It was dusk when the war party returned. Their arrival was unusually subdued, the warriors hunched over their horses instead of rushing in with their usual confident gallop, whooping with victory. If it hadn’t been for the shuffling of hooves on dirt and the objections of the captives staggering among them, all might have been silent.
The sun sent its final rays over the earth, and the shadows of trees reached like fingers, grasping for the past. Poor light kept me from seeing if blood coloured the men’s faces and bodies, or if it was merely war paint. Behind the first riders slid two travois. One was completely covered by a heavy bearskin. I felt cold and my stomach churned with unease.
One of the horses broke away from the others and trotted in my direction. As he drew closer, I made out Soquili’s profile. My heart leaped, and I raced toward him, grinning with relief.
“You’re all right! Oh, Soquili! I thought—”
My smile faded, since his expression encouraged no celebration. I waited in silence as he slid off his horse and silently landed on the rough leather of his moccasins. He didn’t look at me, instead kept his eyes on the ground as he walked. When he stood two paces away, he stopped and looked into my eyes. Grief pulled the skin tight across his cheeks.
He swallowed hard, his eyes dark with sorrow. So much sorrow. “I am sorry,” he said.
I blinked. My heartbeat accelerated, and my breath was suddenly tight in my chest. “Why? What happened?”
“Wahyaw—” he said, then stopped to clear his throat. He swallowed, then gazed beyond me, into a coming night as dark as his eyes. “My brother is dead.”
CHAPTER 6
Death and Rebirth
No one would ever speak Wahyaw’s name again.
Behind us, a wailing rose up in the village, the sound of so many hearts twisted and bleeding with loss. Soquili, needing something to keep him upright, accepted my arms around his waist, then cried silently above me.
I didn’t cry. I was empty, nerveless. What had I done?
When I managed to sleep that night, it was in brief snatches filled with dreams. I saw Wahyaw as he’d been when he’d come to me earlier that day, then I saw him again, dead. The dead man rose and walked toward me, the spectre’s body the same as it had been in life, except his chest had been torn apart by a white-man’s bullet. When the face of Wahyaw was a foot from my own, I stared into his familiar brown eyes, hard with ferocity even in death. Then they changed, transforming into the eyes I had dreamed. They sharpened, lightened, became an unblinking, furious yellow glare. The white warrior with the golden hair.
The following day, the house in which Wahyaw had lived, and where I would have gone as his wife, was visited by the village priests. I assumed their duties normally would have fallen to Wah-Li, but I doubted her ancient bones were up to the task. I also, somewhere in my heart, wondered if she was staying away from me, saving me the agony of seeing her eyes. She knew what I had done, though my intent had been nothing but good. Only she and Nechama knew.
The Cherokee always treated the deceased with the utmost respect, but they believed everything to do with the dead was unclean. Following tradition, the priest ordered everything within the walls—furniture, clothing, food—to be taken from the house and thrown into a bonfire near the new grave. Then he cleaned the hearth, the place where I had so often seen Wahyaw laugh with his brother and friends, and he lit a new fire.
I was included among Soquili’s family when they were cleansed by the priest. He was a strange, one-eyed, silver-haired old man with a scar and a pronounced limp, probably twenty years younger than Wah-Li. I watched him hang a pot of water over the new fire, strongly scented by an herb I couldn’t identify, then boil it into tea. Soquili, his parents, and I sipped from our cups, then washed our hands and faces with the hot liquid. Whatever remained in the pot was sprinkled around the inside of the house.
The cleansing continued as the strange little priest led us to the river. We waded into the freezing water until it licked at our waists, then turned to the east and the west, immersing ourselves completely seven times. When we were finished, we were given new clothes, and what we’d worn before was dumped into the fire along with everything else.
We didn’t go back to Wahyaw’s house afterward. Instead we went to his parents’, where we waited in silence for the priest’s messenger to finish the ritual. The man arrived bearing two gifts, then presented them to Soquili’s stone-faced mother. The first was a piece of tobacco, which I was told would “enlighten our eyes” so we could bravely face the future. The second was a strand of beads meant to bring comfort.
