“I…see… it…” Torch moaned, his words faint and far away.
“He speaks!” cried Bright Flower joyously, bending her ear to his lips.
Gyva allowed herself an instant of hope. Perhaps Torch would not die. Perhaps he would return to consciousness, recover.
The chief’s right hand moved, moved again, as if sweeping something aside, as if digging.
“Here…here it is… I…”
Then he shuddered and spoke no more, some spell broken, some chord gone. Yet he breathed.
“He is in delirium,” snorted old Teva. “I believe he has returned in his mind to the place of his vision.” She shrugged. “I hope he finds it this time, and remembers the words on the stick. We all have need of them.”
“What are you talking about?” Jackson demanded in his rough yet not uncourteous manner.
“The secret of life,” Gyva told him, telling him the vision of the golden stick.
Chula stood for a long time looking sadly down upon the suffering brave; but whether he believed that life held a secret great enough to fill visions, or was merely touched by the fact that Torch thought so, none of them could say.
“Good hunting, Chief,” Jackson said softly. “Good hunting.”
Chapter IX
Gyva arose at dawn that morning, sensing that something had happened within her soul during the course of the night. She did not at first know what it was, only that she felt a strange, unexpected peace within. Last night, around the fire in Teva’s wigwam, not even the heavily pungent smoke of the drugged pipe had been able to diminish her rage. For orders had come from Washington, D.C., and Jackson had told her: “Inform your people to prepare for the march. Tomorrow is the date of your eviction.”
Although this news had been expected, Gyva’s anger was almost uncontrollable. “Fire in the spleen will avail you nothing,” old Teva had tried to advise her. “Empty your soul. When acceptance is the only recourse, accepting is the only hope as well.”
“Hah!” Gyva had raged. In the end, she had gone back to her own wigwam, consumed by a hatred of the jackals that was so strong it seemed the whole earth would burst into flames if she but spoke the word. But now, in the morning, she felt peace, and after some puzzled moments she began to understand why. When one has lost everything, there is nothing left to lose. It is like the muttering stillness after a great battle. It is like the eerie quiet after a terrible storm.
Then she went outside, into a golden dawn that was as incongruous as this odd new quiet in her heart. The white soldiers on guard at the council wigwam, in which Jacksa Chula slept, followed her with their eyes, and one called out, “Well, if it isn’t my trail-mate.” Fes Farson. He seemed ebullient this morning. Why? What did he mean? She ignored him and walked to a much smaller wigwam, into which the dying Torch had been moved.
Bright Flower looked up as Gyva entered, and her eyes were those of a cornered animal who has determined to fight to the death.
“He lives?” breathed Gyva, barely able to rest her eyes upon the fevered form of her life’s great love.
Swallow nodded.
Gyva’s heart was torn. Torch would not be allowed to remain here. All the Chickasaw must leave. A special sling had been fashioned for the chief, that he might ride between two horses on a stretcher of saplings and leather and pelts. But she was certain that the trail would kill him. Would it not have been better, and kinder, for him to have died here in the Chickasaw homeland, to be buried in the river bank beside Four Bears, beside all the other chiefs, whose reigns stretched back and back and further back into time immemorial? Would that not have been better?
No matter now. He would be taken with them. If Ababinili intended that Torch’s death be on the trail to the west, then so be it. Ababinili had his reasons. Sad, but still with quiet heart, Gyva left Torch in the care of his wife and walked toward the council wigwam.
“An’ how’s yer boyfriend this mornin’?” Fes Farson drawled.
She did not answer. “I must see the general,” she said.
He reached out and grabbed her arm. “You know,” he said tersely, “I’m gettin’ a little tired of you. Seems like that big chief Firebrand did, too. I see he’s got him another woman. Fact is, I think I like her even better’n you.”
Gyva shook him off, gave him a look of such cold disdain that it penetrated even his dull-witted arrogance.
Jackson was drinking coffee and gathering maps and papers into a leather case when Gyva entered the wigwam. She saw what was in his eyes, and did not like it.
“I do not need your pity, nor do my people. Even more, is not pity misplaced in a man who would do what you do to us this day?”
He said nothing, but with a gesture he bade her sit, and offered a steaming mug of coffee. This she accepted. He sat down beside her. “Things are all set. Are your people prepared?”
They were, and she told him so. For many days the Chickasaw had rested their horses, gathered food, folded tents and blankets, prepared backpacks and packs to be carried by beasts. All that remained for the people was to assemble this morning in the center of the village, organize the order of march, and ride away. It will be a simple thing, she reflected, if we just do it, just do it without thinking.
“What I got to tell you,” Jackson said, after she had sipped a good measure of the coffee, “is your route of march.”
She glanced at him in surprise. “Are we not allowed to choose even that?”
He shook his head. “According to my orders, you’ve got to be escorted to the western border of Tennessee. I’m sending Farson and some of the other militiamen with you.”
Gyva could not believe it. Fes Farson would still be part of her life? She was just about to protest, but suddenly another thought came to her. If Farson had been assigned to guard her, that was the way it was meant to be. The morning’s peace did not desert her. Farson would be with her for a reason, even if she did not yet see the reason clearly.
