Savage Betrayal

by Scott, Theresa

  “What—what happened?” he mumbled.

  “Battle,” came the succinct answer. Then in an earsplitting shriek, “Abalone! Come quickly! He wakes!”

  Feast Giver groaned, trying to shut out the loud noise. He closed his eyes briefly and opened then to see Abalone Woman, his father’s second wife, waving Crab Woman away.

  “What--what happened?” he asked again, the words clearer this time.

  Before Abalone Woman could answer, he passed out. She looked anxiously at Crab Woman. “I don’t like the way he keeps waking up, then losing consciousness. It’s not a good sign. I’m afraid that one of these times he won’t wake up.”

  Crab Woman sighed heavily. “Let’s wake him up then. He’s been lying around here too long, anyway.”

  “It’s not that easy—“ began Abalone Woman. She winced as Crab Woman called loudly to the unconscious man. Surely such a sound would drive the poor man’s spirit away!

  A harsh cawing pounded at Feast Giver’s ears, penetrating his darkness. A crow? A raven? Why was a raven screeching at him? He came out of his stupor, his glazed eyes settling on the large dark figure calling his name with such vigor. Crab Woman again. “Go away with that infernal noise,” he muttered irritably.

  “He’s awake,” announced Crab Woman triumphantly to her co-wife.

  “Of course I’m awake.” Feast Giver’s voice was stronger now. He turned slowly to face Abalone Woman. “You were telling me what happened—“ he prompted.

  “Are you sure you’re up to hearing this?” she questioned cautiously. She feared bad news would send her patient back into a swoon.

  “Yes, yes,” he answered impatiently. “Tell me what happened.”

  Abalone Woman hesitated, unsure. He had been ill for so long. “There was a raid. The Ahousats…” she began tentatively.

  “Aah yes,” he mumbled. It was slowly coming back. The fighting, the screaming, his sister’s wedding feast. Betrayal. He groaned anew. “Why—why am I not--?”

  “Dead?” she finished for him. “Crab Woman dragged you to safety after you fell from the blow on your head. She hid you in a corner, under some cedar mats. But Fighting Wolf found you. He tied you up with your father, surrounded by our dying warriors. Fighting Wolf wanted revenge. He decided to let you live. His revenge was your humiliation and loss of your good name.” Her voice broke and she looked away.

  Feast Giver nodded. Everything was slowly coming back to him. He noticed Crab Woman was still standing nearby, watching. “Crab Woman,” he called. He reached out and took her hand when she came closer. “Thank you for saving me from the Ahousats,” he said earnestly.

  The old woman shrugged and withdrew her hand. “It was nothing.” Her small, bright eyes blinked several times.

  “Nothing to you, perhaps, but my life to me.” He tried to chuckle, but only a small gurgle came out.

  “Hush,” soothed Abalone Woman. “You must rest now.”

  “No,” and his voice sounded firm again. “I must know. What of my father?” Feast Giver feared the worst. The old man would have fought to the death.

  “Thunder Maker lies on his bed, wasting away from shame and humiliation. His physical wounds are not good but the wounds we cannot see, the wounds to his pride and his heart, are serious indeed,” Abalone Woman answered sorrowfully.

  Feast Giver paused a long moment, considering. At last he asked, “And Sarita? My sister. Is she—?”

  “She’s been taken,” Abalone Woman answered gently. “She was stolen by the Ahousats in the raid. Several of our young women were stolen,” she added sadly.

  Feast Giver struggled to sit up. He grabbed Abalone Woman’s hand. She pushed him carefully back onto the bed furs. “Abalone, I swear to you I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all! I’ll find my sister and bring her home and I’ll kill every Ahousat dog I can find!” He lay panting from the exertion of his outburst.

  Abalone Woman looked at him sadly, suddenly afraid for him and for her people. So much death and destruction! Would it never end?

  “Please,” she said softly, “don’t worry yourself with such matters. It’s more important that you get well.”

  He nodded, already drifting off again. “I’ll get better, Abalone. When I do, those Ahousats—“ He was asleep, his breathing strong and even.

  Feast Giver was as good as his word. From that day on, his health continued to improve. Gone, however was the happy, joking young man that all knew and loved. In his place was a grim, determined man, seldom given to laughter. And when small children came to visit him, the children he used to laugh and play with, and hunt for crabs on the beach with, he dismissed them and turned his face to the wall.

