Laughing Woman hung her head. "Bad manners. Like Fire Dancer very so much. Thought he make good husband. This woman feel dis-poin . . ." Her pretty brow creased. "What is the word—sorry it would not happen?"
"Disappointment?" Mackenzie took a bite of the sugared corn cake. It was delicious. "You were disappointed that Snake Man said Fire Dancer had to marry me?"
"Ah . Dis-ppoint-ment first. Then happy." She smiled with exaggeration. "Happy Fire Dancer happy."
Mackenzie gave a little laugh. "Oh, I don't know about that. He didn't seem too pleased to me. He likes sleeping with me well enough, but I don't think it ever occurred to him to marry me." She licked the maple syrup from the spoon. "You know, a white manake woman rather than a proper Shawnee woman like you."
Laughing Woman patted Mackenzie's knee. "Love is hard for man, even Shawnee man. Give him days. Give him kisses. Make nice. He will want to marry white woman with red hair. Fire Dancer have much love in his heart for his Mack-en-sie, just afraid."
"You think so?" Mackenzie looked up hopefully. It was hard to believe Fire Dancer could be afraid of anything. But she could understand fearing love. She was afraid of the intensity of her love for him. "You really think he loves me?"
"Ah , much." She rose. "Here." She tapped her left breast with her fist. "Much fierce love." She waved. "All will be right, Mack-en-sie. Will see."
"Wait, where are you going? Can't you stay?"
"No. Have much sorry. Babies hungry. You come this woman's wigwam later. I teach you make corn cakes and stew rabbit to warm Shawnee prince's stomach and heart, yes?"
"Thank you. I will. And thank you for the breakfast." Mackenzie took the other corncake. "It's delicious."
As Laughing Woman left the wigwam, Fire Dancer entered carrying a leather sack over his shoulder. The doorflap fell behind him and he stood there obviously feeling awkward.
Mackenzie stared at her plate. "Good morning," she said softly.
The tension in the air was as stiff as the bristle of a horsehair paintbrush.
"Good morning," he answered, thin lipped.
So he's not come to talk , she thought wryly. He's come to stand and look at me .
But that was unfair. He had made the effort to return to the wigwam. It was her place to make the effort to discuss last night. "I waited for you." She pushed a bite of corncake around her plate. "Last night. You never returned."
"This man went to Okonsa's lodge."
"I wanted to . . . um . . . tell you I was sorry. I shouldn't have thrown the hairbrush at you. It was childish. And I said things I didn't really mean. I don't hate you. I could never hate you. It's just that . . ." She dropped the spoon onto the plate and it clattered. " . . . That I'm very confused right now about how I feel about all this." She swept her arm indicating the wigwam, meaning the village and the Shawnee.
"Confused about your love for me?"
She forced herself to meet his gaze. "No. Not that. I know I love you. I'm just not sure it would work—a marriage between us, I mean. You and I are so different, Fire Dancer. We come from such different worlds."
He knelt beside her. "This man understands." He tapped his temple. "Here this man has many questions. He does not know many answers." His black-eyed gaze locked with hers. "I only know this man loves this woman greatly."
She touched his hand. She wasn't ready to throw herself into his arms, or agree to the marriage yet, but she had an intense desire to comfort him. "That's very sweet of you to say. You know men do not often speak of love among my people. It's not that they don't love, only that they don't know how to express it."
He slipped his hand out from under hers and pulled the leather bag off his shoulder. "This man does not speak well of his feelings, but I can express my love in other ways, Mack-en-zie." He thrust the flat bag into her arms. "For you, kitehi. "
"For me? What is it?" From inside she pulled out two supple white skins completely void of any hair. She glanced up at him questioningly.
"Look deeper," he urged, obviously pleased with himself.
She dug her hand into the bag and came up with three small red clay pots corked with wooden lids.
"Look again." His black eyes sparkled. "There is one thing more."
This time she brought a hand carved wooden stick with trimmed horsehair bristles tied on the end. "A brush?" she breathed. She glanced up. "You made me a paintbrush?"
