Cherokee Storm (13 page)

As he extinguished the fire, he recited the ancient words of a potent curse his grandmother had taught him. “May you thirst and never drink. May you never see the light of sun or moon or hear the laughter of one who loves you. May your souls be lost and your names forgotten. May you never be born again so long as rains fall and the mountains stand.”

When he had left the war party, he'd gone on foot as a lone wolf hunts. A man on horseback cannot travel silently, and he cannot cross the steepest mountain or swim the swiftest mountain river. A predator could not weigh himself down with weapons or with belongings. Now that his quarry was dead, he could set off for his mother's village unburdened by unimportant things that would slow his journey.

A lone wolf travels fast and far.

Among his people it was said that a warrior in his prime could run from the Cherokee heartland to the campfires of the Iroquois far above the river the whites called Hudson in the time it took the sun to pass overhead as many times as a man had fingers on his right hand. He himself had made that journey in his eighteenth year, and the sun was still high on the fifth day when he ate roasted bear among the Seneca. On this day, there was no need for such haste, but he ran in the same manner just the same.

Storm Dancer's heart was troubled, and he must speak with Cardinal, his betrothed. He must tell her what had passed between him and Truth Teller's daughter, and they must decide what course to take.

He ran without stopping for drink or rest. He ran as though his soul depended on it.

It did.

 

As Flynn had suspected, Oona already knew that the peace between the English and the Cherokee had been shattered. Typically silent Oona had waited until they had eaten supper before sharing more terrible news. Not only had Split Cane's village been attacked, but two others, as well.

One, a smaller Cherokee settlement, had been overrun, most of the people killed, the houses burned, and the gardens and fruit trees cut down. Water Bear's town, closest to the Green Valley and Fort Hood had been destroyed as well. There, many of the men had been on a trading expedition with tribes farther west. Their families had remained to tend the crops and were left unprotected.

Through chance, a small girl and her grandmother had been in a high valley gathering berries for making dye. When the child's keen eyes had seen the party of strange white men riding through a pass below, the older woman grew alarmed. The two built a fire and the grandmother sent smoke signals into sky, warning the town.

The people had gathered their little ones and their elderly and fled into the depths of forest. They reported only one death in the village, an English thief who ransacked the shaman's lodge and violated sacred belongings. When he had ripped open a bright colored basket tied shut with leather thongs, he'd been bitten by a tame rattlesnake that the healer used in his medical practice.

“Had the men not been away, the English would have found a different welcome,” Oona finished. “None would have remained to murder
Tsalagi
at Split Cane's camp.”

“Who were they?” Flynn demanded, shoving his empty plate aside. “Who could possibly be so stupid as to want to ruin our friendship with the Cherokee nation?”

Shannon couldn't keep from asking, “Were other Indian towns attacked? What about Storm Dancer's village?”

Oona had shot her a sharp look and ignored her question. “According to Ghost Elk, white militia men from Virginia came to the fort, saying that they were seeking the murderers of a planter and his family at Pine Hill.”

“That was last fall,” Flynn said. “Archie Whiggs's plantation. That's five days' ride east from here. And I thought everyone had agreed that the killings were committed by renegades or his own slaves.”

“He was a bad master,” Oona said. “He deserved to die, but not his wife and family.”

“If any slaves had a reason to revolt, it was Whiggs's,” her father agreed. “He was a hard man. They said he beat his people and used the women cruelly.”

Oona nodded as she poured Flynn another mug of tea. “Only silver, clothing, and four horses were taken.”

“Aye. They left more in the field, along with twenty head of cattle.” Flynn slowly filled his pipe with fresh tobacco. “Most tellin', whoever did the killin' left the rifles. They didn't even burn the house.”

“Shawnee would have taken scalps and guns,” Oona agreed.

Shannon toyed with her china teacup, one of the few remaining from her grandmother's set that her mother had carried so carefully from Ireland. “Why blame the Cherokee?”

