Savage Betrayal (38 page)

Surprised at his sudden capitulation, she stood stock still.

But Thunder Maker was not done. “You’ve changed, Sarita. Before you were taken from us, you would never have made such a rash promise to a slave; or if you’d made it, you wouldn’t have seen fit to keep it. You knew your place was far above slaves. Now you’re harder, more stubborn. Yes, you’ve changed,” he repeated, “and not for the better.”

She stared at her father. Sadly she murmured, “Thank you, Nuwiksu, for giving me the slave. As to the changes you see in me, they’re part of me now. I had to change to survive.”

She turned and stalked back up the beach to her father’s longhouse. With grim insight, she realized her father could never imagine what she had been through. She suddenly dreaded telling him of her pregnancy. She had a terrible premonition that Nuwiksu would not be as understanding as she had first thought.

On the day of the potlatch, the weather was cool, clear, and crisply autumn. Smoke drifted upward from fires on the beach. At about midday Thunder Maker called his guests together for the first meal of the potlatch. Women worked around the fires, graciously handing out dishes of succulent fish and vegetables.

All morning there had been songs and dances to amuse and impress the visitors. There had been several contests; already three slaves and two sea otter furs had been given away as prizes. The air rang with the happy cries of children and laughing adults.

Sarita looked out across the crowd gathered in her honor. Now, she thought with satisfaction, her family’s name would be restored. All the visitors were here to witness the great wealth and generosity of her father. She knew her father was constantly gathering costly items for his potlatches, but even she was surprised by the vast array he’d produced for this one. The goods piled up in his longhouse—furs, blankets, cedar mats, beautiful shells—were impressive in their magnificence. She imagined the visitors would be overwhelmed.

Thunder Maker and Abalone Woman approached, their feet scrunching the beach gravel. Her father laid a hand proudly on Sarita’s shoulder. “Our guests look happy,” he observed. “Hope you’re ready for the ceremonies this evening.”

Abalone Woman concurred with a murmur.

Sarita smiled. “Yes, Nuwiksu, I am.” She paused and inclined her head in the direction of a visiting chieftain. “Who’s that man who stares so rudely?”

Her father followed her gaze and answered, “That’s the great Kyuquot chief, Throws Away Wealth. He’s here today because he thinks I don’t have enough bounty to share with everyone. He’s hoping I’ll be shamed and embarrassed when I pass out the presents. No doubt he’s staring rudely because he thinks you, too, are about to be humiliated.”

Sarita looked up, startled.

“Little does he know,” continued her father, unperturbed, “that I have plenty of blankets and sea otter furs to give away.” He chuckled. “Throws Away Wealth is in for an unpleasant surprise.”

Abalone Woman’s laugh tinkled in the background.

“Why did you invite him?” queried Sarita.

“Unfortunately,” her father sighed, “he had many young warriors at his command and your brother pressured me into inviting him. Feast Giver thinks they’ll be useful allies in the fight against the Ahousats.” He was about to say more when Feast Giver joined them.

“The potlatch is going well,” complimented the younger man. Sarita looked around for Precious Copper. Lately Sarita had noticed that wherever Feast Giver was, so was Precious Copper. This time, however, the young Ahousat woman was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Precious Copper?” Sarita asked her brother innocently. Abalone Woman was the only one to notice the twinkle in her eyes.

Her brother glanced at her. “She’s away, for the present,” he said casually. “I thought it best that our guests don’t know she’s here.”

“Oh?”

“No sense stirring up trouble. I wouldn’t want someone carrying tales to Fighting Wolf about where his sister is.”

Sarita arched a brow but said nothing.

Turning to his father, Feast Giver commented, “I’m pleased that so many of the people I expressly invited are here today.”

Sarita watched as Feast Giver’s gaze strayed over to where the Kyuquot delegation sat. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “It won’t be long now. Those Ahousats are going to be dead men.”

Sarita involuntarily shivered at the thought of war between her family and the man she loved. Neither man noticed. Feast Giver continued, “Where did you get all the blankets and sea otter furs for this potlatch display?” He looked meaningfully at his father. “I thought we were poor. After that Ahousat raid—“

“I may not have many people left,” interrupted his father wryly, “but I do have contacts in other villages. There were a few people who owed me favors. Don’t concern yourself with where these goods came from.” With a gesture, he dismissed the subject.

