Precious Copper softly touched her friend’s shaking hands. “If only I could help you somehow,” she said earnestly.
Sarita smiled sadly. “You’ve already helped me immensely, by being my friend and by listening to my troubles.” She blinked back tears. “We still have several more cedar mats to weave. They have to be ready for tomorrow night,” her voice quavered, “my wedding celebration.”
“Yes, of course,” responded Precious Copper briskly. The two women finished their weaving in silence, while in the background the two burly guards hovered restlessly.
* * * *
For the first few days of his liberty Rottenwood did nothing remotely resembling work. When his slave friends questioned his laziness, he waved them away with a slow smile. “All my life I’ve worked for someone else,” he explained. “Now I’m resting. Soon I’ll work again. But this time it will be for me!”
The other slaves merely laughed or shook their heads enviously, but Rottenwood didn’t care what they thought. He was the one that was free. He was finding, though, that freedom held a few surprises.
The first day or two he’s spent getting used to the idea that no one owned him any longer. He luxuriated in his new independence and spent the time roaming around the village, looking at houses, places and people with new eyes.
After that, he began to think about what he wanted out of his new life. He’d told Sarita in the first moments of freedom that he’d continue to work for her father and now decided he could live with that commitment. Thunder Maker was by far the best chief in the village, as well as the highest-ranking. Rottenwood had been pleased when Thunder Maker gravely welcomed him into the longhouse as a commoner. He knew the crafty chief wanted to keep hard workers in his longhouse, workers who would contribute to his growing wealth, but still Rottenwood was pleased that the chief had taken notice of him.
Lately, however, his thoughts were consumed with Spring Fern. During slavery, his overwhelming desire had been to be free. Now that he’d attained his liberty, other wants crowded in, but his desire for Spring Fern eclipsed them all. He didn’t know what to do about her. When they’d both been slaves, marriage between them had been a possibility—with Thunder Maker’s approval, of course. Now, there was no hope. Commoners did not marry slaves.
While he wrestled with the problem, he threw himself into hard work. The days of slavery had never felt so good, he thought wryly, as he went to bed each night weary from his labors at fishing or repairing canoes.
Early one morning he decided to paddle out and catch fish for Thunder Maker’s house.
As he walked down the beach to where a small, one-man dugout lay on the gravel, he reveled in the fact that no one called out to him with curt orders that he do some task for them. No one demanded to know where he was going. No one called him to account for taking the canoe. He was free.
A few of the commoners nodded casually to him. Pleased at this sign of acceptance, he nodded back. When he was first freed, he had faced sneers and insults, but not for long. He had defended himself vigorously, both verbally and physically, and now found himself respected by a growing number of his new class.
Late that night, he returned tired and sore, but the five cod and four halibut he carried up to the longhouse made up for his weary body. Abalone Woman took the fish from him and thanked him politely for his efforts. Rottenwood glowed inside. He gloated to himself over the better treatment he received.
After a hasty meal and a bath to get rid of the fish smell, he decided to seek out Spring Fern. She’d had several days to accept the idea of his freedom, and he wondered what she thought of him now.
He walked through Thunder Maker’s longhouse to the chief’s quarters where Spring Fern usually spent her evenings. Stationing himself in the shadows near the door, he waited for a chance to speak with her. He gazed hungrily at her as she hovered close to Sarita where the two were rehearsing a theatrical display with several other women.
All evening long, Spring Fern stayed close to her mistress as they practiced the songs and dance steps over and over. Growing impatient, Rottenwood stepped out of the shadows, hoping to catch Spring Fern’s eye and signal her to meet him outside. He thought she saw him once, but she looked away so quickly, he couldn’t be sure. As the evening wore on, and she continued to avoid his gaze, he realized she was indeed aware of him.
