by Andrea Jones
The drowsy camp of midday came awake. Dogs barked and skipped, the children howled, rushing with their relatives toward the river, and the drums pounded their welcome. Grouping around the council members, the warriors cleared a path among the People, for the elders. The Old One stood in the center with her son, her granddaughter’s father, behind her, and three council members on each side. Tallest of all, White Bear took his place among them, the claws of his necklace pale against his skin. A stone’s throw from the river, they waited with dignity as the People whooped and cheered the approach of the braves.
Three figures forded the river, waist high here at the end of the rapids. As was his habit, Rowan displayed no emotion as he and Lightly slogged across the rush of water, supporting the boy whose hands were bound behind him. David stumbled over a rock and plunged face forward into the stream. His captors hauled him up again as he sputtered and shook water from his face. The children laughed to see it, mimicking his mishap.
Lightly’s fairer features showed hints of concern. At this time of afternoon, it should have been a simple matter to slip ashore and glide away in silence in a canoe, and the young men had hoped to do so, avoiding notice from the tribe. Looking at the assemblage on shore, Lightly identified the reason for it. The Old One’s granddaughter stood on tiptoe, her hands at her heart, viewing Rowan with her eyes a-sparkle. She must have been watching for Rowan’s return, as she had taken to doing of late. Her father, too, stood among the People, smiling in approval. Lightly of the Air’s heart burdened down. As he’d suspected, this girl presented the first step on the path to exile.
Lightly slid his gaze toward Rowan. Rowan nodded, but displayed no other sign of awareness. He avoided the eyes of the girl. Ayasha must not be encouraged, and this business of prisoners was man’s domain. Had not even Lightly’s mother so indicated when she called upon her son to remove her captive? Like the Old One, the pirate queen was a leader, understanding her role among men. Not even Rowan’s admiration for her kill shifted him from this certainty. And since the day his mother and sister were cast out from the tribe, Rowan claimed his place within the wider world of men.
The young ones hooted, jeering at the boy as the two braves dragged him up the bank. Several children snatched sticks from the shore, to dash up and strike him, counting coup to etch in tally marks, and boast of their bravery. David cringed at each sting, his fear on his face, but, feeling no slackening of his captors’ grips, he trusted in his mistress’ judgment. He belonged now to Red-Handed Jill; she would not suffer him to linger in this adversity.
The Old One murmured to the other elders, then raised her staff for silence. As the drums ceased, she declared, “Our brother White Bear is the tongue of the council. He will speak for us.”
White Bear stepped forward. Before he spoke, his iron gray eyes inspected David.
David shrank back from the sight of this warrior. The man called White Bear epitomized everything he dreaded in these natives. He looked impressive, lean and hard, with scars to show his valor in battle. His mostly shaven head revealed a fierce face, sharpened further by an absence of sympathy. He spoke in a deep, harsh voice.
“Rowan Life-Giver; Lightly of the Air. Why do you bring us this boy, who is marked by the red-handed woman of the Black Chief?”
David’s face flushed, and the spot where Jill’s hand had rested scorched his cheek. Apparently his dousing in the river hadn’t washed away the blood. Equally clear was the fact that his mistress’ reputation was established upon this Island. Everywhere he went, he heard talk of her— from the gang of boys, from the pirates and their women, and now from the Indians. Pride ballooned in his chest as he considered her fame, and his posture unbent.
At White Bear’s question, Rowan turned to Lightly, allowing him to answer.
“We bring respect to the council, White Bear, but we do not bring this boy to the tribe. As you have seen by his mark, he was captured by she who raised me from a child, Red-Handed Jill. We are on our way to deliver him to her keeping.”
“He is one of the Golden Boy’s band?”
“No. He is a thief.”
David jerked in surprise. He hadn’t expected to be described with this epithet.
White Bear became wary. “He has stolen from the Black Chief?”
“Your perception shines, White Bear. Yes, he has stolen from the Black Chief. And…” Lightly hesitated, “also from the Outcasts.”
“The tribe no longer thinks of the Outcasts.”
