Daughter of the Raven

by Cherime MacFarlane

  Anya smiled at the bird she held by its feet. "Now we have dinner and fletching."

  Petyr's stomach rumbled and he looked away from her in embarrassment.

  "We will dine later tonight. On the way who knows what we may scare up to eat."

  Dividing the bedding, Anya made a bundle Petyr could carry on his back. After slipping it over his shoulder, she handed him her spear shaft. "Here. Use this as a walking stick. Your balance may be a bit off without that arm to stabilize you."

  Petyr watched her add coals to the moss nest of her willow basket fire carrier. She secured the basket inside of the largest kettle then picked up her bundle. The gutted and cleaned ptarmigan, strung on willow cord was attached to her pack. It swung along as they walked.

  "So tell me, how did you come to be here?" Petyr did not wait long to begin questioning her.

  Anya snorted. Not sure of how much to tell the boy, she started with Keetering. "My idiot of a husband did not listen when warned by my Father."

  "Is that not a bit harsh? To speak of your husband in such a manner?"

  "No!" She cried vehemently. "Not in the least."

  It all came spilling out. Every detail including the part about her father, she had not planned to relate. When she had spit it all out, Anya was surprised to find she felt a bit better.

  What was equally surprising to her, was the depth of her hatred for Keetering. If anything, it had increased. Had she not been who and what she was, likely she would have died somewhere here in Siberia, friendless and alone. She could not forgive him for his arrogance, for not understanding.

  Both of them walked in silence for quite some time. Toward afternoon, they encountered another stream. Anya stood watching the direction in which it flowed. She decided it must be a tributary of the Lena. She had been told the portage was a short one.

  According to Naum's map, it was a three or four day's journey depending on the individual and how far they were willing to walk in one day.

  She decided it would be best to cross this stream before it became too wide. If it indeed flowed into the Lena, they should get on the north side of it. It would be easier to reach Ust Kut and find a way down river to Yakutsk, if they did not have to cross a broad watercourse.

  That evening, they roasted the bird. Anya fletched her arrows as it cooked. She tried them out. There was a vast improvement, which pleased her. The task accomplished, their food eaten, Anya knew it was time she and Petyr discussed the matter of disguise.

  "Petyr, we will have to go down river to Yakutsk. You realize this?"

  He nodded. "And?"

  "And you will have to cut off those curls on the side of your head." She glared at the little cap he wore on the very top of his head. "The cap will have to go as well."

  The boy gulped. Lowering his head, Petyr looked down at the ground. "Both?"

  "Yes, and you will pose as my half brother."

  "Surely they will know I am a Jew."

  Anya shook her head. "Not if you do as I ask. Also, do not speak. I will claim you were in some kind of accident, an overturned boat is good enough I think."

  She was finishing construction of a light bark and woven willow quiver for the arrows and bow. Intent on mounting it on her back for easy access, Anya had not looked at him. When she finally did, she saw tears in the boy's eyes.

  "Why are you so sad?" She did not mention the tears, trying to spare his feelings.

  "It appears I must lose all that makes me who I am."

  Anya pulled out the old scissors. "We will now take care of those curls. They will grow back. When we are both safe, you can grow them back. We dare not take the cap with us. If it is as you say, it would damn us."

  "Anya, can you not take it apart? My mother made it for me." He fell silent.

  Holding out her hand, Anya nodded. "I can do that. I promise you, I will sew it back together when we are safe. I will put the pieces in my little pouch, the one I carry on my back between my shoulders and I will wrap each piece carefully. Will that suffice?"

  His eyes still held traces of tears. "Thank you. Now, do you wish to cut my hair?" Petyr wiggled closer to her.

  Anya cut all the curls from his head. Using her knife, she carefully separated the pieces of the cap. As he watched, she took the pad from her back and opened it. He saw the small gold nuggets. The boy watched wide eyed, as she laid the gold in the pieces of the cap.

  "Where did you get those?" Petyr breathed.

