* * * *
On the day before the wedding, the village bustled with activity. Thunder Maker’s slaves were kept busy emptying his fish traps of the beautiful silver salmon that would tempt the guests’ palates at the lavish feast Thunder Maker was hosting.
Several female slaves picked berries and dug roots to add to the table. The commoners who lived on Thunder Maker’s bounty were out digging clams as soon as the tide was low enough. Everyone was working hard to make the feast and wedding a great success. The more Thunder Maker impressed his unfriendly guests, the safer the village would be from further Ahousat depredations.
Thunder Maker’s chief wife, Crab Woman, oversaw many of the details, and Sarita tried to stay out of her way. Crab Woman had a sharp tongue for most people, but especially for Sarita. Crab Woman could never forget that Sarita’s beautiful mother had been so very loved by Thunder Maker. Her eyes narrowed every time she saw the favors and gifts Thunder Maker lavished upon his eldest daughter. Her own children seldom got such fine presents. In retaliation, she never let Sarita forget for an instant that it was she, Crab Woman, who ruled the longhouse.
Today she was amusing herself by badgering Sarita about her betrothal to the enemy.
“And the cost…” Here Crab Woman rolled her eyes, having come upon Sarita just as she had finished packing away her robes. “The cost of his wedding is going to be enormous. Your father will be poverty stricken by the time it is over. Who knows what the rest of us will have to eat this winter, but Nuwiksu’s dear daughter must have a lavish wedding. Oh yes,” was Crab Woman’s malicious refrain on this hot afternoon.
“And such a fine bridegroom,” she hinted slyly. “Old, with rotten teeth, and I hear he likes to beat his wives.”
“What?” gasped Sarita.
“Oh yes,” answered the older woman. “I’ve heard such things about him.” She shook her head as if in pity. There, that should scare the girl. She chuckled, then added deprecatingly, “Of course he’s merely a war chief, second in command in his village. Your father is head chief here.”
Sarita caught her meaning. The older woman was gloating because she’d married the highest ranking chief while Sarita was being married off to a second ranked chief. I don’t care, thought Sarita to herself.
“And it doesn’t really count for much to be a chief of the Ahousat dogs,” the old woman added for good measure.
Seeing Sarita’s face flush under her light tan, Crab Woman hugged herself in delight. “The bride price the Ahousats pay for you should be huge. Oh, not because your worth it,” she snorted. “But so the Ahousat bastards can show their good intentions of peace toward us.” She spat, then complained, “All that means is your poor Nuwiksu will have to come up with a costly bride repayment gift to give back to them when you have your first child.” She spat again, contemptuously. “If you have a child.”
Happily she continued her tirade, “I don’t know how your poor Nuwiksu will ever come up with enough slaves and furs to give him. I told him! But no, he has to put a good face on these things, even if it means the rest of the family suffers. So much expense and all for a useless girl like you!” She glanced scornfully in Sarita’s direction.
“And another thing,” she harped, “You’d better be a virgin! All this family needs is a scandal to bring down your poor Nuwiksu’s good name. Which is exactly what will happen if your new husband finds you’re no virgin!”
Humiliated, Sarita got to her feet and ran out of the house, her face flushed with anger and shame. One thing she would not miss, she raged, was Crab Woman’s spiteful tongue. Of course she was a virgin, Sarita railed to herself. What a thing to say!
Crab Woman was correct in one respect, thought Sarita after she’d regained her composure. It could prove difficult for her father to come up with the bridal repayment gift.
Traditionally, the groom’s family paid a bride price, and at the birth of the first child the bride’s family returned a gift of approximate value. This was known as the bridal repayment gift. Sarita knew her father would need at least a year to come up with the repayment gift, especially after giving such a costly wedding feast. He couldn’t save the articles and slaves he received as the bride price, to repay later, because he was obligated to distribute those goods amongst his loyal supporters.
Suddenly Sarita realized how tightly bound she was by the betrothal agreement. If she left her husband, there would be little likelihood her father would welcome her back. He’d be too concerned about paying back the massive bride price. Feast Giver was right, she mused, more rested on this alliance than she had first thought.
