Savage Betrayal
Page 30
Sarita watched as Feast Giver’s gaze strayed over to where the Kyuquot delegation sat. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “It won’t be long now. Those Ahousats are going to be dead men.”
Sarita involuntarily shivered at the thought of war between her family and the man she loved. Neither man noticed. Feast Giver continued, “Where did you get all the blankets and sea otter furs for this potlatch display?” He looked meaningfully at his father. “I thought we were poor. After that Ahousat raid—“
“I may not have many people left,” interrupted his father wryly, “but I do have contacts in other villages. There were a few people who owed me favors. Don’t concern yourself with where these goods came from.” With a gesture, he dismissed the subject.
“Is it enough to satisfy the Kyuquots?” asked Feast Giver. “If we can’t prove that we still control some wealth, they won’t back us against the Ahousats. I don’t trust Throws Away Wealth. I think he’s only our ally for as long as he gets something out of it.”
His father nodded. “He asked me about the mus-kets. Looks like he wants some for his own men.”
Sarita froze at Feast Giver’s next comment. “I’ll make sure the Kyuquots fire the mus-kets at the Ahousats, not at us,” he stated grimly.
He was determined to succeed in his vengeance, Sarita realized. The thought distressed her despite the grievances she held against the Ahousats. True, she had been their slave. They had stolen and killed her people. It was only right that her brother avenge such deeds. But somehow, the image of Fighting Wolf, vanquished and bleeding, lying dead, filled her with a great, numbing sorrow. No! He was too vibrant, too dynamic, too alive. On impulse, she blurted out, “Is it so important that you go off and kill Ahousats?”
Her brother looked at her strangely. She felt her father’s questioning glance, too. Abalone Woman was watching, a frown on her face.
“After all,” Sarita protested, “there have been enough lives lost. There’s been enough sorrow.”
“Hesquiat lives and Hesquiat sorrow,” stated Abalone Woman sharply.
Her brother interrupted harshly, “Do you fear for Fighting Wolf?” His question caught Sarita off guard. Was she so easily read?
Her father scowled. “Your brother must avenge our people. You can’t ask him to give up his plans.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Surely you know. We’d be the victims of every tribe on the coast. We’d be raided constantly if word got around that we didn’t revenge ourselves!”
Sarita said quietly, “But if you kill—“ she stopped. Images of Fighting Wolf, dying, flashed through her brain—Fighting Wolf, father of her child. Her hands clutched her stomach protectively. Abalone Woman saw the gesture and opened her mouth to speak. But Thunder Maker hadn’t finished.
“You can’t seriously expect that we’ll just forget what the Ahousats did to us. You, of all people, should understand.” He paused, watching her. “Have you no loyalty to your own people?”
“Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know!” Sarita’s anguish was very evident to the other three.
“What?” roared her father. “What are you saying? Have you no loyalty to us, your own flesh and blood? Your own family?”
She could see he was working himself up into a rage. Abalone Woman laid a calming hand on his arm.
Feast Giver was watching Sarita intently. “What’s the matter, sister?” he asked suspiciously.
There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Sarita answered in a dull voice, “I’m pregnant with Fighting Wolf’s child.”
“You what?” roared her father.
“What?” echoed her brother in disbelief.
Aghast, both stood and stared at Sarita. Abalone Woman was shaking her head, a reproachful look on her face.
Sarita nodded miserably. “I didn’t want to tell you this way, Nuwiksu,” she pleaded.
She looked briefly into Thunder Maker’s eyes, then glanced nervously about. Everyone else was enjoying the festivities. No one seemed to notice the drama taking place in her corner of the beach. Was it just her imagination that the day had darkened? There was an awkward silence pulsating among the four. Sarita looked at the ground, unable to bear the censure she read in their eyes. “I was going to wait until after the potlatch—”
“What difference would that make?” her father asked bitterly. “People would still laugh at me.”
