Judith E. French (9 page)

“Yes, of course I mean them.”

“Good. This one, Willow, help you go.”

Fiona sighed. “Wolf Shadow won’t—”

“You have brother?”

“No, but-”

“Brother not always know right. You leave is right. Willow help Fiona go back to English. When Fiona gone, Wolf Shadow understand.”

“You’ll really help me escape?” Her mouth felt suddenly dry. “It won’t put you in danger, will it?” Fiona remembered Wolf Shadow’s terrible anger against the Seneca. She wouldn’t willingly unleash that temper on anyone. “He wouldn’t—”

“Pah.” Willow shrugged. “This one be sister. What he do? Shout. Make anger, then think. It better you go. Tonight.” She stood up. “Come to my wigwam. This one say is better, Shawnee people no talk-talk behind hand about shaman and red-haired Englishwoman.” She looked into Fiona’s face. “You have trust Willow?”

Fiona nodded. “Yes, I have trust. As you say, this is the best for us both. Once I’m gone, Wolf Shadow will understand that.” Pushing back her doubts, she straightened her shoulders and followed Willow out into the cold, bright morning.

 

The next few hours were pleasant ones for Fiona. Willow’s earlier frosty attitude had completely vanished, and she guided Fiona around the Shawnee town, introducing her to friends and relatives. Fiona’s patient, Sage, welcomed both women into her wigwam and shyly offered Fiona a bracelet of delicate blue shells as payment for her healing.

“For thank help,” Sage murmured softly. “No pain.” She made a rocking gesture with her arms. “Ba-bee make kick. Is good.” Her round face crinkled with joy.

“Yes,” Fiona agreed. “It’s very good. But you must take care. Do no lifting, and get lots of sleep. I will cherish your gift.”

Willow translated, and Fiona was rewarded with a huge smile from her patient. Sage said something in rapid-fire Algonquian, and Willow nodded. “She says you have magic hands—hands of healer.”

Sage motioned toward a deerskin rug and invited Fiona to sit down.

The three women sat around Sage’s fire pit and communicated with a mixture of English, Shawnee, and hand signals. Their grateful hostess offered them bowls of delicious hot turkey broth, which they enjoyed while Sage’s adorable toddler played peek-a-boo with Fiona.

“This wouldn’t be the turkey that nearly attacked me when your shaman brought me to the village?” Fiona asked.

Willow covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. “No.
Pa-la-wah
is ...” She spread her fingers and searched for the elusive English word. “No eat. Play . . . feed. Is ... friend bird?”

“A pet,” Fiona supplied. The Indian women nodded vigorously and giggled again, as though the thought that someone would eat that particular turkey was ridiculous.

Fiona turned the beautiful bracelet on her wrist, thinking how mistaken she’d been to call these people barbarians. As they’d toured the camp earlier, she’d seen several old people, so feeble they could hardly walk. Each one was clean and warmly dressed, obviously well cared for; all were treated with the utmost respect.

Fiona had also held a child with shriveled legs and a blind stare in her milky sloe eyes. The girl was so badly handicapped that she was unable to feed herself and had to be tended like an infant. Still, her mother had taken the trouble to braid beads into her crow-black hair and adorn the child with a necklace of copper bells and an intricately sewn headband. High beaver moccasins with a quillwork design of exquisite red and blue birds covered the little girl’s twisted feet.

Fiona smiled as she remembered those birds. Beautiful bright colored shoes for a child who could never see the colors. The moccasins had cost her mother many hours of tedious labor. Yet the birds were not wasted; they proclaimed to all who could see that here was a child who was dearly loved.

As a physician, Fiona knew how hard it was to keep such a child alive. It required more than a mother’s devotion. Someone had hunted meat for this child, had trapped the beaver to make her moccasins and skinned the deer to make her dress. Some man—a father, an uncle, a grandfather—had protected mother and child from wild beasts and enemies. Such concern for a child who could never be of use to the tribe proved to Fiona that the Shawnee were a people of great compassion.

In Europe such afflicted children were usually allowed to die at birth. Fiona had heard of crippled and blind infants being sold for use in begging, and she’d seen their poor little bodies abandoned in alleys and on roadsides.

“That child,” she said, breaking into Willow’s conversation with Sage. “The little blind girl ...”

“Ah-lahk-wah?” Willow smiled. “Star.”

“I didn’t know that Indians allowed such babies to live.”

Willow’s eyes grew large in disbelief. Quickly she translated for Sage, and the pregnant woman gasped. “Who say such evil?” Willow demanded. “Shawnee love Star. Love all child. Child is ... is gift of Great Spirit. Child no belong mother, father. Child belong Wishemenetoo. Child loan to mother

... loan to father. Must love. English no love such child?”