Growing annoyed with her behavior, Rottenwood strode out the door into the night. A heavy rain beat a constant tattoo against the side of the longhouse. He decided not to stroll around as he’d get nothing but a soaking for his efforts. Ducking under the overhang of the roof, he leaned against the corner of the longhouse and looked out into the darkness in the direction of the inlet. He idly wondered how he was going to talk with Spring Fern when it was obvious she was avoiding him.
His speculations were cut short when she exited from the longhouse and slipped quickly into the nearby bushes. Moments later, as she ran back to the longhouse, he called out her name.
Seeing her pause, he asked softly, “Are you avoiding me, Spring Fern?”
His large hand clamped around her waist and Spring Fern felt herself being pulled firmly away from the door.
Rottenwood looked at her hungrily. “Why are you avoiding me? Don’t you know how I want you?”
She looked at him, fear in her dark doe eyes. He saw it and didn’t like it. “What are you afraid of?”
“You.”
“Me? What have I done?”
She shrugged and moved away from him. He noticed the slight movement and reached out for her arm. She tried to shrug out of his tight grip. “You’re hurting me—“
He let her go. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.” He watched her rub the spot on her upper arm where he’d grasped her. She saw him watching her and stopped. She quivered slightly as he reached out and touched a dark tendril of her hair. “Remember when I asked you to be my wife?” he asked, his voice like a caress.
She nodded, her eyes turning to find his in the darkness. “Yes,” she answered softly. “I remember.” Then pausing to gather her courage she asked, “But since you’re now free, I release you from your promise.”
Spring Fern vowed she would never let him know how much it hurt her to say those words. “Now…now that you’re a commoner, I know you won’t want a slave for a wife.” She’d added the words hastily, but they lingered between them, cold and hard and honest, then faded away like the ripples on a pond after a rock is cast.
His hand paused in mid-air; his eyes narrowed. “I don’t want anyone else for a wife.”
“But what can we do?” she cried. “You can’t marry me—“
“True,” he cut in in a brutal voice, “but I can make you my mistress.”
She gasped, “You wouldn’t!”
He growled back, “I would.”
She looked into his eyes searchingly. “You would,” she agreed dully.
He ran a brown forefinger slowly down her forearm. She shivered. “Don’t you like the idea?” he asked.
She looked at him incredulously. “It’s quite a fall from being asked to be your wife, to being told I’ll be your mistress,” she said bitterly.
“Yes, I guess it is,” he acknowledged. His admission surprised her. There had been a hint of compassion in his voice.
“You don’t like the idea any better than I do, do you?” she asked perceptively.
“No, I don’t. But it’s the only way we can be together.”
“There’s one other way—“
He looked at her. “What is that? I’ve gone over and over it in my mind. If there was any possibility of marriage—“ His voice told her the hopelessness he felt.
“Let me ask Sarita,” she said eagerly. “I’ll ask her to help us.”
“Sarita!” he snorted with contempt.
Spring Fern was astonished. “Why do you say her name that way? She freed you!”
“Yes,” he agreed disparagingly. “She freed me. And took her time doing so, too. Before we
left Ahousat, we made the agreement. But once she was back home she didn’t need me anymore. She conveniently forgot out pact.” He shrugged. “What can you expect? No one keeps their word to a slave.”
“That’s not true,” flashed Spring Fern. “She kept her word. It was her father who wanted to keep you as a slave. I heard Sarita and Thunder Maker wrangling over you many times.”
Rottenwood looked at her. “Let’s not argue about what she did or didn’t do. I want to talk about us.”
“So do I,” shot back Spring Fern. “I just know that Sarita will help us get married if I ask her.”
“Hmmph, why should she?” He paused, then asked, “And how can she go against a whole society? Everyone knows that commoners can’t marry slaves. What can she do about it? She has enough problems of her own.” Contempt laced his voice.
“Please,” coaxed Spring Fern softly. “Let me speak with her. At least let me try.”
He stared down at her for a moment. Spring Fern was so beautiful and he wanted her so much. “All right,” he conceded gruffly. “But you’d better come up with something soon. I hear she’s going to marry some Kyuquot chief. After that, she’ll be whisked away to Kyuquot.” He added warningly, “I won’t wait long. Only for one moon.”