A quick glance at Abalone Woman showed her patting Thunder Maker’s arm; obviously she was trying to keep him calm.
Sarita slowly raised her head. “What about me, Nuwiksu?” she asked in a suddenly stronger voice. “Or do you care only about yourself? What about my child? I don’t want to be laughed at. I don’t want my child laughed at, either.”
Thunder Maker glared at her. “Your child will be a bastard. Illegitimate children have no place among the nobles in our tribe. And they certainly have no place in my family.” His words came out cold and clipped and condemning.
He raised his arms wide, gesturing at the people crowded onto the beach. “Look around you,” he continued in that same deadly voice. “Why do you think I’ve invited all these people to a potlatch? An expensive potlatch, I might add.”
Sarita looked helplessly at Abalone Woman, who shook her head, warning silence.
“I invited them so we could restore our name.” The words shot out of him, stark and terrible. “And now you have, once again, succeeded in dragging our name through the dirt!”
“Nuwiksu,” pleaded Sarita. “It’s not as if I wanted this to happen. It was beyond my control. I didn’t plan to get stolen, to get pregnant! I never wanted to embarrass you.”
Her father gave no sign that he heard her.
“Surely you must see, husband,” Abalone Woman began softly. “She’s not done this to spite you—“
“Silence, woman!” roared her father. People nearby looked up at the discordant sound. Thunder Maker lowered his voice. “Don’t defend her. She’s brought me enough grief. Well, no more!” His words sounded ominous to Sarita’s ears. Thunder Maker looked at Abalone Woman. “You will prepare your herbs; you know which ones I’m talking about. Give them to Sarita.”
Abalone Woman looked at him, not understanding.
“Get rid of the bastard!” he hissed.
Shock filled the women’s eyes as they realized what he was saying.
“Nuwiksu! No!” Sarita could not believe it was her father saying this thing. He wanted her to kill her baby! He was condemning her child to death.
Abalone Woman looked sick. Feast Giver silently stalked away, anger apparent in every step. Sarita turned back to her father.
In a hard voice he answered her. “Abalone Woman will give you something to get rid of the bastard. Take it!” With these words, he marched away, leaving Sarita standing there, stunned.
Abalone Woman hesitated. “He’s angry now,” she whispered. ”Later, when he’s come to his senses, he’ll surely see reason. He’ll change his mind, I’m sure.”
But Sarita could hear the doubt in her voice. With tear-filled golden eyes, Sarita accepted the warm hand that Abalone Woman placed on her arm.
She tried to speak, but for a moment, the words could not get past the lump in her throat. At last, regaining control of herself, she asked the older woman, “Would you actually—“ she halted, unable to say the words. She tried again. “Would you actually do what he asks? Kill my little one?”
Abalone Woman looked down at the sand she was spreading in circles with her big toe. “He told me to prepare the herbs; I have no choice.” She looked into Sarita’s eyes. “I must do as he says. Please understand.”
Sarita stumbled away, shaking her head. She could not think logically. Even Abalone Woman was against her. Knowing if she stayed on the beach any longer she would burst into tears, she fled towards the longhouse.
Once inside, she threw herself onto her bed of furs and wept with great shaking sobs. The baby, now that his little life was threatened, became the most
important thing in her world. He was completely dependent on her, his mother. He was a part of her, a part of her love for Fighting Wolf. She hesitated. She understood now; she loved Fighting Wolf. For a long while she’d thought she could forget him, but now she knew she could not, could never forget him.
She shook her head. He did not love her. He gave no thought to her, and knew nothing of their child. And now this child, the only part of Fighting Wolf that she had left, was to be ruthlessly destroyed—by people who claimed they loved her.
A long time passed before she was able to sit up and dry her eyes. Her face was swollen from crying, her hair matted and wet against her cheeks. She shuddered with each breath, spent from crying.
