Cherokee Storm (28 page)

“Oona believes the child is her own,” Snowberry said. “No one can take Acorn from her. She has cared for the baby since she first laid eyes on her.”

“Acorn loves her as well,” Blue Sky said. “In Oona's arms she will take food, and she sleeps. Oona's spirit has healed the child's broken one. She has given the baby back the will to live, so perhaps it doesn't matter whether she speaks or not.”

“We didn't think she should bring Acorn to a sick house,” Snowberry repeated. “But no one could get her to leave the baby.”

“Oona,” Shannon said, taking her stepmother's hands. “Do you remember me?” The gaze that met hers seemed almost blank. “Oona, please. You know so much about making sick people well. Storm Dancer was shot with a poison arrow. Can you help him?”

Shannon motioned to where he lay sprawled, eyes closed again, so still that she could hardly see his chest rising and falling with each breath. “What can we do, Oona?”

Intelligence flickered in her eyes as Oona moved to Storm Dancer's side. She touched his forehead, leaned close and smelled his breath, and pressed a palm to his throat.

“He's very sick,” Shannon said.

Oona ran her fingers over his skin. She untied the bandage on his arm and inspected the injury. Fresh blood seeped out. Oona sniffed the wound, made a clicking sound, and turned to Snowberry.

“She wants something,” the older woman said. “What is it? What do you need?”

Oona's mouth moved, as though she was fighting to find the words, but only unintelligible sounds came out.

“Bring what you have in your medicine chest,” Firefly said.

Shannon looked around. She hadn't noticed when Storm Dancer's mother entered the cabin, but she stepped aside to allow her access to his bedside.

Firefly leaned close and whispered in his ear. He raised one hand and took hold of her wrist. “What is it, my son? What do you want?” she begged.

“Pr…Priest,” he managed.

Firefly's eyes widened. His fingers bit into her flesh, loosened, and fell away.

“Priest.”

Firefly glanced at Shannon. “I must go. Stay with him. Keep him with you. Do not let him slip away.”

“I won't.” Shannon took hold of his hand. “Please,” she murmured. “Fight, Storm Dancer. Fight as you have never fought before.”

Ignoring her presence, Oona returned to her patient and removed the poultice that covered the inflamed wound on his thigh. Green pus oozed from the hole.

Firefly took Oona by the shoulder. “I sucked out as much of the poison as I could,” she said. “But we didn't get to him in time. Now, I fear it's too late to draw the poison. I fear…”

Shannon knelt beside the bed. She took Storm Dancer's face between her hands as she had earlier and breathed into his mouth. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you, and I won't let you go.”

Minutes passed as women moved in and out of the lodge bringing various herbs, roots, and plants. Oona built up the fire and heaped skins on Storm Dancer. She brought a gourd containing a dark liquid, pushed it into Shannon's hands, and motioned for her to give it to him.

He was so weak, he could barely swallow. Drop by drop, using a bit of hollow reed to drip it between his lips, Shannon administered the foul-smelling concoction. All the while, she prayed silently for God to let this good man live. She would do anything to save him; she would pay any price.

When the gourd was empty, Snowberry offered a basin of water and a bit of cloth. “Wipe him down,” she instructed. “We must get his fever to drop.”

There was a stir in the doorway, and two men entered with Firefly. “This is Flint,” she said to Shannon, “Storm Dancer's father.”

Shannon looked up into the sorrowful gaze of a tall, handsome man with features much like those of his son. “Flint,” she said in acknowledgment.

“And this man is Travels Far,” Firefly said.

Shannon glanced at the short, broad-faced Cherokee in the yellow turban, fringed hunting shirt, and leggings. She was about to greet him courteously, when she saw something unusual in his appearance. His eyes were not the walnut brown of the Indians, but a steely blue, and the shape was all wrong. And when she looked more closely, she saw that beneath the tan his skin was as fair as her own. “Are you a white man?”

He smiled. “Long ago, I was. An imperfect one.” His English was measured and heavily accented, as if it had been a long time since he'd used it. Reaching inside his shirt, Travels Far pulled out a chain with a silver crucifix suspended from it. “Once I was called Father Luke. Men knew me as a priest in Charles Town in the South Carolina Colony.”

“A holy father?” Shannon asked in disbelief.

“Long ago, I left that life. For many years, I have considered myself to be
Tsalagi.
I am a poor sort of priest. I have a Cherokee wife and children. But since my holy father in Rome never stripped me of my office, I believe I still hold the authority to marry you to this man. If it is what you wish.”

“Marry us?”

“My son is dying,” Flint said. “He wishes to make you his wife, so that if you carry a child, none can say that it has no name.”

