The Woman on the Painted Horse

by Angela Christina Archer

Had I hallucinated? The hair on my arms stood and my stomach churned with the thought of holding either a gun or a bow in my hands, let alone shooting them. Exactly what about me screamed that I’d want to do such things, I didn’t know. Did he not know me at all?

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “Of course you can, and I will teach you. Do you see the targets?” he said, pointing North from where we stood.

  Ten or twenty yards away, three stacks of seed bags sat a few feet apart from one another. All were sitting in a row and I imagined them laughing at the notion that the young lady in front of them could ever, in her dreams, be capable of hitting them.

  “And, why do I have to learn, exactly?” I asked.

  He ignored my question and handed me the bow. His calmness annoyed me about as much as his confidence in my ability.

  “Everyone should know how to shoot an arrow, Alexandra, even a woman.”

  He began explaining his technique, his fingers gliding over the wood, string, and arrowhead, pointing at different parts as he described their function and demonstrated how to stand and release. To my horror, within seconds, the bow rested alone in my slippery hands, with the arrow pointing at one of the targets.

  “I realize the bow is awkward and hard to hold for more than a few seconds, but try to at least hold it steady,” he laughed as the bow bobbed unsteadily.

  Inhaling a deep protecting breath, I wrenched the arrow back, brushed the feather against my cheek, held the bow steady, and then exhaled as I released the shaft. The arrow shot through the air, missing all of the seed bags by several dozen feet.

  “Again,” William said, with amusement on his face.

  Shooting several more arrows, after the last one, William led me out to view the targets. Different colored feathered arrows lay scattered all around the burlap sacks, none of them close at all.

  “Your aim is horrible,” he laughed.

  “How nice of you to mock me,” I laughed.

  “You will get better the more you practice. Are you hungry?”

  My stomach growled, and without words, answered his question. We rode toward the village, jumping across a few creeks and weaving through the small trail on a rocky hill that looked vaguely familiar. Riding along the outskirts of the village, Essiyetv walked toward the gate of the horse pen and a fence made from rope and tree branches, pounding the dry ground with his hooves.

  A few horses stood near the gate, swishing their tails at flies while they snoozed away their evening nap.

  William led Essiyetv through the gate and released him into the pasture with the other horses. “Vyetv em ahkopvnetv vpvltake rakko,” he said, patting the horse on the neck. The intense sound of each syllable rolled across his lips. Bold and intriguing, I couldn't deny the desire to feel the power of my own tongue repeating each word.

  “Will you teach me your language?” I asked.

  “Certainly, I’ll teach you, but I think you’ve had enough excitement for one day.” He flashed me a smile with an amused, curious sparkle behind his brown eyes.

  Essiyetv pushed his way through his herd, the horses speaking to one another in silent language expressed through movement. Head tosses with pinned ears and tail swishes were all the communication they needed, simple, to the point, and with no hesitation, hidden meaning, or malice. I envied their simple life.

  Smoke filled the air around the trees—the haze was not only from the chimney stacks, but also from the bonfires lit in the courtyard fire pits. Dogs barked as we strolled out of sight, toward his parent’s cottage, hand in hand—my grip looser than William’s grip. Holding on with the passion he held on with was just another fear. Giving myself wholly still scared me, and presented me with questions that didn’t have answers. If William noticed, he didn’t show it. He only squeezed my fingers every few steps and flashed me a smile.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked William as I peeked through the trees and looked around the deserted village.

  “Either preparing for the evening dinner or they are probably sitting around their table pouring shots of whiskey. Care for a glass, yourself?” he laughed and nudged my shoulder as he grasped the doorknob.

  Ignoring him, I marched through the doorway. Surely, he had to have been joking. Perhaps John would have partaken in a glass of wine or a fine English brandy at a party or evening dinner, but never me. Although Mama probably wouldn’t have minded, considering her taste for a glass, or more appropriately, glasses of fine wine, herself. Nevertheless, testing the theory of her indifference over her daughter drinking at a party in front of her friends had never been an attractive hobby. It's always better to steer clear of repercussions than to face them when dealing with Mama.

  “I was beginning to wonder if you two were planning to return for tonight’s bonfire,” Mrs. Graysden said as she chopped the last of the carrots and then wiped the blade of the knife clean with her apron.

  “We shouldn’t stay long, but I wanted Alexandra to see the celebration.”

  “Do you really think I should?”

  “We can’t hide forever,” William said, shrugging his shoulders. “I won’t live like a prisoner in my village.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Graysden looked at one another with hesitation, but smiled when they noticed me watching them. What did they know? More importantly, should their knowledge be something I needed to fear? Did William know? And, if he did, had he chosen to ignore the threat and not tell me?

  “I suppose I can stay for a while, but I really should return to the manor shortly after dark. I pretended to come down with a sour stomach this morning over breakfast. Mama wouldn’t dare risk catching an illness from anyone, but if she sends Sarah to check on me and I’m not in my bedroom . . .” I bit my tongue, loathing the end result. I would rather skin myself alive than force Sarah into the predicament of choosing to lie for me, or holding the guilt over telling Mama the truth. Per my pleading in the past, thankfully she had always chosen the latter. But, every time, she told me she hated doing so, and I feared one day she would take the risk I never want her take and endure a punishment that should be mine.

