Under the Same Sky

by Genevieve Graham

  When the soldier ceased moving, Andrew climbed off and rose wearily to his feet. He stared at the body and wiped his bloodied blade on his plaid. Something like regret flitted through his mind at the sight of the corpse. He was so tired of fighting, and now he had killed again. Then he recalled Ciaran’s dead eyes. His mother’s empty skull. The weeks he had spent alone, searching for someone. Anyone. His regret at killing this one man was short-lived. Andrew left the body where it lay and, gasping for breath, walked back through the woods.

  His friends had dragged the bodies under a concealing screen of shrubs by the time he returned to the clearing. They had collected weapons and provisions from the fallen soldiers and packed them securely onto the ponies. Geoffrey held the reins of Andrew’s pony, who stomped impatiently at a clump of damp, fallen leaves. Still breathing hard, Andrew nodded his thanks and swung up onto the animal’s back. He reached down and lifted the little boy from Geoffrey’s arms, letting the child’s simple presence ease the fury that still pulsed in his bloodied palms.

  The men headed down the trail in single file, Hector and his sons first, Andrew and Iain in the back, holding the children. Iain sat astride a stocky black pony, plodding behind Andrew’s.

  “MacDonnell.”

  Andrew turned to face his friend, whose expression was guarded. A sleeping angel drooped against the big man’s chest, breathing noisily through her mouth, strands of copper hair hanging over her gaunt white cheeks.

  “Aye?” Andrew asked.

  He wants to know, Andrew thought. He wants to know how I knew to come here. He could see Iain trying to summon his question, but he must have changed his mind. Instead, Iain nodded and passed Andrew the shadow of a smile.

  PART 3: MAGGIE

  Changed Existence

  Chapter 14

  Into the Light

  I pried my reluctant eyelids open and gazed at my surroundings, wondering if I were dreaming. An unfamiliar hum of voices bubbled around me, acquiring muted colours and taking on the shapes of women. If it was a dream, it was a good one. I blinked twice, proving to myself I was awake.

  Most of our journey to this house was lost to memory. The Indian women had encouraged us to drink a strange-smelling tea, which calmed us. We lay on a travois the Indians had fashioned, then nestled into warm, creamy furs they tucked under our bodies. I was glad the tea muddled my thoughts. I couldn’t think clearly, and didn’t want to. I was beyond exhausted and needed peace. My visions had been absent throughout the rape. Without them I felt drained. The gentle jostling of the travois rocked me to sleep as we travelled.

  * * *

  I had no idea how long the trip had taken, nor how long I slept once we’d arrived. Now I woke to a completely different world.

  My bed was a layer of furs, pillowed over feathery boughs of hemlock and broomsage. The woven pine walls of the house were cushioned by tanned skins, the roof layered by bark and thatch. Shelves along the windowless walls were filled with baskets and utensils, and a small open fire provided light, dimly illuminating dried husks of corn that hung from the rafters over my head. It also kept the building warm. The heat was almost stifling under the furs. A woman sat near the hearth, constantly feeding small sticks to the fire. Thin curls of smoke wafted upward and drifted through a rectangular hole above our heads, entering the atmosphere and disappearing with the breeze.

  Adelaide slept beside me, her breathing regular and steady, if a little louder than usual through her swollen features. Her bruises brought back the events of the past two days, and I struggled to blur the memories. I didn’t want to see, didn’t want to remember. I closed my eyes again and lay in silence, blending my breaths with the Indian women’s voices as they moved around the house.

  But while I didn’t want to recall anything from before, I’d had enough sleep for now. The sounds around me were inviting, and I wanted to see more. I sat up slowly, moving through the ache of my battered muscles. The buffalo blanket slid from my shoulders, and I realised my clothing had been removed and replaced by soft buckskin. My body was entirely cleaned of blood and dirt.

