by Gen Bailey
Taking her into his arms, he was more than aware that she felt light in his grasp. Quickly, he stepped down off the rock. Not knowing exactly how she had come to be here, he kept his attention attuned to the environment, listening for a sign of other life . . . anything to indicate the presence of another in the surroundings. She was a beautiful woman; surely whomever she belonged to would miss her.
But again, he could sense nothing unusual. Not a thing that would give him a clue as to what had happened.
Enough. She required care.
Quickly he rushed toward the security of the woods. If someone were here watching, the trees and bushes offered sanctuary. At least they would hide the direction of his path. But where would he take her? He hadn’t yet constructed his own shelter for the night, and it was already late in the day.
Perhaps . . . if his memory served him correctly, there was a cave nearby that might lend itself well for their purposes, provided of course that a bear or other animal hadn’t already laid claim to it. It was a quiet place, if he remembered rightly, away from the all-seeing eyes of the forest. Plus, it was little known by his own and other tribes. Long ago, his grandfather had shown it to him, indicating that it might serve well if ever he were in trouble.
As White Thunder hurried toward that spot, he gazed down into the pleasing features of the woman, realizing that his curiosity about her hadn’t abated. However, there would be time enough to discover who she was once they were safely sheltered. For now he had best hurry to see if the cave were occupied or vacant.
Balancing her weight and his musket into more secure positions, he darted through the forest, disappearing into it.
“Wah-ha, young beauty,
sleep well into the night.
The Creator shall take pity
so fear thee not.
Wah-ha, young beauty,
sleep well into the night.
The Creator shall take pity
so fear thee not.”
White Thunder’s deep voice echoed off the walls of the cave, giving the song an eerie quality, as though it might have been a ghost, instead of a man, repeating the lyrics. Carefully, White Thunder sprinkled water over the woman’s forehead, enough to keep her fever low but not so much as to kill it altogether.
White Thunder could almost hear his grandmother speaking to him, as if she were standing at his shoulder now, telling him what to do. What was it she had once said to him? That a fever is not always a thing to fear; if kept to a minimum, a fever had the power to drive away the evil spirits from within the body.
White Thunder laid his hands on the woman’s forehead, then he moved his touch down slowly to her cheeks, on down to her neck, then one hand down each arm. He repeated the action, once, again, over and over, gently singing the song he had composed.
“Marisa!” The cry of the woman’s voice was choked, barely a sob.
He placed a finger over her lips.
But she squirmed beneath his touch, and rocked her head back and forth. “Marisa! Beware!”
He understood her words well. Having lived among the white people for three years, White Thunder had grown used to the strange language and ways of the missionaries who had come to bring their beliefs and their God to the Seneca.
He didn’t regret the time he’d spent with them, for they had taught him much about a people who seemed to be swarming the countryside. But not all the English and the French were as honest and intent as those missionaries had been. Indeed, strange were these English and French who were invading the territory of the Seneca, and as they came, they brought their conflicts and wars with each other into Seneca country.
“Always they want something,” his grandmother Evening Song had said to the council of sachems. White Thunder had been present, listening. “Always they ask for Seneca boys and men to fight their wars. ‘Come and die for us,’ they say. ‘Come and die for us and we will ensure you keep the land you have always owned.’ Beware, I say. He who gives a man what is already his is not to be trusted.”
Silence had followed her speech.
At last a chief of the third party of the sachems rose up to speak. He said, “Your words are wise, Grandmother. Have you said all that you wish to say?”
Evening Song had nodded.
“Oyendere, good. But I will say this. Do you forget that a council was held on this matter and that the outcome has already been decided? We of the Seneca Nation objected to siding with the English in this fight, but as is the law of the Confederate Council, the matter was referred to the Firekeepers, the Onondagas. As you well know, their decision is fi nal.
“Let me repeat in my own words their resolution: Long it is that we have been tied to the English, even before William Johnson, who represents them, came to be a member of our Nation. As you might well know at the time of the Firekeepers’ decision, the Mohawk were already fighting the war alongside William Johnson, and as we have been cautioned by the Peacemaker, if we of the League are to remain strong, we must be united. Besides, when have either the English or the League broken the Covenant Chain, a silver chain that was forged long ago, and which binds us to the English? Never have they broken that chain. Never have we. It ties us to them, and they to us.
“Has not William Johnson shown us how the English will debate and discuss our problems as though they were their own? And if he is our brother, are we to ignore him in his time of need?”
There was silence in the hall as the wise sachems listened and nodded their approval.
Yet Evening Song rose up again to address the council, and she said, “Have you spoken all that you wish to say?”
“I have.”
“Oyendere, very good. Your words are true. William Johnson has done much for the Mohawk. But beware. He is English though he presents himself as Mohawk. And now he attempts to speak for all the people of the Six Nations, and place himself as one of our wisest sachems. But William Johnson is not Seneca. He does not know our sons and daughters, and thus, not knowing, how can he provide for their needs?