Later that night, when we sat as honoured guests in the council house and received sympathies, I sank lower in my self-loathing, unable to stop blaming myself for sending Wahyaw to his death. If not for me, he might still be alive, thick arms crossed over his chest, scowling with warning at anyone approaching me. He would be staring eagle-eyed into the distance, constantly seeking out threat. Instead, his solid, vital strength was gone, his body cold and stiff, covered by layers of earth and rocks.
I didn’t stay to watch the dance, and Soquili shot me an angry glance when I stood and left the gathering. I just couldn’t.
Had I, as a child, accepted what I’d been given and learned about my powers, I believe I would have understood what to do. I would have read the dream more carefully and known not to send him after his brother. But I had been afraid as a child, and I was even more afraid now. I didn’t know how to live the way Maggie did, trusting the dreams, and I never should have attempted it. I decided not to return to Wah-Li’s house.
I did, however, go back to the house of Nechama, working harder than ever at learning the healing arts. Nechama asked no questions about my state of mind, for which I was grateful. Under her guidance, I settled into a more confident role as healer. My place was in helping others in the physical world, I decided. If they wanted to learn about the future, they should go and visit my sister in the mountains.
I often felt the urge to go to Maggie, to unload my secrets and my fears, but she had another life. One that revolved around her new family. I was on my own. And Soquili’s smile was gone, replaced by an expression of such loneliness that I often looked away when he was near. Kokila came to sit with me occasionally, but we had little to talk about, and her visits became less frequent over time.
Raids continued, seeming to grow more ravenous as days and weeks passed. After Wahyaw’s death, every Cherokee, even those curious about the white people’s presence, wanted the settlers gone. I hid from returning war parties if they led prisoners, knowing the nightmare that was coming. But the sounds the captives made, the screaming and pleading, couldn’t be shut out. The noise made me physically ill, as did witnessing my friends celebrate it. Sometimes I left the village entirely when the ceremonies took place. I know the People saw me as weak. They blamed every white person for Wahyaw’s death, and I was, after all, white. And it wasn’t just that. As his betrothed, they felt I should be celebrating the punishment of these people. But I couldn’t. So I hid as I always had.
One afternoon, Soquili returned from a raid and came to my door. “Ad-layd,” he said.
I had been beading, enjoying the solitude inside my shared council house. Hearing an unexpected lightness in his voice, I scrambled to my feet and went to him.
“I must speak with you, Ad-layd. It is about the raid today.” He must have seen how I tensed, because he reached for my hand. He smiled, showing me the first true smile I had seen since Wahyaw’s death, and its brightness took me by surprise. “It is a joyful day, Ad-layd.”
His smile should have encouraged my own. But something inside me began to tremble.
“I have found a new brother,” he said. “My brother’s spirit is strong in him.”
I was surprised to hear this, but I had seen it happen before. When a tribe member died, the Cherokee often sought to fill the empty places in the
ir homes and hearts, finding some kind of spiritual connection—real or imagined—between themselves and the occasional enemy. Sometimes it worked out well for the prisoner, sometimes not, but when it did, at least it saved them from torture and burning. Usually the new tribesmen or women were from other tribes—the Tuscarora, the Catawba, the Creek—but there had been times when white people were discovered and dragged to their new life.
I could hear him yelling now, this new “brother,” and thought Soquili was maybe right. The venom spitting from the man’s mouth, as wild as a fire crackling through forests on a dry autumn night, could only have come from a warrior as proud as Wahyaw. The words, however, could only have come from a white man.
“Come, Ad-layd. You will see. It is him again. It is my brother.”
I couldn’t deny my curiosity. Obscenities the likes of which I had never imagined spewed across the yard, roared in explicit English.
“Do you know what he’s saying, Soquili?” I asked, hiding a smile.
“No, but he is strong, is he not?”
“Oh yes, he is that.”