“The men respect Fes,” Jackson was saying, “especially as how he accounted well for himself in the battle, and he’s given me every assurance none of your people will be bothered on the trail.”
“My trailmate,” Farson had said. Now Gyva understood. All right, so be it.
“When you reach the border of west Tennessee,” Jackson was saying, “you’ll run into the Mississippi River. Turn south there.”
“South? I thought we were going—”
“West? Yes. You follow the Mississippi south until you come to another river that flows into it. That’s the Arkansas. Turn west there, where the rivers meet, and follow the Arkansas home.”
“How far?”
“Far as Oklahoma.”
Gyva was startled. In her tongue okla meant “red” and houma meant “man.”
“This is an Indian land?” she asked.
“It will be,” he said. “It’s where you’re goin’, at any rate.”
“What is it like? Is it like here, with mountains and rivers and green forests into the horizon?”
He did not meet her eyes. “I don’t think so,” he offered, “but there’s plenty of room. No one will bother you there, and you won’t have all these wars and such.”
Her look was cold and regal. “Ah, but the white men will follow us there, too,” she said. “They will always follow, and there will be war again. But next time we shall not be driven away.”
He held up his hand. “No more,” he said. “The only thing I can tell you is that I will not battle against your people again. That is a promise.”
“It comes too late.”
“Most things come too late. Now, go and tell your people to get ready.”
She rose. “But we have no chieftain,” she said. “Not one in proper health to give that command.”
“Then you give the orders,” he said.
Teva agreed. “Do it,” she told Gyva, when the younger woman sought her advice. “The people respect you now, and who else will rise from our demoralization to lead? As l
ong as Torch lives, there can be no other chief.”
And so for the last time the Chickasaw people gathered in the center of the village. Skins had been stripped from the wooden frames of the wigwams, and all that was left of an ancient settlement was a jumble of stakes and bent branches, as if strange fire had swooped down in the night, to wither and consume.
Farson and his men were mounted and armed, ready to go. The Indians formed up into a long file, Torch on his stretcher, oblivious to this leavetaking, some on horseback, many more on foot. Gyva ascertained that all was in readiness, and strode to the head of the column. Here waited Torch’s white horse, with Teva holding the reins. On its back was the saddle captured long ago at Roaring Gorge, with the golden letters A. J. affixed to it.
Jackson left the council wigwam and approached.
“Take off this saddle,” Gyva ordered one of the braves.
Jackson heard the instructions and countermanded her order.
“It is yours,” he said. “A battle prize once taken fairly by a strong man.”
“I want nothing of yours,” she said, with neither heat nor defiance. It was a simple statement. “Your contributions to the life of my nation have already been more than sufficient.”
He smiled, but it was a painful smile.
The saddle was removed, and Gyva mounted bareback, pulling old Teva up behind her. She gazed at Jackson, who stood in the dust looking up at her, squinting into the sun.
“Farewell,” he said. “There are few words for tragedy.”
“No,” Gyva said, cutting him off, lifting her voice so that all could hear. The morning mood was still with her, and the march lay long and difficult ahead.
She would not have her people further assaulted by talk of tragedy and loss.
“No,” she said again, letting her hand gesture toward the rich forests, the silver river, pointing at last to the Twin Mountains, purple against the morning sky. At her belt she wore the leather pouch, and she touched it now, feeling inside it the smooth white stones with which Torch had once summoned her for loving. “Let us speak of what has been good and holy. The many moons and sunny days we have lived here will long be remembered by us. The Great Spirit has smiled upon us and made us glad. But we have agreed to go.”
She paused, her eyes still hard on those of Chula Harjo. She saw the ferocity in him, the strength. And—yes—the suffering. He, too, had suffered in life, like herself, like her people. Ignorance had harmed him, just as it had complicated her own life at times. But the hard struggle for wisdom was etched in the lines on his face; the price of courage was marked by the scar at his temple, which Four Bears had dealt. In the end, he knew as little of his destiny as she knew of her own.
“We go to a country we know little of,” she said, her voice softer now, speaking to him. “Our home will be beyond a great river on the way to the setting sun. We will build our wigwams there in another land. In peace we bid you good-bye. If you come to see us, we will welcome you.”
In silence the exodus began. The Chickasaw began to move, and Andrew Jackson watched them as they passed toward the forest, and then down along the river, westward toward home. Finally the village was empty and silent, a relic beneath heaven; and Chula Harjo, feeling quite old but not at all fierce, stood alone and listened and listened, but could not quite understand, could not quite decipher, the secret words of wisdom that were hidden in the haunting wind-voices of the high country.
Chapter X
“Why don’t you leave us now?” Gyva demanded of Fes Farson. “We are going. We shall not turn back. Your company is useless.”
Three days had elapsed since the departure from the village, three hard days of struggle on the trail. Torch still clung to life, and Gyva continued to ride at the head of the column. No one had accosted them, even though they were now in Choctaw territory. At times Gyva imagined Choctaw laughing behind trees, behind hedges, rolling on the ground in delight at the Chickasaw plight. Red Dagger’s perfidy still burned in her brain.
