by Gen Bailey
“Marisa!”
They hit the water and sank down, down, down. Underwater, Marisa watched helplessly as Sarah became caught up in an undercurrent, and before she could reach out to save her, Sarah was swept away. The tow, however, didn’t take hold of Marisa, and she struggled to rise to the water’s surface. There was one good thing, and perhaps only the one: Due to the recent rain, there had been deep, deep water between them and any sharp rocks awaiting them beneath the falls, thank the good Lord. But the undertow of the current was another thing altogether.
She fought it, afraid that if she let it take her, there would be no hope for her at all. Her lungs were aching and her head was pounding as she struggled to rise to the surface. She was almost there, and she reached upward, at last emerging. She gulped in air as though it were a feast. But she had no more than caught her breath when the water again took her in its strength and swept her away, forcing her under. Briefly she rose up again, then back down, over and over.
Had she been able, she would have cried out. But she couldn’t. She could only go with the tow and catch her breath when possible. It seemed a hopeless struggle.
Still, she hung on, if only in the belief that, somehow, somewhere, she might find and save Sarah. It was all that kept her alive.
Black Eagle plunged down deep into the water. The undertow tried to take hold of him, but he defied it with raw strength and determination, and fighting to the surface with all the power of his physique, he surfaced, immediately reaching out to find a grip on something solid, be that a shoreline or a rock.
Within moments, he’d knocked up against a round rock, but it was too slippery to cling to, and he washed on by it.
The next obstacle was again a rock, but it was too big and too sharp to grasp onto. Looking ahead, he saw a flat surface within his range—if he could but steer himself toward it. Perhaps he could push himself up onto it.
He kicked his legs, his arms stretching forward, and he fought, and he pushed his way stubbornly toward it. At last, his effort paid off and he grabbed hold of the rock’s surface.
The rapids defied him, as if its power were trying to sweep him back into its watery grave, but he withstood its force. Utilizing every muscle fiber in his arms, he pulled himself up onto the rock’s wet surface, struggling to pull himself up, until at last it was done. Lying down full face, he allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, and then he struggled to his feet. There was no time to rest. Not only did he have to find Marisa, he must avoid the enemy, who would even now be searching for them.
Looking back over the raging water, he examined its surface for a sign of her. Nothing. He jumped to another rock that was situated farther along the water’s path, his eyes scanning, exploring over the water’s surface.
What was that? Was it something coral? Could it be the color of her dress? There it was again. Was it the auburn color of her tresses?
A closer look revealed Ahweyoh’s body, as it twisted and plunged along with the current. He’d found her.
Never taking his eyes off her, he sprinted over the rocks, jumping from one to another, testing his speed against the force of the rapids. If he could outdistance the current and land on one of the rocks that lay farther out, into the force of the water, he could catch her as she swept by him.
Mustering all his strength, he jumped forward, flying toward another rock. He landed, slipped, caught himself, got his foothold, and turning back, he leaned down into the rapids. A fraction of a second later and he would have missed her. As it was, he had no more than spread out his arms into the water than it tossed her toward him. Reaching out, stretching, he grabbed hold of her with both of his hands and kept hold of her, despite the force of the water pounding against him, urging him to let go.
“Ahweyoh! Grab hold of me!”
But there was no response from her.
With one gigantic pull, he hauled her up onto the rock, quickly turning her over to check for a pulse rate or evidence of her breathing. He could find none.
He turned her over, and pummeled on her back to rid her of any water in her lungs. But she still wasn’t breathing. Desperately, he turned her over, cleared her mouth of any particles and blew into it. He waited, then repeated the entire thing, blowing life-giving breath into her.
It took longer than he liked to consider, but all at once, she coughed up water, and struggling upward, she drew air into her lungs. He sat back, watching as she labored to find her breath. But finally, the worst was over; her chest began to rise and fall rhythmically and easily.
Only then did he sit back on his heels; only then did he realize that tears were streaking down his face.
She is alive. She is alive.
Reaching out for her, he pulled her into his arms, and with his lips, he paid tribute to her. He kissed her everywhere, from the top of her head, down to her forehead, to her eyes, her nose, her cheeks.
“You’re alive!”
She laughed. Better yet, she was able to speak, and she said, “Yes! I seem to be!”
“Come.” He picked her up in his arms, and carried her away from the rapids, and onto the solidity of the rocky shoreline. Seemingly content to let him do the work, she wound her arms around his shoulders and he thought he might never feel anything quite so wonderful as the feel of her body against his.
He set her down beneath a large maple tree. There was no grass here, only rock, mud and sand, but after their disaster in the water, it seemed as pristine as a sanctuary.
“I think I died a little,” he said, as he knelt in front of her, “when you let go of my hand.”
“I think I died a little, too. Did you find Sarah?”
He shook his head.
“Please, will you go and find her?”
He nodded. “But we are not safe here, you are not safe here. Even now the enemy looks for us. The enemy has only to go to a place where the crossing is easier and backtrack to find us.”
“But surely they’ll think we died. And it could have been true. We almost did.”