  She held out the nuggets so he could look at them. That kept him busy long enough for her to hide the two gold coins.

  "I got them from the man who stole them from my Father. I left him the very big ones, as I did not wish to be robbed and killed for those. It is enough that I carry the small ones. If I am going to be trading and we will be trading for things in Yakutsk, I only take one out. I keep the balance hidden. It is not unusual for a person to find a nugget or two in the streams."

  "No and certainly not in Yakutsk." Petyr replied as he passed the nuggets back to her and watched as she put one nugget in a piece of rag tied with a string. Anya suspended the small bundle from a length of linen twine about her neck.

  "There is much gold and talk of gold in this area." The boy commented.

  "How did you hear of it?" Anya asked.

  "My father smelted gold for those who found it. That is one of the reasons he and the others were killed. Someone thought they had been cheated."

  Anya dug a hole with her knife in which to bury the hair she cut from his head. "I do not care for those who hunt gold. They tear up the land looking for it. In the end someone usually takes it all from them. They gamble, drink or just lose it on bad investments. Fools!"

  Anya tamped shut the little hole with the butt of her knife. "My Father does not care for them any more than I do."

  "What sort of man is your father? Will he mind you traveling with a Jew and bringing one home with you?"

  Anya laughed. Petyr liked the sound of her laughter better than her spitting anger at her husband.

  "Oh, I think you will like him. He is a proud man, but a man who has suffered much in life. He lost my Mother shortly after I was born. I must warn you, he wears an eye patch, as he lost his eye to a bear before I was born. He remarried when I was ten."

  She found that thoughts of her uncle brought tears to her own eyes. "We almost lost Camille, my stepmother. My Uncle tried to murder her."

  "Your uncle did?" There was a note of amazement in his voice. Anya wiped her eyes with both hands.

  "Yes. He was my Mother's brother and a shaman of the Tlingit tribe. He wanted me to be one as well. When I did not...."

  "I am sorry Anya. You do not have to tell me more." Petyr lowered his gaze.

  She heaved a deep sigh, then looked at the boy. "He was crazed Petyr. There was nothing to be done. My Father had to rescue Camille and there was only one way. He had to kill my Uncle."

  Petyr nodded. "There is evil in the world. Great evil. It is always seeking to see who it may destroy."

  Anya looked at the boy. She wondered where he had acquired such wisdom is so few years.

  "We must sleep now Petyr." Anya told him. "We need to rest in order to deal with what tomorrow brings."

  Charles was amazed at how little the young girl weighed. He quickly made his way into the Financial District and to the building where his father's office was located. He had a difficult time juggling her, as he worked to get the key into the lock of the outside door. Once inside, he locked the door again before taking her up the stairs to their office suite. The hall windows allowed the moon light to illuminate their way to the office's main entrance. This time he made quick work of opening the heavy door. The girl clung to him, her uninjured arm tightly around his neck. Charles carried her into the library where he attempted to lay her on the table.

  "No, no go." She tried to hold on to him with her good arm.

  Gently, he removed her arm from his neck, before going to the hall closet. Taking his father's long duster
, Charles returned to the library and placed the coat around her.

  "I need to see what your injuries are." Charles said softly.

  Her eyes were closed. He brushed a tendril of black hair from the pale cheek. "I won't hurt you. I promise." The pale skin was warm and soft.

  She opened her dark eyes. Charles felt himself fall into the dark pools.

  "Yes. Look."

  There was an oil lamp in the supply closet. After lighting it he turned the wick as low as possible. Setting the lamp on the floor in the hallway, Charles went back into the library. Shutting the heavy drapes, he effectively sealed the library from prying eyes before bringing the lamp in.

  Turning up the wick after putting the lamp on the table where the young girl lay, he stood looking at her. With those dark eyes closed, it seemed to him she was barely breathing.

  He hoped she was not suffering from internal injuries. Charles tried to recall what she had been lying on when he picked her up, but could not. It was all too much of a jumble in his mind.