  A slender girl in a pale doeskin tunic walked toward me, and offered a clay cup filled with some kind of tea. I took it, smiling thanks. She squatted in front of me, nodding and making small gestures with her hands to encourage me to drink, ignoring the ends of her long black hair as they brushed the floor around her feet. I sipped experimentally at the hot liquid. It was slightly bitter, but her smile helped me swallow. She stroked my hair, smoothing its brown tangles to mirror her own shining tresses. I smiled back but grimaced when my lip split with the effort. Without hesitation, she reached for a small bowl beside my bed and dipped in a graceful finger. She dabbed that same finger, topped with a brown tinged ointment, onto my lip and the pain was soothed immediately. I tried again, more successfully this time, to return her smile.

  My expression encouraged her to open a one-sided conversation. I listened, but could make nothing of the strange syllables. That didn’t seem to matter to her. She chattered happily, her hands and eyes dancing as she spoke. She touched me occasionally, patting my arms with friendly reassurance. Eventually she stretched out her hand and helped me to my feet. My legs were stiff, but it felt good to stand again.

  I looked down at Adelaide, still asleep beneath her coverings. I would let her sleep. She needed to heal. The girl seemed to read my thoughts. She gestured toward Adelaide and nodded. She led me toward the doorway, talking all the while, and drawing pictures in the air with her long fingers. I shuffled behind, reaching for the wall for balance. The hum of the girl’s words relaxed my mind into a familiar calm. I felt the energy of my dreams begin to flow again, tingling in my fingers, twinkling in my vision.

  A large woman blocked the doorway to the outside. She was combing a nasty tangle out of a small boy’s hair, and he winced with every one of her strokes. My new friend said something and the woman grunted, shifting her massive body to the side to reveal the outdoors.

  When the first shafts of light blazed into my eyes, I felt as if I’d been blinded. But it was more than the sudden shock of going from dark to light. In that moment, my world spun completely out of control. I stumbled forward and slumped in the doorway, hands pressing against the sides of my head as image after image crashed through my mind. It wasn’t painful, but the confusion was overwhelming. My knees collapsed and I hit the ground hard. Instinct forced me to concentrate on breathing, circulating sanity through my brain. My new friend dropped to my side and took hold of my arms, helping me sit. Images stampeded past me, and I could see nothing else but them. In desperation, I seized one image and held on tight.

  The vision showed me a small Indian boy, lying at the bottom of a hill. He was curled on his side nearby, on the edge of the village. His knees were bleeding and his eyes were squeezed shut, his dark lashes resting on tear-soaked cheeks. I opened my eyes a crack, cautiously allowing light in. The women clustered around me, their curiousity blocking the direct sunlight. After a moment my eyes cleared, and I looked around the group. One of the faces caught my attention, and I looked directly at her. I don’t know if it was her resemblance to the little boy or just the fact that I knew, but this woman was his mother. It had to be.

  I hesitated before saying anything. My mind whispered my mother’s words: Keep quiet, say nothing. I took a deep breath, released it, and rejected all of my mother’s warnings.

  “Your son,” I said to the woman. “Your son needs you. He’s fallen.”

  She stared at me, her soft brow creased, and I realised my English words meant nothing to her. I kept my eyes on hers even as she tried to withdraw from my unwanted attention. Grasping inspiration from the air, I folded my arms across my chest as if I were rocking a baby. The women around me murmured among themselves, trying to interpret my message. I rolled my hands to indicate someone tumbling down a hill, then pointed at my own injured knees. Finally, I gestured to a nearby hill. The woman blinked in bewilderment as I repeated my pantomime and the oth
ers consulted each other in soft questions. Suddenly the woman’s eyes widened, and she looked at me in surprise.

  “Omnatea!” she cried. “Omnatea!” She tore herself away from the group of women and ran toward the hill where the little boy had fallen, calling his name as she went.

  I looked from one face to the next, trying to read what they were thinking but getting nothing but a sense of wary puzzlement. The girl who’d brought me from the house sat very still beside me. After a few moments one of the older women turned to a younger one, barked a command, and waved her away. The young woman ran, obeying without question.

  Had I made a mistake? Should I have kept my gift a secret? My mother, sisters, and I had never told anyone, afraid of the consequences. Afraid I might die on a burning stake like my grandmother. Here, surrounded by these strange people, my dreams had stepped into the sunlight, free at last. But at what price?