He shook his head. “They will look for our bodies, and when they do not find them, they will come after us. Be assured, I have killed their friends, and they will not rest until they find me and exact their revenge.”
“Then I’ll come with you. I must find Sarah.”
“And can you walk?”
“I will make myself do so.”
“No,” he said after a moment. “It will be faster if I search for her while you stay here and catch your breath. I will return.”
On this point she didn’t argue, and he thought that this all by itself was quite telling. She simply nodded. “Please find her,” she said.
He agreed, and proffering her a knife, he instructed, “Use it if you have to.”
“I will,” she said, and with one final look at her, he rose and sprinted away, following the direction of the rapids. With any luck, he would find Sarah.
Sixteen
The sun was a low, pinkish orange orb in the sky, announcing its departure from the day in glorious streaks of multicolored sunlight. Shafts of light, streaming from the clouds, beamed down to the earth, looking as though heaven itself smiled kindly upon the land. And what a magnificent land it was. The birch trees were yellow, the maples red, and the oaks announced their descent into a long, winter sleep with oranges and golds. The hills were alive with autumn color, while the air was filled with the rich, musky scent of falling leaves.
Into this world of beauty came the delicate and pale figure of a woman, looking as though she had been plopped down on a large, flat rock. To a casual eye, it might have appeared as though she were engaged in nothing as untoward as taking in the sun. However, closer inspection would have shown that she had only recently been washed to shore.
Soon, the lone figure of a man emerged from the forest. Buckskin clad, he was tall and brown skinned, with long, black hair that hung well down past his shoulders. He’d been hunting this day, very far from his home, and from deep within the forest, he’d felt the bre
eze, and heard the rustle of the water. It had called to him.
Stepping quietly toward the water, he looked up, his gaze one of admiration for all this, the splendor of the woodlands. Squatting down, and setting his musket onto his lap, he bent over to partake of a drink from the water’s cool depths.
However, instantly he sat up, alert. From out the corner of his eye, he’d caught the movement of something, and glancing toward it, he recognized the image of a piece of clothing; it was a woman’s skirt. Raising up, he stepped toward it to get a better look, if only to satisfy his curiosity.
That’s when he saw her. She was a white woman, blond haired and slim.
Was she alive?
Hauling himself up onto the rock where she lay, he stepped toward her and bent over her. He placed his fingers against her neck, feeling for a pulse. Her body was cold, so very, very cold and he was more than a little surprised when he felt the sure sign of life within her.
The pulse was weak, but it was still there.
Turning her over, he was surprised at her pale beauty. Of course, being Seneca and from the Ohio Valley, he’d had opportunity to witness the unusual skin color of the white people. But it wasn’t as familiar a sight to him as one might reckon.
Who was she? How had she gotten here? And what had happened to her?
Glancing in all directions, he took in the spectacular sights of the forest. Where did she belong? Who did she belong to?
But there was nothing to be seen, no other human presence to be felt within the immediate environment. There was nothing here but the ever expansive rhythm of nature.
Using his right hand to brush her hair back from her face, he noted again how cold she was, but he couldn’t help but be aware of how soft her skin was, as well. Putting his fingers under her nostrils, he could feel the weak intake and outflow of breath. She was alive, but only just. If she were to live through the night, he had best get her to a place where he could nurse her.
Taking her up in his arms, he stepped off the rock and headed back into the forest. If he hurried, he could make it to a good spot before darkness fell.
Then hopefully, he could find out who she was . . . if she lived . . .
“Did you find her?”
He didn’t answer all at once. Instead, kneeling down in front of Marisa, Black Eagle gathered her into his arms, and brought her up to her knees, where he drew her body in toward his. He wrapped his arms around her, and commenced kissing her face, her neck, her hair.
Though he was worried and rushed, for he was aware that the enemy would be looking for them, he first had a duty toward this woman. He dreaded telling her what he must, but there was no use hiding the facts from her.
“Neh, no, I did not find her,” said Black Eagle at last, holding Marisa tightly against him. “There is no sign of Miss Sarah. I fear she has washed away to her death.”
“No!” Marisa grabbed hold of him, and held onto him tightly. “No! I refuse to believe it!”
He nodded. “I understand.”
“I know she is alive. I know it!”
Again he nodded. “If you desire, we can stay in this place a little longer and I will continue searching for her.”
“Yes, please. You would do that?”
He nodded.
“Perhaps I can help.”
“Perhaps.”
He took note that Ahweyoh was cold, that she was shivering, and in order to restore some warmth to her body, he rubbed her arms up and down. She, however, responded to him in an unusual manner. At first, she remained mute, simply receiving his attention as her due, but then slowly she came alive, and her lips began an intimate exploration of him, there against his throat. Her fingers wound into his hair and rubbed against his scalp, and he thought that if possible, he might likely choose to remain here like this for the rest of his life.
At the very least, after the nightmare of Thompson’s betrayal, as well as the ordeal of the rapids and falls, her attention toward him was a little like stepping into a bit of paradise. Mayhap the Creator, in His wisdom, was tempering the horrors of this day with some semblance of pleasure, after all.
