by Beth Trissel
"That must be his wife,” Charity said. Chaka perched a giggling girl of about three on his shoulder, caught up a chubby toddler, and disappeared into the throng. “I never imagined he could be like this. Thank heavens he didn't bring me home as a second wife. She seems very fond of him."
"And he of her, though I doubt he'll ever be faithful."
"No. But Mechee promised to be.” Charity glared at the spot where he'd been standing. “Emma, he's gone."
She swiveled her head. “Colin and James are missing as well. Likely Wicomechee's with them. I see Muga. Take hold of Stuart and let's go to him."
Charity grasped the bridle. “Come on, boy. Looks like we'll have to fend for ourselves."
"I'm certain our men have a good reason for leaving us to be escorted by a horse,” Emma muttered.
"Mechee's reason had better not be Nialinwe."
A thinning crowd parted to let them pass, though Charity sensed the villagers tracking their every move. “Why does Muga still have Lily? He should have made the exchange by now.” The frightened child clung to him; not only that, but Muga spoke in earnest tones with Wacuchathi while a distraught woman, whom Charity assumed must be that brave's wife, wept.
"Muga!” Charity called uncertainly. The men turned angry faces toward her, an expression she'd never seen in Muga.
He waved them over. Wacuchathi gestured at Lily. “Take girl."
"Nilaweh?” Charity asked in confusion, using the Shawnee she'd learned for ‘us.'
He nodded, and his wife cried even harder. He spoke in her ear, eliciting a watery smile, and they walked away.
Relieved at this turn of events, Lily stopped crying and nestled against Muga. He took Stuart's reins and motioned for the women to follow. “Wetemeloh,” he said shortly.
"What's happening?” Emma asked as they fell in behind.
"For some reason they no longer want Lily. I've no idea why. Muga says to go with him,” Charity explained.
"I'm glad you understand their strange tongue."
"Only in part and not when they speak rapidly."
"'Tis far more than I know."
"Mechee's a good teacher.” In many ways. Charity badly wanted him with her. Mauve and gray blended with rose across the western sky as the saffron ball dipped below the tree line. “It'll be dark soon. Where can they be?"
"I can't imagine, but I'm certain neither abandoned us."
It seemed dishearteningly as if they had, and so strange to be wandering among bark-covered lodges rather than gathered by a campfire. Charity even felt wistful for the trail. This village overwhelmed her weary senses. Dizziness washed over her and the rows of wickons lost their distinction.
"I don't feel well."
Emma circled a free arm around her. “Quick, lean on me."
Colin called from behind them as Charity slumped against her cousin and closed her eyes. His voice was muffled at first, then clearer. “Emma! I've been searching for you."
"And we've been looking for you. Help me with Charity."
He caught her up in his arms. “Poor girl. I'm terribly sorry to be so long. Wicomechee and I were greeting friends."
"We saw one friend weeping against him,” Emma said.
Colin whistled under his breath. “Nialinwe was fit to be tied when she heard about Charity. Your coming wasn't greeted with much enthusiasm by several of the young women either."
"I doubted they were there solely to welcome Wicomechee,” Emma said sagely. “Where is he?"
"With his grandfather. After a brief hello, I came back for you both, but you'd gone on."
Their conversation grew faint. Charity was only vaguely aware of Colin stooping to enter a dwelling. He laid her down before a fire. The warmth enveloped her as she drifted away.
Like a melody growing nearer and more distinct, the sounds and voices around Charity gradually penetrated her awareness. Opening her eyes, she stared at the interior of a snug lodge. Elk and deer skins covered the walls.
She turned her head and counted four platform beds covered with skins, and blankets. She didn't lie on one of these. Rather, she found herself on a thick bearskin in the center of the room near a cozy fire, startled to find the heavily lined face of an elderly woman peering down at her.
The woman bent to smooth her hair with aged fingers. “Pocoon sisqui."
She'd compared her hair to blood-red leaves. “Megwich,” Charity said, assuming she intended it as a compliment.
The old woman smiled, showing two black spaces where her front teeth were missing. Turning her attention to the fire, she stirred the stew in an iron kettle with a wooden ladle.
