Sundancer's Woman

by Judith E. French

  The veteran with the missing fingers cleared his throat. “What the esteemed medicine man says is true. The Iroquois are many and their anger is not to be provoked lightly.”

  “So speaks a warrior who left his fingers in the coals of a Mohawk fire,” Counts said. “So speaks the wise and brave Little Horse.”

  The old man puffed on the pipe and passed it to Hunt. “It is true. This man did leave his flesh and bones in the ashes of an Iroquois torture fire. But he brought back from the Mohawk village the scalps of two Mohawks stretched on hoops, so that all may see the Iroquois are not monsters but only men.”

  “Ho,” cried a thin man with gray streaking his dark hair.

  “Only men,” added a second.

  “Ho,” echoed a middle-aged woman. “We know this to be true.”

  Little Horse looked around the circle at the elders and honored warriors. “This man would not have come out of the land of his enemies without the aid of his Delaware cousins,” he said. “In particular, one whose name we can no longer speak, one who has crossed the river of souls.”

  “That is true,” agreed the thin man. “Little Horse speaks true. If we could speak that hero’s name, it might be Walking Tree.”

  “Yes, it might,” agreed Little Horse. “And this Walking Tree might lie uneasy in his grave, his debt not repaid.”

  Hunt lowered his gaze and stared into the fire. He’d had his say earlier. It wasn’t his place to talk now. The Shawnee were like the Cheyenne and the Arapaho. They took their time in making important decisions and nothing could hurry them. If they wanted to fight, they’d come with him. If they didn’t, no amount of pleading would change their minds.

  Counts His Scalps glanced around the lodge. “Will anyone else speak for this white-Delaware?”

  There was silence. Then, without warning, a tomahawk flew through the air and buried in the hard-packed earth at the shaman’s feet. From the shadows rose a seasoned warrior, his chest marked with old scars, his stern face chiseled from granite. “This man would speak.”

  Hunt heard the sharp intake of Little Horse’s breath beside him.

  “Speak, noble Fire Talon,” the shaman said, reluctantly yielding his place.

  Fire Talon remained standing where he was. “This man is a guest in this village, but most of you know me,” the warrior said.

  “Fire Talon,” whispered a woman.

  “Chief of the Mecate,” stated Little Horse for Hunt’s benefit. There were general nods of agreement and whispers from the gathering.

  Fire Talon’s blue-black hair was gathered loosely in a leather thong and hung down his muscular back nearly to his waist. He was dressed simply in a sleeveless fringed deerskin vest, tan loincloth, and high fringed moccasins. His only adornments were a single copper armband encircling sinewy biceps and the four eagle feathers that dangled from a beaded brooch over his left ear. At his hip hung a beaded knife sheath containing a plain, bone-handled hunting knife.

  He didn’t dress like a chief, Hunt thought, but anyone looking into that proud face and those fierce eyes would know this Fire Talon was a man to be reckoned with. Hunt decided he liked him even before the Mecate spoke.

  “This Delaware man has come to us to ask a favor,” Fire Talon said quietly. Hunt noted how all whispers ceased and even the old women leaned forward to catch every word.

  “True,” agreed Little Horse. “He has come to ask a favor.”

  “At my mother’s knee, this man heard of the wisdom of the Lenape, now called the Delaware,” Fire Talon continued. “The grandfather people, Lenni Lenape, the true people. Is this not so?”

  “It is so,” a fat man said.

  “The grandfather people,” echoed Little Horse.

  “These Delaware have taken Shawnee wives and husbands, have joined with the Shawnee in war, have shared food with us in time of famine. Is this not so?”

  “It is so,” chimed in Counts His Scalps. “They are our brothers. No one disputes this.”