* * * *
A wide-chested, medium tall man, his dark bronze skin dappled in the afternoon shade of the trees, stood poised on the river bank. One of Thunder Maker’s many slaves, he waited patiently for a large salmon that was slowly nosing its way into the cone-shaped fish trap set into the stream. Rottenwood gazed unseeingly at the fish under the clear water.
Rottenwood had not always been his name. Once, when he was free, he’d had a free name.
He cast his thoughts back to that fateful day of his capture, the memory as clear as if it had been yesterday. The young boy, Crouching Fox, had walked swiftly away from his parents’ camp, anxious to try out the new bow his grandfather had carefully and lovingly made for him. The dark forest he entered was quiet and, in the hush, he searched carefully for a quail or a large grouse to surprise his family with. Several times he had gone hunting alone in the forest, but never so far from camp as he did this particular day.
Suddenly he froze. There, not more than one good arrow shot away stood a four point buck. Slowly bringing his bow up, he aimed the arrow straight at the buck’s heart. The boy’s gaze did not stray from the deer standing so still and majestic, its nose sniffing the air, alert to impending danger. The boy’s heart beat rapidly as he let fly the arrow. He didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until he released it in one long gasp. Excitedly, he watched the deer crumple to the ground, all in silence.
Crouching Fox took only a step towards the deer when suddenly a large hand covered his mouth and a piercing pain ravaged his skull. He sank forward onto his knees and from there he sank into sweet, merciful, dark oblivion…
Upon awakening, he shook his head slowly and painfully, only to find himself bound and gagged and lying next to a smoking camp fire. The mouthwatering scent of venison tantalized his nostrils. Nearby lay two other, trussed-up small figures, while several men hovered in and around the camp clearing.
Over the next several days, the boy learned he had been captured by the notorious Wishram slave-catchers, who worked the territories along the Columbia River, searching for women and children to sell in the slave market at The Dalles. At the slave market, the boy was bought by a man from Neah Bay and taken far from his home and family.
It was the Neah Bay man who gave him the insulting slave-name of ‘Rottenwood.’ It was a joke…the boy was soft and useless, just like rotting wood. Crouching Fox determined to himself to prove the foolish man wrong, and over the next few years he learned every skill he could. The dull master could not see beyond the name he’d given the young slave and decided to trade him up north to the wife’s relatives.
The two embarked on the long canoe trip. For several days they canoed north, across open water and then followed the coastline until they finally arrived at the bay of Hesquiat village. The Hesquiat chief, Thunder Maker, saw the strength in the young man’s build and hoped to make a good worker out of him.
Rottenwood found that Thunder Maker could be a good master and one appreciative of an industrious slave. Rottenwood therefore did his best to impress Thunder Maker with his working abilities, but he never forgot that he had once been free.
Always he thought of escape and knew that one day he’d be free again. But he had to be very careful. Slaves who escaped and were caught again were usually killed as an example to the others. Now he was so far away, and so many years had passed, that it would
be very difficult to return to his people, even if he could find them. Yet, he knew one day his chance for freedom would come and he would take it. Slavery was too humiliating for a man who had once been free.
Quick, darting movements under the water brought Rottenwood out of his reverie. A large silver salmon lunged into the trap and Rottenwood quickly scooped him out. He grinned in satisfaction. This plump fish would feed many guests at the feast.
Sometime later, the cedar net bag filled with salmon and slung over his back, Rottenwood made his way slowly back to the village. As he was passing by the river path, he chanced to look up at the hillside where several women were picking berries. Ducking behind the branches of a tree and shielding his eyes with his hand, he gazed up at them. He was too far away to hear any of their conversation, but close enough to hear the drift of low laughter ever few minutes.
One graceful form in particular caught his eye. The beautiful slave girl, Spring Fern, was leaning over some blueberry bushes, intent on reaching some of the juicy fruit hidden deep in the bush. A slight tremor shook Rottenwood’s body as he gazed at her. He had watched for her many times, deeply smitten by her beauty. His manhood stirred as he thought of making love to her. His heated gaze devoured her. A strong desire to hold her, touch her, swept over him and he vowed to himself that, somehow, he would make her his.