The meaty fragrance would have been welcome had Charity's stomach not felt distinctly unsettled. Wishing for lighter fare, she surveyed the iron and copper pots, woven baskets and cutlery stored in the cupboard. Knives, spoons, cups and bowls lined one shelf, most carved from wood, though some pewter pieces shone in the firelight. These supplies were every bit as adequate as Aunt Mary's had been.
Apparently satisfied with her dinner preparations, the woman dipped a cupful of steaming liquid from the clay pot resting by the fire. Then she slid a sturdy arm beneath Charity's shoulders and raised her head. A pungent herbal fragrance assailed her.
"Olame ne tagh queloge," she protested, declaring she was too sick.
"Shiskewapo ouisah chobeka,” the elderly woman countered, insisting the tea was good medicine.
"Naga. Puckechey,” Charity argued, telling her to go.
Wicomechee stepped beside the determined woman. “Megwich, Apekonit.” He knelt and took the cup.
With a good-natured shrug, Apekonit left him to it. A smile hovered at his lips as he set the brew aside. “You defend yourself well in Shawnee, Red Bird."
Though vastly relieved to see him, Charity reproached him. “Most fortunate, as you left me to fend for myself."
"You told me you wished to remain on the horse."
"Not that long. Not while you consorted with Nialinwe."
"I was not. She consorted with me."
"I didn't see you trying very hard to escape."
"I tried."
"You should have tried harder—"
"Enough, Penashe Pocoun,” an authoritative voice interceded, speaking her Shawnee name.
Any further outcry stilled in Charity's throat as she gazed up at the tall straight figure of an older warrior. His piercing black eyes seemed to search her very soul. She instinctively knew who he was. “Eyes of the Wolf?"
He nodded and the silver cones hanging from his ears bobbed slightly. “You may speak my English name."
"Would you speak mine?"
"If you wish."
She was both afraid and fascinated.
Wicomechee's grandfather knelt beside them. Gray hair fell loosely to his shoulders, the same hue as the silver brooch fastened at the ruffled neck of his green-striped shirt. Like the trader she'd once met, the ornate shirt even had ruffles at the cuffs and was fastened with pewter buttons.
A red breechclout extended below the thigh-length shirt, its fringed edge sewn with white beads. Creamy Elkskin leggings decorated with beads and dyed quills encased his long legs and embellished moccasins shod his feet. In him was blended the distinct garb of a warrior with the regal bearing of a duke, and something more. Here was a far-seeing mystic. She saw the knowledge in his eyes, and also his disapproval.
"My grandson brings a wife of much beauty with too swift a tongue. Do you always speak to him in this way?"
Charity squirmed under his rebuke. “When I'm vexed."
"Are you often vexed?"
Wicomechee drew her into his arms. “Niwah is not well and easily distressed, Nimesoomtha. The fault is mine. I regret I left her too long on the horse."
She retreated against him. “I'm sorry I spoke as I did."
Eyes of the Wolf was stern. “You must have greater respect for your husband."
Wicomechee spoke in her defense. “She has much."
"Her tong
ue speaks too freely. She must have more care."
Charity reached out her hand to the intimidating warrior. “I will try, Nimesoomtha."
The severity in his face lessened and he took her fingers in his warm grasp. “Your heart is good, Neetanetha, my daughter. Do not speak with such haste."
"I did not mean to."
"I see this."
She sensed wisdom, like a spring, welling deep inside him. “What else do you see?"
"Love for the other fills each of you. Shall I tell you of the child you carry?"
"Yes, please."
"In the heat moon you will give birth to a son. His eyes will be colored like the leaves. Your eyes, Red Bird."
She looked expectantly at Wicomechee. “You will like that, won't you?"
He nodded, seemingly intent on his grandfather. “Tell of the child."
"He will be handsome, strong, clever. All you wish for."
She sensed something left unspoken, a somberness hinting in the older man's creased features.
"Will all be well, Nimesoomtha?” Wicomechee asked.
"The boy will live, grow to be a man."
