Savage Surrender

by Colleen French

  She added more kernels of corn to his mixture. "And what of you, Husband?" she questioned thoughtfully. "Do you like it here?"

  He thought for a moment before responding. His gaze strayed to the scalplock that flew from the lodgepole he had erected outside their wigwam. "I sometimes miss my village. I miss the man I was as a Mohawk." He chuckled. "There is more work to being a Lenni Lenape man." He looked up at her. "But I think, perhaps, I only miss my old life out of habit."

  "You're going to be a shaman here. It's what you've always wanted. You said yourself that your brother would never have allowed you to become the shaman of your village among the Mohawks."

  His face seemed to darken at the mention of Broken Horn, and Rachael wished she hadn't spoken of him. She saw him again look up at the black scalp lock blowing in the breeze high above their heads. She had no desire to bring back the bad memories he seemed to be dealing with so well.

  "I do not wish to go back, but I wonder how my family is. It hurts my heart to know they are doomed and yet not be able to help them."

  "We all make choices in our lives, Storm." She took the pestle from his hand and set it aside. She pressed her lips to his palm. "They made the choice to banish you because they didn't want to hear what you had to say. They chose to follow Broken Horn, all of them. Whatever happens to them, they're responsible, not you."

  "Shaakhan speaks the same words. He tells me I must accept that my brother is evil. He did me great harm. More harm than any man should do to another, no less his only flesh." Storm Dancer still looked at her, but his eyes were unfocused. "I wonder if he came to me today, if I could forgive him."

  "If you could, you'd be a better person than I am."

  He patted her hand, pushing aside thoughts of Broken Horn. "It is true that I have lost one life, but I have gained another. I now have new responsibilities, don't I wife?"

  "You do." She smiled. "And I hope you'll have more. I hope I can give you a child. Maybe many children."

  It was his turn to kiss her hand. "You worry too much over papooses. I told, you long ago I heard a child's laughter mingling with yours. Our God will give us a child in good time."

  "But what if he doesn't?" She thought for a moment, then lifted her head to stare directly into his loving, dark eyes. "You said Father Drake read to you from the Bible. Did he ever tell you who Rachael was in the Old Testament?"

  "The wife of the man Jacob."

  "Yes." Against her will, tears filled Rachael's eyes and she looked away. "And she was barren."

  He reached out to touch her cheek with his fingertips, forcing her to look upon him. "Do not cry, Wife, that I love more than the moon and stars. We will have a child to call our own." He caught a tear with his fingertip. "I promise you. Now let me tell you why Yesterday's Thunder stopped me."

  She sniffed. "Why?"

  "Because as Dory has no father or family, Yesterday's Thunder has asked me permission to court Dory."

  "He wants to marry her!" She laughed, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. "He was serious? What did you say?"

  He shrugged. "I granted him permission to woo her."

  "You didn't tell him that Shadows Man has already asked permission?"

  "I told him, but he said he didn't care. This village has a shortage of women. He says he will win your friend over."

  "But she's so much older than Yesterday's Thunder."

  "He said it mattered not. She is still well within the years to give him sons and daughters."

  Rachael glanced across the compound to where Dory stood, a water basket in her hand, talking to Yesterday's Thunder. Her laughter carried on the wind. It was difficult to believe that any man, let alone two, would be interested in Dory with her spiky cropped orange hair and short round stature, but it did Rachael's heart good to see that someone recognized her for the fine person that she was.

  Rachael and Storm Dancer watched the exchange between Yesterday's Thunder and Dory for a moment, before Rachael spoke with amusement in her voice. "It's certainly going to be interesting to see who she chooses."

  "That it will be, Wife." Storm Dancer stood and offered his hand. "It is time to put aside your work and change your clothing. You forget that tonight is the great dance of the corn festival. The other women are already brushing out their hair and donning their ceremonial dress."

  "I didn't forget, I just wanted to finish this basket of corn." She rose, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I thought I would wear the white buckskin dress Starlight gave me. She said it's very old, but it's beautiful."