“This has more the look of men wantin' Cherokee land than justice,” her father said. Oona spoke to him in Indian and he translated. “They wanted soldiers from the fort, but the major refused. Ghost Elk claimed he saw Creek Indian scouts with them.”

“It's wrong,” Shannon protested, looking at her father. “All that killing. It's unfair.”

“The Cherokee have long memories.” Flynn pushed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “These Virginians have lit a fire that may consume us all.”

They sat late by the fire talking. It wasn't until Flynn went out one last time to make certain all was quiet that Oona turned to her. “You did not listen to me, did you? What have you done?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you think your father is a fool? If he finds out that you and Storm Dancer—”

“We've done nothing!”

Oona scoffed. “Lie to a man if you wish. Do not lie to me. You have shared a blanket with Storm Dancer. Deny it if you can.”

Shannon stared at the floor, unable to say anything in her own defense.

“His mother's village is deep in the mountains. Very strong. No white men could find it, let alone catch them unaware.”

Shannon had felt a surge of relief. “Thank you.”

“I do you no favor. And you do him no favor by forgetting who you are. Your father would kill him if he knew.”

“We knew that nothing could come of it—that we are of different worlds.”

“You knew, but you broke the laws just the same.”

“One night.” Shannon looked at her father's woman earnestly. “Was that so terrible? Are what you and Da are doing any less—”

“Is not the same!”

“You're Indian.”

“Do not try to run from what you have done.” Oona's gaze bored into hers. “I warned you.”

“Storm Dancer—”

“Keep your voice down. Your father will be back in a moment.”

“You don't understand,” Shannon whispered.

“It is you who do not understand,” Oona flung back hotly. “Storm Dancer, of all men, is not meant for you. He is a prince. A holy man. A man who is destined to save his nation. It will bring you nothing but pain and tears to desire him. And you may bring him death.”

“It's over between us anyway. It was just one night.” Shannon folded her hands, trying not to think about him, about the way he'd touched her, the way it had made her feel.

“And if you carry a red child in your belly?”

“That's not possible.” The enormous implication of the risk she'd taken suddenly enveloped her. She couldn't be pregnant. Not after one night. Hadn't she seen the merry dance the maids at the tavern had done? Nan had assured her that a woman only took if she did it with the same man for weeks. Oona was just trying to scare her.

“I hope for you that what you think is true.” Oona leaned over and banked the fire before looking back at her. “My child will be Indian. It does not matter that Flynn is white. In the eyes of your people, I am nothing. My child is nothing.”

“I don't feel that way.” She realized that it was true. Her first shock and revulsion had changed. Oona's baby would be Da's child, her brother or sister. And the color of its skin wouldn't matter. Not to her.

Oona sighed as she swept the hearth clean. “You have a heavy burden. If you have a red child, your life is over. No white door would be open to you. The English would spit on your child and call it bastard.”

“I'm not with child. I can't be. Storm Dancer—”

“Speak of him no more to me. Forget him.”

Shannon snatched a candle and retreated to her room, escaping before her father returned and saw that she was upset.

She closed the door and leaned back against it. What had she done? She wasn't stupid. She knew the risk a woman took when she slept with a man not her husband. Had she lost her mind that she'd forget reason for one night of desire?

Gall had said awful things. They couldn't be true, but what would make him be so cruel? The man who'd made love to her would never have mocked her among his own people.

Wax dripped down over the side of the pewter onto her hand. Quickly, she set her candle on the table and sucked at the finger. She gazed into the mirror wondering how Oona had known. Did what she and Storm Dancer had done show on her face?

She could see no difference in her features…no scarlet letter branded on her forehead. On the outside, she was the same. But in her heart, in her soul, everything had changed.

Staring at her own pale face, she realized it had been a lie. She had been part of a lie.

No matter the cost, one night with him was not enough….

Five days passed. No visitors arrived at the trading post, and no Cherokee came to buy goods. Flynn kept the gates locked, and when either Shannon or Oona went to the spring for water, he walked with them, eyes wary, cocked rifle on his arm.