  “Each must decide for himself,” Fire Talon continued in a reasonable tone. “This man listens and thinks, To whom does a child belong? To the mother or the father? Those of you who know me, know that once, long ago, another child was lost and never found. This man has a debt unpaid, a promise unfulfilled.” He smiled, a wolfish grin, and his dark eyes gleamed. “This man remembers when no warrior spoke of the color of a brother’s skin ... when the bond of blood between Delaware and Shawnee meant more than fear of Seneca revenge.” He reached the buried tomahawk in two long strides and raised it over his head. “Fire Talon, chief of the Mecate, follows his Delaware brother to the land of the Seneca.”

  “Fox goes as well,” called a lean warrior who leaped out of the shadows. “What of the mighty shaman? Does Counts His Scalps want death to find him in his bed?”

  “Counts His Scalps fears no Seneca,” shouted a young man in a scarlet hunting coat.

  The shaman stood. “Counts His Scalps goes,” he proclaimed.

  “Red Shirt goes, as well,” cried the younger brave who’d defended the shaman’s reputation.

  “And Black Hoof!”

  “Feathered Lance has nothing better to do,” said another man.

  Little Horse got to his feet, and the meeting dissolved without further ceremony. Warriors and council members spilled out of the lodge onto the dance ground, where they were joined by an excited group of villagers all shouting and talking at once.

  Hunt stepped out into the pale sunshine and stretched. In spite of the unseasonable temperature, the air had a scent of change about it, and since he’d last noticed more leaves had taken on the gilded tints of late autumn. The mournful cry of geese winging south added their voices to the one in his head that warned the spell of Indian summer was fast coming to a close. Bad weather on the trail, especially in enemy territory, wasn’t anything a man relished. He hoped they’d be able to get to the boy before the bottom fell out and winter sealed the Iroquois land tight.

  Fire Talon broke into Hunt’s thoughts with a light touch on his arm. “We must talk,” he said. “It would be best if we could recover the boy without starting war. You have more volunteers than you can safely use.”

  “I agree,” Hunt said. “Too many men is worse than too few. You know the warriors better than I do. Would you choose the raiding party?”

  Fire Talon eyed him dispassionately. “It is a leader’s place to pick who will follow him.”

  Hunt nodded. “It would honor me if you would be that leader.”

  Fire Talon’s thin lips turned up in an elusive smile. “If you wish.”

  “A man would be a fool to try and tell a hawk how to fly,” Hunt replied.

  “You show wisdom for a warrior of so few years,” the older warrior said.

  “Getting the boy back to his mother is what’s important,” Hunt said, “not who calls himself war captain.”

  “Tell the woman to make herself ready to travel.”

  Hunt’s eyes widened in surprise. “She’s not going with us. I’m leaving her here, where it’s safe.”

  Fire Talon shook his head. “We go to steal a wolf pup. Who better to lure him from the den than his mother?”

  Chapter 15

  “Sweet Water?”

  A male voice just outside the wall of the wigwam startled Elizabeth out of sleep. Heart thudding, she sat up and listened intently to see if she’d really heard a stranger speak only inches from her head or if she’d been dreaming.

  “I must speak to Sweet Water.” This time the stranger used English.

  Elizabeth called softly to her friend. “Sweet Water.”

  Moccasin Flower had left, and three other women had joined them in the four days she’d spent confined in the lodge. During that time, they’d passed the hours by talking, playing a game that resembled dice with pieces of colored bone, and singing old story-chants that related the history of the tribe. Often, Sweet Water read passages aloud from her Bible to the others. The younger adolescents took turns brushing each
others’ hair and arranging their tresses in different styles.

  Like the Seneca, these Shawnee women had keen senses of humor. Often the jokes they exchanged were bawdy, but their jests were never cruel or malicious.

  Elizabeth felt that she’d made a friend in Sweet Water, although neither had revealed much about her personal life. Elizabeth had been uncomfortable relating her story to the Shawnee woman, so she’d merely said that her son was still a captive of the Seneca, omitting the fact that Jamie was Yellow Drum’s son as well. She hadn’t told her that she and Hunt were more than traveling companions either.

  When Sweet Water didn’t answer, Elizabeth crept to her side and gently shook her. “Someone is calling for you,” she murmured.