“But do not think, because I say this about William Johnson, that the French are any better. Have you not noticed that whenever the French trader Joncaire, comes to our country, that he talks a crooked talk? And the English are no better. With their talk, they each try to incite our people to hatred for one or the other of them. Do you not recall how last summer Joncaire spread stories of fear and hatred of the English? Did he not say that the English desired to kill us and take our lands? That both the French and the English were planning to attack the Six Nations and drive us from the face of this land, Turtle Island? Yet, we found these tales to be lies.
“Save for William Johnson, have not the English done the same? Overstating a half-truth so as to incite our men and women to hatred of the French? And what is it that they want, that they all say? ‘Fight for us,’ ‘Send your best into battle for us.’ I ask this about that: What is wrong with the English and the French that they cannot fi ght their own wars?
“Harken, ye wise sachems. He who would once lie to you about a thing will do so again. As a lion cannot change his ways of stealth, so, too, this sort of man cannot change habits. Have not our wise fathers told us that he who lies even once will always in the end revert to telling false truths? I say to you, by the truth or not of his words, we can know him, and so knowing, can disgrace him for the rest of his life.
“This is how it should be. Are we then to send our sons and husbands to fight the wars of liars? I say ‘no,’ I am against this.”
Strong words. True words. Words that had influenced him, though as a youth he had sought the ways of war.
But long ago White Thunder had determined to ignore the French and English war and all its influence on his people. He had to. Indeed, he would go about his life as he always had. Besides, it was White Thunder’s opinion that it mattered little who won this conflict, since both the English and the French had their eye on the same objective: taking control of the country . . . Indian country.
> Though once a warrior of repute, White Thunder knew he would never again go to war. There was the matter of his oath to consider, his duty and pledge to Wild Mint . . .
White Thunder knelt next to Wild Mint, his wife. Her breathing was strained, coming in short gasps. Tears streamed down White Thunder’s face as he watched her, felt for her, wished it were he, not she, who had been in the village to confront the enemy. He had faced death many times—it was an expected trait of a Seneca warrior—but never had he thought he would bear witness to Wild Mint’s death, even before his own. Picking up her bloodied hand and bringing it to his face, he cried into it.
“Who did this to you?” he asked. White Thunder had been away from the village when the raid had happened. He had been hunting.
“An evil man.” She coughed, the action bringing up blood, which spilled down over her chin. Gently, he wiped it from her face.
She was dying. He knew it. She knew it. Worse, there was nothing to be done. Their baby had been cut from her body, leaving their child, in its eighth month, dead, and his wife dying.
Who would do a thing so wicked?
It was not that he was unaware of torture. Many tribes—his own included—persecuted prisoners who had been caught in war.
But this rarely extended to women, and never to an unborn child. Most tribes prized the gift of a woman prisoner, and particularly one with child. Didn’t they desire the prisoners as replacements for those loved ones lost in war? Didn’t his people usually treat the prisoners well, making them part of the tribe?
“Find him,” Wild Mint managed to say. “Do not spare him.”
“I will fi nd him and I will kill him” said White Thunder. It was a promise. If need be, he would spend his life fulfi lling that oath.
“I cannot rest ’til it is done,” she choked out. “My blood, the blood of our child is on his hands. Find him. Seek revenge, but kill no other in his place. He alone must pay. I will wait . . .” She coughed again, took a deep breath, which rattled deeply in her throat. In an instant, she was gone.
“I will kill him,” said White Thunder. “I will.”
Tears fell down White Thunder’s face as he cried openly, unashamed of the emotion. He loved Wild Mint, had loved her since they were children. In truth, it seemed as though he had loved her all his life and always would. He would fi nd this man who had done this to her and to his unborn child. He would fi nd him and he would exact his revenge.
Yet, this matter, sworn to so easily, had not proved a simple task. Though White Thunder had spent fifteen long years searching for this man, his duty to Wild Mint was still unfulfilled.
It should have been easy. On the day of the raid, the attacking party had been Huron. Under normal circumstances, he would have found the murderer and quickly brought about well-deserved justice.
But it was not to be.
No one fit the description of this man; no Huron seemed to know who this man was, and although the Huron might lie to him about this thing, it had proved to be true. Worse, White Thunder had no other option but to find this exact man; he could not kill another Huron in the murderer’s place, a remedy often sought by the Seneca. By his oath, only this one man would pay for the crimes committed. Wild Mint would not rest until this was a fact.
And so he searched. It had proved to be a lonely business, also. So many villages scrutinized, even those that were not Huron; so many people questioned, so many disappointments. Yet in all this time, with all this investigation, White Thunder was no closer to finding the culprit than he had been at the beginning of his quest, except for one fact: Recently he had discovered that the raiders had been Huron and French.
Was the murderer a Frenchman? To satisfy this new clue, White Thunder had journeyed to the north, seeking out the villages of Quebec and Montreal. It had been a long trip, an intense search. But it had ended in the same way as all the others, with nothing to show for his efforts but the passage of time.
He was only now returning from that quest.