“Yes, some mothers and fathers do,” Fiona answered, “but still it is hard for some to care for such a crippled child.”

“Star no born of Acohqua, her mother. Star born of Delaware woman. Woman die when Star born. Acohqua, Singing Kettle, take baby for self. Love Star.”

“Singing Kettle adopted the child?” Fiona wasn’t certain she’d understood. Was it possible that the Shawnee woman had willingly accepted the burden of such a child?

Sage and Willow both nodded fervently. “ ’Dopt,” Willow agreed. “Delaware woman—we no say name of dead—friend. Singing Willow promise friend she care for Star.”

“Aiyee.” Sage pulled her own healthy baby boy into her lap. “Acohqua love Ah-lahk-wah.”

Fiona sighed. “Acohqua must be—” She broke off as a cold draft touched her neck. She turned to see Wolf Shadow standing just inside the wigwam. Startled, she blinked, not certain he’d still be there when she looked again. How had he entered the hut barely an arm’s length away from her without making a sound?

“I would speak with Fiona,” he said abruptly.

“She stay my wigwam,” Willow informed him. “Is better. Village no whisper behind hand.”

He stared down at Fiona. For an instant their eyes met, and she was nearly overwhelmed with a rush of longing to be held in his arms again . . . to taste his skin ... to feel his hands on her body. If only there was some way, she thought. Some way to close the gap that divided their worlds. Then he crushed those fragile yearnings with a scowl so stony that Fiona shrank back as though he had struck her.

“Yes. It is better,” he said in frigid tones. “I don’t have the time to watch after a white woman.” Wolf Shadow turned his attention to his sister. “A messenger has arrived from Wanishish-eyun. Ross Campbell will bring an English delegate from the Maryland Colony to the High Council meeting. Ross Campbell promises his Delaware cousins will also come and listen.” He glanced back at Fiona. “It may be that Ross Campbell can find a solution to your problem. He is only half white, and he has always been a trusted friend to the Shawnee. After the council meets, I will speak to him of you. If anyone can get your indenture without bloodshed, it will be this man.”

“When is this meeting?” Fiona asked.

Willow made a sound of derision. “My brother try call chiefs many moons. Some say yes they will. But they no come. Some . . .” She shrugged. “Matiassu—”

“I will deal with Matiassu in my own way,” Wolf Shadow insisted.

Willow laid one palm over the other and slid her hands apart in a sign for an abrupt ending. “Matiassu must die,” she said. “You kill, then call council.”

“Shawnee does not kill Shawnee,” her brother chided.

Willow sniffed. “I think Matiassu now more Seneca than Shawnee. He forgets his people. Forgets our laws. You kill him before he kill you.”

“If I must kill Shawnee to unite the People, then I’m a bad shaman and not worthy of the title. I’m going with He-Who-Runs and Two Crows to Tuk-o-see-yah’s village. Moonfeather is there. It may be that with the aid of the peace woman I can convince Tuk-o-see-yah to host the High Council meeting.” He flashed his sister a smile. “Not only is Tuk-o-see-yah one of the most respected of the Shawnee chiefs, he’s also Matiassu’s grandfather.”

Willow stood up. “You’re certain Moonfeather will help?” she asked in Algonquian. “Our peace woman has a white husband, and her daughter is half white. What makes you certain she’d back an alliance that may have to fight the English?”

“Her heart is Shawnee,” he answered in English.

“She will side with us.”

“I don’t understand,” Fiona said. “Who is this Moonfeather, and what is a peace woman?”

Willow seemed surprised.
“Engliskmanake
no have peace woman?”

“No.” Fiona reluctantly looked at Wolf Shadow for an explanation.

“Among the Shawnee are born certain women, usually descended from the same family line,” he said. “From childhood they are trained in the skills of healing with herbs.” He raised a dark eyebrow. “This is complicated. Are you certain you want to hear it?”

Fiona stiffened. “I asked you, didn’t I?”

“A peace woman may have certain powers over the supernatural that ordinary women do not. She is born for the honor, but it takes many years for her true ability to develop. She must be wise and unselfish. She must put the good of the Shawnee people—all the people—above her own desires. Once a peace woman is recognized by the elders, she may act as a judge to settle domestic disputes. She can perform secret women’s ceremonies as well as those having to do with the family. She can name newborn children and marry couples as well as offer prayers for the dead.”

“But that be not her great service,” Willow said. “She is first a peace woman. She say, ‘Go to war,’ warriors take up tomahawk. She say, ‘Stop war,’ men fight no more.” Willow’s eyes flashed with pride. “Life comes from woman, not man. Only woman say, ‘Stop war.’ ”

“This Moonfeather can stop men from killing each other?” Fiona asked in disbelief.