  “Who is it?” Sweet Water asked.

  “This man would speak with his wife,” came the urgent whisper from the far side of the wall.

  “Go to the entrance flap,” Sweet Water replied. She put a finger to her lips. “Shh. We thank you. Now go back to sleep and pretend he was never here,” she said to Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth returned to her bed and pulled the blanket over her, but she was wide awake. She turned her back to give Sweet Water what privacy she could, but it was impossible not to hear and understand her conversation with her husband.

  “There is a thing you must know, heart of my heart,” Fire Talon whispered in English.

  “Does this matter concern the white woman’s child?”

  For a moment, Talon didn’t answer. Elizabeth caught her breath and waited. She knew it was wrong to listen, but she strained to hear what Talon would say.

  “Husband?” Sweet Water murmured.

  “Weeshob-izzi Kimmiwun,” he murmured in the beautiful language of the Shawnee, then said her name in English. Sweet Water. “Ki-te-hi.” My heart.

  “Ma-tah!” No. “You’ll not soft-talk me, not this time. I’ll not have you risk your life for strangers.”

  He made a tiny noise that could have been a sigh. “Once this man promised he would find your brother, but I failed you.”

  “No, Talon, I won’t listen to this,” she protested. “Colin is dead. He’s been dead for fourteen years.”

  “Do not speak his name,” Fire Talon reminded her. “Ghosts of the dead may be lured back across the river by—”

  “By calling their names. I know you believe that, but I don’t. I loved my little brother; I raised him from a babe. He was always more my child than a brother, and whether he’s dead or alive, I’ll always love him. No power on earth can convince me that any ghost of his would ever wish me harm.”

  “He whose name we do not speak was lost to us,” Talon continued softly, “but this child can be rescued. It will not be an easy thing to take him from the Seneca.”

  “It isn’t your fight.”

  “So. This man goes, and so does Fox and Counts His Scalps.”

  “Leave heroics to the young men, Talon. Stay with me ... please.”

  “Remember your sorrow. Elizabeth has endured years of servitude among the Seneca. It is only right that she should have her son,” he said.

  “What of your duty to me and my children?” she pleaded. “Falcon is only eleven, your daughter hardly more than a baby. Your family needs your strength. Your tribe needs—”

  “This man has given his word. He only wanted to tell you, so that you’d not hear it from others. It is true that he is no longer young, but neither is he ready to sit in the sun and tell stories.”

  “You’re not going for the boy’s sake. You’re doing it because you miss the danger.” Fear rang in her voice. “Admit it! Admit that you and Fox and Counts are bored with peace. You love the adventure—the fighting.”

  “No, Sky Eyes, this man does not love killing. Does he go for the thrill of danger? Perhaps he does long to pull Iroquois tail feathers one last time.” He paused. “You’d not want our son to go along, I suppose.”

  “Falcon? Absolutely not. Don’t you dare try to—”

  “You cannot keep him a child forever, wife. He must learn the ways of men.”

  “He’s not a man yet. He’s not made his vision quest. You can’t have him.”

  “Very well,” Talon rumbled.

  “I can’t stop you from doing what you will,” Sweet Water chided him, “but I won’t let you take our son.”

  “This time he will be entrusted with the protection of his mother,” Talon relented reluctantly. “But he will not thank you for your concern. He longs to try his wings, this fierce young warrior of ours.”

  “Eleven is too young to take the war trail.”

  “This man was younger when he—”

  “I don’t care. He cannot go.”

  “As you remind me, he has yet to complete his vision quest. Our son will escort his mother back to our village, as will Cedar Bark and three others of our tribe. There’s no telling how long we will be gone, and it is best if you return to our little daughter.” Fire Talon sighed. “Do not send me away with anger in your heart, wife of my spirit. We will be together again soon.”

  “God willing,” she answered.

  “This man wants to hold you,” he murmured so low that Elizabeth could barely hear him. “But if he touches you, others will learn of it, and the chosen men might fear that their luck had been fouled. A man who believes his luck is sour will soon prove it true.”