But inside her heart a hard resolve was forming. She had survived captivity by the Ahousats. She had fled from the man she loved rather than see her children born into slavery. She had endured too much to meekly accept her father’s will in this matter. No longer was she a girl who would marry as her father dictated, who would unquestioningly accept society’s condemnation. No. She was a woman who had survived. And her child would survive.
She clenched her teeth, feeling her misery slowly dissipating. Her golden eyes narrowed. A new calm settled over her. Her child would live. Nothing, and no one, would destroy this child—not while there was still life in her body.
* * * *
By evening, with Spring Fern’s help, Sarita had put her tears behind her, and prepared for more potlatch festivities. Bathed and dressed in fresh clothing, she felt much better.
Spring Fern finished combing Sarita’s glossy hair. Standing back, Spring Fern tilted her head to one side and pronounced, “That kutsack looks very attractive on you. It’s almost the color of bleached clamshells. I like the soft sea otter border at the neck and hem, too. The fur is such a rich black. Here, let me polish those earrings one more time—“ She worked in silence, rubbing the turquoise abalone-shell discs. “There,” she said with evident satisfaction, “you look beautiful.”
Sarita smiled and the two women glided off to the section of the longhouse where the guests impatiently awaited the evening’s proceedings. Thunder Maker had insisted that this part of the celebration take place in the longhouse. He had no desire to watch a heavy rain destroy his theatrical efforts.
As she and Spring Fern walked into the area marked off for the festivities, Sarita noticed the blazing fire in the center. Light from tall torches threw giant shadows onto the walls. A wooden stage had been built off to one side.
The large gathering pleased Sarita for her father’s sake. Thunder Maker had put a lot of effort into this potlatch.
She walked quietly to a place near her family. Crab Woman and Abalone Woman sat on cedar mats looking proudly out across the throng of guests. She kneeled behind them, leaning back gracefully on her heels. The women chatted and gossiped while waiting for the opening ceremonies.
Sarita noted the Kyuquot chief, Throws Away Wealth, glancing surreptitiously at her several times.
She shifted uneasily and then forgot about him as a favorite welcoming song, long in her family, began to drift over the crowd.
After several minutes of the familiar chant, the Speaker entered. He strode to the stage and launched into his narrative. A great part of his speech dwelt on Thunder Maker’s famous and noble predecessors. After droning on about the Hesquiat chief’s wealth, his clamming beds, fishing streams, canoes and fishing banks at sea, the Speaker pointed out how strong the village was. After a lengthy summary on the recent fortifications built to defend the village, he launched into another topic. To Sarita’s amusement, the Speaker assured the listeners of the extreme cleanliness of town and beach. He defied them to find garbage anywhere.
Clearly he thought cleanliness made up for strategic deficiencies, thought Sarita wryly. Lastly, the speaker traced the genealogy of Thunder Maker’s family and tied it to every important guest that was present.
She marveled at such a feat; the man had to go back several generations in some cases, and refer to mythological ancestors in others, but she realized that much of what he said was for dramatic effects. He was under strict instructions to solidify the tie between host and guests, and to ease the path for future political alliances. Reluctantly the Speaker ceased his oration and vacated the floor.
Thunder Maker himself appeared next. To a chanting chorus, the rhythm beaten on a hollow, overturned canoe, he began a song Sarita had not heard before. After singing, he bowed in her direction and announced he had learned the song from his grandmother, and that she, Sarita, was the new owner of the song.
All eyes turned to her. She flushed, but nodded her acceptance graciously. This procedure continued for several songs and dances. Thunder Maker then persuaded a few of his high-ranking relatives to sing some of their songs. He thanked the singers and gave them gifts of rain hats, cedar robes, or basketry. Finally, noticing the audience’s restiveness, Thunder Maker made a dramatic presentation of the slave, Rottenwood, to his beloved daughter.
Sarita heard Spring Fern’s gasp and watched out of the corner of her eye as the young woman sought to conceal her reaction. She patted Spring Fern’s hand protectively, but felt the slave girl withdraw slightly.