All was quiet.

Shannon tried to keep from thinking of Storm Dancer by staying busy. She scrubbed the cabin floors, whisked away cobwebs from the rafters, and wiped, swept, and dusted every inch of her bedroom and the kitchen. When the house was spotless, she turned to the store, oiling the metal objects such as ax heads and hoes with bear grease to prevent them from rusting, and polishing the copper kettles until she could see her face in them.

Shannon girded up her skirts, rolled back her sleeves, churned butter, and started the process of making cheese. She cut grass for the cow with a scythe, brushed her pony, and cleaned and rasped his hooves. She was repairing a loose rail in the pound fence when Oona begged her to come and see what mischief her father was up to.

Shannon found him standing in a hole four feet deep and almost six feet across, perhaps thirty paces from the end wall of the cabin. He'd stripped off his vest and worked barefoot in a white linen shirt and breeches. Three hounds sprawled nearby, watching their master with interest. The one-eared female nibbled at a back paw, and Shannon noticed that her belly was swelling with pups. The two other dogs lay at ease, tongues lolling.

“What are you doing, Da?” Shannon asked.

“What's it look like? I've had a mind to dig a well inside the compound for years. Thought this might be a good time.”

Flynn's face was red; sweat beaded on his forehead and dampened the dark hairs on his forearms. The sun was high overhead, and it was too hot a day for him to be digging. If Shannon hadn't been so occupied inside the store and later with the animals, she would have noticed what he was up to earlier.

“Is what this woman says.” Oona pushed a gourd of spring water into his dirty hands. “If the well he must have, better to wait until the Harvest Moon. Only a white man would work in the high sun.”

Flynn grimaced, rinsed the dust from his mouth, and spat. “October. She wants me to wait until October. Shannon, if you see a war party swoopin' down on us, could you ask them kindly to wait until fall, after I put in a new well?”

“Oona's right. It's too hot out here for you to be digging in this hard ground. You know better than this. If it has to be dug, you should be working at dawn and sunset.”

“Got to be done. No tellin' what we're in for, what with the Cherokee all stirred up.”

“Fine.” She slid down into the hole and reached for the shovel. “At least, let me take a turn.”

“Have ye lost your mind, girl? Did you ever see me let your mother do a man's work?” Drops of water ran down into his graying beard.

“Da, what good will this do? If someone attacked us, how could we defend the post? There are only three of us.” And one a pregnant woman…She didn't say that, shouldn't have needed to. What was he thinking? This wasn't like her father. He'd always been so practical in the past.

Flynn tossed the gourd onto the grass, snatched up the shovel, and began to chip away at the hole. One of the dogs strolled over and licked at the water remaining in the curve of the gourd.

Oona's mouth tightened into a thin line. She shook her head in disapproval, rubbed at the scar on her face, and turned away. As she walked back around the cabin, she retrieved the container. The one-eared bitch rose and followed her inside.

Shannon climbed out of the hole, sat on the ground, and curled her bare legs under her. It had been too hot for stockings this morning, and she'd put on only her shift, boned linen bodice, and drawers under her oldest dress. She'd put aside the Cherokee clothing once they'd gotten home, but she had to admit that she missed the freedom of no stays and a short skirt.

The sun's rays felt warm on her face, and the sky above was cloudless. She couldn't feel the hint of a breeze. She glanced down at her father in the hole, completely exasperated with him. “Da?”

“Aye.” He was breathing hard through his mouth. Veins stood out on his temple and throat, and his knees trembled as he drove the shovel into the virgin soil. He'd tossed his hat aside along with the vest. His hair, tied into a queue, once thick and black as the devil's heart, was thinner with threads of silver. It shocked Shannon to see age advancing on Flynn O'Shea. He'd always seemed as solid and enduring as these mountains.

“Are we safe here?” she asked.

He paused, leaned on the shovel, and looked directly at her. For an instant, she caught a glimpse of uncertainty in his gaze, and that frightened her more than the lines around his eyes and mouth…more than anything he could have said. “I thought about sendin' you off to Green Valley, to be with the folks there,” he admitted.

