Savage Betrayal (9 page)

The crowd followed him up the beach to the open space in front of the longhouses. People chatted and visited with each other, happy to have exciting entertainment on such a fine day. Dressed in their finery, everyone looked their best. A festive air prevailed.

At a gesture from Thunder Maker, his men leaned two strong poles against each other, then anchored them firmly in the sand. The stout poles were tied together at the fork where they met, at approximately the height of three men. A cedar rope, greased in bear fat, dangled just off the ground. To claim the prize, a contestant must climb to the top of the slippery rope.

***

Fighting Wolf quickly scanned his men, his eyes narrowing. He must choose carefully; he wanted to impress the Hesquiat dogs with Ahousat superiority.

At his signal, two lean, healthy specimens of manhood, Otterskin and Birdwhistle, stepped forward.

Otterskin was one of Fighting Wolf’s most trusted fighting men, a man who could be relied on to do his best. Seeing that the poles were supported by two strong men, Otterskin carefully eyed the dangling rope. Giving a quick jump, he anchored himself securely on the slippery rope and entwined it once around his fist. Now to climb it. He paused for a moment, then jerked himself sharply upwards to wrap his free arm around the rope. To his utter dismay, he quickly slid downward and landed in a heap on the sand. Shaking the sand off his now greasy body, he strode ruefully over to the sidelines.

It was Birdwhistle’s turn. Fighting Wolf’s cousin glided forward and was under the rope in one smooth movement. Looking up at it for a brief moment, he suddenly jumped high from his standing position. He entangled the rope around both his hands and wrapped it over his heels in one even movement. Carefully, one hand over the other, he slowly ascended the rope, always keeping the rope looped over one heel.

The crowd groaned with him as he slowly gained the top of the greasy rope. A collective sigh went up as he debonairly touched the top and swung gracefully to the ground. He glanced out of the corner of his eye to see Fighting Wolf’s easy grin. Good!

He exclaimed loudly to the bridegroom, “These games are no challenge! They’re for children, not Ahousat men!”

Fighting Wolf laughed and Birdwhistle strode forward to collect his prize, a beautifully carved and decorated miniature cedar box.

Thunder Maker glowered darkly. These Ahousats were insolent! That game should have challenged at least four or five men. Well, the Ahousat slave-faces would not find the next game quite so easy. Signaling briefly to one of his men, he gave the order to start the next contest.

To Thunder Maker’s great disappointment, the Ahousats continued to easily win the games set out for them. The crowd cheered but Thunder Maker couldn’t watch as, again and again throughout the afternoon, the Ahousats upset the Hesquiat plans for humiliating them.

Finally he could stand no more. The last game was one he had saved for just such an occasion. He whispered directions to Feast Giver.

Ten Hesquiat men stepped forward and formed five pairs. The members of each pair faced the other across a space of two arm’s lengths. Feast Giver walked among the men, quickly handing burning brands of pitch to each. The fiery torches formed a flaming gauntlet that would challenge the staunchest Ahousat warrior. The acrid smell of smoking pitch tainted the air, and the crowd murmured happily. Here was a test to put those arrogant Ahousats in their place!

Grimacing slightly, Fighting Wolf nodded quietly to one of his henchmen. Comes-from-Salish stood proudly in front of the gauntlet. He flexed his leg muscles by squatting on his haunches several times in succession. A fine figure of a man, he was middle-aged, broad-shouldered, with an innate sense of dignity. He was also that rare man: a freed slave.

Originally a Salishan slave bought from the Neah Bay people, he had proved himself to be an exceptionally loyal and heroic man. One day on a sea lion hunt far out to sea, a mad bull sea lion attacked the canoe the slave and Birdwhistle occupied. Risking his own life, the slave saved the nobleman. When they returned to the village, Fighting Wolf was so impressed by the slave’s courage in saving a sometimes cruel master that he freed him and gave him a new name. From that time onwards, Comes-from-Salish had proven himself to be a strong fighter and the most loyal follower of the chief who freed him, Fighting Wolf.

Comes-from-Salish was aware of the many pairs of eyes upon him. Ostensibly exercising, in reality he was waiting for the torches to burn down before attempting his run through the line of fire.

