“You’d have to ask the women exactly what power they think a bleeding female has. All I know is that the men believe you’d spoil their aim, make their bowstrings break, their strength weaken.”
“Nonsense.”
He laughed. “I’ll tell you the Shawnee word for moon. Nibeeshu. Just say that to the first woman you meet and point to the appropriate spot. She’ll tend to you.”
“Nibeeshu.”
“That’s right.”
“To the Iroquois, the moon is woh-ne-da.”
“The languages are very different. The Shawnee and the Delaware speak a tongue that is understood by most of the Eastern Woodland people. They say the Cherokee to the south talk something like the Iroquois, but I don’t know for certain. The plains tribes all have different languages; we communicate with different people by using hand signs.”
“And your Cheyenne? Is their language different from the Shawnee?”
“It is, a little. But mostly it’s accent. Some elders claim that there are old ties of blood and kinship to the Delaware and Shawnee. The Cheyenne and their neighbors, the Arapaho to the south and the Blackfoot to the north, speak a similar tongue. Close enough to the Algonquian tongue that I learned it easily as a boy. The camp my father belongs to lives apart from most of the Cheyenne. They are a mighty nation of horsemen, buffalo hunters on the great plains. My father’s band follow the buffalo in summer and autumn, but they make their home in the mountains. One of my father’s wives is Arapaho.”
“He has more than one wife?”
Hunt laughed. “Wolf Robe was always a man who loved women. They say his hair is white but snow on the teepee doesn’t mean the fires are banked within. He had a Delaware wife when he first captured me. She’s the woman I called my mother. She died, and he decided to return to his own people in the western mountains. I was about eleven, I think.”
“You mentioned three wives,” she reminded him.
“He did have three wives, once—after we rejoined the Cheyenne—but one woman went home to her father. She was very pretty, but a troublemaker. She nearly soured me on beautiful women.”
“Lucky for you,” she replied, stung by his remark. “I’m what I am.”
He frowned. “I don’t know where you got your twisted ideas about your looks, but you’re fair enough in my eyes.”
“No need for you to try and cover what you think,” she said. “I know what I am, speckled and red as an English fox.”
“Different, yes,” he agreed. “But some might say you have hair like a mountain sunset and eyes as green as the first grass of spring.”
“A fool might,” she murmured.
“Aye, a fool might.” He shouldered his pack and strode off without looking back to see if she was following, and she had to run a little to catch up.
“I’ll make you a tea tonight of willow bark,” he said. “It will cure your headache.”
“I don’t have a headache,” she lied. “And I don’t want your tea.”
“So you’re just yapping at me without reason?”
“I’m not yapping.”
“Snapping, then,” he said. “Most women are unpleasant and irritable during their moon time—a good reason for shutting them away, as far as I can see.”
“You’ll not shut me away,” she insisted. “Not you or the whole Shawnee tribe.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“We will, won’t we?” she replied. “It’s barbaric and I won’t be part of it. I tell you, I won’t.”
Hunt lengthened his strides.
Chapter 14
Elizabeth stared around her at the interior of the Shawnee wigwam, sank down on the pile of thick furs, and sighed in frustration. Only minutes ago, she’d walked into the Indian village a free woman. Now, she was a prisoner once more. The fact that her cell was a snug one with a warm fire and draft-free walls barely made a difference. Hunt had done exactly what he’d threatened. He’d told the first woman he’d met that Elizabeth was experiencing her moon cycle.
Exasperation made her irritable. Why had Hunt abandoned her to these strangers? He was a white man. Regardless of what he’d said, she expected him to consider her feelings and not to betray her confidence.
After a time, her eyes adjusted to the semidarkness inside the windowless structure. Unlike the Iroquois longhouse, the women’s sanctuary consisted of a single circular room made of bark sheets rolled over a sapling frame. On the inside of the wigwam, the walls and domed ceiling were covered with deerskin painted in a myriad of mystical designs and soft colors. Exquisite baskets hung from the roof and folded blankets were heaped beside bark baskets on the sleeping platform that ran along the wall, three quarters of the way around the hut.
