by Andrea Jones
CHAPTER 12
Love Birds
The smoke of the bonfire drifted upward to cross the clouds, trailing an acrid scent where the revelers celebrated. Much had transpired within the village today, and its toll could be seen in the lines around Willow’s mouth, and in the hand she pressed to the base of her back this evening as the People danced, sang, and feasted by the fire.
White Bear hadn’t needed to charge Raven with her sister’s welfare through the festivities. Raven had stayed by Willow’s side. She studied Willow now, saying, “You must tell me if you tire, so that I can take you home. You and your baby need your sleep.”
“Very well, Raven. I admit that I am weary, but I would not sleep with this noise, and I’d like to watch a little longer. It is good to see the People so proud tonight.”
“Truly. The tribe is glad of victory.”
Willow patted her middle. “Soon I will be able to join in the dances again.” The merriment carried on while the sisters sat on the periphery. Men and boys perched with their drums before them, the meat of their arms jolting as they beat in rhythm. Their cadence was sometimes simple, sometimes complex, forming hollow, resonant measures. Women sang in spirited chorus, shuffling, bending, stepping, and rising up again to reach toward the moon. Raven and Willow only smiled and watched. Willow was too advanced in her pregnancy to participate further. Raven was too distracted.
Against Raven’s inclination— against the Shadow Woman’s— she felt the drums vibrate in her vitals; the dancers’ movements enlivened her. The line of women snaked around now to circle the fire, chanting, while the men danced about them in the opposite direction, working off the energy that their unfought battle had aroused. One by one, the women left the circle to kneel down and watch with Raven and Willow, but the men carried on, turning away from the ring to show off their nimbleness, each on his own. The men would perform their celebration far into the evening, until the thunder of the drums ceased to rumble.
Raven recognized that both exultation and relief fueled this evening’s fervor. The talk, the songs, the dances— they all spoke of the People’s feelings.
The tribe rejoiced in release from anxiety, but they also felt a fresh sense of power. The pirates won the advantage in the previous encounter, on the night the Black Chief drove the People up the mountain. Now the Black Chief had been captured. Today, he of the Eagle’s Claw was tried and freed by the People, and no dishonor could be counted on either side. True, the Black Chief had spoken insolently, had issued threats. But had not White Bear prevailed over him, in judgment and in restraint? Had not the chief of the pirates exposed his weakness for women when he lied to protect his paramour, and when he lingered to speak to Raven?
Raven suffered a twinge of dread, as sharp as the pirate’s claw, when she remembered how the Black Chief singled her out. The skin of her jaw burned as she recalled the brush of his fingers, and how he dared to touch her. Reflecting upon White Bear’s reaction, though, Raven believed she had acted properly. The Shadow Woman did not desire attention. Even her brother-in-law could not suppose she invited the pirate’s regard.
And, surely, the wild man had behaved as expected. All the People knew the pirates to be uncivilized. No one reproached Raven with a word or with a look.
No, Raven thought. The new anxiety she carried did not center around the Black Chief, but around another matter— a matter that distressed her beyond even her impending coupling with White Bear. Here Raven did experience the reprimand of her conscience. After White Bear counseled Raven this morning, commanding her submission, he left her alone. She had dashed from the tepee and flung herself into the woods, where she ended in the arms of the enemy.
Befriending pirates was taboo. Raven shuddered at the consequences if White Bear discovered her familiarity with an adversary. Unlike the Women of the Clearing, who knew too well the punishment for consorting with sea men, Raven would be lost living in exile. To exist on the outside of tribe and tradition would, to Raven, feel like a breathing death. Even Lightly of the Air faced the council’s disapprobation tomorrow, and he had good reason to break with custom: his obligation to visit his mother. Raven, on the contrary, made no excuse for her behavior. She had disobeyed her provider. She had defied the elders. Even Willow wouldn’t understand her conduct. Raven wished she could understand her reaction, herself.
As if she intuited Raven’s thoughts, Willow gasped, startling Raven in the midst of self-reproach.
Willow apologized. “White Bear’s son is awake, my sister. I felt a powerful kick! He must know his father to be a great warrior, and he, too, wants to dance in celebration.”