  A new vision suddenly shoved its way into my sight: two little faces I had never seen before, deathly pale but for their damp red hair and terrified blue eyes. My arms felt the ache of physical combat; the clash of swords rang in my ears. The children were safe from the chaos, but still in the centre of my vision. What was this? Why was I seeing people I knew nothing about? What did this have to do with me?

  My mind shifted naturally to the answer. Wolf. He looked tired. Yesterday he had led me to my escape, armed and protected me. Now I needed to ask him for more, and I wasn’t even sure why. I couldn’t know if my message would reach him or not, but I concentrated hard. I brought the children’s faces into focus and pushed a silent scream toward his image.

  The picture of the children disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving me dizzy and disoriented. My friend sat beside me on the dirt, drawing circles on my back with her palm until I relaxed. The other women had evidently lost interest, going on about their business and leaving the two of us alone by the doorway.

  The morning activity in the village was a welcome distraction, constantly in motion. Small boys dressed in nothing but bits of leather around their waists laughed and squealed, kicking a cloth ball through the grass. In the doorway of the house next to ours, a tall, slender woman leaned into an even taller man, her eyes dark with suggestion. Beyond them a riot of dogs chased each other in circles, tails swinging with abandon. Casting a spell over it all was the magnificent backdrop of forest-covered hills, their mantle of green highlighted with gold by the day’s early sunshine.

  My life from before was over. My mother was gone, Ruth was gone. Adelaide suffered. My innocence was gone.

  I had learned the darker side of men; I had killed a man.

  I felt a soft touch on my shoulder and turned to see Adelaide, my only link to that life. She was barely there, barely solid enough to stand, but she was there, and she needed me. I stood up to support her, then folded her into my arms. She shook against me, and I held her tight.

  From over her shoulder, I watched the village. Something about this place felt familiar. Comfortable. As if I had been here before. A breeze shivered the leaves on the trees at the outer bounds of the camp, whispering to me. It wound its way over the children playing ball and the young couple and the dogs, reaching out to ruffle my hair and cool my neck like water. It tugged me forward and I stepped into my new life.

  Chapter 15

  Communication

  There were nights when I jolted awake, my heart beating madly and my body damp with sweat. There were also nights when it took a long time to fall asleep. How could I sleep when my mother’s face came to me as soon as I shut my eyes, the bullet hole in her forehead staring like a third dead eye? And Ruth. Ruth was always in my thoughts: her golden curls bouncing around angel blue eyes, her soft pink skin torn to shreds, left to rot in the dark forest. Ruth had always been afraid of the dark.

  Healing and encouragement surrounded my dear remaining sister and me. The Indian women cared for us as if we were members of their families. They washed our bruised bodies and provided us with doeskin tunics and leggings. They combed our hair until it shone and tied it like their own, in long braids that tickled down the centres of our backs.

  The little boy, Omnatea, whom I had “seen” tumbling down the hill, had become my constant shadow, peeking through the longhouse doorway, watching me eat or sleep. His mother was usually with him, dark eyes just as curious.

  One morning, the girl who had first arrived at my side came to escort me out of the longhouse where I slept. She carried out a detailed inspection of my appearance, flipping her fingers over the beaded tunic, petting my long brown braids. She talked and giggled and I nodded blankly in response. It didn’t seem to bother her that no matter what she said, or how she said it, I didn’t know what she was talking about. Her happiness was contagious. Today she seemed more enthusiastic than usual, and I got the impression that something important was about to happen.

  She grabbed my hand, and I squeezed hers, feeling stronger with her beside me. She pointed at her chest with one finger and spoke slowly and clearly, as if I were a child.

  “Kokila,” she said, then repeated herself twice more. “Kokila, Kokila.”

  She watched to make sure I was paying attention, then pressed my hand against her shoulder and encouraged me to say the word as well.

  “Kokila,” I repeated dutifully, burning her name into my memory. “Kokila.”