The central fire pit was deep and lined with rocks; neat stacks of seasoned wood filled a space near the entrance curtain. The packed-earth floor was covered with layers of woven matting and tanned animal hides. The scents of herbs, dried flowers, and fresh pine boughs mingled with the heavier must of fur. Directly over the doorway dangled a string of shells and bright feathers. When she’d entered the lodge, Elizabeth had heard the delicate tinkle of a wind chime; now she saw that it was these pretty shells that had made the music.
Across the hearth sat two Indian women, one very young, plump girl, hardly more than a child, and a serene, handsome woman of indeterminate age. Elizabeth’s first impression of the Shawnee had been that there was little physical difference between the Shawnee people and the Iroquois. The villagers she’d seen were somewhat lighter of skin than the Seneca, not as tall or stocky. Although of more delicate build, the Shawnee seemed to be as well-fed, healthy, and clean as the Iroquois. Naturally, the Shawnee wore clothing of slightly different styling and decoration. These women seemed to substantiate her original conclusions. Both had high cheekbones, even white teeth, smooth complexions—free of any tattoos—and light skin.
So far, no one had given Elizabeth the welcome Hunt had insisted they would receive. The only enthusiasm shown toward the newcomers had come from a huge, shaggy, brown dog that had leaped on Hunt, nearly knocking him off his feet, and then covered Hunt’s face with wet kisses. The three young braves acting as camp guards had kept a distance and spoken only to Hunt; the girl who’d led Elizabeth to this rounded structure half buried in the earth on the outskirts of the village had not even spoken to her.
The tall woman sitting cross-legged on the far side of the crackling fire cleared her throat and smiled. Her hair and shoulders were covered by a red wool trade blanket with black stripes. Under that, she wore a doeskin tunic and red wool leggings that tucked into ornately beaded moccasins. When she motioned with her hand for Elizabeth to remove her cloak, Elizabeth noticed a wide copper bracelet on her slender wrist.
Elizabeth shrugged off her outer garments without taking her eyes off this person of obvious rank. “Greetings to this hearth,” she said in Iroquoian, determined to make her reluctant hostess speak.
The younger girl’s eyes widened, and she began to chatter excitedly in a language Elizabeth didn’t understand. The older woman pushed back her blanket and regarded her with a smile. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. Bienvenue a notre village.”
Elizabeth hesitated as faint memories of her childhood French lessons emerged from the recesses of her mind. “Je ne parle le français,” she answered. How many times had her tutor, Madame Cordonnier, rapped her knuckles with a fan for her poor pronunciation? She did understand that the Shawnee woman had said good day and something about being welcome.
“You speak English, perhaps?” the Indian woman ventured in soft, clear tones.
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied with relief. “Yes, I do. I’m English.”
“Ah.” The Indian woman smiled again and touched her lips with clasped hands. “It is good. I do not have the grasp of Seneca. My husband knows enough to get by, but he is not here. My name is Sweet Water. This is not our village. I am a visitor too and was reluctant to do the honors. I did not wish to slight Moccasin Flower ...” She motion
ed to her companion. “But in her name and that of our hosts, be welcome in this place.”
The younger one looked up shyly and said something in her own tongue. Immediately, Sweet Water translated. “Moccasin Flower asks you to forgive her for her bad manners. She has never seen an English woman, and she thought you might be a ghost. She asks your name.”
“I’m Elizabeth. Elizabeth Anne Fleming.”
“Lissabannflmmin,” Moccasin Flower repeated.
“Elizabeth.”
“Lizzabett.” Moccasin Flower giggled at her mispronunciation. Leaning close to Sweet Water, she whispered in her ear. As she moved, a furry, rust-colored animal poked its head out of her sleeve. Elizabeth watched in amazement as a chipmunk wiggled out and ran up the girl’s clothing to hide in her unbound hair.
Sweet Water smiled again. “Her little friend will not bite. Don’t be afraid. Moccasin Flower wants to know if she can touch you.”
Elizabeth held out her hand and the girl rubbed the skin on the back of her wrist briskly, then giggled again.
“You are kind,” Sweet Water said. “Moccasin Flower has newly come to womanhood. This is only her second moon of bleeding.”
