungry as Shannon was, she thought of the puppies, and shared her meal.

  Tonight, she would sleep in the lean-to. There was nothing for her in the house, and the hay and an old deer hide tacked to the wall would keep her warm. The fish were small, but she devoured every bite, and scratched in the garden for wild onions and a few beans.

  Tomorrow, she would have to put aside her squeamishness and hunt a rabbit or a deer. She’d have to find food for the dog as well as tend the pony. She was surprised that there were just the two fish in the trap. If no one had been here for several days, there should have been more fish. Oona usually took three or four trout from the trap on long summer days when the creek water was warm.

  If she was going to stay alive until friendly Cherokee came to trade or a white man passed through, she would have to be clever. She would need to salvage what was left of the garden, tend the fish trap, and dig edible roots to roast in the coals of her campfire.

  So many questions…What would she do without her father? Where was Oona? Had she been murdered too? Had she run away or been taken captive by the attackers? And who was responsible?

  The black feathered arrow she’d seen in the dead hound hadn’t been the same as the fire arrows the Shawnee had used at Drake’s cabin, but that wasn’t proof of who was responsible for burning the post and killing her father. She didn’t know enough about the tribes to identify them by the feathering on their arrows. She’d seen no evidence that white men had been involved.

  There were no horse tracks, other than her father’s animals, and certainly no prints from iron-shod horses. The raiders had most certainly been Indians, probably the same Shawnee who’d attacked Green Valley.

  Shannon forced herself to search the compound for anything useful, but there was nothing left but a few gourds hanging on the pound fence. Those would do to carry water from the spring. She took them and the gun and set off, but she’d gone no more than a few yards down the path, when she saw something move in the trees.

  Frightened, she dropped the gourds and raised the rifle. “Who’s there?” A woman’s high-pitched laughter sent shivers down her spine. “Oona? Is that you?”

  A ragged apparition flashed through the woods and then vanished.

  Shannon crouched by the edge of the forest and waited. A half hour passed, and then an hour. She’d almost begun to believe she had imagined she’d seen and heard a woman, when she heard weeping. But as soon as she took a few steps into the trees, the crying stopped.

  “Oona? It’s Shannon. Are you all right?”

  No answer.

  Shaken, but uncertain she could catch whoever it was in the woods, Shannon hurried on to the spring, dipped her gourds into the water, and returned to the spot where she’d heard the sounds. Now all she heard was birdsong and the rustle of wind through the leaves.

  “I’m here, Oona, if you need me. I’ll wait for you.”

  All the way back to the shed, Shannon felt as if she were being watched. She gathered wood and stacked it inside the lean-to, then led the pony inside. Now that the palisade wall was down, wolves might come in the night. If she and Badger were protected by the campfire, she might feel safe enough to sleep. The hound had wandered off, perhaps to go to her puppies. Shannon hoped the dog would come back. She didn’t want to be alone anymore.

  She forced herself to go back into the cabin. There, at the back of the hearth, nearly hidden by ashes, she found one of her mother’s small copper kettles. And high up inside the chimney, on a shelf, was a wooden container of salt.

  Finding the kettle and salt raised her spirits. She could boil water for herb tea. She could make soup and salt fish for days when there was no catch. A kettle was a fine prize. This copper pot had survived a sea voyage from Ireland and an Indian attack. Having it was a comfort.

  There was no sign of the woman in the woods. Shannon reasoned that it had to be Oona, but if her father’s wife had survived, why hadn’t she come out when Shannon called her name? What if it was someone else?

  As Shannon made her preparations for the night, she tried not to think of her father, tried not to think of the grave in the garden. Tomorrow would be soon enough to remember. Tonight, she couldn’t bear any more sorrow.

  Sometime after dark, the hound bitch came to the campfire, a small spotted pup in her mouth. The dog dropped the puppy in the hay near Shannon’s feet, licked it several times, and settled down.

  “Hello, what have you got there?” The puppy wiggled and squirmed until it latched on to a nipple and began to nurse. “Are there any more?” The pup was very young. Its eyes weren’t open yet. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

  Shannon made no move to touch the tiny creature, but watching it made her smile. Life, she thought. New life in the midst of all these ashes. She added another log to the fire. She should have been tired. Instead, she was wide-awake.

  The clouds parted, and a full moon rose high over the trees. Shannon watched and waited, for what she didn’t know…until she heard the keening cry from the garden.

  The dog’s hackles stiffened and she growled. Shannon grabbed the rifle and ran out of the shed toward the sound. Crouched near the grave was a ragged figure. The spectral creature roc
ked back and forth as it shrieked.

  Goosebumps rose on the back of Shannon’s arms. “Oona?” The figure turned and hobbled away, but Shannon saw the scarred face in the moonlight. She dropped her rifle and ran after the wailing woman. “Oona. Oona, it’s me.” She grabbed her around the waist and found that her stepmother’s stomach was flat. But that was impossible. The child wasn’t expected yet. It was too soon.

  The Indian woman struggled and tried to break away, but Shannon held on tight. Then she saw that Oona was cradling something in her arms, something tiny and mewing wrapped in a blanket.

  “Is that your baby? Did you have the baby?”

  Oona dropped to her knees and rocked back and forth. The infant whimpered, almost as the puppy in the shed had whimpered. Shannon took the woman’s face in her hands. It was oddly black, smeared with ashes.

  “Shhh, shhh,” Shannon said. “It’s all right. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

  Oona clutched the baby against her breasts.

  “I won’t hurt…” Horror curled in the pit of Shannon’s stomach as the blanket fell away. It wasn’t a baby that Oona held so tightly, but another tiny puppy.

  For a moment, Shannon was too shocked to speak. It took every ounce of her strength not to scream and run back to the fire. But Oona was staring at her so pitifully…staring at her in the moonlight with the eyes of a madwoman.

  “Come back to the fire and get warm,” Shannon said. “The baby needs to be warm.”

  Oona looked down at the puppy in her arms and then back at Shannon. Slowly she held out a bloodstained and dirty hand.

  “That’s right,” Shannon said. “We’ll get you warm. We’ll get you both warm.” Step by step, the Indian woman followed her to the lean-to.

  Shannon motioned to the pile of straw where she’d been lying earlier, and Oona sank down. Shannon tried not to stare.

  In the space of days, her father’s wife had aged years. Streaks of white had appeared in the wildly disarrayed crow-black hair. One eye was purple ringed, and swollen. Her face and her arms were bruised and scratched. Dried blood caked on her bare legs. If it were not for the old burn scar, Shannon wouldn’t have known her.