Firebrand's Woman

by Vanessa Royall

  “And you, Hawk, what say you?” demanded Four Bears.

  Hawk, whose absolute fearlessness transformed his natural courage into something even more formidable, did not hesitate.

  “The path of war is dearer than the path of plenty,” he said. It was the kind of remark that the Chickasaw had come to expect of this bold, almost reckless youth. But it was right, true, well chosen on the morning of battle. “There shall be cuts from my wrist to my elbow before nightfall,” Hawk added, for good measure.

  “And what is on your mind, our young Torch?” inquired the chief, facing the brave upon whom Gyva’s heart was set.

  In the crowd Gyva strained to hear. Hawk had spoken well, eliciting much approval. There was little doubt that he would stand high among prospects when it came time to choose a new chief. But she wished that Torch would speak even more boldly, and surpass with his words and his wisdom the striking impression Hawk had made.

  Torch, however, hesitated, or at least gave the appearance of hesitating, before he spoke.

  “If courage is blood,” he said slowly, “then wisdom must be death. But if wisdom is life, then courage must be peace.”

  No one spoke. No one moved. Gyva took the words, weighed them, and let them pass once more through her mind. Never had she heard such words before, or a thought phrased in such a manner. What did Torch mean? The braves, young and old, turned to study this young man, whom they thought they had known these many years of his youth. Four Bears himself squinted against the sun, even showed a faint trace of surprise.

  Torch stood there among them, conscious of their perplexity, but unmoved by it. He seemed for an instant to stand above them, possessed of a strong yet delicate luminosity that was rare, if not unknown, among his people.

  “The bird knows when to fly, and the bear when to sleep,” he added, speaking as slowly as before. “So the Chickasaw must read what is written on the wind.”

  Old Four Bears looked sharply at the younger man. “From whom have you heard these things?” he demanded. “They are of great weight for one of few moons.”

  Again Torch did not waver, merely spoke, as if from his heart, to Four Bears and to the people of the tribe.

  “My thoughts come to me when I think of the fate of my people,” he said. “And from such a source can any but wise thoughts come?”

  The people understood this thought, and a certain tension that had been growing now began to diminish.

  “Mount now,” ordered Four Bears. And after the warriors had done so, he said, “May your arrows be as true as the will of the Great Spirit. The strength of our people is with you.”

  Then the braves wheeled their horses in the dust and rode down between the rows of wigwams. The morning was beautiful, sunny and blue, and smoke from cooking fires rose upward to the sky, like pillars upon which rested the canopy of heaven, to shelter the Chickasaw nation forever from the dark, hard rain of fate. Gyva watched her secretly beloved as he sat upon his horse. The surprise and mystery of the words he had spoken faded as he rode past her. He seemed, mounted and ready, to be like the rest of them, as fierce in his war paint, headdress, and golden arm bands as Hawk, who rode beside him. Gyva had a feeling, much like a premonition, that he was more than a warrior, more than what the people had thought and what she herself had thought. Torch’s body moved with the stallion on which he was mounted, a strong gentle rocking motion that made her oddly weak as she watched it. He did not look at her. None of the braves looked at anyone. Their minds were on the journey and, beyond it, the battle. They thought of their duty as warriors, and about how valiant they would be. Then, with the braves gone into the forest, the Indians turned to their daily tasks.

  “Do not tell me that a soft heart has gone with one of our warriors!”

  Gyva turned to see Little Swallow.

  “I saw you bend forward,” Little Swallow smirked, pleased with her knowledge. “I saw you lean toward the words of Torch.”

  “I listened well to the words of all,” Gyva responded coldly, “and all spoke well.”

  “But two spoke with extreme brilliance, did they not?”

  Gyva herself was not certain of this. Hawk had indeed made a strong impression, but he had merely said—albeit more boldly and in better words—what all the warriors said. Torch, on the other hand, had touched upon something new. That the response to his words had been muted simply indicated—at least to Gyva—a form of wisdom whose existence might be real, but which was unfamiliar to her.