  One day Feast Giver rose shakily to his feet, determined to get out into the sunshine, away from the dark confines of the longhouse. Near collapse, he teetered to the door. Then he felt a strong body support him under the arm. “Take me out into the sunlight,” he demanded of Abalone Woman.

  They staggered to the beach, and Feast Giver sank down gratefully amidst the sand and small pebbles at the high tide line. He breathed deeply of the fresh clean air blowing off the sea. How warm the sun felt! He sat watching the rhythmic play of the sparkling waves in the bay, his mind beginning to awake to hatch plans.

  But while Feast Giver continued to improve quickly, Thunder Maker’s recovery was much slower. Several times, Feast Giver went to visit his father, only to turn away after long silent vigils, numbed by the change in the old man. Like Abalone Woman, Feast Giver suspected it was a sickness of Thunder Maker’s spirit more than of his body.

  One afternoon, Feast Giver stopped by the old man’s bedside. A slave woman hovered in the background, a bowl of soup in her hand. “How do you feel today, Nuwiksu?” he asked quietly. Perhaps today his father would speak.

  The old man looked at him for a long moment. “Not good, my son,” he answered at last.

  This was more than his parent has said to Feast Giver in a long time. Encouraged, Feast Giver continued, “Where do you hurt, Nuwiksu? I mean besides the wound in your shoulder,” he added hastily. He knew that the cut tendons in the old man’s shoulder must ache painfully and would take a long time to heal.

  While he waited patiently for his father’s answer, he noticed the slave woman set aside the soup and approach the bed. She began fussing with her patient. Feast Giver, annoyed, watched her needless ministrations, but said nothing.

  A bitter chuckle drew his attention back to his father. “Where I hurt is here,” and Thunder Maker folded his good arm and pressed his hand to his heart. “My people are gone. My daughter and young women are stolen. My warriors are dead.”

  Feast Giver watched his father intently, unaware of the slave woman’s warning glances. His concentration was interrupted when the woman had the effrontery to lean over and whisper into Thunder Maker’s ear.

  This woman does not know her place, thought Feast Giver angrily. But Thunder Maker, instead of reprimanding her sharply, merely waved a hand. “It’s alright, Cedar Bundle,” he assured the slave woman. “I feel better talking about what happened. I’ve been silent far too long.”

  “I understand,” murmured Cedar Bundle, eyes downcast momentarily. “Can I get you some water?” she asked solicitously.

  Thunder Maker nodded and turned back to his son. “My name is nothing now,” he said bitterly. His speech halting, he described Fighting Wolf’s vengeful taunts. “He’s had his revenge!” the old man finished. “I am nothing. I have nothing—nothing worth living for.”

  Feast Giver remained silent. The despair and self-blame in his father’s words overwhelmed him. If the old man really felt so useless, then, indeed, he would continue to waste away, thought Feast Giver.

  The slave woman returned with the water just in time to hear Thunder Maker’s last words. “Thunder Maker,” she chided, as Feast Giver’s jaw dropped. “How can you say you have nothing to live for? What about your son? He’s not lost to you.” In a gentler voice, she added, “He knows you�
��re a wise chief; he looks to you for hope. We all do.”

  Feast Giver was about to chastise the woman for speaking out of turn, when his father sighed heavily. “What you say is true, Cedar Bundle. I am fortunate to have my son, alive before me. But sometimes the weight of my people’s sorrows overwhelms me and I forget to hope.”

  All three were silent. At last Feast Giver roused himself. “We must retaliate for what the Ahousats have done to us. Those Ahousats bastards can’t get away with killing our warriors and taking our women!” He ground out the words between clenched teeth.

  “And will retaliation give you hope, my son?” asked Thunder Maker, his eyes focusing thoughtfully on the young chief. “Will revenge right the wrongs done to us?”

  “Of course!” snapped Feast giver with confidence.

  The older man shifted his gaze to Cedar Bundle, then back to his son. Almost inaudibly, Thunder Maker objected, “But so many will suffer.”