Uncertainty clouded her husband's face, as though, he, too, had the same unsettled impression. “What of Red Bird?"
"Her life is in your hands, Wicomechee. I cannot say what you will do."
Charity couldn't fathom what Eyes of the Wolf meant, but she didn't like the grim sense accompanying his revelation.
Wicomechee clutched her to him. “I saved Red Bird's life, more times than one. Never would I harm her."
"I know.” Yet the fathomless eyes held clear warning.
"You see the love I bear her. For her I would die."
Eyes of the Wolf laid a weathered hand on his grandson's shoulder. “For her you must live. Though perhaps not as you would wish."
"What do you mean?"
The inscrutable gaze fixed on Charity. “Your wife has some knowing of what I speak. Do you not, Red Bird?"
The familiar prickle traveled her spine. “You will be tested somehow, Mechee."
Eyes of the Wolf gave a slight nod. “In a small way you have the sight, Neetanetha."
"Yet she knows no more than this. Tell me of the test,” Wicomechee pleaded.
"I cannot."
"Cannot, or will not?” Groaning his frustration, Wicomechee buried his face in her hair. “How am I to fight an enemy I cannot see, one I have no knowledge of?"
"You know him well,” Eyes of the Wolf said.
Wicomechee lifted his eyes to his grandfather. “How?"
"The enemy lies within you."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Twenty
Wicomechee sat before the fire in the lodge holding Charity as though it might be their final hour. Resolve filled him, and frustration. He wished his grandfather would speak plainly, but Eyes of the Wolf was as he was and Wicomechee could not change him. He glanced up as Waupee lifted the skin at the wickon's opening and walked inside.
"I've seen to Stuart and had plenty of help tending the pack ponies."
Charity raised her head from Wicomechee's shoulder. “What of James?"
The child darted in behind Waupee. “Here I am!"
"Easy, lad. You'll collide with something, or someone."
Wicomechee shook his head at the little boy's seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy. “Where did you find him?"
"With Posetha. His mama was feeding him like a stray dog. I left Weshe begging for scraps."
Emma snuggled the baby against her shoulder and patted her back. Lily sat beside Emma, her blue eyes trusting, not filled with the fear Wicomechee had witnessed earlier.
"You should have left James as well,” Emma quipped.
Waupee smiled. “I didn't think it right to inflict him on them quite so soon, though he would have stayed."
Eyes of the Wolf laid his hand on the boy's fair head. “Have you no fear, small one?"
"No sir. I'm gonna be a warrior. They're never afraid."
"Not true. Only a foolish man is without fear."
"Warriors are always brave,” James argued.
"Courage and fear walk the same path."
Finding this insight beyond him, James scurried to the simmering stew. “Can we eat now, Uncle Papa?"
"How have you any room left in that stomach?"
"Children are always hungry,” Eyes of the Wolf said, his gaze lingering on Waupee's little band. “The boy calls you father. The girl also."
"I remind Lily of her father."
"What of this fair wife you brought and the little one?"
"Emma was never my wife,” Waupee admitted. “I took her from another man, now dead. The infant is his."
"Now you speak the truth."
"You knew I lied about her?"
"Also of your love for this woman."
"From the first. I begged her to wed me, but she was afraid,” Waupee explained.
"And now, she is yours?"
Warmth touched Waupee's eyes. “She gave me her pledge."
A smile flickered at his grandfather's mouth. “So, you have a wife not yet taken and three little ones not your own."
Waupee smiled wryly. “True. But I will take her and her daughter shall be mine. The children also, if I'm able to hold on to these I love.” Worry overshadowed the affection in Waupee's face, the same anxiety that afflicted Wicomechee.
"What are my brother and I to do, Nimesoomtha?"
His grandfather didn't reply at once, but stood staring into the flames. A sense of expectancy settled over the room. Even James grew quiet and Lily looked questioningly at the solemn assembly. Charity hardly seemed to breathe, and Wicomechee had the sense that Emma and Waupee did the same. His own breath was tight in his throat.
