Red Bird's Song

by Beth Trissel

  "Still, you fear to wed me?"

  "There are other reasons besides fear. Good ones."

  "Charity, I will force you to nothing. Only give me your word you will consider my request. I shall not make another."

  She swallowed hard. “I will give you an answer."

  But would it be the one he desperately wanted to hear?

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  Chapter Nine

  What a difference a few days made. Clad only in her shift, Charity leaned back in the soothing water to rinse the suds from her hair. Tiny green dragonflies skimmed over the pond-sized spring and hardy katydids droned from the trees. Calls of “Bob White!” rose from the grassy clearing that spread beyond the heated pool.

  She straightened and shook back dripping lengths. “This weather is like summer and the spring better than any tonic."

  Emma washed the soap from Lily's ringlets. “Certainly better than Mama's. Slippery elm, dock roots, and God knows what else, to ‘let out the bad.’”

  Water glistened on Colin's torso as he lathered James’ head. He smiled appreciatively at Emma. “That brew must possess wondrous power. You're in fine form."

  Her wet shift accentuated every curve and the sun glinted from highlights in the damp mane falling around her shoulders and down her back. “You shouldn't be watching me bathe, sir."

  James wriggled in Colin's grasp, spitting at the bubbles sliding down his face. “Why'd you have to go and find soap?"

  "Keep your mouth shut, lad, and you'll not suffer,” he said, and pushed him underwater to rinse.

  James reappeared, his soapy curls dripping. “All done."

  "Not quite.” Colin dunked him again.

  James shot to the surface. “Enough! I want to play."

  "Water's tolerable for play, but not bathing, eh?” Colin chuckled, and gave him an affectionate pat.

  Emma freed the squirmy little girl. “Go on then, the pair of you. Stay where it's shallow."

  Colin pointed to the red sourwood at the side of the spring. “The bottom falls away just past that tree."

  Like cubs, the children splashed to the end of the spring farthest from the clearing. Charity lay on her back in the balmy water and drifted beneath an endless blue sky.

  "I wish I could float like that,” Emma said.

  "Nothing could be easier."

  "For you. Craig taught you how to swim."

  "Had to, he couldn't keep me out of the river."

  "I remember. He said you should have been a boy."

  Charity smiled with the familiar wistful pang. “The water is only waist high at this end. I'll help you float."

  Emma rubbed one small hand over her swollen middle. “I'm far too large for you—” Colin clasped her from behind and lifted her from the water to hold her, dripping, in his arms.

  "Put me down!"

  Deaf to Emma's protest, he bent and suspended her over the surface. “I'll teach you to float."

  "No!"

  He bent lower. She was only inches above the water. “Stretch out."

  She clung to his neck as though a fathomless loch lay beneath her. “I'll go straight to the bottom."

  "Trust me. I'll not let you go."

  She looked up at him and slowly gave a nod. He held her on the surface as she leaned back, still clinging to him. “The water's not above your chin, darling."

  Her tense posture gradually relaxed. “You're still breathing. Not lost in the depths,” he teased, and swirled her lightly through the water, then brought her to a halt.

  She smiled slightly. “'Tisn't so bad."

  "Pleasant, even?” he asked, coaxing another nod. “Good. Time for the next step. Let go of me."

  Her mouth flew open. “I can't!"

  "It's not deep. Besides, I've got you."

  "Very well. I'll try.” Eyes glued on him, she slid curled fingers from his neck.

  "Move your arms gently,” he said.

  Emma fluttered her arms like a newly emerged butterfly trying its wings. “Wonderful. You're nearly there,” he encouraged.

  "But I couldn't float alone."

  "You could."

  A wordless agreement passed between them and Colin slipped his arms from beneath her. Late day sunshine poured over Emma suspended on the surface, her hair swaying about her like golden grasses.

  Triumph shone in her face. “I'm floating."

  Charity clapped her hands. “I knew you could."

  Colin held Emma to him in tender reward then drifted with her to the far side of the spring. Their low conversation faded. Sunlight spilled through the leaves, dappling her blonde head and his reddish brown hair. They were partly hidden by branches, but Charity saw his lips cover Emma's unresisting mouth.