Spring Fern protested, “That doesn’t give me much time.”
Rottenwood smiled lazily. “Time enough. If she can’t help us, we’ll go back to my plan.” He wrapped her in his arms. “I think you’d make a lovely mistress,” he whispered.
She pushed at his chest gently. “Oh, I would,” she murmured. “But I’d make an even better wife!”
With that she slipped out of his arms and ran back into the longhouse, leaving him chuckling in the rain.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Ahousat warriors had started out late in the evening. Fighting Wolf noted the ominous cloud cover. He hoped the approaching storm would hold off for one more day, long enough for him and his men to get close to Hesquiat territory. They needed shelter until the storm passed. But a search of the inhospitable coastline proved fruitless. No sheltered cove or bay beckoned the weary men. Disheartened, they had to keep paddling north.
The storm lashed them with its mighty force the following morning, just as dawn was breaking.
Barely in sight of the coastline, the pelting rain obscured the men’s vision and pounded against their naked bodies. Crashing waves threatened to overturn the bobbing canoes and dump the frantically paddling men into the depths of the rolling, gray sea.
It was the whipping wind, however, that really damaged the close formation of the canoes. Carelessly tossing them about as if they were toy boats, the wind blew them farther and farther off course, and farther and farther apart.
Fighting Wolf watched in aguish as the canoe closest to him was lost behind a wall of rain. It would take days to gather his men together again, that is, if they survived the storm.
The roaring wind assaulted the men’s ears as ferociously as the rain pelted their bodies. Fighting Wolf cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled to Otterskin, “There’s a sheltered cove not far from here. We’re heading for it.”
Otterskin’s shouted response blew away on the wind.
Slowly, the twelve aimed the canoe in the direction Fighting Wolf pointed. They paddled with all their strength. It was as if they stood still. Every time the canoe bounced up on the crest of a gigantic wave, half the paddles were out of the water. Then the craft was plunged down into a wave’s trough, the nose of the boat thrust into an oncoming wave. Time and again the frail craft plodded onwards, only to be swept back, as though by a giant hand.
Fighting Wolf was thoroughly alarmed, but he tried not to let his men see his fear. Never, in his many years battling the sea, had he been caught in such a storm. He glanced quickly over his shoulder at the men. Fear was on every face. Several of them gazed, agonized, at him. He knew they were depending on him for the strength to fight the raging elements. Others were mumbling. Praying, no doubt.
Almost unconsciously, Fighting Wolf, too, found himself praying to Qua-utz. Interspersed with prayer were thoughts of Sarita, and the child she carried. Uppermost in his mind was the fear he would never see her again, never hold the woman he loved in his arms.
Because he could no longer lie to himself. He loved her. Facing death, he was honest with himself, with Qua-utz. Tossed about like a leaf, he faced only the important moments of his existence. He had risked his life, and the lives of his men, in the pursuit of the only woman he had ever loved.
He raised his arms to the raging wind, the churning sky, the pounding rain, to Qua-utz. He chanted into the wind, his words lost to those around him. “God over all, spare my men. They did but follow where I led. It is true I pursue the woman, Sarita, to bring her back to my village. You have now shown me the foolishness of my decision. Spare my men, spare me, and I will cease my foolish quest. When you sent her into my life, you gave me a gift, a precious gift. One that I was too blind to see. You have shown me the folly of my actions. Spare my men from the results of my wrong actions. Should you also spare me, I will no longer seek to enslave her, but will cherish her as long as you allow me to walk the earth, and to paddle the seas.”
Fighting Wolf squatted down in the tossing canoe, his only answer the howling of the storm. To trample on what he had had, to deny the powerful love he felt for Sarita, to make her a slave again, was terribly wrong. He realized that now. The whole world, the rain, the storm, the sea, was telling him that.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden lurching of the canoe. Thrown to one side, Fighting Wolf fell heavily against the gunwale. A wave lashed the boat sharply from the other side.