  Feast Giver leaned forward to hear the words more clearly. Thunder Maker spoke up. “My son, you’re all I have left. I don’t want to lose you, too. Don’t talk to me of revenge.” He passed a weary hand across his brow. “Leave me now. I must sleep.”

  The slave woman dared a quick frown in Feast Giver’s direction. Then bringing a cedar blanket over to the ailing chief, she covered Thunder Maker gently with the blanket. She nestled herself comfortably on the floor nearby, obviously intending to keep watch over the old man as he slept. Feast Giver decided against reprimanding her for her rude behavior—this time. He realized his father had probably encouraged her poor manners.

  Shrugging to himself, Feast Giver walked away thoughtfully. He must convince his father that reprisals against the Ahousats were absolutely necessary—for him, for his father, and for his people.

  * * * *

  Day by day, Feast Giver continued to call on his father. The old man began to show a gradual improvement. Perhaps it was the young man’s visits; perhaps it was the conversation they had shared that one day. Whatever the reason, Thunder Maker began to take an interest in those around him. No longer did he turn his face to the wall. Now he watched as his wives moved about the longhouse. He drank the medicines prepared for him by Abalone Woman and began to get his energy back.

  One day Feast Giver was at Thunder Maker’s bedside. As usual, the slave woman Cedar Bundle was also in attendance.

  “I’m tired of lying around this longhouse,” snapped Thunder Maker. “Take me outside so I can breathe fresh air, smell the sea and watch children play,” he ordered the slave woman. “I can’t stand being shut in this dark house any longer!”

  Feast Giver and Cedar Bundle carried the old man outside to the beach. There Cedar Bundle fussed about with him and propped him up with cedar mats. She made sure he was covered with a soft cedar blanket so the slight breeze would not give him a chill. As she as wrapping another cedar blanket around his shoulders, he yelled out, “Enough, woman! Stop your fussing! Leave me to my son. We want to have a man-to-man talk.”

  With a twinkle in her eye, Cedar Bundle gravely patted the chief’s hand. “Now I know you’re getting better—you’re anxious to be up and around,” she said softly.

  Drawn out of his anger, Thunder Maker smiled at her and said gruffly, “Go, woman. You’ve done enough for me.” He watched as she walked gracefully back to the longhouse.

  “Ah son, she reminds me of your mother.”

  Feast Giver looked at his father in astonishment. Cedar Bundle was not at all like the memories he carried of his mother. His father continued, “How I miss your mother, even after these many years.” Thunder Maker sighed heavily, then added, “Now I have Cedar Bundle. She’s a good woman.”

  Feast Giver was, for once, speechless. His father mistook the silence for tact. “What have you been doing while I’ve been wasting away in my longhouse?”

  Feast Giver cleared his throat and responded cautiously, “I’ve been talking with some of the young men, Nuwiksu. They want revenge for the Ahousat betrayal.”

  His father nodded. “I was afraid of that, my son. I suspected you would not give up your plans of revenge.”

  “Nuwiksu, you know I think we must avenge ourselves. If it becomes known up and down the coast that the Ahousats can come and kill our warriors and take our women, then we’ll have nothing.”

  His father nodded. “Too true, too true. Ah, but how I hate to risk your life, my son. You’re all I have left now. Your sister is gone. Who knows if she’s even alive—“

  The scowl on his son’s face cut short Thunder Maker’s words.

  “My sister lives,” stated Feast Giver stubbornly.

  “Perhaps, my son, perhaps. Nevertheless,” pointed out Thunder Maker, “I have no warriors left. Even were we to carry out your plans, we don’t have the men to do it. Too many Hesquiat warriors were killed by the Ahousats. Too many Hesquiat heads sit on pikes in Ahousat village.”

  “We may have few men, but those we do have are strong and eager to fight the Ahousats,” answered Feast Giver. “Nuwiksu, listen. I have a plan, but to carry it out, our men must be well-armed.” His father was watching him speculatively. “Nuwiksu, I want new weapons from the white traders,” said Feast Giver evenly. “I want the weapons the traders call ‘mus-kets.’”

  He waited to see his father’s reaction. “I’m listening, my son.”

  “These mus-kets can kill a man with one shot. A hard ball is rammed down the throat of the weapon—it looks like a heavy stick—then the stick is pointed at whoever you want to kill. I’ve heard talk to these weapons and I want them.”