  "The beauty is in the woman who wears it, not the cloth that covers her body." He nuzzled her neck, then whispered, "Come inside my wigwam, woman of mine, and I will help you dress for the festival."

  The throaty sound of his voice sent a shudder of exhilaration through her veins. "Help me dress, will you? You're not much help with dressing, Husband, but I've grown rather fond of your undressing abilities."

  "If you want a baby, Rachael-wife, you must work for it." He lifted her easily into his arms, not caring who saw them. The villagers who passed by the wigwam, politely averted their eyes. "Let me take you inside and show you the way to make a child," Storm Dancer whispered provocatively.

  She rested her forehead on his chin, laughing as he ducked into the wigwam. "Storm! They all know what you're doing . . . what we're doing. We're not better than a hutch of rabbits."

  "And why, Wife, do you think our forest is so plentiful with the hare?"

  She slid out of his arms, letting her moccasins touch the clean mats of the wigwam floor. She snaked her arms around his neck. "We'll be late for the dance." She touched his lower lip with the tip of her tongue.

  "So we will."

  "But, the shaman must be present to begin the festival."

  "I am not shaman. My grandfather can begin the ceremonies." He slipped his hand between the bindings of her bodice and brushed the rough pads of his fingertips against her breast. "A man cannot be reproached for attending to his husbandly duties."

  Rachael sighed, letting her eyes close as she savored the exquisite touch of his hand on her breast. "Promise me something, Storm."

  He kissed her throat. "If it is my power . . . "

  "Promise me I'll always be your wife. Promise me nothing will come between us. Promise me it will always be as it is now."

  "There is nothing that could break this union, Rachael-wife." He pushed back the silky hair that fell across her face so that he could stare into her sky blue eyes. "Nothing."

  They kissed a kiss of lovers, at first soft and gentle, but then their mouths twisted hungrily as conscious thought slipped from their minds and fierce longing took control. Storm lifted Rachael into his arms and lowered her to a sleeping mat, their tongues meeting in a dance of love as she pulled the ties of his loincloth.

  When her fingers found the evidence of his desire, he moaned words of encouragement. Enjoying the power she had over him, she raised up, straddling his body so that she could sit up and he could watch her unclothe.

  Shivers of anticipation flowed through Rachael's body as she watched his dark luminous eyes take in the curves of her naked flesh. She took her time undressing, wanting to prolong his erotic expectations as long as possible. When she had thrown aside her leather skirt and bodice and woman's loin cloth, she stretched out over him, her flesh hot when his tumescent shaft brushed against her inner thigh.

  Their lips met in a hard and demanding kiss that left them breathless, but wanting more. Rachael leaned over Storm Dancer, running her hands through his thick black hair as she drank in his dark eyes clouded with passion. "Now?" she whispered, moving her hips against his in a slow, sensual dance of love. "Now, husband?"

  "Yes, ki-ti-hi. Love me now."

  Rachael lifted her hips, her gaze still locked with his as she lowered herself onto him.

  Storm Dancer groaned, closing his eyes, as he struggled for control. After a moment, Rachael began to move slowly, rhythmically. The corded
bands of Storm's arms tightened and relaxed as he guided her with his hands.

  Outside the cozy wigwam, hollow drums began to beat calling to the villagers, beckoning them in a dance of Thanksgiving. But the sound of the drums and hollow gourd rattles were lost in cries of passion to Rachael and Storm Dancer as they found ecstasy in each other's arms once more.

  Broken Horn sat hunched over the firepit outside his longhouse, a stinking bear hide wrapped around his shoulders for warmth. The fire spit and sputtered, giving off little warmth with its wet uncured wood.

  Broken Horn drew the hide tighter around his shoulders and picked a bit of gristle from between his teeth and chewed it again. His fingertips brushed against his smallpox-scarred cheek and he cursed foully beneath his breath.

  Winter had set in early this year, just one more strike of bad luck in a long line of ill-fated events. Since Storm Dancer had taken his white woman and Broken Horn's scalp lock and walked off to the south, the Mohawk village had been barraged with bad luck. The drought had left the women with little harvest to gather for winter from the few rows of corn and beans they had bothered to plant. Fishing had been poor and game sparse.