“What? And leave you and Oona? I wouldn't do that.”

He scoffed. “You'll do as I say, girl. No place for her there, not among whites. But there's safety in numbers. You said it yourself. Three of us couldn't defend the post against a war party.”

She got to her feet and came to the edge of the hole. “Then why are you doing this?”

He threw the shovel and sighed wearily. “Damned if I know. Keepin' busy, I suppose.” He climbed up and out the edge and sat beside her. “Forgive my foul language. Doin' nothin', not knowin' what's comin', that's hard on a man.”

“We could all go someplace together.”

Flynn lifted his head. Moisture pooled in his eyes. “I've made a mess of things, Mary Shannon. I let your mother go East without me. I let you become a bond slave to strangers. And now, my lust has fathered a child that will never be welcomed among my own kind.”

Despite the heat of the midday sun, a shiver spiraled down her spine. Hadn't she done the same? Given in to lust? Taken the risk of bringing a bastard child into the world, one whose skin color would always make it an outcast among civilized folk? Involuntarily, her hand went to her flat belly, and she wondered if there might be a new life flickering there.

“Don't blame yourself, Da.”

“Do you hate me for lettin' you down? For leavin' your mother to die alone?” Pain grated through his thick Irish brogue. “I loved her, Shannon. I swear, I did. I just couldn't stomach the thought of livin' back East, in that little place, with the walls hemmin' me in.”

“These mountains remind you of home, of Ireland, don't they?”

“Sorry, it is that you never knew the beauty of it. The sun risin' over the green hills and the sweet smell of burnin' peat in the air.”

She threw her arms around him and hugged him as tightly as she could. “I could never hate you, Da. You mean the whole world to me.”

He bowed his head and leaned it against her cheek. “Go on with ye, girl. You've honey on your tongue, and that's for certain.” He pushed her away, clearly embarrassed by his show of emotion. “And you're right. Both you and Oona. I'm naught but an old fool to be diggin' a well when we've a good spring nearby. I'll take the horses and fetch some barrels of water, just to ease my mind.”

“I can help.” She got up and shook the dirt off her skirts. “And, in the fall, when it's cooler, we can find someone to help you dig that well, if you still want it.”

He dusted off his hands, and one of the hounds came to nuzzle the back of his knee. He scratched the dog behind his ears. “Maybe I'm worryin' you two for nothin',” he said. “Split Cane's people have had time to cool their tempers. If the Cherokee have tolerated me all these years, we should be all right for a while longer.”

“Da…”

“Flynn,” he corrected, getting slowly to his feet.

She smiled at him. “Flynn. I've been thinking about the baby. Oona's baby. You know there are places where Indian children are educated. I think it would be the right thing to do—to send…”

“Aye. If it's a man child, that we will do. A girl can learn at her mother's feet, same as you.”

“You don't believe in educating females?”

Flynn scoffed. “The more the better, I say. But I'd not trust her among strangers at some mission school. There's many willing to take advantage of a brown-skinned girl.”

And a white-skinned girl,
Shannon thought, but she didn't say it out loud.

“I didn't do so bad by you in learning, did I?” He crossed to the cabin porch and took down the hanging jar that held drinking water. The dogs crowded around his ankles as he dipped water into their bowl.

“No,” she agreed. “You didn't.”

Her father had given her a treasure of stories, history, and poetry. Her mother had taught her to read and write a fair hand, but Da had fired her imagination. He'd insisted she master math and memorize long Irish ballads and fairy tales that had been handed down for generations. She'd never spent a day in a formal school, but her education had surpassed that of the Klanks' oldest son who'd attended a secondary academy in Philadelphia. If Oona's baby was a girl, perhaps she could do the same for her new sister.