Wolf Shadow shrugged. “In theory. The council may decide to attack an enemy, but if a peace woman opposes the war, there probably won’t be one. There are many stories told around our campfires of battles ended by such women.”

“And you think this one, this Moonfeather, will help you convince the chiefs to unite the Shawnee?”

“I do.”

“You’re going to this Tuk-o-see-yah’s village?” she said. “Is it far?”

“Not far.” He turned away, toward the entrance, then stopped and looked back at her. “Trust my sister. She’ll look out for you.” Before she could answer, he had ducked through the deerskin and was gone.

“Wishemenetoo protect him,” Willow murmured. Sage echoed the sentiment in her own tongue.

Fiona stared after him, wondering what she should do. He’d said it was possible this Ross Campbell could help her get free from Jacob Clough. If she waited ...

“Tonight,” Willow said in English. Fiona glanced back at her, and Willow nodded. “Tonight,” the Indian woman repeated. “You go now, before too late.”

Fiona drew in a deep breath. Willow was right. It would be best if she took this chance. Who knew if and when another opportunity to escape would present itself? She couldn’t depend on Wolf Shadow or his promises. He’d made it clear what he thought of her.

“Aye,” she murmured, “tonight.” She’d never depended on a man before. Anything she’d gotten out of life, she’d gotten by making her own decisions and taking her own chances.

A pang of regret surfaced in the back of her mind, but she ruthlessly pushed it away. She had to go, and go quickly, before she made a bigger fool of herself . . . before she became more deeply involved with a man who would never love her. “Before it’s too late,” she echoed, but she knew in her heart that it was already too late. No matter how much time or distance she put between them, she would never forget Wolf Shadow or cease to yearn for the sound of his voice . . . or the feel of his arms around her.

T
he frail birchbark canoe danced across the sparkling surface of the river, moving faster than Fiona had dreamed possible. Along the banks, the winter-barren trees seemed to fly past as the two Shawnee raised and lowered their paddles in unison, digging deep into the clear cold water and driving the canoe along. They’d not slackened their pace since the early hours of darkness the night before.

Willow had led Fiona to the river and pointed to the broad, muscular warrior in the stern of the canoe as she pushed the boat out into the current. “Fat Boy speak English some. Good man—brave. You not be afraid.” The warrior’s round face was inscrutable; he’d not changed his expression or said a single word to Fiona since she’d climbed into the boat.

The other member of her escort party was the village sentry, the boy Wolf Shadow had called Beaver Tooth—the one who’d asked the shaman if she was wearing a red wig. Beaver Tooth was friendlier than Fat Boy, but the youth spoke no English. The most he could do was to turn and smile at her every hour or so.

Willow had promised that these two men would guide her safely to a white settlement. She’d explained that both were close friends of Wolf Shadow, but that they agreed with Willow that the shaman would be far better off if Fiona returned to her own people.

It was now midmorning, and Fiona wasn’t certain if she could go much longer without relieving herself. She shifted nervously and pulled her blanket closer around her shoulders. Her toes and ears were numb with cold, and her bottom was sore. She was used to discomfort, but she hoped she wouldn’t shame herself by wetting her shift in front of these men. Stubbornly, she set her teeth together. Hell could freeze over before she’d beg these stoic savages to stop and let her go in search of a private spot.

About a quarter of an hour passed. The only movement on the river, other than the swift-moving canoe, was a swooping hawk. Then, abruptly, the waterway made a sharp bend to the left around an outcropping of gray rock. Just beyond the hulking stone barrier, Beaver Tooth lifted his paddle and laid the dripping blade on the bow of the canoe. Almost in unison, Fat Boy steered the boat up onto a sandbar.

“We stop,” the hulking warrior rumbled.

Beaver Tooth sprang out of the canoe and pulled it up on the yellow sand. Grinning, he offered Fiona his hand and assisted her ashore. The canoe was so light she was able to climb out, surgical case in hand, without even wetting her leather shoes.

Waving her on into the trees ahead, the youth helped Fat Boy lift the canoe and carry it up the slight incline. Fiona watched as they concealed the boat with fallen branches and returned to the sandbar to erase their tracks. Not waiting to ask permission, she took the opportunity to hurry ahead into the woods and ease her kidneys. When she returned, Beaver Tooth and Fat Boy were waiting for her. Between them, they carried everything that had been in the canoe.