He opened one of the clay pots and tipped it to show her what was inside. "See—paint. You must experiment with the colors and the amount of oils. This color came from ink berries." He dipped his finger into the paint and brushed a streak of purple color across the back of his hand. "It is pretty, is it not, Mack-en-zie?"
Paints and a brush. Fire Dancer understood her love for painting. A lump rose in her throat. It was a gift that touched her heart because she knew that it had come from his heart. Her eyes brimmed with silly tears of happiness. "I don't know what to say, but thank you."
"This man has no way to get canvas now, but the hides would be very good, I think, stretched over birch frames. I could make frames this winter, if you would allow me."
"I can't believe you did this for me," she whispered. "You made the brush, the paint, all for me, even after what I did with my paints?"
"It was wrong for you to paint this man's face, but you did not do it to harm me. You did not understand the way of the Shawnee."
"No, I didn't. And I thought because I didn't believe, it meant it wasn't true. The idea that one person could possess a part of another person seemed so absurd." She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Now I'm not so sure." She brushed the back of her hand across his cheek and down the solid line of his jaw. "I certainly feel as if you possess a part of me right now, Fire Dancer."
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. "A council meeting has been called." He released her. "The French have sent a messenger. There are some in my village who would join with them."
She glanced up, recognizing the concern in his voice. "You mean against the British?"
"Ah."
"They would do that?"
He caught a lock of bright hair and twirled it around his finger. "Ah , if it is what they believe would be best for Shawnee."
She held one of the tiny paint pots tightly in her fingers. "I'm English. That would make me the enemy, Fire Dancer."
"No. If you married me, we would make you Shawnee. You would forever be protected by my mother's name."
A sigh settled in her throat. Mackenzie didn't understand these matters. How could she be Shawnee simply by them saying so. It made so little sense . . ."
He squeezed her hand. "I must meet with my mother before council begins."
Mackenzie placed the precious painting supplies one by one back in the beaded bag. "Your mother the chief, you mean?"
He pressed his hands to his powerful thighs and rose. "I am sorry I did not explain that it was my mother who was chief. This man did not really consider that you would not understand it was she who ruled our people. My father is dead."
"I'm sorry."
"He died last winter of a manake illness. It has not been long and it is not good to speak of the dead so soon after their spirits have risen."
"I understand." She walked to the door with him. The seashells on her dress made a musical sound as she walked. "I was just surprised that a woman could be a chief. Colonial women don't rule anything but their households."
He frowned, obviously puzzled. "White manake , they make no sense. Why would a woman not be chief if she is most qualified?"
Mackenzie laughed. She had a lot to learn about the Shawnee if she was going to try to become one of them, wasn't she? "Why indeed," she agreed with a grin.
At the doorway he brushed his lips against hers in a gentle, husbandly kiss. "Tonight I will come here when the Council meeting is over and we will talk." He squeezed her hand. "The holy man says that we must marry, but he does not decree happiness. That must be up to you and to me, my beautiful maid wi
th hair of flames and a temper to match."
He met and held her gaze for what seemed a sweet eternity, then strode away.
Fire Dancer sat cross-legged beside his mother and listened as he watched the smoke of the center fire curl upward toward the hole in the ceiling, then disappear into the darkness of the night. Torches burned inside the communal wigwam. The stench of the bear grease mingled with smell of the herbs that smoked in Snake Man's incense pot.
The council meeting was not going as well as Fire Dancer had hoped. The entire village had been here for hours talking . . . arguing. An hour ago he'd had to break up a fist fight between two braves twice his own age.
The French had sent a messenger by way of a half-breed Mohawk scout. Fire Dancer didn't like the scout and he didn't trust him. He said the French did not hold him accountable for the attack and murder of Major DuBois. They had found the guilty Huron party and strung them all up by their necks until they were dead.
Okonsa and many of the men and women of the village felt that because the English believed it was the Shawnee who had attacked Belvadere, the Shawnee had no choice but to join with the French. It was Okonsa who led the group bent on siding with the French.