After Sarita’s polite assent to her most recent acquisition, Thunder Maker signaled to several nearby young men. Leaping to their feet, they began to drag forth large cedar boxes. A low murmur of appreciation swept the crowd as the largess of the boxes was held up for all to see. Hundreds of cedar mats, carefully woven by skilled weavers, were piled in the middle of the stage. Next, approximately fifty, very expensive, red and blue trade blankets were carefully laid out on top of the cedar mats. Gasps could be heard here and there in the crowd at the expense involved. Next were brought out the yellow cedar robes so loved by the nobility. Several of the senior guests eyed the robes avidly.
At Thunder Maker’s gesture, the young helpers began handing out magnificent gifts to the visiting chieftains. Sarita watched the pile of blankets in front of the Kyuquot chief grow higher and higher. She laughed at her father’s clever planning. The Kyuquot looked embarrassed as he realized that Thunder Maker did indeed have enough wealth to satisfy the large, unruly Kyuquot delegation.
Not content with this triumph, Thunder Maker brought out kelp bulbs filled with whale oil. An expensive oil, it was always in high demand by his people. Thunder Maker strode around the area, personally handing out the kelp vessels to eagerly reaching hands. Lastly, he brought out fifty seal hair blankets and potlatched those to his guests. Satisfied murmurs could be heard around the room as the visitors gathered up their new wealth. Several visiting chieftains stood up and took turns thanking Thunder Maker for his largess.
The last one to speak was Throws Away Wealth, and Sarita was secretly amused as he made his speech. The Kyuquot chief shifted uncomfortably as he faced Thunder Maker. A smug look crossed the host’s face as he listened to the flattering words of his shamed guest.
“We are here today sharing your food, O Chief,” began the disgruntled Kyuquot. “It is now evident to us all that you are truly a great chief. You have much wealth and you use it wisely to procure a strong name for your beautiful daughter. I know you did not obtain all these goods without effort. It is obvious that you are very industrious and have many friends and relatives you can call upon to help you. Include your Kyuquot friends in their number. We are proud to be considered your allies and to share with you the songs and dances newly given to your daughter. This potlatch strengthens the bonds between our peoples. Thank you for the lavish gifts. We are truly impressed. Thank you, thank you.”
The Kyuquot sat down, wiping his sweating brow. Sarita chuckled to herself as she guessed what his polite acceptance speech had cost the proud man.
While the guests happily carted away their wealth, she rose to her feet and slowly followed the other women back to their quarters. Her status restored, she now had plans to make—plans for herself and her child.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Hesquiat villagers bustled about preparing for the annual move to the winter village site. Sarita squatted on the beach, packing a large freight canoe with household goods. Her days were busy with preparations for the upcoming journey.
Precious Copper arrived on one of her numerous trips from the longhouse, her arms laden with baskets and bundles of dried foods. She passed a basket stuffed with dried herbs to Sarita.
Sarita smiled her thanks, then found a corner of the canoe to stow the bulging basket. She and Precious Copper worked together companionably, disposing of the rest of the bundles. When they were finished, there was little room left for anything else.
“Let’s rest awhile,” suggested Sarita. “We’ve been at this all morning.”
Precious Copper nodded and straightened weary limbs. “I brought smoked fish from the house, if you’re hungry. There are a few roasted cinquefoil roots, too, left over from the potlatch. The food’s in that basket.” She pointed.
Sarita nodded. “Let’s eat. Afterwards, we can go for a walk .”
The two young women sat down to eat the delicious fish and vegetable meal. “Do you like staying with us?” Sarita asked conversationally. “I know your status with us is rather vague, but have my people treated you well? Have you any complaints?”
Precious Copper waited a long moment before replying. “I’ve no complaints about the way I’ve been treated,” she said at last.
Sarita detected the note of caution in Precious Copper’s voice. She got to her feet. “Come,” she said, gesturing further up the beach. “Let’s take that walk now.”