Soothingly, Raven said, “His father will teach him, when the seasons bring the proper age.”
“Our family is proud tonight. White Bear confirmed the council’s confidence in him.”
“The People honor him for his dealings on their behalf. But we know White Bear’s character, Willow. It is he who is proud to serve.”
“It pleases me to hear you praising White Bear.” A warrior howled and Willow’s gaze followed the sound. “Oh, see how Lean Wolf struts!” Her voice mocked, gently. “He dances for you, I know.”
“Yes. He dances for me.”
“He preens in a courting ritual, like the cock birds in the forest.”
Silently, Raven agreed. As she observed the dancers, Lean Wolf frequently positioned himself in front of Raven, next to White Bear. When he moved his taut, athletic body, he demonstrated skill and control, while his endurance could not be questioned. He had removed his hunting knife and his leggings to dance in his breechclout, and his muscles flowed like water under the flesh of his arms, his legs, and his thighs. His enthusiasm was contagious; the young braves mimicked his movement, ducking and spinning and throwing their heads back to shout to creation. The fervency of Lean Wolf’s courtship was apparent in his unceasing motion. As the moon rose and the dance wore on, the younger warriors began to drop out of the circle, but as long as the music played, Lean Wolf persisted.
Raven’s were not the only eyes that watched him. All the women admired Lean Wolf this evening. She felt their sidewise gazes upon her. She saw the sly smiles cast her way, and those smiles gave her pause. As Lean Wolf pranced in the firelight, Raven noted that he allowed sincerity to shine through his face again, as when he proposed to Raven to join him in marriage. Once again, she wondered at Lean Wolf’s twofold nature, at his friendship and rivalry with White Bear, at his ability to charm…and betray.
But all the while her black eyes followed her suitor, Raven recalled the sound of the breakers as they poured themselves upon the base of the cliff; she remembered the noise of metal bracelets chiming, and her name pronounced in exotic accents. Yet when White Bear, her provider, danced before her, Raven immediately returned to the present, banishing thoughts of forbidden islands. She disciplined her features, and drew herself and her secrets a little farther from her sister.
In this effort, she succeeded. Willow trusted Raven, and caught no hint of impropriety. She sighed, relaxing as the baby’s kicks at last subsided. “Sister, I tease you, but I agree with White Bear. You do well to show no sign of interest to Lean Wolf. You are better off in our tepee.”
Discreetly, Willow studied Raven to gauge how she reacted to White Bear’s more traditional approach. Raven did not acknowledge her hopeful face, so Willow plucked up her spirit and continued, speaking low to avoid being overheard by the other women, “I am certain, too, that Ash would want his widow to settle safely under the wing of a dependable warrior. You must remember how Ash and White Bear respected one another. And consider that today White Bear won the right to exult, yet he remains levelheaded during this excitement.”
Both sisters approved of White Bear’s dance this evening. He stepped with confidence, displaying his battle scars, the bear claws dancing, too, upon his chest. His copper skin glowed in the light of the bonfire. His arrow-straight frame seemed supplemented by a new kind of pride, earned this afternoon in his
pow-wow with the pirate. His dance was slow and steady, not flamboyant like Lean Wolf’s, but constant in its purpose. He, too, was courting. But Raven knew; unlike Lean Wolf, he was not seeking Raven’s love or admiration. In wooing Raven, he was courting Willow’s peace of mind, and the esteem of the elders.
Reminded of her sister’s condition, Raven wished to set Willow’s mind at rest. “You must never be uneasy for me. You have a more important matter to dwell upon. Let me take you home to lie down now. The camp will soon calm, and you and your little one can sleep.”
Willow consented. Raven rose, supporting her sister as she struggled to stand, too. Raven gathered up their blankets, and, receiving a nod of acknowledgement from White Bear, led Willow through the cool, dew-wet grasses to his tepee. She braided Willow’s hair, fetched a drink of water for her, and tended to her comfort.
Before closing her eyes, Willow looked earnestly at her sister. “I understand that you are anxious about lying with White Bear. But I do not doubt that, in the morning, you will begin to learn contentment.” Then Willow settled, snug beneath the blankets, and soon she drifted into doze.