  James half-waded, half-ran to Charity, craning his neck at the couple. “Why is Uncle Papa kissing Emma?"

  "Because he loves her."

  "Does she love him back?"

  "Oh, yes."

  Lily leapt at James like a little frog, her shift slipping over one shoulder. “Me too."

  "Me first!” he yelled. “Is kissing a sin, Charity?” She surely hoped not. “Never mind. See who can dress the fastest."

  James scrambled from the spring. Lily's short legs worked hard to overtake him. Weshe leapt up, tail wagging.

  Charity climbed from the water and took one of the towels Colin had liberated from the plunder to wrap around her streaming shift. The cloth was too small to cover her below her knees, or higher than her chest. Clean and warm, at last, she sat on a stone to pull on her stockings and shoes.

  James dashed to her side. “Done.” He'd donned breeches over his tiny breechclout. His shirt clung to him.

  Lily darted beside him, her short blue gown pulled on over her dripping shift, petticoat askew. “Me too."

  He radiated superiority. “Your shoes aren't on."

  Lily looked downcast.

  "You can race another time,” Charity told her as she turned away.

  "I'll win then too,” James bragged. “She's only a girl."

  "I can beat you every time and I'm a girl."

  "A big girl. Aren't you going to dress?"

  Charity pointed to the yellow spicebush where she'd spread her freshly-washed clothes to dry. “I can't yet."

  He shook his head. “I can see more of you than usual."

  "Stop looking then."

  His small chin jutted at a stubborn angle. “That towel don't cover enough."

  "Leave me be."

  Colin chuckled. “The lad's only guarding your honor.” He swam from the drop off back toward them with Emma. “In all honesty, you aren't entirely proper."

  "He's right. You can't go about like that,” Emma agreed.

  "I'm not fighting my way back into those wet clothes. I'll soon have my cloak."

  "Wicomechee will have something to say about your attire, or lack of it,” Colin warned, shading his eyes with his hand. “Is that him?"

  Muga emerged through the leaves at the edge of the spring. Disappointment welled in Charity. Wicomechee had been away hunting for hours. Not that it mattered, she reminded herself. She was fine with the others, and shouldn't always look for him.

  James and Lily bounded over to the big warrior. “Take us to camp. We're hungry.” The congenial brave nodded.

  Charity walked to him. She'd accompany them and recover her cloak before Wicomechee knew the difference. Muga stared at her as though he wanted to say something. Instead, he set off with a child on either side of him and Weshe at his heels.

  His disapproval on top of everyone else's was too much; Charity followed further back. The grassy scent in the clearing reminded her of their settlement in the valley...the meadow enclosed by split-rail with sheep and the log house, hickory smoke curling up from its stone chimney. Homesickness tugged at her. Reluctant to leave the sunny space, she trailed behind Muga into the trees.

  Something hard bit into her heel. “Ouch!"

  She stopped to slip off her shoe an
d shook out a pebble. Rubbing her bruised foot, she looked around. The others were out of sight. Apparently unaware of her difficulty, they'd gone on and been swallowed among the leaves.

  She slid on her shoe and started to follow, then stopped. She was all alone. Or was she?

  Her heart quickened. Someone or something was near. Was it only the light slanting through the forest making patterns among the leaves or did she spy a figure up ahead?

  Dear God. Prickles swarmed down her spine like scattering ants. Was that Craig?

  Impossible. It couldn't be.

  And yet...a year ago by the riverbank, she'd caught sight of him. She was almost certain. Had he come to her now? The woods were a meld of light and shadows. Seeing Craig might have been an illusion, or maybe he was here.

  She couldn't be sure. As quickly as he'd appeared he disappeared, but she supposed he could go where he liked if he were a spirit. Perhaps he watched over her as a sort of guardian angel and wanted her to follow him.

  Paying scant attention where her feet led her, she left the path and tracked over the spongy ground between the branches toward the place where she thought she'd seen him. Just beyond the undergrowth, the gurgling stream reflected the rays from the lowering sun.