  Kokila beamed, then tugged me outside. The air was heavy, still and quiet with the pressure of an impending thunderstorm.

  Kokila spread her arms wide and, with a broad grin, indicated the entire village.

  “Chair-oh-key,” she said, “Chair-oh-key.”

  “Cherokee,” I echoed, taking in the forty or so squat brown houses. I looked back at her and grinned. “Kokila,” I said. Then I jabbed my finger into my own chest. “Maggie,” I said.

  She laughed and spun around. “Ma-kee! Ma-kee!” she chanted, emphasising the second syllable. I liked the sound of it.

  I liked everything about this place. The last village or town I’d visited was the one where my sisters and I had, in another lifetime, traded eggs for cloth. The place had been far from welcoming, and my memories were coloured with an impersonal gray. Here among the Cherokee the colours of the land and the people spun together. There were no fences separating the long wooden houses.

  I think Adelaide was content in the village, though we didn’t talk a lot. She hardly spoke. Physically, she improved daily. But her eyes moved constantly, sweeping the faces around her, searching. She retreated into a glassy-eyed stare, focusing on monsters that lurked in her mind.

  She knew our attackers were dead. We had both seen the remains of the camp. But their ghosts still haunted her mind.

  Adelaide wasn’t in the house when Kokila came for me. She had been spending more time with some of the women lately, so I assumed that was where she was now.

  Kokila still held my hand, and began walking faster, probably hoping to outrun the storm. The wind had risen, easing the clouds past the mountains so they towered over the village, blocking out the sun. She led me toward the big house in the centre of the village: a long, seven-sided building I assumed was used for important meetings.

  The wind swirled the ground beneath our feet, spinning dust through the village and chasing families into their homes. Fat, heavy raindrops began to dot the dirt around our moccasins. They drummed against the thatched roof of the house. Kokila and I ducked through the entryway just as the storm hit with full force.

  It was dark inside, and very warm, as it was in all the buildings. A small fire burned at the far end of the house, and I could see the outlines of a few people sitting nearby. An animal hide hung partway over a hole in the ceiling, keeping out the wind and the rain, but letting out the hearth smoke. Kokila and I walked closer to the glow of the fire, and our eyes adjusted to the dim light.

  I knew the woman the moment I saw her. She sat at the far wall, tiny and still. I had never seen her before, but her features were more than familiar. Her f
ace was shrunken and wrinkled like a dried apple, and sparse gray hairs hung over ears that seemed oddly large for her head. Her body seemed to have collapsed in upon itself, but whatever strength it once held was now contained in her infinitely dark eyes, which were blazing and alert.

  Three other women sat with her, cross-legged on the floor. One had narrow eyes that bored into mine, but friendly curiosity brightened the toothless smiles of the other two.

  Kokila murmured something and squeezed my hand, then backed out of the house, leaving me alone with the women. One of them stretched out a thick, knobbly finger, indicating for me to sit. I did, and they examined me. Their eyes were keen and curious.

  I was uncomfortable under their stares and tried not to squirm. Then I felt a veil of calmness descend over me, like a light caress. Without conscious effort, all of my thoughts melded, centred on the ancient woman I somehow knew. I felt drawn to her, almost physically. My body seemed to be vibrating—as if something crawled beneath my skin—and my vision narrowed so all I saw was her. Her lips moved and she hummed and spoke, hummed and spoke.

  I was mesmerised. Somehow she was reaching inside me with her mind, seeking something within my thoughts. I could feel it. The air was taut, as if she held strings and could tighten or loosen them as she wished. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think; my senses were paralysed in fascination. Her mind wandered through mine, asking, answering, looking, and seeing. Without a single word I could hear her, and she could hear me.

  Once I realised what she was doing, I relaxed and concentrated my thoughts toward her. Her reaction was immediate. She opened her rheumy eyes wide and sat up straight, heaving in a rattling breath. The deep lines of her face cracked into a smile, and her hands flew to her toothless mouth. She cackled and babbled to the women beside her, gesturing toward me with her gnarled fingers.