***
As if feeling eyes on her, Spring Fern turned in the direction of the forest. Seeing nothing, she turned back to her berry bush, a cold shudder passing over her delicate frame.
She wondered why the day had suddenly turned so chill. “I feel cool all of a sudden. Do you?” she asked the slave woman next to her.
“No,” answered Cedar Bundle.
“Oh.” The two women picked berries in silence for a while. “The blueberry harvest is certainly bountiful this year,” said Spring Fern conversationally. “It seems as if we have been picking berries for many days.”
“Yes,” agreed her companion. “Back home, though, there were even more berries than these.” She sighed heavily.
Spring Fern heard the sigh, and guessed what caused it. Gently she asked, “Are the people in your longhouse treating you any better?”
Cedar Bundle didn’t answer for a moment. “No,” she finally admitted in a tremulous voice. She pretended to be very interested in a patch of the luscious fruit. Finally, she could hold back no longer. “I hate being a slave!” she burst out.
Spring Fern nodded. “It’s a very difficult life. I was born into slavery and I still find it hard to accept. For someone like you, it must be terrible.”
Cedar Bundle responded, “It is terrible—for me and even worse for my two little sons. For me, it means being ordered around by women who, back at my old village, wouldn’t have been fit to invite to my longhouse. For my sons, it means fetching water and wood. For them, it means the loss of their rightful names, their wealth and property. Their father…” Cedar Bundle choked on her words.
Spring Fern put down her burden basket of berries, and patted the distraught woman. “It’s better to talk about it, if you can,” she encouraged.
“I must tell someone,” sobbed Cedar Bundle. “It’s just that their father was such a good man, a high ranking chief, beloved by his people. I loved him, too. When the Hesquiats came and raided our village, they killed him. I ran to him and threw myself on his body, weeping. My two little sons followed me. That’s how we were taken so easily. If only I had thought to hide my sons—“
“Now Cedar Bundle,” Spring Fern said, a hint of sternness creeping into her voice. “Don’t blame yourself. Your sons would have been taken anyway. The Hesquiats would have searched everywhere until they found your boys. You know a chief’s wife and children are especially prized as slaves.” She added, “Perhaps it’s a good thing you were taken with them. At least you can protect them while they’re in this village.”
“Protect them?” repeated Cedar Bundle bitterly. “I can’t even protect myself!” Sensing Spring Fern’s unspoken understanding, Cedar Bundle continued, “It’s so humiliating. I was always a faithful wife to my good husband. Now I’m preyed upon by any and every man who wants me. I’ve no protection from them at all. Never before have men talked to me or touched me like that. I don’t know what to do.”
Spring Fern nodded sadly. “Slave women are considered fair game for any man who wants then. It’s only because my mistress, Sarita, is so protective of me, that I’ve been able to avoid those lechers.”
“You’re very fortunate,” answered Cedar Bundle, wiping her eyes. “What will you do when she goes to the Ahousat village?”
“She’s taking me with her.” Ignoring Cedar Bundle’s dubious look, Spring Fern added, “But I know what I’d do, if Sarita weren’t around to protect me.”
“What’s that?”
“I’d find one wolf to keep the other wolves away. I’d find the smartest, strongest, highest ranking man I could attract. I know that commoners and noblemen won’t marry slaves, but I could still be a concubine. That status would certainly give me protection.”
Cedar Bundle stared at her. “But what about marriage? Back home, unmarried women who slept with men were considered loose women.” Seeing Spring Fern start to object, she added hastily, “Oh, I know everyone does it. But they’re all married. Most of my noblewomen friends were seldom happy, so they would have affairs. I knew they did, but I never did.”