In the space of a heartbeat, Fighting Wolf felt himself hurtling through the rain into the cold, seething water. As the treacherous liquid closed over his head, he fought desperately to reach the surface. Gasping for air, another large wave swamped him. He inhaled water, and sunk under the waves. He opened his eyes in the dark water but could see nothing.
Suddenly he felt the lash of a whip-like tail sweep past his leg. A sea snake? A serpent? It slithered by him again. Aah, a cedar rope.
Bobbing once more to the surface, he lunged for the thin lifeline that sank under the waves. He almost reached it, but another wave sucked at him, pulling him further under.
With superhuman effort, he kicked back at the towering waves, his whole being concentrating on the one small, skinny rope that led to the canoe. Seizing it, he wrapped it around his fist. When next his head cleared the water, he yelled. The yell came out as a gasp and he knew whoever tossed him the rope couldn’t hear him above the roar of the storm.
He felt the line go taut, and slowly, slowly, he was pulled through the waves. Kicking again and again with all his might, he fought his way to the side of the plunging craft. Eager hands reached over the side and pulled him in, his body a dead weight, so exhausted was he from fighting the sea. He slumped to the floor of the lurching canoe, oblivious to its wrenching motion.
The quiet motion of the canoe awoke him. The storm had spent itself. Haggard, Fighting Wolf raised his eyes to the darkened sky and realized anew that his life had been spared. He lived, and would see those he loved once again.
Sarita’s face flashed before his mind’s eye. Struggling to sit up, he surveyed the exhausted paddlers in his canoe. Weary they were, but all twelve were there.
His next thoughts were for the rest of his men. How many had survived the storm’s rage?
He got slowly, wearily, to his feet. Standing at the bow of the battered canoe, legs planted apart, he raised his arms again to Qua-utz and chanted a prayer of thanks.
“Many times I thank you, God over all, for sparing the precious lives of these twelve brave men from the fury of the storm. Many thanks also for sparing my life. I pledged my word to You that I would cease my quest to enslave the woman, Sarita, and I will hold to my word. Thanks upon thanks for your mercy in the face of the storm.”
He sat down
again, his body aching and cold. He looked at his men. Bleary eyes stared back at him. Then, tired grins broke through the weary faces and Fighting Wolf knew they had rallied. “Who tossed me the rope?” he asked.
“Comes-from-Salish,” came the answer.
Fighting Wolf looked over at the ex-slave. “If it were possible to set you free again, my friend, I would do it. My thanks for saving my life. I thought I’d never look upon a human face again.”
Comes-from-Salish shrugged, embarrassed at the words of his chief.
Fighting Wolf saw the other’s self-consciousness. He laid a hand on the broad shoulder, and lowered his voice. “Nevertheless, I mean it. I thank you for tossing me that rope. If there’s anything I can do to help you, any favor I can give you, you need but ask.”
Comes-from-Salish looked at the floor of the canoe and mumbled, “There is nothing, my lord,”
“Come,” encouraged the war chief. “I want to repay you for what you did. Let me at least do that—“
Realizing that Fighting Wolf seriously did not wish to be beholden to him, the ex-slave said slowly, “There is one thing. My daughter, my youngest girl, will be coming of age soon—“
Fighting Wolf seized upon his words with alacrity. “Then allow me to make gifts in her name. I’d consider it a great honor to share in sponsoring her puberty potlatch.”
Comes-from-Salish grinned tiredly. “It is I who am honored. I can’t believe my good fortune. I was only a lowly slave. Now my children live in freedom and I’m about to give my daughter a ceremony—“ Overcome, he choked on his words.
Fighting Wolf clapped him on the back once more. “You deserve such honors. Your bravery won them for you, my friend.”
Fighting Wolf turned at last to his men. “Let’s head for that point and light a fire. The others should see our beacon and come to us. If they survived the storm,” he added grimly.
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