  A doe drinking at the edge of the water lifted its head and studied her for a moment before springing away over the stones upstream. The stream flowed east and would lead Charity in that direction if she followed the waterway. Was that what Craig intended?

  What would he have her do? Deny her people, or her heart? Wrenching pain tore through her. How could she possibly leave Emma or the children or Colin? She'd grown deeply fond of him. And what of Wicomechee? Her chest fluttered wildly at the mere mention of his name.

  What a coward he must think her, staying close to Emma these past few nights while thoughts of him consumed her. She couldn't give into these volatile emotions, though. She'd agreed to consider his request to wed him, but she'd been intoxicated then. She was painfully sober now.

  If only they could be together with no talk of marriage, or anything more. Just them. But a warrior and a white woman wedding...how could such a union ever be honored?

  Perhaps leaving Wicomechee was the only way to break the irresistible hold he had over her. But wouldn't that also break her heart? And how would she survive out here? She'd never find the settlement alone.

  Craig had always known what was best. His insight must be a hundredfold better now. Steeling herself, she petitioned her brother. “If I'm to go back, you must lead me."

  After that whispered petition, she waited.

  The vibrant colors faded with the coming twilight, and the wind picked up as the sun dipped lower behind the ridges. The woods grew darker now and a chill touched the air so recently blessed with summery balm. Something was different than when she'd first come to the stream.

  Unease gripped her. She was no longer alone. But who was with her, friend or foe?

  She looked guardedly through the trees. Upstream, an indistinct masculine figure watched her from purplish shadows. He beckoned and the chill that traveled her before doubled in strength and charged down her spine to her knees.

  "My God.” Was it truly Craig?

  Had he returned now to direct her path? Like a sleepwalker, she stepped toward him, but again he disappeared.

  No. She couldn't follow a vanishing ghost.

  Fierce fingers dug into her shoulder from behind. “Where are you going, English girl?"

  She jumped in almost unbearable alarm and stammered, “Back to camp."

  Chaka spun her around to face him. He pointed west. “Camp lies that way."

  "I must be lost."

  Accusation glinted in his eyes. “You think to escape."

  "No! I just—"

  He ripped her towel away. “This will not warm you.” Casting the cloth aside, he seized a handful of her damp hair and jerked her head back. “Where is your blanket? You will freeze in the night."

  She winced. “Don't."

  "How do you think to eat? You will die in these mountains.” His dark gaze drank her in. “So fair to die."

  The hunger in his face alarmed her as much as his anger. “Take me to Wicomechee."

  Chaka's mouth hardened and she saw the ghost of Outhowwa in his forbidding features. “Wicomechee will beat you. Teach you not to run."

  "I didn't."

  Chaka snorted. “Shall I give you punishment?"

  He would surely kill her. She clasped her hands together as if in prayer. “No. I beg you."

  "Why should I not?"

  "Have mercy."

  "Mercy? Perhaps...for you.” He closed his arm around her waist, pulling her against his hard chest.

  Was he expecting something in return? Something she had no intention of surrendering? “Let me go! Wicomechee will—"

  Chaka clamped his hand over her mouth. “I do not fear Wicomechee.” He caught her up, struggling, in his arms. She aimed a kick at his thigh, but he only held her more tightly.

  "Be still."

  Her pointless resistance gave way and she went limp in his grasp. He swiftly put the stream behind them. She didn't know where he was taking her, but not back to camp. Branches slapped against her as he charged over the path, then angled to the side and ducked into a secluded nook. Evergreens hid the dusky space as he knelt and laid her on the needles.

  "Quiet,” he warned, his hand still covering her mouth.

  She lay too frightened to scream even if he'd given her the chance. The paint was gone from his face, but the lines in his features were like granite. She had to reach him. Her very soul entreated him through the haze of her tears.

  He bent nearer until his face was a hand span away from hers, and stopped. His harsh expression softened and he drew back slightly. The brimming moisture in her eyes spilled over his fingers.

  "I will not harm you. I give you my word."

  She nodded, and he freed her mouth. “Release me,” she begged him in a panting whisper.