Fire Dancer argued that he could speak with Major Albertson and explain that it had been the same Hurons who had attacked the British fort. His men had only fought to defend themselves and to escape. Albertson was a reasonable, intelligent man. He had means of gaining information from the French side. He could easily confirm that it was a Huron war party that had murdered DuBois and had attacked Fort Belvadere.
But Okonsa would not hear of it. He felt that the French were offering their protection for very little in return other than the Shawnee's word of support. Many of the other villagers agreed. They feared that because of the attack on Fort Belvadere, the British could not be trusted, that, at some point they would seek revenge.
Fire Dancer attempted to listen patiently to another of Okonsa's diatribes. His cousin strutted back and forth speaking with a loud voice and exaggerated gestures. Tonight he had an aura about him that made him handsome as well as charming. He spoke with such confidence that Fire Dancer could understand why some of the frightened Shawnee could so easily be persuaded by his words.
"Neekeyah," Fire Dancer whispered to his mother, "Okonsa repeats himself again and again."
"Silence." She glared. "Each man and woman has a right to speak his or her thoughts at council. You know that."
Fire Dancer groaned. "But he monopolizes the conversation."
"Hsst." She patted her son's knee. "Above all else, a good chief is a good listener. You will sit on my blanket one day, son, and you must prepare yourself for that time."
Fire Dancer knew his mother was right. She usually was. He picked up his water skin and took a long pull. He was tired and he was hungry. He wanted to be with Mackenzie, not here with this unrest.
Okonsa finally sounded as if he was winding down his argument. Fire Dancer raised his index finger to be recognized.
"I am not done, brother," Okonsa said, his tone so polite it was insincere.
"You are done, son," Red Fox spoke up. "Sit. You have made this woman a winter older listening to your prattle."
Okonsa took his seat beside Battered Pot and the other men who followed him. He did not dare go against the chief at a council meeting, even if she was his surrogate mother.
"You wish to speak, Fire Dancer of the Thunder Sky?"
Fire Dancer stood. "If I may, great chief."
She snapped her fingers. "Make it quick."
The council broke up into softly spoken conversations as was appropriate when a new speaker was called. It gave the speaker a moment to prepare and the council members a moment to comment to those sitting near them.
Fire Dancer took a deep breath, as he gazed from one face to the next. These were the men and women he had grown up with, the men and women he had loved since he was a child. They were not just his neighbors. They were his brothers and sisters, and mothers and fathers, and grandparents. They were also his race and it was for his race that he was most concerned.
Fire Dancer raised his hand and the chatter ceased immediately. "As our chief suggested, I will make this short and it will be my final words for the night. You already know my feelings on this matter. I do not think it is time to choose sides between the French and the British. If this decision was solely up to me, I would wait out the winter like a fox in his hole and see what blows in on the spring breeze."
"So fearful to make a decision he would make no decision at all," scoffed Okonsa.
Fire Dancer gazed at his cousin. "Listen to my brother's words. He speaks out of anger . . . out of his desire to seek revenge for the deaths of his parents so many years ago. We all know that he wants to kill Englishmen because it was Englishmen who murdered his mother and father."
"It is not true," Okonsa defended. "I want what is best for the Shawnee. To fight with the French is best."
Fire Dancer ignored his cousin's rude interruption. "I do not mean to say that my brother's intentions are meant to be harmful. My question is, would you listen to man who makes his decisions with his emotions rather than his head?"
"Ha! Look who calls the cardinal red! You do not want to fight the British because you take a Colonial woman to your sleeping mat."
"That is enough, Okonsa," Red Fox barked.
Okonsa lowered his gaze apologetically. "I am sorry for my rudeness, brother. Go on with your words."