Raven readied herself for slumber, also. Yet, once Willow dreamed, Raven felt the impulse to burst from the tepee and seek solace among the trees beyond the dwelling place. She wished to run deep into the wood, as she had done this morning.
But White Bear’s decree, at last, restrained her, as tightly as Willow’s papoose would one day soon be wrapped. The afternoon’s events had served to reinforce his supremacy. White Bear— brother-in-law, provider, speaker for the council, decider of the enemy’s fate— had spoken.
The hide of the tepee seemed to tighten, pressing in upon Raven as it did this morning when White Bear spoke his ultimatum, as if it meant to force her out to face a new life, like a woman giving birth. And, in truth, a birth was imminent. Kneeling to check on Willow, Raven found her safely in slumber after the long day’s events. To Willow, this tepee was a place of peace.
A wise-bird hooted in the branches above the village. Raven listened, wishing she could interpret its message. By its invisibility, the bird reminded her to seek shelter as the Shadow Woman, but its very boldness— crying out in the center of the camp— contradicted. Who should she be? Whom should she please?
Raven slipped out the door, and only her gaze wandered among the trees that fringed the camp. Her fingers still felt the silk of Willow’s lengthy black hair, so like her own used to be, before she hacked it away with Ash’s hunting knife. It was almost, but not quite, as fine as the long curls she had handled this afternoon, at the Black Chief’s command. With a sudden vigor, she rubbed her hands together, to rid herself of the reminder.
Since her childhood, stories of the Black Chief were impressed upon Raven. Today she witnessed in reality the frightful, deadly claw at the end of his arm. In perfect clarity she remembered the appreciation in his outlandishly blue eyes, his insinuating smile. She could not deny he was a man of compelling power. Although He of the Eagle’s Claw eyed her with admiration, Raven was certain he was motivated, in part, by cunning. Still, she would never forget the imprint he made upon her spirit. It was not unlike the imprint White Bear made, every day that she lived within his tepee.
Along with her thoughts, she turned her gaze toward her brother-in-law, where he and a few remaining men, Lean Wolf among them, squatted by the fire, smoking the last celebratory pipes. Like the People’s, the bonfire’s sounds were mild now, compared to its earlier roar. The drums lay silent; the night noise of crickets and creatures prevailed.
The owl startled Raven, hooting directly above her this time, and this time Raven caught the bird’s meaning. Who…who woos you?
Who, under his sorrow, was her stranger-friend? Who was Raven? Would she go to him, to learn these answers? Was she valiant to risk her existence, as barren as it was, or was she cowardly? Would she venture out of the camp again, at midday, not to run this time, but to walk with purpose into his company?
She did not know.
Her empty heart leapt as she considered his invitation. All her soul cried out for the kinship they’d discovered between them. All her mind instructed her to refuse her feeling. She must not bring disgrace upon White Bear, nor compromise his standing among the elders. Neither Raven nor the owl asked who White Bear was. He was known. She must not ever forget.
In spite of her logic, Raven’s heart flew away from the village again, to perch upon the cliff top overlooking the sea. To alight, once more, on the dark-haired sea man whose arms sang with bracelets, whose voice held tenderness, who uttered Raven’s name before she had spoken it, and whose own name she’d refused to hear.
But she had heard his name, this afternoon, in this very camp. His was a strange name, harsh to her ear, and made up of hard sounds, like a command. Cecco. The Black Chief had called him ‘Captain Cecco.’ And now that Raven had seen the two white men together, she understood that her acquaintance, this Captain Cecco, was an important man among the pirates. He stood second only to their chief. His name was a name of power.
Instinctively, Raven had called upon Cecco’s power. Yet she had done so at her peril. In her distress this afternoon, she looked to Cecco for assistance, instead of turning to her brother-in-law. A foolish mistake, and still, in that time of discomfort, it felt fitting to appeal to the offender’s fellow. What, after all, might White Bear— or even Ash if he were still alive— have done to relieve her of the Black Chief’s beguiling?
Her reaction was a natural one. But it was not an acceptable response for a woman who did not know this pirate. At any moment now, Raven must lie at White Bear’s mercy. Did he notice her blunder? Did he guess her deception? Would he censure her? Or would he choose to remain aloof, ignore the question, and assert his dominance in a physical manner— tonight— now?
