by Nat Burns
During this time, she also learned how she had been discovered and luckily, pulled back from death’s door. It was while on a hunting foray chasing white-tail deer that they had spotted her. Going closer, lower down the ridge, they spied the bloated, decomposing horse and instinctively drew back from death. If she had not moaned right when she did, the braves would have left her to the carrion eaters. Instead they hoisted her out, cut a travois and carried her back to their village.
Finally, a few weeks after she’d been up and walking, she was summoned for an audience with the village chieftain, who was called simply, the Mico. As she used her crutch to walk nervously toward the brightly painted canopy, she could clearly see the Mico sitting in an open shelter upon a pile of furry robes. He was a tall, rawboned monster of a man who was aging gracefully. He had lived a full, heroic life however, for one ear was missing. He was also missing two fingers from his right hand and had a huge vertical slash scar bisecting his face. His chieftly apparel was glorious—although all he wore was a breechcloth and moccasin boots, the beautiful braided pelt headpiece that he had on extended down his back to drape him in warm animal shades.
As Foxy and Sawn-Re entered the enclosure, the Mico smiled widely and motioned for them to sit on either side. When they were seated, he extended his mutilated right hand to Foxy waiting for her to take it. Foxy hesitated only a moment before holding it in her own, then quickly glanced at Sawn-Re to see if more was expected of her, such as a kiss. Nothing was, for both men were smiling happily. The Mico withdrew his hand, seemingly satisfied, and began talking through Sawn-Re as Foxy was not yet proficient enough for conversation.
“We welcome you to our humble village and desire to know from where you came and to where are you going?”
Foxy briefly, pausing between sentences so Sawn-Re could interpret for the Mico, told the two of them about coming across the big water from England and growing up in Savannah. At the end, she told them that she had nowhere to go and would like to stay in Okiti-Yagani for as long as they would have her.
The two seemed delighted. Beaming and nodding, the Mico spoke lengthy, flowery words of welcome with one stipulation. Foxy must be adopted into the tribe and to prove her loyalty for this, she must demonstrate her worthiness to belong.
“The way to do this,” the Mico told Foxy through Sawn-Re. “is to have one of our braves accept you as his mate. You will bring him to your fire and he will give you many children.”
Foxy gasped. She had never considered that this would be a condition for staying. Rape, yes, but not marriage. She thought about the open road and quaked just a bit. Her healing legs would not make foot travel easy and she doubted the natives would give her a horse. She thought about the money that had been sewn into the pockets of her clothing and realized she might be able to buy one, but she knew they really had no need for money.
“I don’t think...” she began.
Sawn-Re spoke briefly to the Mico and both men watched her curiously, speculatively. Finally, the Mico nodded.
“I think he sees it,” Sawn-Re told her after a minute had passed.
Foxy frowned in confusion. “Sees what?”
“Sometimes our Creator makes one of the people who lives as the dusk between the brave of the morning and the female of the evening. We call them misuga and they have a special spirit presence with our people,” he explained. “They care for all of us.”
“You mean like a minister?” Foxy thought of the pious minister of the Anglican church in Savannah where Maggie had gone and shook her head. “I’m no preacher.”
The two men watched Foxy steadily, expectantly.
“You could fight,” Sawn-Re said quietly.
“Fight?”
“Yes, fighting in battle. Since we are not now at war, you must fight one of our best warriors. It will be to the death unless he desires to show mercy and spare you—then you shall be banished from this tribe. Is that agreeable to you?”
“No! Of course not,” she said quickly, without thinking. She immediately saw their irritation with her refusal to any of their suggestions, so she moderated her tone. “I cannot fight in the condition I find myself. I am still injured.”
“Then you shall prepare,” the Mico told her. “Two moons and you will fight the warrior I choose for you.”
“I will not,” Foxy protested, her face growing hot in a persistent shaft of afternoon sunlight.