“The tribe does not think of them, but my blood brother Rowan Life-Giver and I, Lightly of the Air, think of our relatives.”
“You have gone among them, then.”
“Family ties are strong. They pull us together.”
“The council will consider this.” White Bear’s scrutiny ranged over David again. “And from whom did the thief steal the blood that paints his face?”
“My mother, the valiant huntress Jill Red-Hand, slew a tiger to save him from its jaws.” The people gathered around exclaimed in interest. “The thief owes her life-service. I will find it an honor to tell the People of my mother’s deeds, when the sun slumbers and the moon is listening.”
White Bear paused to consider. He did not seek concurrence from his fellow council members; the Old One had voiced their trust in him. “Take him, then. We observe your duty to your mother.”
Lightly relaxed. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding his stomach.
“And did your valiant mother hunt among her warriors?”
Lightly had relaxed too soon. He only just stopped himself from glancing at Rowan. “Yes, White Bear. Although the most courageous of women, she is cautious to protect herself. She hunted in the company of the Black Chief himself.”
Disapproval met Lightly’s words. One of the elders grunted.
At the mention of the pirate, David watched the children staring with round, dark eyes. He understood their fright, and it prodded the terror that coiled within him. Soon he might face this ‘Black Chief’ again.
White Bear crossed his arms. “Go, and rid your shoulders of obligation. The Council of Elders will consider, in your absence, your forbidden fellowship with pirates from the sea.”
The Old One struck her staff upon the ground, and when its thumping ceased, the drums broke forth again. As the children circled the two braves and their prisoner, Ayasha’s father strode smiling toward them, too. “Rowan.” He reached out to clasp Rowan’s arm. “Glory flies with you.”
Rowan accepted Panther’s greeting, but his face remained sober. “Perhaps the council do not agree.”
“Do not concern yourself. My mother understands the homage owed by a son. She never lets me forget it!” And, still grinning, Panther clasped Lightly’s arm next. “All the People will hear your words tonight, Lightly of the Air, and you and Rowan will sit in places of honor. And I invite you both, tomorrow, to feast with my family in my tepee.”
Lightly observed Ayasha. The situation was just as he had feared. The girl was smiling at Rowan, her face turned coyly away, and her black lashes blinking.
Lightly read the signs. Before long, Rowan would be offered a bride. Lightly felt a pain in his chest, a stab of homesickness for this camp and its inhabitants. He’d lived among his adopted people for only a season. Against all reason, perhaps, he had hoped to grow old here.
✽ ✽ ✽
The river was chilly; chilly enough, Hook hoped, to shock Jill from her trance. Grateful for his tall boots, he pushed against the rush of the water and pulled on Jill’s tether. She entered the river with reluctance, but kept her eyes focused on his hook, still with that animal gleam that warned Hook not to trust her. As her tunic and trousers became sodden, he tried to support her with his right arm, but she turned to watch the claw, and he understood that this effort would be useless. Her desire to possess his weapon had not abated. He kept his damaged arm behind his back after that, and, wading backward into the water, he drew her by the belt, into the deeper flow at the
middle of the stream.
He could hear nothing but the roar of the water, this place being the head of a length of rapids that ended, as Hook was too aware, at a site even he loathed to dare. Sticks and leaves hurried by them, bobbing and turning on their journey downstream. Each step was more difficult than the last, and Hook watched Jill with concern as she battled her garments, the current, and her madness. Finding footing between the slippery rocks, he stopped and pulled her up to his chest. Her face remained rosy with emotion, spattered with blood, but her eyes flickered with reason. Slowly, Hook turned her away from him, then wrapped his arm around her waist. This time, she didn’t seem to notice the hook; she leaned against his chest.
He bent his knees to bring her lower, submerging her up to her neck. Her skirts bloomed upon the surface of the water, her hair fanned like lily stems, straining to float downstream. The ring she had collected for him radiated a ruby tone under water, and its sticky residue dissolved. Murmuring in her ear, he said, “Feel the water’s touch, Jill. The river rinses this bloodlust away.” She shivered. She closed her eyes. Hook raised her up and immersed her, three times. Strands of blood swirled from her hands and her arms, from the fabric of her tunic, to dissipate into ruddy clouds as it eddied toward the sea. The water running from her face turned her eyelashes to stars. “There, my love…there now.” If she heard she gave no sign; she leaned limp against his strength. The river foamed and bubbled around them. From it, both Hook and Jill drew energy.