  Removing his jacket, he made a pad of it for her head. She opened her eyes when he lifted her head to slide the makeshift pillow beneath her. Charles pushed aside the duster and carefully inspected the slight body.

  There were cuts everywhere on the silk robe she wore. Here and there spots of blood shown against the shiny silk. She had moved her good arm and was using it to support the damaged one. He ran one finger cautiously down her arm. She did not appear to have a break anywhere that he could determine. When he lightly touched her shoulder, she moaned through clenched teeth.

  Recovering her upper body, Charles pushed the duster and robe to one side so he might inspect the slim legs and dainty feet.

  So small. He thought while removing one slipper. It was then that he discovered the slipper concealed narrow, tiny feet, which surely made it almost impossible for her to walk. Charles realized why she had not immediately run away.

  He had heard the tales of lotus feet before, but had not realized how it disabled those women who had bound feet.

  He needed help. The only one who could give it to him was probably waiting up at home, his mother.

  Drawing a chair up to the table, he sat by her head. "I need to leave you for a while. You are safe here. No one will find you."

  The dark eyes opened and she watched him intently. Holding up the ring of keys where she could see them, Charles waited until her gaze returned to him.

  "No one can get in here. No one knows we are here. I need to get help, I will return shortly."

  "Ying Hau no go back. Die, no go back!"

  Charles understood her and hoped he could reassure the young woman. Slightly built and so delicate, he wondered how she had survived the fall.

  After his perusal of her body, Charles was aware of Ying Hau as a woman. "Ying Hau, you are safe here. I will be back very soon."

  Dark eyes searched his face. Her assessment of him caused Charles to color slightly. But, he waited as Ying Hau thought everything over.

  Closing her eyes, she sighed. "Go."

  Placing his hand over hers, Charles gave her a light pat. "Trust me, I will be back."

  Ying Hau did not respond. Charles turned the wick in the oil lamp back down and hurried out of the library. There was no time to waste. She must be in hiding before dawn.

  His horse was waiting in the stable area behind the office which opened into the alley. It had been his method of going home from the raids, as there were no cabs from the Financial District at this time of night.

  The animal was secure behind the high fence. Charles knew better than to leave anything where it could be seen and stolen. Theft was rampant in the city. The horse was glad to see him and snuffled his hand when he reached for the reins.

  Quietly opening the back gate into the alley, he led the animal into the street. Careful to make as little noise as possible, he trotted the animal away from the office. Charles turned the horse in the direction of his home.

  He stifled the urge to gallop. The less noise the better. Anyone could be watching from the shadows.

  "Mother?" Charles called softly as he entered the back door near the kitchen.

  "Here. What kept you?"

  On entering the room, he grabbed both her hands. "A young woman needs your help. She is in desperate need of sanctuary."

  Abigail Keetering looked at her son and waited for him to tell her what had happened. Once he had related it all to her, Abigail nodded.

  "We need to get her here. She can stay in the old nursery for now. You bring the carriage around and I will get dressed."

  Abigail met Charles in the front yard. As quietly as possible they left the house. Once they reached the office, he moved the horse and buggy into the back stable area. It was a tight fit, but he managed to get the buggy backed into the yard and the gate secured. Charles took his mother up the back stairs to the second floor office.

  They entered quietly and he led his mother to the library where he had left his charge. He was horrified to see she was not on the table.

  "Ying Hau! Where are you?" Charles called.

  The curtain moved and the small Chinese woman tottered forward. "Here. Ying Hau hide. Must hide, tong."

  Abigail rushed forward. She took hold of Ying Hau's good arm beneath her elbow. "Come, sit for a moment child."

  Charles nodded. "Ying Hau, this is my mother, Abigail, Mrs. Keetering. As soon as you are ready, we will take you out of here. We are moving you to a secure hiding place."

  "Ahbe gl? Hide much good!" She drew a finger across her throat in a gesture both Abigail and Charles understood immediately.

  "Tong, no good! Go, go." The young woman rose.