  One courageous Mohawk had suggested that perhaps the area surrounding the village had been hunted out. After all, it had been years since they had moved, whereas it was custom to move yearly so as to not overhunt or overfish one place. Broken Horn had smacked him square across the face with the butt of his rifle, breaking his jaw in punishment for suggesting it was Broken Horn's fault they were hungry.

  Then the sickness had come. Broken Horn and his men had traveled far east to raid a little village of white settlers. They had stolen fine horses, some pewter, a wagonload of flour, sugar and salt meat, and a pile of warm wool blankets. It was in those blankets that the smallpox had been carried. In the excitement of their kill, the Mohawk braves had not realized that many in the white settlement were ill.

  Within a week of returning from the raid, the Mohawk villagers began to fall sick. The old men and women were the first to die. Meadowlark and Two Fists lasted less than five days. Broken Horn made himself both chief and shaman of the village.

  Then the fever and weeping sores began to take the lives of women and children, and lastly the younger men. The few that had survived, like Broken Horn, were ghastly scarred.

  By the time the snow blew the plague from the village, it was too late to go far for game. Now the few villagers left lived on the meat of their dogs and what was left of the stolen rations. Women began to cry for what they had lost, and men began to whisper behind Broken Horn's back, wishing they had listened to Storm Dancer.

  Broken Horn tossed a stick onto the fire, looking up to see Two Crows coming toward him. Broken Horn grunted and his friend squatted by the fire. It was obvious he had something to say, but he took his time in speaking.

  "There is talk of joining the Seneca across the river."

  "Seneca!" Broken Horn hocked and spat into the fire. "They are dogs."

  "The dogs have food. There are no more than twenty of us, brother. They would take us in. They would keep us from dying."

  "You are a traitor. All of you. You think this is my fault!"

  "Any fault lies in our own laps," he answered softly in Iroquois. "We should not have allowed the women to become so lazy that they planted no gardens. We should have been hunting all summer and into the fall, storing our meats instead of raiding. Had we been able to feed our sick children they might have lived." He took a long stick and poked at the burning wood in the firepit. "We have no one to blame for our devastation but ourselves."

  "No, no, brother Two Crows, you are wrong." Broken Horn turned slowly, the scabbing sores on his joints making it difficult to move. "It is Storm Dancer that is to blame for this. He took my scalp lock and with it my luck. With my scalp lock I could have led our village to great victories. I could still . . . if I had it once more."

  Two Crows pulled his ragged muskrat hat down further over his ears. "You forget, Storm Dancer is dead."

  Broken Horn glanced across the flickering fire, a sneer on his scarred face. "He is not dead, fool, only gone."

  "I saw him disappear in the smoke of the shaman's magic."

  Broken Horn grimaced viciously as he peered back into the firelight. "I saw him leave."

  Two Crows' bloodshot eyes went wide. "You saw his spirit?"

  "I saw him! Him and the white whore. I saw them pass through the village, walking south." A strange light sparkled in his dark eyes. "My mother saw them. She spoke. I think I know where he went, but my mother knows."

  He turned his head to the lodge behind him and barked a command. To conserve heat all twenty villagers now lived in the longhouse which had once been the ceremonial lodge.

  A moment later Pretty Woman appeared in the doorway of the lodge. She was bent over with pain in her joints, her harelipped face gaunt with hunger. "Husband?"

  "Send the old woman out and bring me food. I am hungry."

  "So are we all hungry. There is nothing to eat." She turned away. "I will send the old woman."

  She-Who-Weeps came hobbling out of the lodge a moment later. She was frail, her skin transparent with age and starvation, but unscarred by the smallpox. She was still a beautiful woman. "You call for me, Son?"

  "Tell me where he went."

  She came closer to the fire. "Who?"

  "My half-brother who is my brother no more."

  She lowered her gaze to the snow-covered ground. "Dead. Dead are all my children, but you, great chief." She spoke her last words with all the ridicule she could manage.