  “All spoke well,” she said again, feeling simultaneously proud and disconcerted. If she could find a way to get back to the wigwam and steal away down toward the river, she would be able to think about it…

  “And which warrior’s arms shall have the most kill-cuts when our men return?” prodded Little Swallow.

  “My prayer is first that all return safely. Then we shall count the kill-cuts.”

  Little Swallow gave her a hard, almost challenging look. “What means it to you?” she snapped contemptuously. “After the manhood ritual, I shall have whomever I want, and he shall be the best!”

  Gyva was startled. To speak openly of what might transpire after a chieftain’s death was a violation of tribal ways; to imply that Ababinili’s will was capable of being read, insofar as it applied to the private wishes of an individual Chickasaw, was sacrilege. Little Swallow, it seemed, was tempting fate. Or else she was so sure of herself that fate no longer had a hand in what was to be.

  “Our new chief will be the best,” responded Gyva noncommittally.

  “And he will be mine,” smiled Little Swallow, who turned away, walking with a sensuous arrogance she had gained so quickly, wore so well. Then she turned around, saying, “The daughter of her who robbed a warrior from his people shall not become the bride of a chieftain.”

  Never before had Gyva been spoken to in that manner; never before had she been so badly hurt. Little Swallow walked away, pleased and amused, proud of her sharp stroke. But Gyva turned toward the forest, into which the braves had disappeared. Her eyes burned, and the mountains seemed veiled in haze.

  “Are you not a Chickasaw?”

  It was an accusation, curt and cold, from Mark-of-the-Cave. The old woman, who must have heard the exchange between the maidens, stood before Gyva. Not a trace of sympathy was revealed in her face or in her stance. The mark upon her face was pale in sunlight.

  “I am a Chickasaw.”

  “Then why are you weeping? The Chickasaws do not weep, and certainly not for the pleasure of their enemies.”

  “Is Little Swallow my enemy?”

  “I did not say that. We may not always agree with those in our tribe. But they are never enemies, because they are we and we are they.”

  Embarrassed, Gyva felt the welling tears come into the corners of her eyes. The old woman’s voice, when it came, was just as grating as always, but her tone was subtly changed.

  “You are not about to weep because you are Indian or not,” she said, “or because you are white or not. Your tears come to you because you are a woman. So stop them. They are of no avail. Now go and think upon what I have said, and think upon the words of the young man.”

  “Will he return safely?” Gyva asked eagerly.

  “All things are possible.”

  “But I thought you said… I thought you told me…”

  “Did I? What did I tell you?”

  Confounded, Gyva stood there in the village dust and stared at the ancient seeress.

  “You said he would call for me. Remember the day you came to my wigwam? You said ‘when he calls for you.’ Those were your exact words.” She was beginning to wonder if, indeed, Mark-of-the-Cave had been inside her wigwam at all that day.

  But the old woman had. She smiled grimly. “You are still very young,” she said. “Weeping—forming private meanings out of wind. Be ready for what comes to you. That was my meaning. Now go and think. And remember, the blood of chieftains flows in your veins. You must not flinch, or waver, when t
he time comes.”

  “When the time comes for what? Oh, you speak in riddles! I do not understand.”

  Old Teva gave an abrupt, cackling laugh. “There are naught but riddles, child, and life is the biggest of them all. In all my life, I have been able to read but a few of them. Yet the ability to read one or two, when compared to the blindness of most people, makes one appear to be wise, even when one is not.”

  “Then you do not know what will happen to us? To our nation?”

  Teva considered the question. “I fear that I know,” she answered slowly. “If Ababinili sends wise men to us, we may yet be saved.”

  “Yes!” Gyva agreed, caught up in the possibility of release from the encroachment of white settlers. “Bold warriors whose spears and arrows fly straight and true!”

  About her, on all sides, loomed the rich blue mountains in whose embrace she had grown up, beneath whose rocky impregnability she had thus far defined what life meant to her.

  “As you say,” grunted the witch-woman. “Just as you say.”