Soquili’s excitement was obvious, though I did notice his smile check once as we drew near. The captive had been walking ahead of one of the warriors, his face a mask, smeared with dirt and blood. He grimaced every time he was poked from behind with his own rifle, then suddenly spun and thumped his antagonist with his tethered fists. I recognised the warrior, Dustu, as he toppled backward, answering with his own expletives, and his friends laughed. To a Cherokee warrior, any laughter directed his way is a challenge. By the time Dustu had struggled to his feet, face tight with anger, the white man was already jeering at the others, wrestling the rope around his wrists and neck.
Dustu was shorter than the other warriors and used to being teased. Because of that, he had become a ruthless brawler. His fist struck the prisoner’s lower back, just off his kidneys. It was a dare that spoke as clearly as any shouted curse. And it was easily translatable in any language.
I could have killed you easily. Now let me see what you have for me.
Soquili’s new brother collapsed to his knees at the blow, but he shot a defiant glare over his shoulder at the warrior. Oh yeah? You sure you’re ready?
We were about twenty feet away from the war party when Soquili called out. “Cut his ropes.” He spat to the side, critical eyes narrowed at Dustu. “Only a coward would fight a bound man.”
All heads turned at Soquili’s voice, now they glanced back at the prisoner. The white man had no idea what had been said, but he watched warily, sensing something was about to happen. His attention focused on one of the other men as he advanced, knife extended before him. I saw the whites of the captive’s eyes, the flaring of his nostrils as he drew back, sensing approaching danger, but at the last minute the Indian stopped and laughed. He shook his head, still grinning, and muttered something I couldn’t hear. He held up his own hands, which he’d connected at the wrists as if he were mimicking the prisoner, then made a sawing gesture with his knife. The white man glanced from him to Dustu, trying to read their thoughts, then held out his hands.
The captive kept his eyes trained on Dustu while the bindings were cut from his wrists. When they fell away, I saw the torn skin, bleeding where the rope had burned his flesh when he’d fought against it. He didn’t touch his hands for comfort, as I surely would have, but dropped them to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists to get the blood pumping through them again. He and Dustu began to circle one another, reading each other’s body language, and I saw something white flash across the prisoner’s dirty face. With shock, I realized the man was smiling. I would never understand men.
Dustu had it easy. Hidden under a mask of filth, the white man could have been any colour, had it not been for the light, mussed hair and the English curses shooting from his mouth. He had obviously fought hard before they’d arrived, and had a long cut down one thigh, which looked deep. His torn trousers were stained with blood, and though he tried to hide it, he limped slightly. Another slice cut across his chest, small and shallow, but nevertheless staining the worn fibres of his shirt around the edges. His face had received its own share of violence. One eye was swollen almost completely shut, the sneering upper lip split at one side.
Dustu planted his knife in his leg holster and held his hands open in front of him, making it clear he had no intention of using it. Then he grinned maniacally and opened his eyes wide, rocking back and forth in a hunched fighting stance. I was used to the warriors fighting among themselves. It was practice for them, usually. But this was unfair. The prisoner was injured and obviously exhausted. The warriors formed a circle around the fighters, clapping and laughing, spitting at the white man’s feet. While they clearly saw this as entertainment, I saw hate and intent in Dustu’s eyes.
Soquili looked at me, sensing my discomfort. “This man is a warrior,” he explained, “but he must be taught how to use this power. Today he will have his first lesson.”
Dustu started it, lunging across the small space so he bowled the prisoner over, then loomed above the man on all fours. He grabbed the white man’s throat, then pounded the back of his opponent’s head against the ground, over and over, until I saw the eyelids of the prisoner flutter.
“Dustu’s going to kill him. It’s not a fair fight,” I said.
“He will be fine,” Soquili said, looking strangely confident. “Watch.”
As if he’d heard, the white man suddenly grabbed Dustu’s wrists and shoved them apart so Dustu collapsed flat on his chest and was flung aside. The prisoner got to his feet and bent over, breathing hard, fists at the ready.