Fire Dancer tucked his hands behind his back. "I do not want to join with the French, my beloved friends, not because I do not want to fight the British, but because I think it is unwise that we join in this conflict at all." He paused to let his words sink in before continuing. "I love you all as I would love my brother or sister, or mother or father or grandparents so I say this in respect. You do not understand the white men as I do. Perhaps it is because part of my spirit is possessed by a white woman, I do not know. What I do know is that English or French, they are the same in that the one thing that drives them above all else—" he made a fist "—their desire to possess land."
A murmur rippled among the council members.
Fire Dancer continued. "We know that land belongs only to the mother earth and the father in the sky, but they do not. They exchange wampum for soil, and if a man does not leave that soil, they will murder him for it. That is what this fighting between the French and British is about. Who possesses land—land that we have loved and protected for more years than the generations can count, brothers and sisters."
Fire Dancer now had their attention with his passionate words. He only hoped that they would understand. "Do you not see? No matter which side wins, we will lose. We will lose this land we stand on now . . . and we will lose our lives . . . the lives of our sons and daughters."
"So what do you say?" asked his shy sister, Song Bird. "Do we lie down and die brother?"
"No." He thrust out his jaw. "We have two choices, perhaps three. If you want to fight, we could unite as redmen, Shawnee, Cherokee, Lenape, Huron, Mohawk, Menomineee, and send the white men back into the ocean they came from." He sighed. "Or, we could move west to the land of our teepee cousins where no white men yet sets foot."
"Our third choice?" Song Bird asked.
"Learn to live beside the white. Share the land. Lose a part of ourselves and our culture, but save our people."
Okonsa clutched his chest. "Brother, such a dramatic speech. I am touched." He let his hands fall. "Touched, but not convinced."
Fire Dancer took his place beside his mother. "I have nothing more to say. You know my thoughts. You also know that I am loyal to the Shawnee and I will follow the path they choose as is my place."
Red Fox stroked her son's head with affection before turning her attention back to the council. "We have heard the arguments. Let us take the vote and be done. I pass a basket. Take the stick given to you when you entered this lodge and cast your vote. A half stick votes we join the F
rench. A whole stick votes we choose no side yet."
The chief handed the basket to her left. Slowly it was passed around the circle. Fire Dancer closed his eyes and tried not to listen for the sound of breaking sticks. All too soon the basket came to him and with a quick prayer he dropped in his whole stick.
It took Red Fox only a minute to turn around to the blanket behind her and count the sticks. "It is decided," she said solemnly, as she turned back to face her people. "The vote was very close, which is disturbing. Only one vote made the final decision."
Everyone stared at Red Fox, silent in anticipation.
Red Fox sighed and when she spoke she sounded older than she had only moments before. "It has been decided that we will place our alliance in the hands of the Frenchmen."
There was a great cheer from Okonsa's side of the council circle. Everyone began talking at once.
Fire Dancer felt his heart fall in his chest. It was the wrong decision.
"Our war council will meet with the Mohawk delegate tomorrow," Red Fox said above the din. "We will compose a reply to the French and state our terms at that time." She rose and lifted her hands above her head. "Go in peace, brothers and sisters, until we meet again."
The crowd immediately dispersed as everyone separated into groups to talk of the decision. The feeling of doom in Fire Dancer's chest was so tight that he couldn't breathe. He didn't want to speak to anyone, only to get out of the council lodge and into the fresh night air. He kissed his mother good night and strode for the door.
Just when Fire Dancer thought he'd made his escape undetected, Okonsa grabbed his arm. "Ah hah, you flee."
Fire Dancer halted. He was not in the mood for Okonsa's games. "I do not flee. The meeting is over. I have matters to attend to if the war council meets tomorrow." Fire Dancer lead the war council. "We must send messages to our sister villages as well as a missive to the French."
Okonsa stroked his scalp lock. "I do not want you to take what I said here tonight personally. I do not attack you, brother."
Fire Dancer gazed into Okonsa's black eyes. Okonsa's words were honorable, and yet Fire Dancer was suspicious. He could feel the heat of Okonsa's hate for the British. "I do not take your words to heart, brother. I am only concerned for their wisdom."
Fire Dancer Page 21