  "Do not fear. I have no wish to give you pain."

  "Then why did you bring me here? Please—” she shuddered. “Take me to camp."

  "Shhhh,” he whispered. “Speak with me. Only this."

  She weighed his request in profound mistrust.

  "Why so wet?” he asked, running his hand over her sleeve. “You try to flee, fall in the stream? Remove your clothes?"

  "I swam in the spring,” she said, forcing each word from her dry mouth.

  "English women cannot swim."

  "I can. Ask Waupee."

  He trailed his hand through her hair. “You are different from other captive women. With you, I would be gentle."

  "How is that possible? You tried to drown me."

  "No. Only frighten you. I regret—” he broke off, and began again. “I no longer wish you to fear me.” He slipped his fingers lightly over her cheek in an unmistakable caress. “I like your face, your hair...all of you."

  She listened in amazement. His tone was gentle, but would he suddenly turn on her like a mad dog?

  "Do not run again. You will suffer much punishment."

  "I wasn't running."

  He touched her lips, and his fingers lingered at her face. “I saw you. Speak the truth to me, Charity."

  She was almost too shocked to reply. “You said my name."

  "Any name you like. I will cover you with furs. Trade for cloth you can sew. Feed you. Protect you. Be my wife."

  This unwarranted tenderness was even more intimidating than his usual menace. “I can't. I belong to Wicomechee."

  "Forget Wicomechee,” he whispered, lifting her and crushing her against his brawn. He was like an impassioned bear, and she cried out in his fierce hold.

  He lightened his grip. “I will be a good husband. Hear me, Charity."

  How on earth could she make him let her go? “You don't understand. Wicomechee is my husband."

  His eyes were cynical. “No."

  She desperately sought to rememb
er the Shawnee word for ‘my husband’ Wicomechee had spoken the night they'd sheltered under the hemlock. "Wyshetche! Wicomechee is Wyshetche!"

  Chaka laid her back on the needles, staring at her. Before she contrived another lie, an unforgettable voice hailed them.

  "Outhowwa heard you,” Chaka muttered.

  She clutched his arm in dread. “Don't let him kill me."

  "He will not kill you.” With clear annoyance, Chaka closed his hand around her wrist and pulled her up with him. Looking as though he'd rather be headed anyplace else, he propelled her through orange-tipped fern back to the trail.

  A small group of warriors stepped aside to allow them passage through to Outhowwa. The chief's cold predatory gaze pierced her before he tore into Chaka, in Shawnee.

  Chaka answered gruffly. She caught something about ‘the Englishwoman,’ then he bent close to his father and uttered the rest of his reply in such a low voice that Charity couldn't hear, even if she'd understood the words.

  Outhowwa's annoyance was less marked as he turned the force of his regard to her. “Wicomechee is your husband?"

  She didn't dare repeat her falsehood to him. “Wicomechee asked to be my husband. Chaka has no right to me."

  "Yet he desires to make you his wife. In this, there is honor.” Outhowwa lifted her tangled hair and let it fall. He wrinkled his nose as though at a noxious scent, then he shrugged. “Chaka likes you much. He has one wife to keep. Still, he is good hunter, takes enough game to feed two."

  "Two?” she echoed, beyond shocked.

  "He will care for you,” Outhowwa emphasized. “For the little ones you bear him."

  Dear God. Would Outhowwa hand her over to Chaka, despite his antipathy to her? “Do not make me wed him. Please."

  He studied her scornfully. “I do not force any woman to wed. You may choose."

  If she didn't wed, Shawnee women would make her life harsh and break her back with hard work. Hardly able to believe her response, she gave a faint nod.

  Outhowwa continued. “Chaka, Wicomechee are strong warriors. Speak your wish."

  Numb, Charity said, “I choose Wicomechee for my husband."

  Chaka scowled, but had no choice other than to abide by her decision with his father witnessing every word.

  Outhowwa took her arm as though he sensed the urge to flee welling inside her. “Come girl. Wicomechee will keep you.” He sounded glad that his family wouldn't be afflicted with such a troublesome wife.