  Charles moved toward her as he held out the ring of keys to his mother. "I will carry Ying Hau. Please lock up behind us Mother."

  Again he picked Ying Hau up carefully, so as not to jostle her injured arm. Abigail locked the office doors behind them. As soon as both women were in the carriage, Charles led the horse and buggy from the stable yard. Making as little noise as possible, they went back the way they had come.

  It was nearing dawn when Charles carried Ying Hau up the third floor stairs to his old nursery. It was a bit dusty, but his mother assured him she would take care of it later in the morning.

  Charles would go with his father to the office as they normally did. Abigail would look after the young woman. They would have a better knowledge of the extent of her injuries when Charles came home.

  "What shall we tell Father?" Charles whispered in the hall just outside the nursery.

  "Nothing for the moment. There is no need to endanger him. The less he knows the better."

  Charles stared at his mother in amazement. "We cannot lie to him!"

  Abigail laid a hand on his arm. "Your father might make the mistake of feeling the girl did not belong here and turn her over to the mission. He might also make light of something that is far larger and more menacing than he has any concept of. I remember the horrors of the black slave trade. The hunters who searched for runaway slaves often did not care if someone was innocent of harboring slaves, or not. I do not think the tongs are any different. They may be worse than the old slavers."

  "Sorry, I am sorry I brought such danger to the house." Charles hung his head.

  "Do not be sorry. From what you tell me, that young woman must have thrown herself out of the window in an effort to escape her captors. She would rather die than go back. How can we turn our backs on that kind of courage?"

  Abigail shook her head. "Think of it this way, we are protecting your father from harm. The harm his own tongue might cause."

  Abigail personally saw to the cleaning of the nursery along with the small nursemaid's bedroom. She put clean sheets on the bed and brought up a basin and ewer of hot water.

  After helping the young woman to wash, Abigail inspected her injuries. Other than a few cuts and bruises, the major injury was to her shoulder. It appeared to be dislocated. Ying Hau sat in a small chair, one Charles
had used as a child. Abigail sat on a stool in front of her.

  "Ying Hau, I need to fix your shoulder." Abigail pointed to her shoulder then pantomimed pushing it back into position. "This will hurt."

  She grabbed her own arm then grimaced in mock pain. "But it must be done."

  Ying Hau tried to pronounce the word "Hurt".

  Abigail nodded. She said the word again. When Ying Hau had gotten fairly close to the correct pronunciation of the word, Abigail took a wash cloth, which she rolled up. Opening her own mouth, she inserted the rolled washcloth and set her teeth into it. Pulling her lips back, she demonstrated to the young woman what needed to be done.

  The Chinese girl nodded. Reaching out, she took the cloth from Abigail's hand, clenched it between her teeth and waved her good hand in the air.

  Abigail stood behind Ying Hau, turned her arm inward then slowly rotated her arm outward until it was on an angle to her body. Abigail pulled her shoulder back into the shoulder joint. Ying Hau stiffened and there was a guttural moan.

  As she relaxed against Abigail, tears rolled down her cheeks. Placing an arm over the young woman's good shoulder, the older woman stood quietly, allowing Ying Hau time to recover.

  With a gentle pat on her shoulder, Abigail moved around in front of Ying Hau. She motioned for the young woman to move her arm. Ying Hau cautiously did so and smiled at the older woman.

  "Good! Much good. Ah..." Ying Hau searched for the proper thing to say.

  "Thank you?" Abigail supplied the words.

  Ying Hau shook her head. "Much good, thank you."

  She smiled at Abigail. Mrs. Keetering felt the warmth of her smile and reached out to pat the young woman's hand. She liked the Chinese girl.

  Charles found a note tied to the saddle of his horse when he left the office. Someone at the mission had cautiously made him aware of a great buzz in the Chinese community regarding the loss of a particular piece of property.

  Many questions were being asked regarding who had taken part in the raid. The advice given was, if someone had access to the piece of property in question, a long absence from the city might be the best course of action. His hand shook as he wadded the paper into a ball and put it in his pocket.