A little sister might be nice. She'd always wanted a sister or a brother. It was hard being an only child. She tried to picture the image of an Indian baby with her father's features, but all that she could think of was the small mischievous face of little Woodpecker at Split Cane's village. She hoped that he hadn't been hurt in the attack. He'd been adorable. She hoped Oona's child would be as bright and winning as Woodpecker.

“I mean to do the best by the babe. Born on the wrong side of the blanket or not, 'twill be an O'Shea. Whatever I leave behind when I go to meet my maker, I'll expect you to share and share alike.”

Shannon nodded. “I'd do no less.”

“You've a good heart. I can count on you to do what's right.” He scooped up another dipper full of water, leaned over, and poured it over his head. “By all the saints, that feels good,” he declared, grinning at her. “Any hotter, and you could fry eggs on my neck.”

“Which is why we told you it was too hot for you to be working in the sun.” She didn't like the dark circles under his eyes or the strained way he was breathing. Even his skin had a gray hue to it.

Flynn's mood grew serious. “If I should die before the babe is grown, Oona will manage. But if anything then happens to her and the child be orphaned, you must find an Indian family to adopt it.”

She looked at him in astonishment. “Why couldn't I raise it?”

“No. 'Tis not possible.” He hung the jar back on the hook and settled heavily onto the top step. “Among the tribes, it would be accepted. With the whites, both you and the little one would be outcasts. I'd not ruin both your lives by my sin.”

“Da, the child would be my blood.”

“Speak no more on it. What Oona and I have done is unnatural. Her babe will be Indian, no matter how light the skin.” He pulled his vest back on and fished in the deep pocket for his pipe. “You'll have your own husband and children to look after,” he continued. “A husband and little ones of your own kind. And there's an end of it.”

“It seems cruel.”

“Better a little cruelty than a lifetime of misery.” He rapped the pipe sharply on the step to knock out the ash. “Here on the frontier, things are different. This post is apart from the white settlements. But half-breed children raised among the whites are treated worse than black slaves. There is no place for them but with their Indian kin.”

Again, the fear that she could be pregnant rose in the back of Shannon's mind. What kind of woman was she that she could be so reckless? That her carnal nature could be so strong that she would risk bringing an unwanted child into the world to suffer?

“What do you think of Gall, Da?” she asked suddenly. “Would you trust him?”

“Oona doesn't, and that's a fact.” He looked at her. “Why do you ask?”

“He said something to me, and I don't know whether to believe him or not.”

“Can't say I've ever thought much about the lad one way or t'other. He's been a good customer, and he seems honest enough. What did he say?”

“Nothing important,” she lied.

“Seems it must have been or you wouldn't be dwellin' on it.”

Oona appeared in the open doorway. “Come and eat,” she said. “The Johnny cake is hot, and there is fresh butter, thanks to the cow.”

“Music to my ears,” Flynn said. “Haven't had butter on my bread since St. Patrick drove the serpents out of Ireland.”

Glad for the distraction, Shannon followed them into the house. She wished she hadn't mentioned Gall to her father. If the Cherokee had told the truth, she'd made a terrible mistake, but if he hadn't…He must be lying about Storm Dancer. But what reason would he have? She'd thought Gall was her friend. And whatever the answer, one of them had deceived her, but which one?

 

Storm Dancer came to her in the night.

She'd been dreaming about her friend Anna. In the dream, Anna hadn't died, and the two of them were sitting at the long table in the smoky kitchen of Klank's tavern eating bread and honey. Anna's feet were bare, but she was wearing a beautiful dress and a straw hat with a red feather on it. She was drinking hard cider, a joke between them, because Anna's father had been a Mennonite and she'd promised him never to touch spirits.

Anna was laughing, and they were both coughing because of the smoke from the fireplace when abruptly, Anna pointed toward the open window. Shannon looked and saw Storm Dancer beckoning to her.

“Shan-non, come away with me,” he said.

But it wasn't the window, she realized. Storm Dancer was leaning over the bottom half of the nail-studded Dutch door. The cook usually kept the top of the door open and the bottom latched to keep the pigs and poultry out of his kitchen.