At last, judging that the flames were reduced to the point where they would do him the least harm, he took several paces backwards from where the line of grinning men began. He paused for a moment, centering his thoughts on the feat he was about to perform.

The crowd was still, their anticipation hanging in the air like a live thing. Suddenly, he took off at a run; head down, in a mad dash for the tiny tunnel of safety between the fiery walls.

The watching throng gave a collective gasp, then began a voluble commentary on Comes-from-Salish’s performance as he ran.

“He’s twisting and turning!”

“Of course, fool! He doesn’t want to get burned!”

“Look at him run! See! Someone just tried to trip him!”

“He runs well…for an Ahousat!”

“Ouch!”

“Little Eel, get away from those torches! I won’t tell you again!”

Dodging the men, Comes-from-Salish twisted his body away from the burning brands as he ran. Crouching low, he darted and wove his way through the line. Someone thrust a burning brand at his face. He ducked just in time, almost thrown off balance. He kept running. At last he was through!

Taking a deep breath to still his heavy panting, he coughing on the acrid smoke and almost dropped to his knees in the sand, still panting heavily.

Several Hesquiat and Ahousat men rushed forward. Slapping him heartily on the back, on the arms, they cheered his prowess. Two men lifted him to their shoulders and marched him through the crowd.

“What a run!”

“Never seen anyone do it like that!”

“Congratulations!”

“What a performance!”

“No wonder we’re losing the war…if all Ahousats are as brave as you!”

“Shut up, fool!”

Fighting Wolf coolly surveyed the people rushing to congratulate Comes-from-Salish and smiled to himself.
A good day’s work
. These Hesquiats had seen for themselves how powerful the Ahousats were. Now, if his other plans went as successfully…

* * * *

Thunder Maker approached the Ahousat guests and politely invited then to his longhouse for the feast his wives had spent long hours preparing.

Fighting Wolf led his delegation into the longhouse. Once inside, he insisted, before anyone was yet seated, “Thunder Maker, my father-in-law-to-be, I ask, as a gesture of our goodwill towards each other, that you let my men sit interspersed with yours around your great fire. By sitting next to each other, we will learn more of one another and have a better basis for our new friendship.”

Thunder Maker frowned at the highly irregular request, but, wanting to placate his future son-in-law, he nodded to Crab Woman to carry out Fighting Wolf’s suggestion. At last everyone was seated and Thunder Maker stood, holding up an arm for silence.

“My people,” he began, “today I welcome my new son-in-law-to-be and his respected nobles and friends. I am giving this feast to announce the forthcoming marriage of my daughter, Sarita, to Fighting Wolf of the noble Ahousat tribe. Tomorrow I will potlatch these Ahousats in my daughter’s honor and they will see what a truly great family they are marrying into.

“It is with great pride that I tell you that the food for this feast was produced on my own lands, on my own fishing grounds, and gathered by my own slaves. Because this is such a special occasion, I have brought out my family’s great feast dish. You see before you the dish ‘Always Bountiful.’ That is the name of this great carved plate, heaped high with salmon."

In the center of the eating area, set between two small fire pits, sat 'Always Bountiful,' the illustrious feast dish. Truly a work of art, it was a large cedar dish about five-feet-long, carved in the shape of a killer whale, and painted with family crests and designs along the sides. The elaborate dish was piled high with dried sockeye salmon.

"Now, please, help yourselves to the food! We have plenty and are very glad to share it with you all!” Thunder Maker sat down, and guests helped themselves liberally to its offerings. Soon the hall filled with the talk and laughter of hungry guests as they went about the business of eating.

The first course served was dried herring eggs, a great delicacy. The eggs were gathered in the spring when schools of the small fish spawned on submerged fir tree branches the Indians prepared for that purpose. After collecting the eggs, the people dried them and stored them away for feasts.

Small, carved, wooden dishes were set out. They held the ubiquitous whale oil that no Nootka meal was complete without. Every morsel was dipped in the rich oil. In between courses, young men brought around bowls of water so that each guest could wash and dry his hands.

The next course was smoked salmon. Platters heaped high with the delicious alder-smoked salmon were presented to the guests and each one helped himself.

