Black Eagle (31 page)

Coming up onto the shelter in a crouch, it took him but a moment to determine that the shelter was empty. She was gone.

Gone? This he had not expected.

Nor could he ascertain much from the tracks left here. Certainly her emotions were excited. Certainly she was overwrought. But he didn't think her agitation was due to the Ottawa warrior returning to haunt her. His tracks were here from earlier, but there were no fresh ones.

Why would she have left? She would have been safe in their shelter, particularly so because she had been cleaning their weapons, making them ready for use. With these she would have had advantage, she could have made an invincible stand if it had been necessary.

Though he could little understand her reasoning, he set about following her trail, made more difficult by an overcast sky and the darkness of night, which had fallen all around him. But staying on her trail wasn't impossible.

On he sped, his attention on her tracks, but also alert to all around him. Now and again, he bent to trace a deep impression of a track. From these, he extracted what might be her train of thought, and he painted a picture of what he thought might have driven her from their home. Worry.

She was worried for him.

Part of him warmed to the concept. Part of him, however, wanted to scold her for putting herself in danger. But mostly, he simply wanted to find her, if only to hold her in his arms again.

But what was this? Another trail, one following
Ahweyoh
's. It was a track made by the Ottawa warrior. He was back.

No sooner had Black Eagle determined this than he heard
Ahweyoh
's scream. His blood ran cold.

He cursed himself, for the Ottawa warrior had outsmarted him. The man must have sensed he was being followed.

With his heart in his throat, Black Eagle hurled himself through the forest, his feet barely touching the ground. He saw them, up ahead. And it was a sight he thought might haunt his nightmares for days on end.

The Ottawa held
Ahweyoh
by the hair in front of him, his knife against her throat. Even in the dark, Black Eagle could see the blood dripping from the wound.

Was he too late?

The time for thinking was over. Black Eagle propelled himself into furious action. With hatchet drawn, and with a yell like the roar of a lion, he threw himself forward with such speed and force, that the Ottawa, though the bigger of the two of them, was thrown off balance.

Taking advantage, Black Eagle swung his hatchet at the man, hitting him in the forehead. It was a fatal stab. The man lurched backward. Black Eagle followed him down, the hatchet came down again on the Ottawa's shoulder, then, as though to be certain, Black Eagle stabbed him again in the head.

It was over. The Ottawa lay dead. The man would hurt her no more.

Black Eagle turned around toward
Ahweyoh
, fearing what he would find. Was she already dead?

Marisa had fallen to the ground, where she lay still. Too still. Black Eagle paced up next to her and touched her on the shoulder as if he were merely reminding her to rise up.

She groaned.

It was like music to his ears.

She turned over so that she was lying face up.

“Black Eagle?” she whispered.

“It is I,” he said, his first action being to place his fingers against the cut on her throat, to see the damage made.

He let out his breath. It was a surface wound.

Unbidden, tears streamed down over his cheeks. She would be all right.

She sat up, and at last they came together, hugging and holding onto one another as though the world might end if they were to draw apart.

He brought his head down to her, nuzzling his face against hers, memorizing the beauty of the fragrance of her hair, her skin, the sweetness of her tears. He inhaled deeply, over and over again, thankful he was alive, that she was alive.

“Is the wound bad?” she asked.

“It is only a scratch. I promise you it is no more than this,” he answered. “Come, I will take you back to the shelter and tend to the wound. And then I think it is time that I take you home.”

“Home?”

“To my home,” he said.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Home. It sounds wonderful.”

And as they knelt there in each others arms, they both cried.

 

 

The scent of the rich fields of corn, beans and squash reached the couple long before they emerged from the forest. As soon as they left the woods, however, they were immersed in the abundant fields of the Mohawk village. There was ripening corn, beans and squash as far as the eye could see, all growing together. Everywhere Marisa looked she saw bounteous rows of yellowish brown and green fields. There were few people working the fields, she noted. Here and there, in the distance, she caught sight of a woman and a child or two. But the fields looked more or less deserted at this time of day.

There was a large difference, however, between the Mohawk fields and those that were generally planted by the English. For one, there were few geometrically spaced rows. For another, all three crops—corn, beans and squash—were planted together. Indeed, there seemed to be no order to the method of planting. Plus, little black tree stumps dotted the fields here and there, marring the ongoing view of green, yellow and orange crops.

There was another alien aspect to the fields, as well. Outposts, little lean-tos raised up high on poles, were stuck deep within the fertile fields. There weren't many of them, perhaps one or two that she could easily see.

“What are those for?” Marisa asked Black Eagle, pointing toward the outpost closest to her.

“Those are used to scare crows and other birds,” he replied. “Children use them and sometimes women, too. They are built high so that one can see far distances and chase away birds or behold an enemy's approach. Sometimes, too, the figure of a man is built into the fields. And to keep the crops safe, a crow is ofttimes caught and held upside down to warn away other crows.”

“What an interesting practice,” Marisa observed. “But where is your village? All I see here are fields.”

Black Eagle pointed upward, toward a cliff set high and slightly back from the river. He said, “We build our villages on high ground and far enough away from the river, so that we can look out over the land. In this way if an enemy approaches, we are sure to spot him before he arrives.”