Sawn-Re gasped and reached to grasp her wrist. His stare was intimidating and his grip painful. “You will do as the Mico wishes,” he said, deadly steel in his voice. “You have left us no choice in this. You can now creep from the women’s tent during the night and away from the good people, showing us all what a true coward you are.” He slapped her arm away then and turned one shoulder to her, a clear insult.
Foxy was chagrined but began to anger. She saw Sawn-Re’s size and strength, and almost left then and there. Sawn-Re was of warrior status and she didn’t think she could meet an opponent as well conditioned as this Indian obviously was.
But was she a coward, really? And did she crave the loneliness she’d had before when out in the wilderness by herself? Besides, these people fascinated her, and she felt as though she belonged with them. Suddenly an idea occurred to her.
“It is agreeable, under one condition,” she said.
When Sawn-Re had translated for her, the Mico burst into hearty laughter. He quickly sobered and stern-faced, addressed her.
“What is this condition? Have you no pride? Would you beg?”
Foxy flushed in anger at the sneer plainly expressed on the chieftain’s face. “Surely you cannot expect me to do battle in my present weakened situation. Give me three moons to prepare, and then I shall prove my bravery to you.” This last was said boastfully, as a challenge, for Foxy knew that they would relish that sort of speaking.
The Mico looked a trifle suspicious but nodded his head slowly. “This is acceptable. It will give me time to choose a suitable warring brave to battle you.”
Foxy, mind racing, wondered what insanity she had gotten herself into this time. She sat patiently, petrified by fear, as the Mico recounted past battles and wars to the newcomer. He had to explain every scar in detail, how it had come about and the sun was low in the sky when he waved his mutilated hand, dismissing them.
Outside, Sawn-Re turned angrily upon her. “Why are you staying time? Are you truly a coward? Why did you not admit to being of the two spirits. You are not only hokte but honun as well. There is more within you, yet you would rather fight as a brave when not a brave?”
Foxy shook her head and tried to reason with her new friend. “Look, Sawn-Re, I know nothing of your dusk of man and woman, but I understand the fight. But I also know that I am weak right now, not myself at all. I cannot fight like this. One push and it would be won. If I am to fight, for my life perhaps, I want to be at my best.”
“Ha! Your best is puny,” he said, his tone a sneer.
Foxy was tired by the uncommon exertion of her audience with The Mico and angry at all the talk. “Ngah!” she shouted, chopping her hand downward. “Enough. I do what I must do!”
Sawn-Re shrugged, as if the issue concerned him very little. “I care not. Fight if you are not a coward. If I fight you, I will show no mercy.”
He spat on the ground at her feet and walked away, leaving a bewildered and oddly hurt Foxy behind.
Chapter Twenty
THE NEXT MORNING Foxy jerked awake at the first camp sounds and, determined to start her preparations for the fight, rose from her pallet and stretched her body hard. Feeling a twinge of pain from the leg that had been broken satisfied her and, after draping her naked body in a pelt, she limped across a field and down to the river. Bracing herself, she plunged in and stayed in until she was comfortable in the frigid water. She got out, allowing herself to be chilled again in the morning air, and then went back to her dwelling.
Inside, she donned a leather skirt that Oge-kan had made for her out of deer h
ide and finding a length of cloth, she wound it tightly around her small breasts. Dressed, she went to where Ogekan and Mi-llani minded the morning cookfire and standing next to them, she called the younger woman softly. Presently, Mi-llani noticed her and, when she turned, her beauty almost took Foxy’s breath away. She stood slim but for her slightly rounded belly and breasts, her manner proud, waiting expectantly for Foxy to speak. Her black hair fell over her shoulders to curl upward against her waist and her deep black eyes were wide and questioning.
Foxy cleared her throat before she could speak. “I need some eggs. Can you tell me where to get some?”
Mi-llani stared at her dumbly, thinking hard, trying to understand. She then shook her head, still puzzled. Foxy, though it was embarrassing, pantomimed a chicken laying an egg. And she was immensely thankful that there was no one yet about to see or hear her except for Oge-Kan. Finally, Mi-llani’s face brightened. “Chicken! Chicken?”