A delicious vegetable course followed. Roasted Camus bulbs seasoned with wild herbs were greeted with delight by the participants.

The last course, boiled venison, sliced and served cold, was well received, though not consumed quite as readily as the preceding courses. The guests were feeling very full. It did not pass unnoticed, however, that Fighting Wolf’s men ate only small amounts and very slowly. Fighting Wolf himself declined to stuff himself, even though war chiefs of his status were expected to have very large appetites.

***

Fighting Wolf sat in the hall of his enemy. During the feast, indeed, it was all he could do to eat even a small amount of food. The bile rose in his throat several times when he thought of how he was sharing food with his father’s murderers. His anger threatened to surface when he thought of his beloved parent falling prey to these wicked men. Only with a strong act of will could he push back his anger. Soon he would allow himself the luxury of revenge on the low creatures. Soon! For now, he would keep a calm facade while in the enemy’s lair…

* * * *

The noise of the feasting drifted outside. Tonight the usual night sounds were silenced. The croaking frogs were mute, the singing crickets stilled, and small animals tread warily near the boundaries of the village.

A large, yellow moon shone down on the bay, casting its long, ghostly light over the sea and over the land, creating eerie, giant shadows everywhere. Far out to sea could be seen swirling mists, waiting to surround the unsuspecting canoe traveler.

A shadowy figure leaned against the darkest wall of Thunder Maker’s longhouse, hidden from the Ahousats and Hesquiats alike. Nearby, the fur flap over a door at the side of the house opened briefly and a smaller shape stepped out into the night.

Spring Fern needed a breath of fresh air. She wandered quietly out into the night, away from the longhouse, breathing deeply of the scented stillness. The cool moist air blowing in from the ocean felt good against her heated skin. All the loud noises and partying had given her a headache and she longed for quiet.

She had felt Sarita’s tension all evening and the waiting was wearing her down, too. In a little while, it would be over. Sarita would be married and she and Sarita would be on their way to the Ahousat village. She wondered idly what was in store for her there.

The harsh snapping of a twig caught her immediate attention. Turning quickly back to the longhouse, she found her way blocked by a dark, looming shadow. With a gasp she stepped back, prepared to run.

“Don’t be afraid, little one,” came a quiet, deep voice.

“Who is it?” she asked tremulously.

“Rottenwood.”

“Oh,” she gasped. “You quite scared me, Rottenwood. I—I was afraid for a moment.” She suddenly stopped, realizing she didn’t really know Rottenwood, and she had no reason to relax in his presence, despite his reassurance. The man was always staring at her.

As if reading her thoughts, he spoke again in that quiet voice, “I was enjoying the night air. I feel restless tonight with so many Ahousats in the village.”

She nodded, unaware that he had to strain his eyes to see her response. “I don’t like it either,” she admitted. “Soon, however, I’ll be used to them, I suppose. I’m going to their village with Sarita, you know.” This last said with a toss of her head.

She heard the quick intake of his breath. “No, I didn’t know,” he answered blandly. “Are you pleased to be going there?”

She shrugged. “It is all the same to a slave, isn’t it?” she said ruefully, with just a trace of bitterness.

It was his turn to nod in the dark, her turn to strain her eyes looking for his response.

They stood there quietly for a moment in a comfortable silence. Quietly he reached out one large hand and brushed a long curl of her hair away from her face. “You’re very beautiful,” he whispered, moving slightly closer to her.

“D-don’t, please,” she trembled in the cool night air, but not from the cold.

“I wouldn’t hurt you, little one,” he murmured. “Don’t you know I’ve wanted to talk with you, to hold you for so long?”

“Wh-what do you mean?” she asked uncertainly. “I don’t really know you. I’ve never encouraged you in any way.” She began to grow indignant.

He let out a quiet chuckle. “No, you certainly haven’t encouraged me. But you have seen me watching you, haven’t you? I’ve admired you for a long time,” and here he inhaled the sweet fragrance of the lock of hair he’d been toying with. He continued on, “It makes me sad to know you’ll be leaving so soon. I’d hoped to have more time.”

“More time?” she echoed.

“Yes,” he answered, in that same deep, reassuring voice, “I was hoping for more time to get to know you, to court you in a proper fashion.”