Black Eagle groaned, and she, hearing it, whispered, “I thank the dear Lord that you are alive, and I thank you for following me into the falls. You could have easily left me to my fate.”
“Not possible.”
“I fear to disagree,” she murmured. “It would have been more than possible.”
He shook his head. “Not and remain honorable. Besides, when two people are bound together, not only with passion, but with love, the other person’s fate becomes your own.”
She gulped, then whispered, “I have been wrong, Black Eagle. I have been very wrong.”
“Shhhh,” he uttered. “Do not try to talk.”
“No, I must. You have been right. It is not true that one person is another person’s ‘better’ because of birth. The English think of the Indian as beneath them, not worthy or smart enough to have rights. Yet look at you. Look at me. I would not be here but for you. How can I ever thank you properly?”
He nuzzled his head into her neck, and he said, “I think that you are going about it in a very good way right now.”
“Truly?” As if his words gave her courage, she ventured outward in her exploration of him, her kisses seeking out his cheeks, his eyes and nose, his lips. Her hands had twined themselves irreparably in his hair, and she confided, “I thought to never see you again, and were that to have been so, my feeling of loss would have been beyond endurance. How happy I am that you are here, and that I am here, and we are together.”
“I, too,” he said. “I, too.”
And he began to return her embrace, kissing her, deeply, lovingly, sacredly.
It is said by the elders, he thought, that if you save another from a certain death, their life belongs thereafter to you. But, wise though this philosophy was, he felt the opposite was true for him.
He belonged to her. Now. Forever.
In his adoration of her, his tongue ranged into her mouth, withdrew from it, then reached in again, exploring the depths of her, thrilling to the clean taste of her. Again, he groaned. Again, she surged forward against him.
And she whispered, “Black Eagle, I little understand how it is possible after all that we have been through today, but I fear that I want . . . love.”
When she added, “Do you object?” he thought he might likely go out of his head.
“Object?” he said. “What sane man would object to an act of love?”
“I am glad to hear that you’re willing,” she said. Her touch was broadening out in her survey of him, her palms extending lower and lower, down to his chest, which at present, was bare. Sometime today, somehow, he’d lost his shirt. He hadn’t really taken note of the fact until this very moment. But he was glad of it. There was nothing there to stand between his skin and hers.
“There is a tattoo here on your chest and the same on your arms, as well.”
“So there are.”
“They are wolves.”
“It is my clan.”
She nodded. Farther and farther down, her touch ranged, her fingers coming to linger over his very erect, very male nipples. He shuddered with delight. And when her lips followed where her fingers led, he growled, deep in his throat.
“I want you to love me,” she murmured, as she rose up to run her tongue over his lips. “I want to know in a very elemental way that you are, indeed, real.”
“I already love you,” he said. “But I will make love to you, if only to demonstrate how very real we are to each other.”
“Yes,” she said. “Please.”
Her fingers fell down over him, to sweep away his breechcloth, hesitating there, over his stiff and erect manhood. She groaned, and, if possible, his hardening expanded. He might have brought her up over him, but she had already taken charge, and she moved into position so that she was straddling him. Bringing up her skirts, she settled herself down over him, joining their bodies i
n a most rudimentary way.
She sighed, and he moaned. And then she began to move against him sensuously, and bending toward him, she kissed his lips while her tongue delved deeply into his mouth, exploring his taste as thoroughly as he had many times done to her.
He was, indeed, a willing and active recipient of all she had to give and he let her take the lead, until, soon, he felt her begin that inevitable spiral toward release. It was an exquisite plateau she sought, and as her need for his strength consumed her, he took over command of their lovemaking, surging up within her. All the while his tongue swept the inner sanctum of her mouth, mirroring the active admiration of their bodies.
Her hands grabbed hold of his shoulders and her squirming took on a sensuality that had him spiraling out of control. He felt her plunging from that precipice, felt her release, and almost instantaneously he was bursting within her.
But it wasn’t over. As their bodies opened up to each other, they became as one, together soaring upward above their physical being. Never, he thought, had he ever felt so close to another human being. Nor had he ever experienced being so close to eternity, as though by the act of love, some secret that bound them to this earth, was revealed.
With her, worlds opened to him. With her, he felt capable of anything. He loved her.
And when she whispered, “I love you. I will love you always,” it felt as if the whole world had shifted.
He smiled, and bringing her head down to his, he kissed her long and hard. Words escaped him. And in the end, all he said was, “I, too. I, too.”
They must have dozed, for he awakened suddenly. Alert, he listened, but he could hear little but the rush of the rapids. He said, “We must leave here at once and seek shelter.” He kissed her gently, then pushed her up, disengaging himself from her.
“Yes,” she said, as she came up onto her knees and flopped down beside him. “I do have a question I forgot to ask. Did you find any sign of Thompson?”
Black Eagle grimaced. “I found nothing of him. No trail, no clue, not even a remnant of his clothing.”