  Mr. Graysden stood from his chair and headed for the door. “William, I need you to help me prepare the plaza for tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  William grabbed my neck with one hand, stroked my cheek with the other, and gave me a soft kiss before leaving the cabin. Even with the distracting heat of his touch, panic set in as soon as the door shut.

  Rejection certainly wasn’t a foreign concept for me. It dwelled in my life more than I cared to admit, haunting me every day spent with Mama, and Daddy for that matter. With every look, every word, every movement, her approval of me diminished. The moment when she had decided I wasn’t the daughter she wanted had always been unknown, but at the end of the day, when, never mattered. In hindsight, the rejection was mutual, a candle that burned at both ends, and never just one. She was never my mother in any way, other than she gave birth to me.

  However, the rejection I faced today was different. While hiding or imprisoning William weren’t wishes of mine either, confronting an angry crowd wasn’t my list of priorities. My lungs began fighting for each breath and I had to sit down. Having always believed Mama’s dismissal bestowed me with strength to cope with anyone’s refusal, the notion of how wrong I’d been, pounded down upon me. The tribal clan’s rejection was harder to bear.

  “Alexandra?” Mrs. Graysden asked. She touched my shoulder sending the cabin spinning and my heart pounding.

  “I don’t…want anyone…to be…angry,” I gasped through my panicked breaths. “Everyone…will be…angry.”

  “No one will—”

  “Yes they will. No one wants me here, Chenoa and they will be angry that I am.”

  She grabbed a dusty bottle from the fireplace mantel, filled half of a sho
rt tumbler with the deep amber liquid, and set it down in front of me. “Drink.”

  “What is—”

  “Drink. I don’t care how it tastes. Don’t set the glass down until it is empty.”

  I did as she said, draining the glass as the liquid burned down my throat and, I thought for certain, flames would shoot from my mouth.

  “Breathe,” she laughed as I choked. “Do you feel better?”

  Unable to speak, I shook my head.

  She poured another glass full.

  “May I—”

  “Drink.”

  I downed another swig. My throat burned a second time, though, only for a few seconds rather than minutes like the last.

  “What are you giving me?”

  Without answering my question, she poured another glass and motioned me to chug the third. This gulp barely burned at all.

  “Whiskey, and don’t worry, your nerves will calm in a few minutes.” She knelt down in front of me cupping my face in her hands. “Alexandra, I have one piece of advice for you, and I want you to listen carefully to me. Don’t concern yourself with events that have yet to happen.”

  “But they will happen. They already have.”

  Her eyes filled with concern and sadness, hinting that she agreed with my words about an agreement both of us didn’t want to acknowledge. My presence wasn’t welcome in her village and the chance that it would ever be was a dream that would never become reality.

  The front door opened and William and Mr. Graysden returned, stomping through the door as if they had been arguing with one another. Mr. Graysden grabbed one of the bushels of vegetables on the table and left the cabin again, slamming the door behind him without uttering a single word. William and Mrs. Graysden exchanged glances before his eyes landed upon me.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “We were just having a talk, son,” she laughed. “And a few drinks.”

  She patted William on the shoulder as she passed him. His confused expression amused me, and I hiccupped through my giggles.

  “And exactly how many shots of whiskey has she had to drink?” His tone caused me to laugh harder. “Mother?”

  “She only drank three,” she defended herself.

  Bored of their conversation, I reached into the other basket of vegetables left on the table and grabbed a sweet potato. I rolled it around with my fingers, digging my nails into the hard, crispy, orange-brown peel covered in dirt. A worm squirmed across the bottom, and in a rather embarrassing moment, I screamed and jumped, accidentally falling out of my chair.

  “Though I don’t think she’s ever drunk whiskey before,” Mrs. Graysden laughed.

  William clutched my arm and helped me return to the chair. His mild irritation melted into laughter as Mrs. Graysden set a loaf of bread in front of me.

  “Eat, Alexandra. You’ll feel better.”

  By the third piece of bread, the cabin stopped spinning. I spent the next hour cooking, talking, and laughing with Mrs. Graysden. As she told stories of William’s childhood, she carefully wrapped chunks of pork and beef in corn husks after seasoning the meat with crunched wild nuts, berries, and herbs.

  Her memories were full of joy and happiness, memories of days long since past, when William was a baby, learning of the world around him, a time where innocence prevailed over the sober reality for their people. Days when he learned to walk, learned to ride a horse, plant vegetables in the garden, and play stick ball games instead of knowing or caring about the arguments of men. How lucky children are. Although, ignorance is never bliss, perhaps sometimes it is in the eyes of a child.

  William sat at the table sipping on his own glass of whiskey. He calmly watched us without interrupting our conversations or adding his opinion, only winking at me occasionally when I caught his glance.