Again, Marisa nodded. “That is wise.” She fell into silence momentarily, then, said, “Black Eagle. Forgive me, but I am nervous. What is going to happen to me in your village?”

“You will be taken into a home and adopted by a clan,” he said, “and I will come to live with you in your new home, though your new clan might insist that we exchange gifts first, to ensure we are married properly.”

Marisa met this news with silence, then, “What if your people hate me?”

“They will love you.”

“I wish I could be so certain. Are there not some Mohawks that are allied to the French? Won't they look upon me with ill favor?”

“
Nyoh
, yes, perhaps. But they live much farther north, in Canada. There may be a few of them visiting, but they will do no damage to you while they are here.”

It sounded fair enough, but still she was unsettled, and she asked, “Black Eagle, did you have a sweetheart in the village before you left? A lover, perhaps, who will be on the lookout for you?”

He didn't answer right away. Instead his response was a question to her, and he said, “Would you be jealous if I did?”

“Maybe.”

He stopped and turned toward her, and taking her hand in his, he said, “You are now my wife. Perhaps I should be truthful and tell you that there has been a girl or two who has caught my eye. It is only natural that it would be so. But there is no reason for you to be jealous. I made no girl my wife, though I could have. Know that I have not loved another as I love you.”

“You never had a special girlfriend?”

“I did once,” he answered, “but she married another. My heart, I fear, is free.”

“Was free,” she corrected. “Then there is no one waiting for you with bated breath?”

“My mother and my sisters, perhaps.”

She shook her head. “There is something here I can little comprehend. You are a handsome man, and kind. I cannot visualize a village without a woman clever enough to have made herself a part of your life.”

“This might have happened, it is true. But the one I would have chosen to be my wife belongs to another. And I fear that my heart had barely recovered from that when the hostilities between the French and English came to our land. The hatred between these two sets of white men has disrupted our village life.”

He turned his face around, his gaze centered upward, looking toward the high ground where he'd said their village was located. “We Mohawks,” he went on to say, “are caught between these two great forces and many are the times when the English or the French have come to our village to seek our assistance to help win their war.”

“Yes,” she said, “I can imagine that the two powers would affect you adversely.”

“It is so. Long have we been at war because of the white man. Hundreds of years have passed since he came here with his wars,” he said. “There was a time—though so long ago that not even our old people can remember it—when we made our own goods, manufactured our own bowls for cooking, our own pottery, our own clothes and produced our own weapons for hunting or for war. When we did this, we Indian Nations were on an even footing with one another. We were at peace. Or so it is said. But with the coming of the white man, who brought to us his guns for killing, his metal for cooking and his trinkets to satisfy the women, our people have had to fight to stay alive. For it is well known amongst all the Indian Nations that whoever has the best arms can dominate all the tribes. No one wants to be a slave.”

“No, I should say not.”

“Once, many hundreds of years ago, it is said that my ancestors were enslaved by a tribe known as the Adirondacks. These mountains that shelter us still carry their name. At that long ago time, we had to pay them tribute. It was a hard time for my people. But we escaped them, enduring hardship, for there is one particular we Iroquois treasure above all else, and that is our freedom.”

Marisa barely knew what to say. It was a history and a viewpoint she had never known. At last, she ventured, “Then do your people hate the white man for bringing so much war?”

“Hate? Never. Instead we have allied ourselves to the white men who have treated us well. At first those people were the Dutch who settled close to Mohawk land. But then the English came and conquered them, and the treaty we had made with the Dutch transferred to the English. We have never broken it.”

“And you are close to Sir William Johnson, personally, are you not?”

“I am. I have spent many hours in his home.”

“And does he come here often?”

“He does. He is a part of our tribe. Some have even called him our white sachem.”

“A white sachem,” she repeated. “How strange that it should be so.”

“Strange, perhaps, but true. He has married among us, his children run in our fields, eat at our fires. Once an Iroquois adopts a person into the tribe, they become Iroquois, with all the rights of an Iroquois. It is as though they are reborn among us.”

“I see,” she said.

“Like you. You have a new life now, and I think that you are going to be the cause of great happiness to some family who has lost a son or daughter.” He reached out to caress his fingers over her cheek.

She smiled and leaned in toward his touch. “I hope so. But still I worry about my welcome. I know women. And I fear that the one that you once loved may be upset that you have brought me.”

“Perhaps, but I think she will be content that I have found another and that I, too, am at last happy.”

“Maybe,” answered Marisa with a sigh, “but there are some women who, though they do not want a man for themselves, will yet do all possible to keep another from having him.”

“Humph!” he grunted. “We will have to see. But if it becomes evident that this is so,” he said, “there is not a person in whatever clan it is that adopts you who would not come to your defense.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “I am still apprehensive.”

He bent toward her and brushed a kiss against her cheek before he said, “I will be there for you. Know that you have become and are now the most important person in my life.”

“Truly?”

“Truly,” he murmured the words against her cheek, before planting a sweet kiss against her lips. “Now,” he said, straightening up, “come, our scouts have already spotted us and have given me the signal to enter into the village. Come, they will have told the people that we are here, and there will be many who will be curious to meet you.”

Marisa inhaled deeply. Was she ready for this? Hardly. However, there was no going back.

Turning, Black Eagle led the way up the well-worn path to the village, and setting her pace to follow him, she trod along behind him.