“And yet she must be locked away as though she were unclean,” Elizabeth replied tartly, then quickly regretted her frankness. She didn’t wish to offend this important woman. “Are you Shawnee?” she asked her.
Sweet Water nodded. “I am, but we are Mecate Shawnee. We live south and west of here. My husband came to parley with his friends.” Her eyes narrowed. “You think of the women’s hut as a jail?”
“Isn’t it?” Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “What’s happened to my body—and hers ...” She motioned toward Moccasin Flower. “It isn’t unclean or shameful. It’s a natural occurrence.”
“Of course,” Sweet Water agreed. “Women possess the power of life. It is strong medicine, stronger than anything a man can boast. They do not shut us away; we choose to withdraw. Here we do no work. We tell stories, sleep, eat food others have prepared for us, and rest from the chores of day-to-day living.”
“Hunt—the man who came with me—said that the Shawnee men would not want me near them.”
“No. That is true. But it is not because you are unclean. It is that they believe—we all believe—that a woman is near to the Creator at such a time. You have so much power that it might spill out and accidentally harm a male who has no protection against you.”
“You don’t mind being put aside?” Elizabeth asked.
“No, I do not. In truth, as the mother of two young children, I find it restful. While I bide here, other hands will rock my little ones, and careful eyes will watch that they do not come to harm.”
“Every month?”
Sweet Water glanced at Moccasin Flower and said something quickly in Algonquian. The girl laughed merrily and replied in her own tongue.
“Moccasin Flower wants to know if the white women do not bleed every month,” Sweet Water asked.
“Of course they do, when they’re not too old or too young, or with child,” Elizabeth said.
Sweet Water translated again for her younger friend. “And they do not go apart from the men?” she asked Elizabeth.
“Naturally not.”
“Poor white women,” Sweet Water said. “Moccasin Flower feels sorry that her white sisters have no time of rest.” She gestured gracefully toward a covered kettle. “But you must be hungry and thirsty from your journey. There are corn cakes and honey in that basket, and stew in the pot. We have fresh water, but if you would like tea, I can brew some.”
“Tea would be wonderful,” Elizabeth said. “Anything you can give me to eat will do fine. I’m starved. We’ve been walking nearly two weeks.” She paused before adding, “Thank you for your offer. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“You were a prisoner of the Seneca. You have no need to apologize. You have suffered greatly, have you not?” Sweet Water began to dip steaming stew into a wooden bowl.
“Your English is very good,” Elizabeth said. Sweet Water had a faint accent she couldn’t place, but her speech was that of a gentlewoman.
“I learned from my mother,” the Indian woman explained. “She studied with a priest.”
That explains her excellent grasp of the language, Elizabeth decided. “I’m glad you learned. It was terrible when I was first captured by the Seneca. I couldn’t understand anything they said, and no one bothered to translate.”
“My husband tells me that Iroquois is very difficult to learn.”
Elizabeth couldn’t help noticing the beautiful porcupine quill work and the colorful beading on Sweet Water’s deerskin tunic. The garment was nearly white with long fringes along the hem and on each sleeve. Around her neck, she wore a beaded choker adorned with a silver cross. Her long, dark hair was divided in the center and plaited into two heavy braids, each wound with red silk ribbons. In her ears tinkled tiny silver bells.
“You wear a cross,” Elizabeth said. “Are you a Christian?”
“I try to be,” Sweet Water answered in the same husky voice, “but it is difficult, is it not? Especially the part about loving your enemies.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Yes, it is.” Then she looked at Sweet Water’s face more closely. In the firelight, she could see that the Indian woman’s eyes were a clear, sparkling blue.
“You want to ask about the color of my eyes,” Sweet Water said, almost as though she could read Elizabeth’s mind. “My grandfather had blue eyes. He was Scottish.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth felt her cheeks grow warm. “Was I that obvious?”
“People ask how it is that a woman of the Mecate Shawnee has sky eyes instead of those of a proper human, and so I tell the truth.” She offered the bowl and a horn spoon to Elizabeth. “My youngest child, a daughter, also has sky eyes.”
“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” Elizabeth hurried to say. “My own eyes are green.”
“So they are.”