As Hook had hoped, Jill’s ferocity washed away. Her shivering calmed and her respiration came deep and natural. With relief in his heart, Hook held her close, his own tension fading. He scanned the surroundings once more, alert for enemies, but he spied only the base of the mountain on one side. On the other were the yellow of the tiger’s pelt and the glints of the weapons lying near it. Taking command of the situation, he unfettered his emotions now, leaning his chin against Jill’s hair, pressing kisses upon her neck. She responded, tilting her head as she always did when a lover caressed this sensitive spot. Hook felt his effect upon her, and both his mind and his body mirrored her feeling. A tingling; a tempting throb below the belly.
Freed of anxiety, Hook allowed her to draw him to her Eden; she arched her back and tugged at the belt that imprisoned her. He unwound it from his knuckles and let it go. With hands still bound by the buckle, Jill grasped his fingers and pulled them toward her abdomen. As her skirt floated before her, she reached beneath it, then nudged his hand within her clothing, to trace her flesh. Soon she pushed him lower, into her center, and trembled with the pleasure of his touch. With her fingers covering his, the lovers stroked the softness at the entry to her womb, warm and warmer against the chill of the water. Her hands remained tied; the belt that bound them slithered in the current, like a serpent in the stream.
A twitch tickled his lip. Hook sensed that Jill had not yet returned from the wilds, but he reveled in her untamed sensuality. He and Jill lived so constantly and so closely intertwined that, in spite of the river, in spite of the risk, he joined in her sensation. He knew from the first occurrence of her bloodlust that, at this moment, she burned for him; his ardor partnered hers. He had held himself back before, to preserve her. Now he indulged in her. He allowed her to guide his fingers, penetrating her womanhood. Holding her firm against his chest, he provided what she craved, while, irresistibly, his own arousal mounted. Her respiration grew harsh again, the purring of the tigress just audible until, finally, in a burst of rapture, she threw back her head in a visceral cry. Hook himself went giddy with it.
And then, just past the pinnacle of sensation, she turned on him. Hook caught the tiger’s green in her eye before she lunged for his claw. She flung her weight against him, toppling him backward into the foaming river. She lost her footing and fell upon him. As the wintry water closed above their heads, Hook thrust her from him and yanked his right arm hard, free from her grasp.
He knew at once that he had erred. No matter the bloody consequences; he should have let her hold the hook, for as it slipped from her fingers, Jill slipped from his reach. The force of the river caught her up. He glimpsed the flutter of cloth as her body, so much lighter than his own, swept downstream. He swiped at her clothing, trying to snag it with his claw, but already she’d drifted too far to catch.
Hook flailed against the river. He bobbed to the surface. For long, precious moments, his boots stumbled over the riverbed, searching for purchase. Upon finding it, he stood, gasping for air. He shook the dripping hair from his eyes.
Immediately, he spotted the topaz of her gown. Jill lay face downward, half submerged by the weight of her garments, writhing, tumbling away among the rocks and the crests and the rage of the water— with her hands locked together. The belt, the cold, the river itself— the tools Hook had used to save his love— now conspired to kill her.
He launched himself downstream, stroking with all his being to reach her.
CHAPTER 9
Solitary Practitioners
Hook was unaccustomed to fear. For many a year, he hadn’t felt it on his own behalf. As Jill faced her tigress, he’d felt anxiety, yet his confidence in her abilities left only an edge— a sharp, raw vulnerability— for his courage to conquer. The dread he felt now rose up to slap him like the chilly surface of the water. His fear stemmed not from man nor animal, but from world-wise experience, from his knowledge of the Neverland. Hook struck out on his course downstream, fighting the Island’s perils, and afraid as only a strong man can be afraid, that the dearest part of himself, the woman for whom he pledged his protection, might perish in spite of it.