Fat Boy led the way up a narrow trail, heavily marked with deer tracks. Fiona followed them a few hundred yards to a sheltered spot beside the rocky outcrop that had jutted into the river. In just minutes, the men fashioned a tiny hut of green saplings with a deerhide cover. Beaver Tooth spread another hide on the leaf-covered ground inside and motioned from Fiona to the completed structure. She glanced at Fat Boy to be certain of Beaver Tooth’s meaning.

“You,” he replied in flat, almost mechanical English. “You eat, sleep.” He pointed up at the sky with a square, thick finger. “You ... wigwam. Night come, we go.” He imitated paddling the canoe with his massive arms.

The youth unrolled a skin bag and offered Fiona corncakes and a bark container. She removed the lid and stared at the lumpy gray-brown contents. Beaver Tooth took a pinch between his fingertips and put it in his mouth.

“Eat,” Fat Boy instructed her. “Pemmican. Good.”

Fiona swallowed hard and shook her head. “No, no thank you,” she stammered, wondering what the god-awful mess was. “Bread is fine, thank you. I’m not really very hungry.”

“No,” Fat Boy said, opening a similar box and beginning to chew the lumpy mixture with gusto. “Is meat, berry. Good. Make strong.”

Tentatively, Fiona tasted the pemmican. It was strange, but not unpleasant. She crunched a dried berry between her teeth and slowly began to eat. By the time she’d finished half of her meal, the boy had returned from the river with a gourd of water. She finished in silence and crawled into the miniature wigwam, taking her medical box with her. Covering herself with a blanket, she curled into a ball. She was certain she was too apprehensive to sleep, but the rich food and warmth soon made her drowsy.

When she opened her eyes again, it was so dark she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. She held her breath and listened, trying to remember where she was. Cautiously, she pushed aside the skin and peered out into the misty blackness. The night air was damp against her cheeks; the wind had been replaced by a creeping fog. The waxing moon was hidden by masses of thick clouds.

Where were Beaver Tooth and Fat Boy? Had they deserted her? Had they treated her with such kindness merely to lull her into trusting them so that they could leave her alone in the wilderness? “Beaver Tooth?” she called softly. “Is anyone there?”

A twig snapped, and Fiona froze. Thoughts of ferocious beasts sent shivers down her spine. She held her breath and listened. There was no sound but the pulsing of her own blood in her ears.

She reached up to touch her amulet. The gold necklace felt hot against her fingertips, and she began to tremble. Twice before she’d received the same impression from her charm, and both times she’d been in great danger.

Saint Anne, protect me, she prayed silently. Her fingers felt clumsy as she fumbled for the latch on her surgical kit. It seemed to take forever to lift the lid and grope for the handle of her largest scalpel. “Whoever’s out there, I warn you—I’m armed,” she called out in Gaelic. As soon as the bold words left her lips, she realized how foolish it was to threaten the unknown in a language they couldn’t possibly understand. She repeated her challenge in English.

An unearthly cry—like a dying woman’s scream— sounded from the forest, then reverberated from tree to tree through the thick fog.

The hair on Fiona’s neck raised, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth and bit down until she tasted blood. She crouched in terror, not daring to move a muscle.

The horrible shriek came again, closer this time. Waves of dizziness threatened Fiona’s consciousness. Nothing of this earth could make such a sound.

Banshee . . .
banshee,
whispered the mocking voice in her brain.
The undead make such an outcry.

Fiona bit her injured lip harder.

Run! Run!
the voice urged.
Run for your life . . . or your immortal soul.

But an older instinct for survival bade her remain motionless. She stared into the mist, suddenly aware of a huge golden form moving toward her on stealthy clawed feet. She blinked; once, twice. Her breath caught in her throat as the head and body of a huge cat materialized from the fog. An acrid scent of musk and rotten meat assailed her nostrils; simultaneously she heard a deep, rumbling growl. A lion!

“Meshepeshe!”
A familiar human voice rang out from the far side of the campsite.

Fiona’s heart thudded wildly. It was Wolf Shadow. She didn’t understand where he’d come from or what he was saying, but she would know that deep, rich timbre in the pits of hell. “I’m here,” she answered. Relief flooded over her. He’d come to rescue her again. She didn’t know how he’d managed it, but her faith in him was so great that she didn’t question it.

“Shhh, don’t move a muscle, Fiona. Stay where you are, and don’t make a sound.”

Fiona couldn’t tear her gaze from the monstrous apparition. She heard Wolf Shadow, but he was out of her line of vision, beyond the big cat; his fog-distorted voice seemed to come from far away. Was she dreaming him, or was the stalking beast in front of her a nightmare?

“Meshepeshe,”
he repeated, entreating the cat to turn toward him. “Come,
meshepeshe.”
He called the cougar with soft, sweet words of endearment, like a suitor calling his beloved.