“Well, I’d hardly say we’re useless to ya,” Fes allowed. “Wouldn’t want the slavers to get you, would ya now?”
“Slavers?”
“Hell, I know you Injuns don’t make the best kinda slaves. Got to be whipped too much an’ it ruins your health. But even so, a good driver what knows the ropes could get a couple years work outa most of you.” He paused, snickered, and stuck a wad of tobacco far back inside his cheek. “But I did promise Old Hickory to see you safe as far as the Tennessee border. Lot of slavers in Memphis, too,” he added, winking.
Gyva knew Fes by now, knew the bizarre ambitions and impulses that shaped his strategems. He would make certain the Chickasaw reached the Mississippi, left Tennessee. He was too smart to defy Andrew Jackson. But the letter of his promise required only that he accompany the Indians until they left Tennessee. Whatever happened afterward was something else again. Did Fes plan to maneuver them into a captivity that was too horrible to contemplate, and take a profit in the bargain? Gyva wondered.
“Could be,” he was saying, “that somebody what knows the ropes might steer you safe around Memphis.”
Gyva had watched Jason bargain often enough, trading horses and cattle. She had studied Rupert Harris’s ways when he pursued his acquisitive instincts for land.
“What do you want?” she asked bluntly. “Me?”
If so, she thought, I will be the last woman he ever tries to possess.
“Maybe you,” Farson replied. “Or maybe one o’ them others.” He jerked his head, indicating the group of women not far away.
She kept her face expressionless. “You have orders to take us to the Tennessee border, and that is all. If you so much as touch a hair on a Chickasaw woman’s head, you will pay for it.”
Heavy anger gathered behind his eyes, smoldering like a bad fire. “I’ll take what I want,” he muttered. “And don’t forget, you’re in Choctaw country. What if me an’ my men was to just of kind of…sleep extra heavy one night, and not pay no attention to them Choctaws? We got the guns. You people don’t even have a bow an’ arry betwixt the whole damn lot of you. Main Choctaw village ain’t no more than two miles upwind, too. Consider them apples, lady.”
With that, he got up and stomped off. Gyva noticed, though, that he lingered in Bright Flower’s sleeping area, just watching and grinning. But Gyva had other things on her mind. Teva was unwell and needed much care. She was growing older every day, it seemed, and the trek westward took more and more of her energy. Gyva went to her wigwam and saw the witch-woman as she lay upon her blankets, worn out and weak voiced. Only her eyes were alive. The handprint on her skin was pale and dry, as if no omen-blood would pulse again beneath it.
“How is your health?” Gyva asked.
The seeress grinned ruefully, toothlessly. “All there is of my health is yours to observe. But do not think upon it, not yet. There is one thing in life I wish to see before I quit of it, and that is the look of the sun setting in the lands beyond the great river. I have heard that its appearance is quite different from sunset in the mountains. I shall live until we get beyond the Mississippi. It is all settled. I have spoken with Death. He has agreed to let me wait that long.”
“Oh, Teva!” Gyva exclaimed. “What is to become of us? Without you—”
“Without me you will be without me, and that is all. Why make a great thing of it?”
“But your wisdom, your power to see what will be…”
“Hah!” I remember a day, and not so many years ago either, in our home village when Four Bears was still chief.” Teva’s eyes clouded with memory and with the effort to remember; her voice was a pale rasp. “And in those days all seemed right with the world. Few came to me then for counsel. They did not need to. All was well.” Then she laughed, a cackle. “It is only in the bad times that they come to me, and need me, and think that my words are important. But let me tell you something, little daughter—” and now her eyes flared and burned, and scorched the far fields of Gyva’
s soul—“let me tell you, as I have always told you, that my power is as nothing. It is mist, the stuff of hope alone. You yourself have more power now, and insight, too, perhaps, than I have had since…”
Her voice trailed off.
“Since?” Gyva prodded, wanting to know.
“Since I was young!” the old crone snapped. “Like you. That is where you get your strength. Just see that you take me to the lands beyond the river. For now, let me sleep.”
“There is one other thing,” said Gyva.
“Yes.”
“We are in Choctaw territory.”
“So?”
“We are but scant miles from the Choctaw village.”
“And?”
“Red Dagger,” Gyva said simply.
The two women, young and old, looked at one another. They knew how the canny old chief had conspired to sully the Chickasaw name, to destroy the Chickasaw nation. Red Dagger’s success had been quick and savage. What glee he must be enjoying, even tonight, around his campfire. No matter that the jackals would destroy the Choctaw, too, in due course. No matter about that. Red Dagger would be laughing tonight, joking about the trail of bitter tears upon which the Chickasaw were being driven by white outlaws and adventurers.
And beyond Dagger’s dishonor in his treatment of Torch, Gyva had other reasons to hold him in contempt. It was he and his men who had killed Jason, sent her on the run so that, in the end, her son Andrew had perished as well. Certain things in life, by their very natures, emanate such evil that revenge is demanded, lest the evil grow greater. There are times when forbearance is a crime, when simple acceptance of fate is the highest of sins.
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