“The Seneca made fun of me because of them ... and my hair.”
Sweet Water regarded Elizabeth’s hair carefully. She took a stray lock between her fingers, rubbed the strands, and raised them to the light. “Red as an Irish fox,” she pronounced.
“Exactly.” Elizabeth chuckled. “The Seneca said an English fox.”
“I believe they are the same animal. But you could dye your hair with walnut hulls.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I guess I could, couldn’t I? But then, I’d always know I didn’t have the proper color hair ...”
“For a human,” her new friend supplied.
They laughed together.
Elizabeth tasted the stew and found it delicious. “This is wonderful. You have salt.” Salt was a luxury, one that she’d known little of during her captivity.
“It comes from a natural salt lick far down the Ohio,” Sweet Water explained. “I admit, I like salt with my stew; I always have.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “You really spend every moon time in this hut and you don’t mind? Aren’t you ever bored?”
“In the hut in our village, some of us do beadwork or make jewelry. And in good weather, we are free to bathe in the river or walk in the forest—so long as we do not come near any hunter. And yes, I do enjoy it. In a larger village, there are more women to gossip and share songs and memories with. I think the woman who first convinced a man that this custom was correct was very wise.”
“You have a strange way of looking at things.”
“So my good husband tells me.”
“He must be a great hunter, your husband,” Elizabeth replied, “an important man of stature.”
Sweet Water uttered a sound of amusement. “He tells me that as well, especially the part about the stature. But then every husband believes that the Creator has endowed him with a staff of gigantic proportion, does he not?”
Elizabeth couldn’t help but smile. The Shawnee, she decided, shared a sense of ribald humor with the Seneca. “I think you might be right about that,�
�� Elizabeth agreed.
In the chief’s lodge, a dozen men and women were seated around the central fire, while others stood behind them, and still more—mostly half-grown boys—lingered outside near the entrance flap. Hunt, the youngest man seated cross-legged in a position of honor near the hearth, listened as Counts His Scalps, the guest shaman, spoke at length on the current peace between the Iroquois and the Shawnee. This was the fourth day that the council had been discussing Hunt’s request for a raiding party to help him snatch Elizabeth’s son from Yellow Drum’s village.
“The Seneca are many. The Iroquois Confederacy musters as many warriors as there are leaves on the trees,” Counts His Scalps reminded the assembly. “If the Seneca, Yellow Drum, protests the stealing of his son—and what father would not—will Shawnee honor be dashed to earth like a rotten pumpkin?”
Ripples of grumbling flowed around the room. One elderly woman made a loud clicking noise with her tongue. Another old warrior with a face like seamed leather nodded his head vigorously and raised a long clay pipe in his gnarled left hand. Hunt noticed that the man’s right hand was missing three fingers, and his left, a thumb. His snow-white hair was worn long, held in place by tiny braids of white leather strung with elk teeth. Three eagle feathers dangled from the old man’s tan headband.
“Think long and hard, brothers,” Counts His Scalps said. The shaman’s head was shaved, except for a scalplock, which was dyed red, stiffened with deer hair, and decorated with tufts of down. His coat was red wool, a British military jacket with gold braid and silver buttons, worn over a blue wool breechcloth, leather leggings, and woven garters of blue silk embroidered with red silk dragons. Tiny bird skulls swung from his distended earlobes, and his broad hawk face bore a single slash of yellow paint that bisected his face from the right temple to the tattoo of an owl on the lower left side of his chin. Around his neck he wore a necklace of bear claws, a French officer’s silver gorget, and a tiny leather medicine bag. Clamped through his nose, he boasted a silver disk cut from a British coin.
Counts His Scalps paused until his audience grew restless, then spoke again with the voice of a practiced orator. “Yes, the Iroquois are many, and we are few. But just as the bear fears the angry wasp, so the Seneca fear the valor of the Shawnee.” He drew in a breath and looked around, lingering on each face in the circle. “The question is—do we unsheath that stinging lance? Do we risk war? Have we not promised our brothers, the Iroquois, that we will smoke the peace pipe with them? Do we break our word for a stranger, a white-skinned man who will leave us to face the wrath of the Seneca?”
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