“I don't understand,” Shannon stammered. “I thought that all children born to the Cherokee were legitimate. I thought…”

“For your sake,” Firefly said. “My son has his own religion. But for you, for your belief, he wishes to make you his wife in the Christian faith. He was christened in the Jesus religion as a babe. He should be acceptable to your—”

“If you wish to become the wife of this man, he is most acceptable,” Travels Far said. “I have known him since he was a child. There is no better man.”

“The question is, do you want to marry him?” Firefly asked.

“Of course, I do,” Shannon said. “But he isn't going to die. I won't let him.”

“Let us begin at once,” Travels Far said. “Knowing you are united in holy matrimony may give him the strength to fight the poison, but it will also join you to him so long as you live.”

“Do you love my son enough to enter into this union?” Flint asked.

“I do,” Shannon said. “Yes, I do.”

Travels Far hung a beaded silk sash around his neck and took a small wooden case from a pouch on his belt. “First, I will give him last rites,” he said. “In case the Creator has other needs for him.”

“He's not going to die,” Shannon repeated. “He can't die.” She turned to Oona. “Tell me that he's going to get better!”

Oona took a deep breath and shook her head. Her expression spoke louder than words to Shannon. Oona had lost all hope of saving him.

Shannon crossed her arms over her chest and knotted her fists. If she let the tears flow, there would be no stopping them. She felt empty, already dead inside, but she knew she had to remain strong for him. And she would not give up hope. So long as Storm Dancer drew breath, she would fight for his life.

“Is there any chance you could be carrying his child?” Firefly demanded.

Shannon felt her cheeks grow warm. “Yes, but—”

“Then the sooner the two of you are man and wife, the better.”

“I thought you hated me,” Shannon said. “You believed that I was a thief and—”

“You must still stand trial before the council,” Firefly replied. “But that can wait. What matters now is that you ease my son's spirit. He has asked me to see that you become his, and I cannot deny what may be his last wish.”

“My daughter?” Travels Far said. “If you would take his hand.”

And silently, Shannon did. And there, in the smoky lodge, in a Cherokee village deep in the mountains, in the shadow of death, she became the true wife of Storm Dancer, the man she loved more than life itself.

Shannon spent her wedding night wiping Storm Dancer's fever-racked body with cool cloths, and dripping water and Cherokee medicine between his lips, one drop at a time. Outside Firefly's cabin, the mournful cadence of Cherokee drums and the chanting of women offering prayers for Storm Dancer's life filled the fog-shrouded streets of the village.

Sometime in the night Egret Hatching, the village healer, returned, conferred with Oona, brought additional herbs to add to the kettle, and then, obviously exhausted, retired to her own home. Although Oona and the aging medicine woman exchanged no words, Shannon could see that the Cherokee wise woman approved of Oona's care of the patient.

Through the long hours, Oona remained at Shannon's side, always silent, keeping the fire hot, placing hot poultices on Storm Dancer's thigh wound and brewing medicine to strengthen his heart and ease his breathing. Reluctantly, Oona had allowed Blue Sky to take little Acorn to Snowberry's lodge. The baby fretted at being parted from her, but Oona seemed to understand that the child would be better away from Storm Dancer's sickbed.

All the while, Shannon talked to him, telling him how much she loved him, promising that they would be together, and urging him to fight the poison in his system. Twice, Shannon was certain she had lost him. At dawn, his breathing had become so labored that Oona had placed blankets beneath his head and shoulders to elevate his head.

It was so hot in the cabin that Shannon's clothing and skin were damp with sweat. Her eyes burned, and her back ached from bending over Storm Dancer, but she would not leave him. “Live, darling,” she whispered. “Live for me. Live for the children we will have together.”

At midmorning, Flint entered the cabin. Oona glanced up at him and then left the house. Flint approached his son and stood looking down at him.

“He's not going to die,” Shannon repeated, more for herself than for him. She should have been intimidated by this man, Storm Dancer's father, but she wasn't. She found his presence oddly comforting.

“If my son dies, you will be free to do as you wish. You may claim a home here with us, or I will take you East to your own people.”

“I don't think Firefly wants me here. She's put me on trial for stealing a Corn Mask. If they find me guilty, I'll be put to death.”

Flint leaned down and brushed his son's forehead with his lips. “Only if you remain with us,” he said. “If you wish to go, there will be no trial. It will be the same as if you had been banished. You can never return, but no one will judge you.”

“I'm innocent.” She looked up into his kind face. “I don't know who did the things they accuse me of, but someone wanted me to be blamed. And that someone hid the broken mask under my sleeping pallet.”

“My wife has many faults, but she would never do such a thing. She is a good woman. Bossy, stubborn, but her heart is good. She is not your enemy.”

“He's going to live.”

“If you stay, you will have to face the council.”