“No, do not leave me! Do not go in there!” The delicate woman with soft ringlets of yellow sat up all at once. Her eyes were wide, yet unseeing. “Mother! Stay with me! Do not leave me!”
White Thunder took the woman in his arms and held her, simply held her. Bending his head toward her, he endeavored to take her pain upon himself. But it was not possible. Her misery came from something he knew not of. Still, he tried.
“Mother! No! Don’t go! Stay with me!”
Her tears fell to his shoulder. And though he knew he shouldn’t feel as he did, he gloried in the warmth of having a woman in his arms. She was soft, she was sweet and her scent was delicately feminine, a heady perfume for an unattached male. He had forgotten.
Her hair was fragrant now with the aroma of the smoke from their fire and the herbs he had used to rub into her scalp. That one injury had been the only scrape he could find upon her. Luckily, the abrasion was little more than a finger-long scratch.
Its discovery had caused him to wonder again what had happened to bring this woman to the brink of death.
One fact was certain, however. Duty to his beloved, which was keeping him celibate, was not a sound frame of mind for a healthy male.
“No! Not my mother, not my father! No, it cannot be!”
Her pain sent shivers up and down his spine. This woman had known real torment. It was there in her voice, in her words. The knowledge drew him closer to her, and as her tears became more profound, he rocked back and forth, his arms still wrapped firmly around her.
There was nothing for him to say. Instead he held her until the last her tears became a mere hiccup. Even then he didn’t release her.
Tentatively, he massaged her spine. And it wasn’t until her breathing was free and her eyes were once again closed that he laid her back against his blanket. Beneath it were fragrant, cushy boughs of pine branches, enough so that her body did not repose upon the hard floor of the cave.
Quietly, he exhaled. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was drawn to her. Or perhaps, he conjectured, it was simply that he hadn’t held a flesh-and-blood woman in his arms for too many years.
Finishing on a snort, he realized there was yet work to be done. The fire required stoking and if he were to nurse this woman back to complete health, additional sustenance had to be found at once. While his meager diet of dried meat, corn and berries might satisfy him, she would require the healing properties of fresh meat to restore her vigor, and it needed to be in a liquid form since she was not conscious enough to eat on her own.
Dutifully, he rose up to begin his work, though he couldn’t help but wish for his grandmother’s presence beside him, speaking words of wisdom to him. An herbalist, she would have known the exact plants and foods that would bring this woman back to health. Unfortunately White Thunder’s skills in this realm were rudimentary; he had never harbored an interest in learning the craft.
“No! Do not ever touch me again! My body is my own! Get back away from me!”
Again, White Thunder fell to his knees beside the woman, taking her up in his arms to give comfort.
“I will repay my parents’ debt to you, but I swear it shall not be in this manner!”
Her words made White Thunder want to weep, for he did not misunderstand. Did the Englishmen misuse even their own kind?
As the woman’s tears fell, White Thunder found that his own grief, though of fifteen years in length, mingled with hers.
“No! No!”
Gently he rocked her back and forth, until at last her fears again quieted.
But it was not so for White Thunder’s. Even though he would never act on such a thing, his body was ready and willing for the ultimate action between a man and a woman. The reaction surprised him; it also caused him to consider a truth: Man lives best with a flesh and blood woman, not her mere image. And when absent . . .
He sighed against the fragrance of the English woman’s hair. He had best not like it too readily. Until Wild Mint’s murderer was fou
nd and justice served at last, there could be no other woman in his life.
Perhaps, like the white man’s double-edged knife, this was a test of him, of his strength and devotion, for no matter which way the knife was thrust, it cut.
But enough. The woman in his arms needed special sustenance and attention. He would give her both.
Three
The delicious aroma of meat and vegetables awakened Sarah. Was that a soup she smelled?
She opened her eyes and looked up at the dark ceiling of . . . where was she?
Were those stalactites hanging from a ceiling about ten feet above her? She narrowed her eyes so as to obtain a better look at them. And if these massive columns were stalactites, what were they doing here in her bedroom? Weren’t these icicle-like projections of rock, formed by the action of water and corrosion, normally to be found in caves and caverns? She was in her bedroom—wasn’t she?
Carefully, slowly, she took in the dark terrain of her surroundings. Except for the dim light of a flickering fire at her feet, she was surrounded by a murkiness so dense, it was like staring into the starless black of night. There was a chill in the air, though luckily the warmth from the fire presented her with a means to keep in her body heat. Moisture filled the air. Was it raining outside? If so, that would explain the sound of dripping water that seemed to come from somewhere close by to her. Was she in a cave?
And if she were in a cave, why was she here? Sarah searched her memory. Unfortunately she could recall only rudimentary details . . . but that didn’t include her name . . .
Closing her eyes, she endeavored to remember what had happened. But there was nothing there to present itself to her, no memory, nothing to answer her questions.
Returning her attention to the environment, she discovered a feeling of warmth beneath her, like the flannel of a blanket, and there was some indefinable softness wrapped around her. Miserably, that’s when she became aware of her situation: She was naked beneath this blanket.