Spring Fern looked sternly at Cedar Bundle. “Your situation is changed now. The old rules don’t count. You’re no longer a noblewoman; your sons are no longer the heirs of a great chief.” Cedar Bundle opened her mouth to say something, but Spring Fern held up her hand. “Hear me out. You are a slave. A slave! Now you must do what you can to protect yourself and your sons. What alternative do you have? It’s either be raped by several men or be one man’s concubine. Those are your choices.”
Cedar Bundle was silent for a long while. At last she said, “Thank you for sharing your wisdom with me, my friend. I must think on what you have told me.” She picked up her burden basket and started slowly back to the village.
Spring Fern watched her go, head bent, shoulders bowed, and wondered if she’d been too hard on her friend. No, she thought at last. Someone had to tell her. What Spring Fern had not told her was that Cedar Bundle’s life was at stake. Some slave women died from the brutal treatment they received. Spring Fern knew enough of slavery to realize that Cedar Bundle had to make a choice, and soon.
Spring Fern couldn’t let Cedar Bundle walk away, defeated. “Cedar Bundle,” she called. “Wait!”
Lugging the almost full burden basket, she caught up to Cedar Bundle. “What are you going to do?”
Cedar Bundle smiled slowly. “Do? As you said, what choice do I have?” Seeing the sad look on Spring Fern’s face, she added, “I’m going to take your good advice.”
“You are?” Surprise crackled through Spring Fern’s voice.
Cedar Bundle nodded. “It won’t be easy, though. I’ve been so upset and afraid of men lately. I’d given up noticing men because I didn’t wish to encourage anyone. I’ve also avoided any man who showed an interest in me.” She smiled ruefully. “There’s a certain man who’s been watching me. I suspect he’s attracted to me, but I’ve avoided him. Maybe if I encourage him—?”
“Oh, do that,” implored her friend. “Perhaps if you seem interested in him, he’ll seek you out and keep the other men away.”
“I think he would,” mused Cedar Bundle. “He’s a nobleman. He seems to treat his family and slaves well. I’ve never seen him strike or beat anyone, even when he’s angry.”
“Hmmm, it’s a good thing you’d given up noticing men!” teased Spring Fern. They both laughed as they sauntered back to the village.
Chapter Four
The day of the wedding dawned. Gray seas rolled across the horizon, white sea gulls wheeled overhead, their raucous cries striving to alert the inhabitants of the sleepy Hesquiat village. The overcast sky threatened
to rain at any moment onto the verdant plain of the village and the gray, weather-beaten longhouses.
Inside Thunder Maker’s longhouse, the commoner and slave women had been up for hours, preparing the last details for the huge wedding feast to be held later that day.
Crab Woman dropped heated rocks into a bent cedar wood box filled with water. She would first boil the large chunk of venison and then allow it to cool before it would be fit to eat. Spying Thunder Maker strolling towards the door, she called, “Husband, those Ahousat dogs will eat well today!”
Thunder Maker walked over, a pained expression on his face. “Please. These people are now our allies. I won’t have you insulting them.” Then to mollify her, he added, “I’m glad we’ve plenty of food to offer the Ahousats. They’ll see we Hesquiats don’t come begging to them for this alliance.”
Crab Woman snorted. “It’s the other way around. The Ahousats beg us to make peace with them!” Her husband raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. After all, his wives weren’t privy to the men’s talks and she had no way of knowing how wrong she was.
“Tell me,” began Crab Woman, “Why are the Ahousats so insistent on giving us the bridal price the day after the feast?”
“It is strange,” answered her husband. “Usually they’d present the bridal gifts—the slaves and furs—on the first day so we could turn them down two or three times over the next few days. Then, of course, we’d politely accept them on about the fourth day of celebrating.”
“They are an ill-mannered people!” snorted Crab Woman. “Anyone knows they are supposed to present those gifts on the first day!”
“You can’t wait to get your hands on all those gifts, can you?” teased her husband. She nodded, her eyes glistening with anticipation.
“Well,” he continued, “you’ll be pleased to hear that Fighting Wolf is bringing some gifts with him. The majority of the bride price will arrive the next day. He needs more time because he’s giving so many presents that his heavily laden freight canoes must travel slowly.”
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