  She went away; and soon Gyva, hopeful and puzzled and still sad, went back to the center of the village, joining the women at the well. They had seen many warriors go off before, and there was nothing to be said. Some would return, and some would not. That was all. Gyva now understood their quiet wisdom. What else could a woman do, in a nation of warriors? Life and death, love and joy, triumph or disaster—all these things depended on the men and sprang from them. Women alone, however, could fashion from the blood and fibers of their bodies the material of life, from which all else followed. So Gyva began to learn patience, patience of an ancient kind.

  In this, her first lesson, she did not have to wait long. Three days later the braves returned—or rather some of them did. As always, the members of the tribe began to gather quietly in the center of the village. No words were spoken, but as if by some mysterious form of communication, women left the meals they had been preparing, or the sewing, or the tanning of hides. Young boys appeared from the fringes of the forest where they had been gathering firewood. Girls came up the slope from the river bank, where they were engaged in the washing or dyeing of clothing. And each of them counted the number of returning braves, marking that number against the total of the original war party. Old Four Bears emerged from his wigwam and held his face taut, that not a flicker of sadness or fear be readable upon him.

  There was much cause for sadness, and fear as well. Of the thirty-seven braves who had set forth three days before, only eighteen rode back into the village. Some of them were riding double, which meant that their horses had been killed or captured by the white men. Many of the braves were wounded. Gyva, one of the first to join the anxious but intrepid observers, thought at first that her heart would stop. She could not see Torch among the survivors! And then she thought her joyous, pounding blood would burst the tiny veins through which it coursed, so great was her relief.

  But, like the rest of them, she showed nothing.

  The beaten braves rode back into the village, bloody themselves, some leading lame and bloody mounts. They were not conquering warriors, as in the legends of old that were repeated and repeated around winter fires.

  The women watched for their men. Those who found a favorite or a husband among the remnants of the war party touched eyes with them, as was the expression in the tribe. Those who did not find that special one showed no outward emotion, and tried mightily not to think of loneliness and loss. There would be many nights around slow fires to think about such things.

  Gyva, having satisfied herself that Torch was alive and safe—although a gash had been opened over his right shoulder—scanned the rest of the men. Strong Badger was not among them. Raven must also be numbered among the dead, another name in a list of names that seemed to grow and grow, a name that would now be added to the war tales told in the Council hall. Hawk was gloriously alive. He had been unmarked by conflict, and as he rode into the village and pulled his horse to a stop before the eyes of Four Bears, he raised his right arm above his head. First he let the chief count the number of his kill-cuts, and then he turned to show the people. Gyva numbered nine slashes. Nine white men had perished at the hands of this bold Hawk. A murmur of admiration rose among the Indians, but just as quickly faded. White men had been killed, true. But again the braves had suffered great punishment, and the battle, it seemed, had been lost.

  Such speculations were not meant for a public gathering but for the great council wigwam. Four Bears, showing no emotion, ordered the braves to join him there, and ordered the women to bring meat and bread, berries and broth, that the braves might take nourishment. Gyva watched Torch dismount his horse, as young boys scuffled for the honor of grasping the bridle.

  “You, Gyva, come with me,” called one of the older women to whom Four Bears had spoken. “You must help us serve the men.”

  While she would always have obeyed such a command, her acquiescence would ordinarily have come from a sense of duty. But today she leapt at the chance to be near Torch, whom battle had spared. Of the women selected to help in preparing and carrying food and drink into the council wigwam, none surpassed Gyva in care or industry, and she herself saw to it that honey was spread thick and sweet upon the crusty wedges of bread.

  The great council wigwam—as large as five common dwellings—was constructed of saplings, bent into a horseshoe shape at the roof, and shingled with pine bark. Tall shafts of pine and oak served as beams and braces, a framework covered by boughs and animal skins. The earthen floor of the hall was carpeted with the largest pelts, those of the bear and the elk; and in the place at which Four Bears presided, soft, rare skins of mink and ermine cushioned him.