“You call that a fight?” he said hoarsely. “You fight like one of your toothless squaws. That all you got?”
Dustu knew a fair amount of English, having visited trading posts and listened in on other people’s conversations, but the prisoner spoke quickly. Dustu couldn’t have understood what had been said, but he had to be completely aware of the tone being used. He jumped nimbly to his feet and charged, but the prisoner stepped to the side, sticking out his boot at the last moment so Dustu fell face-first into the dirt. The rest of the Cherokee roared with laughter, approving of the move, and Dustu got to his hands and knees, spitting mud. When he stood, his face was an angry purple, and I watched the white man narrow his distinctive, almost beautiful eyes.
Light-coloured, almost gold. I’d seen those eyes so often in my dreams, but in those dreams I’d run from them. Now they stared at Dustu, willing him to come. Answering the challenge, Dustu went for the man’s face, catching him on the jaw. Blood spattered from the captive’s torn face, but he snapped back and caught Dustu once, twice, hard in the gut. Dustu folded, groaning and drawing into a ball, despite his friends’ heckling. The white man stood beside him, looking down his nose and waiting. He wiped an arm across his bleeding face, then looked around at the circle of jeering men.
“Who’s next?” he demanded.
In the moment when the man looked away, Dustu reached into his holster and unsheathed his hunting knife. With all his strength, he slammed the handle into the prisoner’s thigh wound, and I grabbed Soquili’s arm.
“Make him stop!” I demanded. “Dustu is fighting unfairly.”
“Shh, Ad-layd. My brother will take care of that.”
I didn’t see how. All the blood had drained from the man’s dirt-encrusted face and seemed to be spilling from his thigh. Dustu, grinning madly, had gotten to his feet and now slammed his fist into the captive’s stomach, catching his face when he curled reflexively in half. The prisoner staggered sideways before his injured leg finally gave in, and he fell.
“Soquili,” I hissed, watching Dustu’s determined expression as he circled the injured man. I had seen wolves surround an injured stag, tearing it to bits while the beast twisted and thrust uselessly with his antlers. I had seen cats play with mice, tossing them from paw to paw until t
he little creatures lay listlessly, wishing for the end. I had no desire to witness this. I stepped forward, wanting to put a stop to the violence, but Soquili grabbed my arm and jerked me back.
Dustu kicked the man’s open thigh wound, then lifted his hands over his head, grinning and nodding at his tribe. See? See who is the man here? Dustu’s enthusiasm was contagious. He returned to kick again, and the prisoner made a gurgling sound through clenched teeth. Before long, the others were cheering along with Dustu.
Soquili shifted beside me, the only indication of his concern a subtle clenching of his jaw. Dustu went back a third time, but before he could connect again, the prisoner grabbed Dustu’s foot and yanked it in a savage twist. I heard the bone crack, Dustu shriek, and Soquili hoot with laughter, his voice rich with approval.
The man was forgotten as the others gathered around Dustu. The warrior rolled and howled, clutching at his broken leg. As I approached Dustu, keen on my duty as healer, I glanced down at the white man. He lay curled off to the side, much paler than before, with one hand pressed to his bleeding thigh. He blinked up at me through his swollen face, seeming confused at the sight of my blond hair. I met his golden eyes, those eyes I knew from my dreams, and my breath stopped for an instant. What did I see in them beside hatred? Violence, unquestionably. Intelligence was there as well, calculating all the time. And deeper within, even beyond the wounds of his body, I sensed pain. So much bitter pain, but not the kind that could be healed with salves or stitches. I fought the urge to drop to my knees beside him. I had to tend to the Cherokee first.
It was difficult to look away. I’d never met the man before, but I knew those eyes so well they might have been with me all my life. After he’d been cleaned a bit, I knew his hair would be golden, his body sleek and strong as a mountain cat’s. I had spent my life running from my dreams. This man lying bleeding on the ground, blinking through the eyes that had haunted those dreams . . . he was as real as could be.
Somewhere to Dream (Berkley Sensation) Page 4