  As fast as it had risen this morning, the sun set for the night and darkness fell over the village. Loud voices shouted outside and the bonfires blazed orange through the windows of the cabin. Mr. Graysden returned for pork and beef, leaving for the plaza as quickly as he arrived with his wife in tow, who yelled at him not to drop the wood tray as he had done a few nights before.

  “Why are you nervous?” William asked, pointing to my busy fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of my dress as I stood looking out the window.

  “How could I not be?”

  “I thought perhaps you would enjoy yourself for once.”

  “For once?” I snapped, annoyed with his comment.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you. I simply thought we could join in the celebration this evening, eat good food, and spend time with my family.”

  Several young boys with wooden poles chased each other past the window, shouting at one another as they recounted details of their fathers’ and brothers’ moments in the stick game this afternoon.

  I inhaled a deep breath. Don’t concern yourself with events that have yet to happen.

  “You are my guest and they’ll just have to accept it,” he said, opening the door.

  Chapter 15

  Two young men and three young women stood on the porch of the cabin behind Charlie who stood in the doorway with his fists clenched and eyes locked onto me. William wrapped one arm around me and drew me in tight to his body. We all stood in silence, a mind numbing silence that clawed at my nerves. How did he know I was here? William and I had snuck into the village this afternoon, making certain no one saw us. My lungs screamed for me to breathe, and my nails dug into William’s skin as I clutched his cotton shirt, not desiring to face the scene in front of me.

  “Mecetv tokot owes ’svtetv ecke heyv, yv?” Charlie finally shouted. “Hoporreneko este-honvnwv.”

  “I’ll bring her here if I wish to,” William barked. “And, I’m not a foolish man.”

  “You speak nothing but English around her. You are a dog catering to your master.”

  “I speak English because she deserves to know every word said from my tongue.”

  “And does she deserve to know about Katy?”

  Katy? Oh, the girl from the conversation I overheard on the porch.

  My heart nearly stopped, shuttering and skipping several beats as I glanced at the young woman—the once figment of my imagination to whom Charlie was pointing—now standing right in front of me. Her arms clutched her waist as she rocked her body just as I’d done whenever I thought of losing William.

  She loved William too.

  Charlie stepped forward and he and William stood chest to chest, neither of them backing down to the other. William’s fists balled, his deep breaths were hard and the veins in his arms bulged.

  “You choose white blood over Muscogee blood. You choose a Yankee over Muscogee family,” Charlie spat.

  Katy began to sob, trembling in the arms of one of the other girls. How close had she and William been? Had he kissed her like he kissed me? Had he held her like he holds me? Had he told her all the things he tells me? The simple gestures I’ve always believed only belonged to me. Did they have a bond? A love? What else had I broken besides her heart? Her blood-shot eyes and tear streaked face spoke of her feelings. Deep as mine, longing as mine, full of love for the man who stood next to me with his arm wrapped around my waist instead of hers.

  “Look what you have done. I hope the white girl is worth all the disgrace and the tongue full of lies you have spoken,” one of the other girls snapped.

  “Leave my house,” William shouted.

  Charlie began to turn, but paused and raised his fist, pointing his finger into William’s face. “You are no longer our brother.”

  All six of them stomped away from the cabin, but a couple of them glanced over their shoulders as they left. My knees buckled underneath my weight and my butt hit the floor as William slammed the door. Insanity began to bubb
le, building inside my crawling skin, unrepressed from the hug of my arms around my legs. My stomach twisted. All of my joy, all of my comfort, all the time spent with this beautiful man seemed to disappear in a sea of black despair drenched with the feeling I was about to lose everything that meant the world to me.

  “Alexandra?”

  My eyes remained glued to the floor as I sorted out the right words and pushed aside all the others drenched in anger and confusion. “What don’t I know about Katy?” I finally asked.

  William inhaled deeply, and knelt beside me. “Katy is Charlie’s younger sister.”

  I buried my face in my knees—the unexpected news was worse than I could have imagined. “Did you have feelings for her?”

  “I’ve never felt anything more than friendship for her. She wanted us to marry, but I always refused, much to Andrew’s displeasure. When word spread that I was spending time with another young woman, it crushed her.”

  “And everyone became angry,” I presumed.

  “Andrew and Charlie mostly, but our elders understood. Until…” He paused for a moment and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Until they learned who I was,” I finished.

  “Until they found out the other woman was Nathanial Monroe’s only daughter and the woman set to marry Thomas Ludlow,” he laughed.

  How he found humor at this moment, I didn’t know. Nothing about our obvious lack of consideration for the innocent people now forced into a mess that held no benefit for them, and nothing about the last ten minutes, was funny. Hearts had been broken and lives forever changed.

  “Alexandra, please don’t concern yourself over Charlie’s actions or the opinions of his father, or take anyone else into consideration. I don’t. My life is my life and I refuse to allow someone else the control. Some have said that’s wrong, but I don’t agree. We are free to do as we chose.” He grasped my hand and helped me to stand. “Are you still hungry?”