  Normally the braves would have ceased speaking when the women entered, bringing the food. But the battle had been so savage and the losses so heavy that they barely noticed the women at all.

  “There is a new fort now, on the lake of Chickamauga,” one of the older warriors was telling Four Bears. “Last year it did not exist and all those lands were ours. But in one moon—two—it has been built. And that means soldiers, many whites.”

  Some of the women were ladling a porridge of ground barley and beef into earthenware bowls. Two poured squirrel broth into small cups. Gyva passed from brave to brave, offering bread and honey. She saw Torch directly across the circle of seated braves, facing the chief across a small fire. He seemed at once exhausted and strangely alert, as if he could either sink into sleep or ride once more to battle, whichever was required. And, it occurred to her, his position in the circle was also significant. If judged by distance, he was farthest from the position of authority. But if the focus of the circle were reversed, he would be already in the chieftain’s position. She drew closer and closer to him, offering bread, turning and turning the tray to make sure he would have the largest, sweetest wedge.

  “But you did not attack the fort?” Four Bears was asking.

  There was a moment of sheepish silence in the council wigwam. Then Great Thunder spoke up. “It was not we who attacked,” he admitted. “It was we who were attacked.”

  He did not meet his chief’s eyes, this old and canny brave. He could not bear to do so.

  “An ambush?” asked Four Bears, incredulous.

  The aura of shame and defeat was almost palpable. It was to the Indian that the Great Spirit had gifted cunning in battle, communion with the forest. It was to the Chickasaw and the Choctaw and the Sac that He-Who-Dwells-in-the-Clear-Sky had given the nerveless touch, the preternatural acumen necessary to ambush and attack. And these were Indian lands! If the white soldiers were capable of surprising a band of braves well within the borders of their own territory, if they were able to construct a fort in the space of few moons, then the situation was graver even than anyone had dreamed it might be. Gyva felt a shiver work its way up her spine, and the heavy tray trembled in her hand.

  “We were fording the Sequatchie,” muttered Owl, not only to inform Four Bears, it seemed, but to convince him
self that such a disaster had truly occurred. “We had come to the place—you know it?—where the fallen trees bridge the cavern of the wild boars.”

  “I do know it,” replied the chief, who would take with him into death knowledge of the smallest ravine in north Georgia, the slope of each mountain in far Kentucky, from whence had come great legends of a man called The Boone. “But did you not proceed with care?”

  “Yes, we did proceed in such a manner. But there was no sign.”

  “But we fell upon the jackals and fought with tooth and knife, and lance and spear. We did wreak many deaths upon them.”

  The tone of this voice was fresh and defiant. All turned to Hawk. He sat with his legs crossed, and his arm was turned in such a manner that all could see the nine cuts, into which he had rubbed coarse sand to raise a better scar. At that moment Gyva approached him and offered bread. Grinning, he caught her free hand in his own and pressed her fingers down upon the wounds of honor.

  “Now I am blessed indeed,” he said, and for the first time there was a quiver of good feeling in the council wigwam.

  Surprised and discomfited—there was something about Hawk she had never liked, not even when they were children—Gyva dropped her eyes. The incident—no, it was not even that, it was but a gesture—passed quickly away, and the men turned back to grave talk. But when the maiden looked up, she felt other eyes upon her. Torch seemed to be studying her, in a manner she had not seen before. What good fortune it had been for Hawk to take her hand and press it so hard against his flesh! It had been a gesture to open Torch’s eyes, to see her as she was, to see her as desirable to other men. Nor did he press her with his gaze, but turned his attention once again to the deliberations.

  “I am proud of the scalps you have taken,” Four Bears managed to say. “And for a young brave to be blooded is a great thing, of which to be most proud. But…” he seemed to choose his words carefully “…but we must now contrive a new approach for the future. The raids upon which we have embarked for the past years have not made us safe. With each, we are left more and more in jeopardy, and with fewer warriors to protect us. I must take counsel with you on these matters. What are your thoughts?”