Foxy nodded excitedly, patted her bottom and formed an oval with her fingers. “Egg,” she countered. “Egg!”
Mi-llani smiled and nodded, then, motioning her to wait, sped across the clearing, legs and hair flying. Soon, she returned with a petulant youth in tow, spoke a few words in Creek dialect then pointed off in the distance and prodded the boy. He hurried off with a scowl as Mi-llani turned back to Foxy. Pointing off in the direction the boy had gone, she explained. “Cha-hi, aigs, chicken.”
Foxy laughed and thanked her in her own tongue. Not comprehending the reason for the eggs, she disappeared back to the fire to return with a gourd full of steaming corn mush. Foxy, not wanting to hurt her feelings for she was watching her avidly, ate every bite and wiped her fingers on the ground.
Just as she was handing the gourd back, the youth flew up, panting, with a squawking chicken in one hand and his arm full of eggs. Gingerly, Foxy and Mi-llani unloaded the fragile orbs and the boy held the chicken high in triumph. The eggs, which were all Foxy had wanted were inanimate and thus unimportant. The chicken he deemed the true prize. He tried to hand it to Foxy, but she only pressed it back to him. Puzzled, the boy was hurt until Foxy made it clear that the chicken was a gift to him for getting the eggs. Delighted, he ran off hugging his new pet.
Mi-llani and Foxy shared a moment of laughter. Foxy tried to ask her where the eggs and chicken had come from but could not comprehend the answer although she thought it might have been a nearby white or native village. She scooped up all the eggs and carried them back into the women’s tent and made a pile of them next to her pallet.
Coming back outside, she found Sawn-Re yawning sleepily. He teased Foxy and began laughing. “Eggs! I should have known you’d stick to white man ways. From the fort?”
Foxy shrugged, miffed at the sarcasm. “A boy fetched them for me. Don’t know from where.”
Sawn-Re nodded knowingly and, still laughing to himself, went toward his family’s fire.
The next weeks were hectic for Foxy. Ignoring the pain in her leg, she set herself a grueling regimen. Every morning, at sunrise, she swam in the river, drank a gourd of raw eggs and ate a hearty breakfast. Then she ran as far as possible, worked up to lifting the biggest chunks of wood or rock that she could find and always stayed in the sun as much as possible. At the end of three months, she was a tanned, muscled machine. Even some of the older Indian maidens began flashing her coy, admiring glances when she passed. She’d never felt better in her life and was confident that the upcoming fight would, at least, be fair. In addition, just in case, she quietly began stockpiling and packing together items that would serve her well if forced back out in the wilderness. She had been taught much by Mi-llani and her mother and she owed them a huge debt of gratitude, realizing that her chances of surviving on her own had been greatly increased by this new knowledge they had imparted to her.
As she expected, the Mico eventually summoned her. The old chieftain eyed Foxy dubiously then with a wide smile slapped her on the thigh approvingly. They sat and talked, Foxy having learned much of their flowing, innuendo-laced language. She was greatly saddened to discover that Sawn-Re would be her opponent. Worried, too, not sure that the brave would spare her life, as he had once indicated. She had discovered, during the past months, that Sawn-Re was hard to fathom, one never knew what he might be thinking. It was with a heavy heart that Foxy finally made her way home, deeply conscious that all could change on the morrow.
The next day was hot, even before the sun had shown itself. Foxy sat, pensive and sweating, in front of the crude tent she had built for herself out of abandoned hides that she had carefully sewn together. It was small, but plenty big enough for her to stretch out during the night. She had finally realized that her odd exercise hours had begun to disturb the other two women and had made the change. Mi-llani and her mother had been insulted but Foxy had diplomatically explained that she needed time to commune with the spirits of her bravery. This required solitude. Not a lie in many respects, for Foxy had spent an inordinate amount of time either visualizing a victory in the fight or where her path would take her should she be banished from the tribe.