“I'll face the council, no matter what.” Her insides clenched as she realized that she'd admitted that Storm Dancer might not survive, that she might lose him. She touched Flint's lean arm with a trembling hand. “I have my own honor to uphold. And I want to stay here.”

He nodded. “You have found a place among the
Tsalagi,
haven't you?”

“Oona is my family, and Snowberry, Blue Sky, and little Woodpecker. I have no one to go back to in the white world. I think I could build a good life here.”

“Even without my son at your side?”

She bit her lower lip and choked back a sob. “Since I've been a child, I've never belonged to anyone…to anywhere. I need to belong.”

“We are strangers to you, daughter of Truth Teller.”

“Not strangers,” she answered softly. “I see how much family means to the Cherokee.”

“Do you want to remain out of duty? To care for your father's wife?”

“Yes, that's part of it, but more than that, my spirit calls to these mountains, to your people.”

“And to my son.”

“Yes. To my husband.” And he was her husband, she thought. There might have been no church, no ring, and no marriage lines, but a priest had blessed their union. She and Storm Dancer were man and wife in the eyes of God.

“You must be strong,” Flint said. “No matter what comes. Your father was a strong man, a good man. You come from good stock.” He smiled. “Even if your eyes are the wrong color for a human being.”

“I'm trying, but it's hard,” she admitted.

“Yes, daughter, and this will be harder still.” He leaned and gathered Storm Dancer in his arms and lifted him. Even with his weight loss from his illness, Storm Dancer was heavy, and muscles corded on Flint's lean body.

“Where are you taking him?” she cried. “He's alive.”

Flint cradled Storm Dancer against his scarred chest as though he was a small child. “He must not die here,” Flint said. “A
Tsalagi
warrior breathes his last resting on Mother Earth, with the sun shining on his face, and the mountain breeze blowing through his hair.”

“No.” She moved in front of Flint to block his path. “I won't let you take him. I won't let him go.” But he pushed past her, crossed the room, and carried Storm Dancer out into the shimmering heat of the summer day.

His mother waited outside. Around the house stood what seemed to Shannon as every person in the village. Men and women and children, all dressed in ceremonial clothing, faces painted, and decked out in necklaces, rings, armbands and earrings. Some, including Firefly, wore elaborate engraved silver nose rings, others capes of feathers.

Shannon didn't need an explanation. Storm Dancer's friends and relatives had all come to honor him in his last minutes of life. Everyone had accepted his impending death. Standing next to his mother in all her finery, Shannon felt like a beggar in her stained skirt and vest and dirty bare feet, but she didn't care. All that mattered was her man, her beautiful husband. And no matter where they took him, she would not leave him.

The villagers formed a procession behind the four of them: Flint carrying his son, Firefly, and Shannon. Struggling under Storm Dancer's weight, Flint walked with his head high. Firefly was equally regal. No tears stained her cheeks, no emotion showed on her proud face. Only by looking deep into her eyes could Shannon see the desolation and fear hovering in the shadows. The deep boom of a water drum echoed through the cabins, the dull clacking of gourd rattles, and the high thin piping of a bone flute wailed above the quiet sobbing of the women.

Flint reached the center of the village, laid Storm Dancer gently on a raised bed of logs cushioned with pine boughs, and took a position at the foot of the bier. Firefly moved to her son's head. Dancers swirled around them, one wearing a wolf's head mask and cap, another in antlers and deerskin robes.

Shannon recognized the healer, Egret Hatching, face painted black, naked except for an apron of white feathers, a band of otter fur covering her withered breasts, and high leather moccasins. The old woman's movements were slow and shuffling as she circled the open space where Storm Dancer rested. In one hand she carried a long stick covered with shells, and in the other, a turtle-shell rattle. Egret's thin arms and legs were covered in tattoos, her hair so thin and wispy that she appeared nearly bald, but her eyes gleamed brightly in the wizened face.

The entire scene had the appearance of a dream to Shannon. Smoke rising from the four fires around Storm Dancer was not gray, but red, blue, green, and yellow. And the fog that had covered the mountain last night had become a mist that lingered beneath the trees, hung low over the cabins, and filled the gullies. Words drifted to her ears from the chanting hymns of praise the Cherokee sang.

“…Warrior…courage…faithful…honor…”

And through it all, Storm Dancer lay as though one already passed over. His features seemed carved of rock; his eyelids didn't flutter, and his arms lay limp at his sides. His hands—strong hands that had gripped a horse's reins…skillful hands that had drawn a bow…tender hands that had made love to her—were still as stone.

Shannon dropped to her knees, rested her head on his hand, and prayed silently for God to spare his life. Cherokee or English; it didn't matter. Skin color and language meant little. What mattered was that the Creator show mercy to this man…her man.