Still, Eyes of the Wolf did not speak. The wind whistled beyond the lodge's fur-draped walls. Wood popped in the fire and he roused as if drawn from a distant place. He looked at Charity. “You know of a prince called Charles Stuart?"
His question took Wicomechee totally by surprise.
She answered in perplexity. “The Scots call him Bonnie Prince Charlie. He wished to be king, but he lost the war."
Eyes of the Wolf nodded. “Waupee admires him much."
"Better him than George the Third who now sits on the throne,” Waupee said.
Eyes of the Wolf spoke quietly. “One day, you will be rid of King George. Did Waupee tell you he named his horse for this Stuart prince?"
"No. Though it makes sense now,” Charity said. “Did you fight for Charles Stuart, Colin?"
"I was too young. My older brother Harry went to Scotland to fight for the prince's cause."
Emma lifted startled eyes. “You never spoke of a brother. Was he killed?"
Bitter lines edged Waupee's mouth. “Injured. Harry survived that bloody defeat at Culloden Moor, but supporters of Charles Stuart were vigorously pursued. He fled to France. Now both my father's sons are fugitives."
The sadness in Waupee was reflected in Eyes of the Wolf. “Like this Stuart prince, my people are defeated by the English. Colonel Bouquet's hand is heavy against us."
Now Wicomechee understood why he spoke as he did. “What will happen, Nimesoomtha?"
His knowing gaze touched each one, and came to rest on Wicomechee. “I cannot speak all the Great Spirit has shown to me. Yet I will tell you this. One is coming soon who has the power to aid you, if you agree to his terms."
Wicomechee stiffened. “Are these terms harsh?"
"You may find them so."
Wicomechee smoothed Charity's moist cheeks in an effort to soothe her even as he grappled with his grandfather's baffling prediction. He was ready with all his heart to fight, but Nimesoomtha had said this was not the way. Battling for control over debilitating turmoil, he offered the bowl of stew to Charity. She must be prevailed upon to eat.
"Tears will not feed you, Red Bird. Would you have me wed to a shadow?"
"Will I still find myself your wife tomorrow?
"
"Do not fear so. Soldiers have not come this far west."
"The English colonel will not send his men to trouble us this night. Have hope, Neetanetha,” Eyes of the Wolf said.
At his assurance, she wiped her eyes and studied the steaming bowl in Wicomechee's hand. “I'm too ill to eat."
He held a spoonful to her lips. “It will settle your stomach."
She swallowed reluctantly and slowly ate all that he gave her, even sipping the tea she'd refused. Gradually, her discomfort seemed to ease, though he kept his triumph to himself. Unlike her, the others were downing second portions.
Eyes of the Wolf looked on as they devoured the meal. “You have many mouths to feed, Waupee."
Wicomechee agreed. “He is content to let me feed them."
Waupee lifted his hand in protest. “I tended the horses. They carried much on our journey."
Eyes of the Wolf smiled faintly, his eyes thoughtful. “This liking for horses will serve you well."
"How so?"
"In the time to come."
Waupee shot him a look of frustration. “Again you speak only in part. Why will you not tell us more?"
"You are not yet ready. Shall I tell you a story?"
"The whole story?” Waupee pressed.
"All that has been."
James brightened. “The grandfather man will tell us a story, Lily."
She paused, a spoonful midway to her mouth. “Whose?"
"A good question, small one. I will tell Wicomechee's."
Wicomechee surveyed his grandfather guardedly. “Of what will you speak, Nimesoomtha?"
"Your name."
His clenched his fingers as the old ache asserted itself.
Eyes of the Wolf was resolute. “It is time."
Charity seemed puzzled. “Why does this trouble you so?"
Wicomechee made no answer. All eyes targeted him with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy. Only Eyes of the Wolf's perceptive gaze held understanding, but he, too, was silent.
"Why won't you say?” Charity entreated him.
He sighed, anticipating the questions his reply would prompt. “Wicomechee is not the name chosen for me at birth."
"Why did it change?"
"Something happened.” He wanted to stop with this.
"What was your first name?” she pressed.
"I was called Kitate, the otter, favored by my people as a bearer of good fortune. Only ill came of it."