Whatever White Bear’s sense of honor led him to do, Raven knew that she could no longer resist him. Just as she was stirred by the dancers leaping about the bonfire, she would be moved against her inclination. Soon, Raven’s emotion would steal upon her, whether she willed it or no. She foresaw what White Bear did not divine, and what Willow could not grasp. To surrender to his touch would bring another natural reaction. Trouble would dance its way into their tepee.
She found herself pressing against the dusty bark of a tree, her fingernails gleaning its grit. It was too late now to run away, to flee to the Clearing, or even to her pirate. Too late; with a fresh rush of panic, Raven detected White Bear’s stride as he approached his dwelling, a black, sinewy silhouette with the orange of embers behind him.
She had no strength left to wrestle his will. She backed from the tree. She stepped into White Bear’s tepee, to the furs that he provided her— to submit to his authority, in whatever manner he chose to enforce it.
When White Bear threw open the door flap, his figure dark against the dusk of the sky, two women lay under the skins he had hunted. One woman smiled in her dreams, loving and obedient even in slumber.
The other watched as he covered her sister, not with his body this night, but with the token of his protection, the albino bear pelt. Raven saw him stroke the hair at Willow’s forehead; the bear claws on his necklace dangled over Willow’s breast. He left her sister and removed his beaded moccasins. As he lifted her blanket, Raven was chilled by a draft of evening air. His long, unyielding body slid beside her, and beneath the scent of tobacco smoke she smelled his man-smell. Her sister’s marriage bracelet skimmed over her belly as his arm reached to enclose her. The smooth, cool feel of those beads caused her to shy, but her courage remained to sustain her. The Shadow Woman lay silent, and, too soon, the unwelcome weight of obligation pressed down upon her.
“Woman,” White Bear said, in a gruff, quiet voice, so that his wife lay undisturbed, at peace with his son in her womb.
Warily, Raven held her body still, watching him.
“I still hunger.”
She felt the tepee shrinking, bearing down on its inhabitants, threatening to g
ive birth to a new— and a malformed— family.
✽ ✽ ✽
Pierre-Jean cast a cautious glance around the galley of Red Lady, as he had done twenty times in the previous half hour. The lanterns shone yellow, softening the casks and barrels of provisions, illuminating the onions, garlic, and beets swinging from the beams, but in their light no one lounged at the tables that hung at intervals around the room. The cannon ranging along the hull averted their snouts, nosing toward the sea through their gunports, as if making a point of not listening.
The girl who appeared in the doorway, now, was listening.
Pierre-Jean’s face brightened. “I am wait for you.” He spoke low in his clumsy English, adding quickly, “Madame Hanover.” He shrugged apology, “I hope no offense to make?”
Mrs. Hanover conducted a fast, panicked search of the deck behind her, then entered the galley and shut the door without a sound. Her gaze fastened on the Frenchman’s china blue eyes, questioning.
He said, “I see you each night. Each night you enter here.”
The girl tilted her head to study him, a line of suspicion drawn upon her brow. Pierre-Jean blushed, then got up his nerve to stride toward her. Mrs. Hanover backed away, her maroon skirt swishing.
He stopped, his hands empty in the air, signifying harmlessness. “No, s’il vous plaît, I…I…Here.” He reached for the flagon in her fingers. “I pour for you, tonight.” Venturing another step, he drew the vessel from her grip.
Mrs. Hanover wondered as the Frenchman filled it from the cook’s cask of grog. This job was one she performed most evenings, drawing and serving for her master. Since her abduction by pirates, no one waited upon Mrs. Hanover. She had forgotten how special she felt when pampered by her nurse, and now she experienced a resurgence of that gratification. She could not fail to be flattered by the constancy of Pierre-Jean’s attendance to her needs, but he had never before been so daring as to contrive to talk with her alone. They both knew the danger in which, by doing so, he placed himself. Both Captain Cecco and his mate Mr. Yulunga took a serious view of discipline, and these officers knew better than to trust Mrs. Hanover in the company of men.