Time passed. Hours or minutes, Shannon couldn't tell. Her agony was so deep that she had lost all reference. Clouds thickened, and the pale sun vanished beneath dark thunderheads. Far off, lightning flashed. The wind picked up and it grew noticeably cooler.

The drummers and dancers did not cease their vigil. Flint and Firefly remained at their posts, unmoving. The flutes continued to play, the rattles to clack. Raindrops spattered across Shannon's arms and the back of her neck. On the far side of the gathering, Oona ran for shelter with Acorn on her back, still snug in her cradleboard. Other young mothers carried and shooed their children to shelter.

Thunder rumbled in great crashing bursts. On the next mountain, lightning struck, and a tall pine burst into flame. Shannon threw herself across Storm Dancer's chest, her tears mingling with the rain to fall on his face. “Don't leave me,” she cried. “I can't live without you.”

He coughed.

Shannon started up, just as a bolt of lightning flashed and trees exploded at the edge of the village, nearly deafening her. The smell of sulfur filled the air. Rain fell in sheets, cold and hard, biting into her skin.

“Are you trying to drown me?”

She stared at Storm Dancer's face. His eyes opened, eyes no longer lost in fever, but clear and bright. “You're alive?”

“Not for long,” he rasped. “Not if you don't get me out of this river.”

 

Storm Dancer's recovery took weeks. The cornstalks grew tall; pumpkins and squash blossomed and ripened. Children played hide-and-seek among the thick leaves of the climbing beans. High on the mountaintops, trees began to change the color of their leaves, and nights, which had been so hot and still, turned cooler. Summer had not yet released her grip on the land of the
Tsalagi,
but soon would give way to the rich harvest days of autumn.

Every day, Shannon cared for Storm Dancer in his mother's lodge. Firefly had moved out temporarily, so that the two of them could have privacy. At first, because Storm Dancer was too weak to walk without assistance, his father would come to help him out of the house so that he could sit in the sun and regain his strength.

Firefly brought broth and soups, and Oona came to deliver her medicinal teas and herbal remedies. But mostly, Shannon was alone with her husband, alone to talk, to share hopes and dreams, even to joke about his waking on his own funeral bier to find his wife and clan mourning his death.

Gradually, the color came back in Storm Dancer's cheeks, and his eyes took on their old sparkle, but the effects of the poison lingered. Much to Shannon's disappointment, they had not yet been able to resume their physical lovemaking. Instead, they lay naked, side by side on the sleeping platform, touching and caressing each other, all the while whispering sweet nothings.

She amused him by singing the Irish ballads her father had taught her, and Storm Dancer returned the favor by reciting Cherokee legends and stories. And when darkness fell softly over the camp, he played courting tunes on his bone flute and sang love songs to her in a deep and husky voice.

In the days of Storm Dancer's recovery, it seemed to Shannon as if she discovered a quiver full of new aspects to his personality. He was funny and serious, tender and fierce. She had fallen in love with a stranger; now she came to know and love her husband more with each sunrise.

The morning that he felt strong enough to walk as far as the village spring to drink and then bathe in the river with her made Shannon's pulse quicken with anticipation. Tonight, she was certain, they would make love again. And the weeks of forced separation would only make their coming together even more special.

“You'll not escape me tonight,” he promised.

She laughed and splashed water in his face. “I've not been running all that fast.”

Quick as a snake, he grabbed her and yanked her against him. A thrill went through her as they kissed, both naked as Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, both laughing for the joy of being alive and together. But as they walked out of the creek and up the bank, hand in hand, three women came out of the trees.

“It is time,” Corn Woman said.

Yellow Bead looked solemn. “You must come with us.”

The third woman was the ancient healer, Egret Hatching. “You must come,” she echoed in her high, thin voice. “It is time for the judging.”

Shannon's eyes widened with apprehension. “Storm Dancer, must I go with—”

He squeezed her hand. “You must. If we are to live among the
Tsalagi,
you must prove your innocence.”

“Have courage, daughter,” the old medicine woman whispered. “If you did not steal the mask, you will go free.”

Quickly, Shannon donned her vest and skirt and thrust her feet into her low moccasins, the ones Snowberry had helped her to sew and decorate. She glanced back at Storm Dancer. “You believe me, don't you?”

He nodded. “Of course, my heart. And soon everyone will know the truth.”

“Will you be all right?” she asked. “Are you strong enough to get back to the house?”

“Don't worry about me,” he answered.

Reluctantly, Shannon accompanied the three down the woods path, but they didn't take the fork that led to the village as she'd expected. Instead, they took the right path, went about a hundred yards, and turned right again. There, Firefly, Snowberry, and Blue Sky waited in a grove of cedars.

“This way,” Egret Hatching said.