“Is it enough to satisfy the Kyuquots?” asked Feast Giver. “If we can’t prove that we still control some wealth, they won’t back us against the Ahousats. I don’t trust Throws Away Wealth. I think he’s only our ally for as long as he gets something out of it.”

His father nodded. “He asked me about the mus-kets. Looks like he wants some for his own men.”

Sarita froze at Feast Giver’s next comment. “I’ll make sure the Kyuquots fire the mus-kets at the Ahousats, not at us,” he stated grimly.

He was determined to succeed in his vengeance, Sarita realized. The thought distressed her despite the grievances she held against the Ahousats. True, she had been their slave. They had stolen and killed her people. It was only right that her brother avenge such deeds. But somehow, the image of Fighting Wolf, vanquished and bleeding, lying dead, filled her with a great, numbing sorrow. No! He was too vibrant, too dynamic, too alive. On impulse, she blurted out, “Is it so important that you go off and kill Ahousats?”

Her brother looked at her strangely. She felt her father’s questioning glance, too. Abalone Woman was watching, a frown on her face.

“After all,” Sarita protested, “there have been enough lives lost. There’s been enough sorrow.”

“Hesquiat lives and Hesquiat sorrow,” stated Abalone Woman sharply.

Her brother interrupted harshly, “Do you fear for Fighting Wolf?” His question caught Sarita off guard. Was she so easily read?

Her father scowled. “Your brother must avenge our people. You can’t ask him to give up his plans.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Surely you know. We’d be the victims of every tribe on the coast. We’d be raided constantly if word got around that we didn’t revenge ourselves!”

Sarita said quietly, “But if you kill—“ she stopped. Images of Fighting Wolf, dying, flashed through her brain—Fighting Wolf, father of her child. Her hands clutched her stomach protectively. Abalone Woman saw the gesture and opened her mouth to speak. But Thunder Maker hadn’t finished.

“You can’t seriously expect that we’ll just forget what the Ahousats did to us. You, of all people, should understand.” He paused, watching her. “Have you no loyalty to your own people?”

“Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know!” Sarita’s anguish was very evident to the other three.

“What?” roared her father. “What are you saying? Have you no loyalty to us, your own flesh and blood? Your own family?”

She could see he was working himself up into a rage. Abalone Woman laid a calming hand on his arm.

Feast Giver was watching Sarita intently. “What’s the matter, sister?” he asked suspiciously.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Sarita answered in a dull voice, “I’m pregnant with Fighting Wolf’s child.”

“You what?” roared her father.

“What?” echoed her brother in disbelief.

Aghast, both stood and stared at Sarita. Abalone Woman was shaking her head, a reproachful look on her face.

Sarita nodded miserably. “I didn’t want to tell you this way, Nuwiksu,” she pleaded.

She looked briefly into Thunder Maker’s eyes, then glanced nervously about. Everyone else was enjoying the festivities. No one seemed to notice the drama taking place in her corner of the beach. Was it just her imagination that the day had darkened? There was an awkward silence pulsating among the four. Sarita looked at the ground, unable to bear the censure she read in their eyes. “I was going to wait until after the potlatch—”

“What difference would that make?” her father asked bitterly. “People would still laugh at me.”

A quick glance at Abalone Woman showed her patting Thunder Maker’s arm; obviously she was trying to keep him calm.

Sarita slowly raised her head. “What about
me
, Nuwiksu?” she asked in a suddenly stronger voice. “Or do you care only about yourself? What about my child? I don’t want to be laughed at. I don’t want my child laughed at, either.”

Thunder Maker glared at her. “Your child will be a bastard. Illegitimate children have no place among the nobles in our tribe. And they certainly have no place in my family.” His words came out cold and clipped and condemning.

He raised his arms wide, gesturing at the people crowded onto the beach. “Look around you,” he continued in that same deadly voice. “Why do you think I’ve invited all these people to a potlatch? An expensive potlatch, I might add.”

Sarita looked helplessly at Abalone Woman, who shook her head, warning silence.

“I invited them so we could restore our name.” The words shot out of him, stark and terrible. “And now you have, once again, succeeded in dragging our name through the dirt!”