  "Liar." Broken Horn rose, the bear hide, still wrapped around his shoulders. "I saw him and the whore leave. I saw you standing near the trees. You spoke to him. You told him where to go."

  "There were many spirits that night my son died. Many spirits."

  Broken Horn reached out and smacked She-Who-Weeps in the face.

  Two Crows gasped, but dared not interfere. He still had one wife and a child to care for. If Broken Horn killed him, they would surely die.

  She-Who-Weeps rocked back under the force of her son's hand, but did not fall. Slowly she lifted her head, to stare at him, her gray eyes mocking. "This old woman is sorry she displeases you."

  Broken Horn grabbed the scruff of her squirrel cape and jerked her frail body up off the ground. "Tell me where the man who has cursed me has gone, or I will kill you, old woman!"

  She-Who-Weeps let her eyes fall closed. She was cold and tired with no one left on this earth to love her or be loved. Death would not be such a terrible thing. "My son, Storm Dancer is dead," she said, in the words of the Lenni Lenape. The sound of the words were music to her ears. She wondered numbly how long it had been since she had dared speak her native tongue.

  Broken Horn pulled his knife from its sheath. "Tell me, old woman! Last chance!"

  She-Who-Weeps heard the pause. She felt the bitter wind on her cheek, and she smiled. Death would take her home to her Lenni Lenape village. Though she had never made it back in life, in her death she would return to the place where she had been happy.

  She-Who-Weeps did not feel the agony of the knife as it tore through the wall of her chest and sank into her still heart.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Snow came early to the Chesapeake in the winter of 1762. It broke with gale-force winds and bitter cold. For two days Rachael and Storm Dancer remained inside their wigwam where it was warm and cozy, waiting for the snowstorm to blow over. To pass the time they played checkers with seashells. Storm Dancer repaired his weapons and began the painstaking task of making a new ax. Rachael busied herself sewing for one of the elderly women in the camp who could no longer see well enough to thread her own needle. They made love in midafternoon snuggled beneath the bear hide blankets. They told stories of their childhoods and tentatively talked about their future.

  On the third day Rachael and Storm woke to the deafening sound of silence. The tempest winds had ceased and the deep cov
er of the snow muffled the natural sounds of the forest. After a quick morning meal of hot corn mush sprinkled with dried apple bits, Rachael and Storm dressed in their fur coats and mittens and went to see how nature had transformed the Lenni Lenape village.

  The camp and surrounding forest was covered in a thick blanket of pristine white. The pine, cedar, and oak trees were heavily laden, their branches weeping beneath the weight of the bountiful snowfall.

  Hand in hand Storm and Rachael walked out of their wigwam into the biting cold. The morning sunshine radiated from above, warming her face despite the low temperatures, and setting their surroundings ablaze with white light.

  "It's beautiful," Rachael sighed, as enchanted by the snow as any child could ever be.

  He shook his head as he gazed out over the camp. "You would think that after all of these years of seeing Father Winter come and go, we would not be so amazed by his splendor." He turned to Rachael. "But it is beautiful, isn't it?"

  The sound of childish laughter came from one of the wigwams as two round-faced children came bounding out into the snow. It seemed as if everyone had the same idea as Storm and Rachael. The villagers began to spill from the safe havens of their wigwams into the crisp morning air dressed in hooded fur coats and knee length otterskin boots.

  Storm Dancer scooped up a handful of snow and balled it in his mittens. Before Rachael could open her mouth to protest, he threw it at her, striking her in the chest. The snowball exploded in her face, showering her with bitter cold snow.

  She spit and sputtered, shocked by the cold, but laughing as he ducked behind their wigwam. "All right!" she called, scooping up a big handful of snow. "This is war, Husband. Expect no mercy!"

  A snowball flew from behind the cover of the birchbark-shingled wigwam, but she managed to dodge the missile. Catching a glimpse of his black hair, she threw the snowball as hard as she could and was rewarded by a grunt as she struck Storm Dancer in the back of the head.

  Rachael howled with laughter and leaned over to grab another handful of snow. Just as she straightened up, Storm Dancer leapt from behind the wigwam, and bombarded her with several snowballs.