  Thunder Maker nodded slowly. “I’ve heard such talk myself,” he revealed. Then he added musingly, “We have enough furs to trade for a few such weapons.” He eyed his son thoughtfully. “But I want you to promise me one thing. I’ll give my consent to your revenge raid only on one condition.”

  Thunder Maker waited; it was Feast Giver’s turn to watch warily.

  “I want your consent, Nuwiksu,” answered the young man at last. “You know I don’t want a break between us.”

  “Good,” grunted his father. “The condition is this: before you lead a revenge raid, you must rescue your sister.” He held up his good arm to prevent the outburst even now forming on Feast Giver’s lips. “I’m afraid for her life if you raid the Ahousats while she’s still there. They’ll kill her—if she’s not already dead.”

  Feast Giver felt torn. He loved his sister and wanted her safe, but he felt deeply the obligation to uphold the family honor. And already, too much time had passed…When at last he spoke, his voice was as heavy as his heart, “Nuwiksu, I’ll do as you say. I’ll lead a rescue party for Sarita. But once she’s safely returned,” he emphasized forcefully, “I will lead my raid for vengeance.” He smiled, his lips cruel. “And now, about those mus-kets—“

  Chapter Fifteen

  The several days that Fighting Wolf and Sarita spent at the beach seemed to fly by. Gathering berries and roots, fishing, swimming, laughing, and playing occupied their days. Moonlit swims and making sweet love occupied their nights. It was a time together like no other; here there was no master, no slave, just two people who laughed and loved together. She felt content with Fighting Wolf and pushed all thoughts that he was her enemy from her mind.

  For him, it was an idyllic time. He gloried in the sensuousness of it all: the warm sunny weather, the cool water, the beautiful scenery. But most of all, the lovely woman at his side. When they made love, it was as if they had been fashioned only for each other. Never had a woman felt so perfect for him. During the days, too, he found her to be an enchanting, intelligent companion, interested in many things. He was becoming deeply enamored of her. He determined that when he was back in his village, he would keep her for himself. She is mine.

  Sarita relaxed and blossomed during this carefree time. Here with Fighting Wolf, she felt strangely free. Here he was an entertaining, amusing friend, not the intimidating warrior she had known in the village. She felt free to
be herself, to laugh, to make silly jokes, to feel happy and to make love. It was truly as if only the two of them existed in the world.

  Then one morning Fighting Wolf woke her with a kiss and the simple statement, “It’s time to go back.”

  She had known that this bliss could not last forever; nevertheless she was sorry that the end had come so soon. She nodded and returned his kiss slowly, wondering how things would be for them, for her, once they were back at his village. She rolled away from him and rose quickly, gracefully, her long, lithe body shivering. She pulled her kutsack, mended now, over her head and, with a trembling smile, reached out a hand to pull him up.

  Together they ate a simple breakfast of fish, berries and roots gathered the day before. Their few possessions were packed away, including a new, carved digging stick Fighting Wolf had made for her. Then he loaded everything into the waiting canoe.

  Reluctantly, she turned and her eyes swept the panorama of beach. Wisps of mist rolled over the beach, the tops of the trees were gray in the morning light, the dark shadow of sand stretched off into the distance—she wanted to memorize it all. She had been truly happy here, and she did not know when she would feel as carefree and happy again.

  Fighting Wolf pushed the small canoe into the surf and they were on their way. The morning mist was all around them now, muffling the sound of their paddling, touching their skin with long wet fingers, leaving kisses of dew in their dark hair.

  They paddled for a long while until she finally broke the silence. “What will happen to me once we’re back in your village?” she asked bluntly. The question had been preying on her mind all morning. She wanted to know. She had to know.

  He continued paddling as he pondered what to tell her. At last he stated arrogantly, “You’re mine. I’ll let no one take you. You’ll continue to stay in my living quarters.”

  A feeling of hopelessness spread over her at his words. Nothing had changed. All these feelings she had discovered, her body’s responses to his touch, her happiness at being with him, were all as naught to him. He merely thought of her as a possession, someone to be owned. Her back to him, she concentrated on paddling, ignoring the tears that slid down her cheeks and mingled with the wet kisses left there by the mist.