“Nuwiksu,” pleaded Sarita. “It’s not as if I wanted this to happen. It was beyond my control. I didn’t plan to get stolen, to get pregnant! I never wanted to embarrass you.”

Her father gave no sign that he heard her.

“Surely you must see, husband,” Abalone Woman began softly. “She’s not done this to spite you—“

“Silence, woman!” roared her father. People nearby looked up at the discordant sound. Thunder Maker lowered his voice. “Don’t defend her. She’s brought me enough grief. Well, no more!” His words sounded ominous to Sarita’s ears. Thunder Maker looked at Abalone Woman. “You will prepare your herbs; you know which ones I’m talking about. Give them to Sarita.”

Abalone Woman looked at him, not understanding.

“Get rid of the bastard!” he hissed.

Shock filled the women’s eyes as they realized what he was saying.

“Nuwiksu! No!” Sarita could not believe it was her father saying this thing. He wanted her to kill her baby! He was condemning her child to death.

Abalone Woman looked sick. Feast Giver silently stalked away, anger apparent in every step. Sarita turned back to her father.

In a hard voice he answered her. “Abalone Woman will give you something to get rid of the bastard. Take it!” With these words, he marched away, leaving Sarita standing there, stunned.

Abalone Woman hesitated. “He’s angry now,” she whispered. ”Later, when he’s come to his senses, he’ll surely see reason. He’ll change his mind, I’m sure.”

But Sarita could hear the doubt in her voice. With tear-filled golden eyes, Sarita accepted the warm hand that Abalone Woman placed on her arm.

She tried to speak, but for a moment, the words could not get past the lump in her throat. At last, regaining control of herself, she asked the older woman, “Would you actually—“ she halted, unable to say the words. She tried again. “Would you actually do what he asks? Kill my little one?”

Abalone Woman looked down at the sand she was spreading in circles with her big toe. “He told me to prepare the herbs; I have no choice.” She looked into Sarita’s eyes. “I must do as he says. Please understand.”

Sarita stumbled away, shaking her head. She could not think logically. Even Abalone Woman was against her. Knowing if she stayed on the beach any longer she would burst into tears, she fled towards the longhouse.

Once inside, she threw herself onto her bed of furs and wept with great shaking sobs. The baby, now that his little life was threatened, became the most important thing in her world. He was completely dependent on her, his mother. He was a part of her, a part of her love for Fighting Wolf. She hesitated. She understood now; she loved Fighting Wolf. For a long while she’d thought she could forget him, but now she knew she could not, could never forget him.

She shook her head. He did not love her. He gave no thought to her, and knew nothing of their child. And now this child, the only part of Fighting Wolf that she had left, was to be ruthlessly destroyed—by people who claimed they loved her.

A long time passed before she was able to sit up and dry her eyes. Her face was swollen from crying, her hair matted and wet against her cheeks. She shuddered with each breath, spent from crying.

But inside her heart a hard resolve was forming. She had survived captivity by the Ahousats. She had fled from the man she loved rather than see her children born into slavery. She had endured too much to meekly accept her father’s will in this matter. No longer was she a girl who would marry as her father dictated, who would unquestioningly accept society’s condemnation. No. She was a woman who had survived. And her child would survive.

She clenched her teeth, feeling her misery slowly dissipating. Her golden eyes narrowed. A new calm settled over her. Her child would live. Nothing, and no one, would destroy this child—not while there was still life in her body.

* * * *

By evening, with Spring Fern’s help, Sarita had put her tears behind her, and prepared for more potlatch festivities. Bathed and dressed in fresh clothing, she felt much better.

Spring Fern finished combing Sarita’s glossy hair. Standing back, Spring Fern tilted her head to one side and pronounced, “That kutsack looks very attractive on you. It’s almost the color of bleached clamshells. I like the soft sea otter border at the neck and hem, too. The fur is such a rich black. Here, let me polish those earrings one more time—“ She worked in silence, rubbing the turquoise abalone-shell discs. “There,” she said with evident satisfaction, “you look beautiful.”

Sarita smiled and the two women glided off to the section of the longhouse where the guests impatiently awaited the evening’s proceedings. Thunder Maker had insisted that this part of the celebration take place in the longhouse. He had no desire to watch a heavy rain destroy his theatrical efforts.