Fiona watched as the big cat’s eyes caught a flicker of light from the fog-shrouded moon and glowed green in the darkness. For an instant, the mountain lion crouched low to the earth, its long ropelike tail swaying back and forth. Then it lifted its massive yellow head and snarled, exposing long white fangs.

Fiona clutched her amulet with one hand and the scalpel with the other as her mind went blank. She stared into the face of death.

The cougar sprang.

Uttering a growl as fierce as that of the animal, Wolf Shadow dashed toward the cat.

The mountain lion twisted in mid-air, touched the ground with a single hind paw, and launched itself onto Wolf Shadow. They slammed into the earth with a loud thud and rolled over and over, man and screaming cat indistinguishable in the blinding fog.

Fiona scrambled out of the shelter and flung herself across the clearing, scalpel in hand. She’d not gone three feet when a musket roared inches from her face. Her ears ringing from the explosion, Fiona staggered back into the arms of a man.

Startled, she screamed and slashed out at him with her scalpel. The surgical instrument struck something soft, and she heard a man’s groan of pain before iron fingers closed around her wrist. She struggled wildly, trying to get free, but he tightened his grip until the scalpel dropped from her numbed fingers.

“Be still,” a gruff voice ordered. Fiona ducked her head and butted it into her captor’s chin. He released her wrist, and she ran to where the dead cougar and Wolf Shadow lay. Trying to hold back the tears, she went down on her knees and reached for Wolf Shadow, crying his name over and over in her terror.

Her hands encountered fur and teeth. “Don’t be dead,” she pleaded. “Please, please, don’t be dead.” Frantically, she tugged at the heavy head of the cougar. Hot blood soaked her bodice and skirts. “Wolf Shadow,” she murmured. She would not let him die like this . . . die to save her.

Fiona was vaguely aware of men around her in the fog. She heard the strange syllables of their Indian language, felt their dark-skinned hands on her as they tried to pull her away.

Her physician’s mind knew that her efforts were futile. Frail human flesh was defenseless against raw animal fury. All her life, Fiona had been a practical woman. She had known that the minute the shaman turned the cat’s attack from her to himself, he was a dead man. She knew, and yet she continued to struggle with the mountain lion’s carcass. Until she found no pulse—until she laid her cheek against Wolf Shadow’s lips and found no breath of life—she couldn’t rest.

A torch flared behind her, illuminating Wolf Shadow’s bloodstained face. He lay still ... so still . . . as still as death. Sobbing, she crawled to him and cradled his head in her lap. “Shhh, shhh,” she whispered, not knowing or caring what nonsense fell from her lips. “It will be all right.” She wiped away the blood on his face with the hem of her skirt.

Wolf Shadow’s face, for all the crimson gore, was unmarked by the cougar’s teeth or claws. Fiona touched his lips with her fingertips and grimaced when she found them motionless. “Mother Mary help him,” she whispered as she continued her examination, feeling for the pulse in his throat. Fiona gave a strangled sound of joy. Wolf Shadow had a pulse; it was thready and slow, but blood still coursed in his veins.

“Enough woman.” A strange brave’s face scowled into hers. He gripped her shoulders and yanked her to her feet. “What use has a white woman for a Shawnee moon dancer?” he demanded. His gruff voice was heavily accented and full of authority.

“He’s mine,” she replied instinctively. She glanced from the stern warrior to the man lying sprawled beneath the cougar. “I’m a doctor. You must let me help him.” The brave shoved her back away from Wolf Shadow, and she noticed that blood trickled from his right forearm.

“You lie, Englishwoman,” the Indian retorted. He raised his muscular arm and sucked at the wound, then spat the blood on the ground. “The shaman., Wolf Shadow, has no woman. If he had a woman, she would not be white.” He smiled coldly into her face. “I, Matiassu, great war chief of the Shawnee, claim you as a spoil of war.”

“No!” Fiona glared back at him. “I’m not lying. I belong to Wolf Shadow. He captured me from the English.” And then—inexplicably—she said the only thing that came into her head. “We are husband and wife.”

“Liar.” The man struck her shoulder with the flat of his hand and knocked her backward.

Her head hit the trunk of a tree, but she never felt the pain. “I am,” she shouted, repeating the lie with brazen audacity. “I am the wife of the shaman, Wolf Shadow.”

Fiona’s words penetrated Wolf Shadow’s agony and echoed in his head.
I am the wife of the shaman, Wolf Shadow.
He groaned and opened his eyes. “Do you think the two of you could stop arguing long enough to get this cougar off me?” he said in Algonquian.