Most of the village was still asleep, worn out from last night’s festivities. The passionate singing and dancing had seemed to go on all evening. Foxy knew that as soon as the people woke up they would crowd in the center of the village and watch the fight between she and Sawn-Re with bloodthirsty enjoyment. She had witnessed it firsthand and had seen the humiliation of the loser and the crowing of the victor. How she hated this thing that she’d chosen to do!
She’d given serious thought to moving on, cowardly or not. Maybe it would have been for the best. It was too late now, though, she couldn’t look the coward to all these proud Indians who were now her friends. She had earned a measure of respect through her natural friendliness, hard-work and skill, and wanted to keep it that way. She would stay and fight to the best of her ability and she could only hope that the battle wouldn’t destroy her life with the Sawokli.
Hours later, close to noon, a jovial, boastful Sawn-Re strode into the village. He’d been in the high forest seeking peace with the spirit gods and preparing and cleansing himself for the battle. He was dressed ready, in breechcloth, his body smeared with animal fat. Foxy heard the commotion and came forward. She was dressed similarly, though with a long tunic over the breechcloth she wore. With Mi-llani’s help, she had fashioned boots from thick bison hide and she knelt to once again secure the rawhide fastenings.
Finally, with a battle knife in the belt at her waist and gently pushing the crowd of natives aside, Foxy made her way to the center where a clearing had been swept. The Mico was already there, having been seated earlier by his group of loyal attendants. He was on a high wooden chair so his view of the clearing would be unobstructed. Sawn-Re was already making his respectful greetings and when he finished, Foxy stepped forward to repeat the ceremony. Afterward, the Mico raised his hand and gave a short speech wherein he explained the purpose of the battle and wished both combatants to be favored by the Creator.
The two faced one another. Solemnly, Sawn-Re planted his right foot in the dust before him and Foxy did the same so that their insteps were touching. Next, as Foxy had seen several times before, their left hands were bound together by an elder. At a word from the Mico, the struggle began.
Foxy was momentarily surprised at the tall Indian’s brute strength but held her stance mightily. Joints popped and dust creaked in the still air as both strained to overthrow the other. This continued for so long that Foxy felt herself weakening and in a moment, amid the cheers of the crowd, she was flat on her back, dust filling her mouth. Sawn-Re, with a loud victorious cry, was upon her, grappling for the knife in his waistband with his free hand. With a costly burst of power, Foxy bucked him off and rolled onto him, trying her hardest to hold him to the ground with their bound hands. Somehow, Sawn-Re slithered out from under her and drew his knife. Foxy immediately leapt to her feet, swinging Sawn-Re to one side, off balance. She pulled her own knife and made ready wh
ile he recovered his balance.
Patiently, they circled, Sawn-Re baiting and taunting her. Occasionally, he would lash out with his knife, trying to catch Foxy off guard but Foxy’s diligent training was paying off. As it turned out, she was the first to draw blood. Sawn-Re averted his eyes for a fraction of a second to make sure the Mico was watching and Foxy lunged, her knife laying flesh open across Sawn-Re’s ribs. The gathered crowd gasped as one as Sawn-Re’s blood spattered the dust at their feet.
Angered, he lunged for Foxy who, using all her weight, sidestepped and toppled him like a great tree. As Foxy struggled to keep him down, Sawn-Re’s knife struck out blindly, hitting Foxy in the face, slashing her cheek.
Immediately, there was a deafening silence and Foxy was confused when her opponent drew back in horror. She still pressed her advantage. Quickly, she pushed the oddly pliant Sawn-Re’s shoulders to the ground and held the knife to his throat. The whole tribe waited anxiously to see what she would do. Waiting a long time, giving Sawn-Re every chance to make a move, she finally rose and pulled the brave up by their bound hands. Sawn-Re was like a docile child, staring at Foxy in awed silence.
Foxy hesitated in confusion, wet, warm blood tickling as it ran along her neck. Then angrily, she brought her knife up and cut the hide thongs that tied their wrists together.