  “I want to hold you, too,” Sweet Water replied. Her voice deepened and Elizabeth heard the catch of pain in her tone. “Keep the wind at your back, my husband. And place your moccasins carefully.”

  He did not reply, and Elizabeth heard the soft footfalls as he walked away. In coming to Sweet Water, the chieftain had strained the rules of a warrior. The Shawnee women had explained that a brave was forbidden to touch a woman in isolation ... forbidden to make love to his wife before leaving on a raid even if she wasn’t having her moon-time bleeding. The Shawnee believed that women’s soft hearts and soft bodies weakened warriors. A man must show the world only strength ... and a woman must wait and weep alone.

  If only Hunt could love me like that, Elizabeth thought. She had never been a jealous woman, but tonight, she could not keep the tears from welling up in her eyes. Why not me? she wondered. Why can’t I be the one with a husband who cares more for me than laws or custom—who would risk honor and position to come to me?

  “He goes to rescue your son,” Sweet Water said. “There’s no use pretending you didn’t hear. We spoke in English so the others wouldn’t understand, but you heard.”

  “I’m sorry for your worry,” Elizabeth replied, “but I thank God he is going.”

  “Thank him when they have returned safely,” Sweet Water answered sharply. “For I’m not a good enough Christian to wish your son safe in your arms if it means the loss of my husband.”

  When their time of menses passed, Elizabeth, Sweet Water, and another woman named Jumps High bathed from head to toe in hot, scented water, and then dashed to the river in the shimmering orchid light of early dawn to plunge in for a quick dip. Shivering and sputtering, the three climbed up the bank and ran to a nearby wigwam to dress and enjoy a hot meal cooked for them by Jumps High’s mother, a plump partridge of a woman with a round, smiling face.

  Several days before, Moccasin Flower had removed Elizabeth’s garments from the women’s house and loaned her a dress. Here in the snug wigwam, Elizabeth found her original clothing cleaned, mended, and smelling of dried cedar chips. On top of the neat bundle lay a dainty armband and bracelet of beaten copper. Now, Jumps High’s mother, Touches Corn, added a warm blanket to the pile.

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth replied, “but I can’t accept your gift. I have nothing to give in return.”

  A frown crossed Sweet Water’s handsome features. “You must take them,” she advised. “You are a guest here. To refuse would be to insult these good people.” Elizabeth felt her cheeks go warm. “Yes,” she replied quickly. “I should have realized.” It would be the same among the Seneca. Guests were treated with the
highest honor. Nothing was too good for them. “Thank you for telling me.” She turned to the other women and thanked them, knowing her smile and gestures would need no translation.

  Elizabeth glanced back at Sweet Water. The older woman had cooled toward her since her husband had come to speak with her. She was not actually rude, but she offered none of the open friendship she’d exhibited earlier, and Elizabeth was truly sorry. She liked Sweet Water, and she understood how the Indian woman must feel at having her husband risk danger for a white woman’s child.

  “I must see Hunt Campbell,” Elizabeth said gently to her in English. “Will that be allowed?”

  Jumps High giggled.

  Her mother admonished her with a slight tch sound.

  “Of course,” Sweet Water answered. “You are not a prisoner here. Now that your time of withdrawal is over, you may go where you please, so long as you do not wander into the shaman’s lodge and touch sacred objects, or handle the weapons of warriors who go to seek your lost son.”

  “I’m not likely to do either,” Elizabeth replied tartly. “I’ve lived among the Seneca for many years. I know what a woman may and may not touch.”

  Sweet Water inclined her head. “The Iroquois are wise, even if they are not always our friends. Has it occurred to you that your son might be better off living among them?”

  Elizabeth felt her own anger swell in her chest, hot and seething. Was there no one who could see that she had to have her children back? Could no one understand her plight? “Do you have children?” she asked.

  “I do.”

  “Would you leave your child with the Seneca?”