He cursed the boots that slowed his progress. As he glimpsed Jill struggling to raise her head above the surface, his blood ran as cold as the liquid streaming over his skin. When she gasped for air, her sodden hair covered her face. Her body rolled one way and then the other as the current rushed her downstream. Rocks lay treacherous in her path, ready to dash her skull. Tied together, her hands were useless. The hurry of the current swept her on, and Hook cringed as her shoulder slammed into a half sunken log. But ahead of him lay another, and as he shoved himself away from it, it hurled a dash of water at his face. He shut his eyes and lost sight of her. Water gushed noisily into his ears. The muddy taste of the river flooded his mouth, and he spat it out.
His heart nearly stopped when, upon opening his eyes again, Jill was nowhere in sight. Kicking and slipping against the streambed, he twisted his ankle with a twinge, but he won a glimpse of her yellow garment. She had rolled onto her back, and her bound hands were locked as if in prayer. Perhaps now she could breathe, but Hook was certain her new position left her little command of her direction. She passed another cluster of rocks, narrowly, and Hook felt the hairs rise up on his skin.
For a man of action, this helplessness was torture. No enemy could wreak the havoc on Hook that losing Jill would cause. Spurred to new effort, Hook increased his exertions, stroking his arms, pumping his legs, blinking his eyes open to track that bit of linen, the bold, blazing streak of topaz that signified everything he loved about Jill.
It seemed to Hook that he’d drawn closer. Her arms formed an angle, weaving to balance her motions, but still she could not guide her course. If she called to him, the roar of the river drowned her voice. Nearer now, Hook cast about as he swam, searching for a branch he might reach out to halt her progress. Among the flotsam around him, he found no useful item, only more hazards ahead, obstacles to injure her. A fallen tree…a derelict raft wedged drunkenly between boulders…and a pile of stones, directly in her path.
With no time to think, Hook submerged to speed forward. He didn’t waste time looking up again until he was sure she must be near. When he did raise his head, the disaster was about to happen. Jill tumbled headlong toward the rocks. Too exhausted to float, she sank in the stream. Then, at the water’s whim, she bobbed up again, heading all the while for that nasty, jagged mass.
Hook shot out his arm. The iron of his hook struck t
he rock, ringing. It jarred his stump, but didn’t slow him. He curled his elbow about her and hauled her sideways, just as the two of them passed the outcrop. The water gurgled against the stone, toying with its inflexibility, cuffing its surface with a harmless note, a sound deceptively different from the ghastliness he had dreaded, the splinter of bone, the crack of death. As warm, blessed relief poured over him, Hook held onto Jill. He clasped her chill, drenched body, and inhaled for what seemed the first time since he let her go, so far up this lethal stream.
Holding her face above the water, he supported her. His one hand moved to shield her head. They hurtled down the rapids, together, gasping for air, clutching one another. Hook guided their course, dodging the hazards, and allowing the river to carry them. In time, the current grew milder, gentler, slowing their progress. Soon they floated as effortlessly as if they were bathing in the Mermaids’ Lagoon. Drifting with a sense of deliverance, Hook felt for the bottom. He found a stable spot, planted his boots and, at last, stood erect, with Jill within his arms. He closed his eyes and filled his spirit with the living, vital feel of her.
Her perfume had washed away; Hook smelled damp cloth and the savor of her skin. She hung limp at first, barely able to stand. He ignored the pain shooting up from his ankle, and pressed her against him, willing his strength to enter into her. With every breath she gained stability. As he chafed her back, she pressed her lips to his chest, and his heart nearly burst to feel her nestling there. Wanting to hold her forever, yet he yielded to concern, pulling away just enough to examine her.
“Jill…” Seeing the redness of her wrists, he lost no time. With the blade of his hook, he sawed at the leather of the belt. Water dripped from his hair to his eyes, but he blinked it away and didn’t cease his labor until her hands broke free. The belt slunk into the water, to lazily follow the current. Once again, he drew her close. “You are unharmed.”