One by one, the Blood scalped the rest of the dead and injured. Six scalps in all, a great victory for the Blood; probably his greatest ever. He would tell the story of many coups to his people soon. Many Quill Woman watched her friends die. Without scalps their spirits would wander through eternity and never walk the trail to the stars. Now this empty plain, without history, had a new story.
The sun crimsoned the new grass and then lifted off the breast of the earth. All this had happened between first light and sunrise. Off to the east, the Sweet Grass Hills brooded and mocked. The hills had seen the Absarokas all along and had told the Siksika where to find enemies.
So this was how her young life would end. In unspeakable pain and torment. They would soon return, probably bearing more scalps, and then she would know the fate of her people. She would count the scalps and know. Then they would turn to her, the survivor. Her fate would be decided entirely by the one who captured her. He held the power of life and death over her now, and none of the others would intervene. They might all use her, one by one, and then cut her throat. They might beat her until she couldn’t endure the pain, and they would beat her the more. They might take her with them for a while, and torture her this evening, sport around a campfire, her shrieks blotted up by this empty silent land until she died. And the death would be a mercy.
She knew their tortures. A favorite was to jab splinters of pine into the victim’s flesh and then ignite them and watch living flesh roast. They might cut off her fingers, joint by joint, slowly, so she didn’t die quickly. They might suspend her by her feet from a limb, the blood rushing to her head, and then cook her head over a fire. Or they might simply beat her to death, each of them counting coup, kicking, hitting, cutting, until she passed out of this world and into the spirit land. If only she had her knife she could plunge it into her breast. But she didn’t. She lay aching, dreading, aware of a fate that she had brought upon herself.
Magpie. The bird settled near her, pecked at something in the grass, and flew away in a burst of black and white and iridescent feather. Why had Magpie come now, when all was over? To watch her die. Many Quill Woman had ignored her own medicine-helper, and would pay. And Magpie would remind her as she died in pain what it was to ignore what had been given to her.
She discerned a knot of horsemen in the distance, returning slowly, and she knew the rest of the Bloods were gathering at this scene of triumph. There were about twenty. So her Absaroka party had been the stronger, but the courageous Bloods had attacked and won on this day, taking advantage of the land they knew so well, and the night, and maybe Beckwourth’s recklessness. She had heard only one shot during the entire affray; it had been Beckwourth’s. These Bloods lacked firearms and fought with arrow and club, war ax and lance. A rifle cost many robes, many beaver pelts, and few could own one. Only a few chiefs, with many wives tanning robes, had rifles.
Sorrow swept her. Foolishness! She had been swept along by giddy girlish dreams, Beckwourth’s seductions, bad company. She might yet live, but she was doomed. She lay quietly on the grass while the Bloods rode in, stared at her, talked with her captor, and gazed at the six scalps. They lifted a lance that bore three more. She feared she would find Beckwourth’s beribboned braids, or Pine Leaf’s lighter colored braid, but did not see them. Nine dead, no doubt more wounded. This was the worst tragedy her village had known for many winters. Horses, too. The victors drove a dozen Absaroka ponies before them, including hers. She knew them. Some still bore medicine paintings on them. The Bloods had triumphed in many ways this day: horses, scalps, and a captive to torture.
They wrapped their dead one in a robe and lifted the body onto a horse, which sidestepped nervously, smelling blood and death. Her captor kicked her hard in the ribs, shooting pain through her, and motioned her to stand. Now they all stared at her. She was lithe and pretty, and she knew that they were seeing a woman to use, a woman of the hated Absarokas to use and torment and kill. They brought her a horse and she mounted, her body aching. Some came and punched her, counting coup. She was cold, but they gave her no robes. It would be a long time before the sun was high enough to warm her, and she would still be cold. She would never be warm again, and when her time came, she would die cold, even if they killed her with fire.
They rode west, she knew not where, her captor leading her horse with a braided lead rope. They stopped only to water the horses at a creek and drink some themselves, and then were off again. They gave her none, and her body cried with thirst. All that morning they rode toward the western mountains, each step taking her farther from her people.
They began talking to each other at last, their talk almost cheerful in spite of the dead man among them. It had been a good fight this day, and the Bloods were the lords of the plains. Many coups had they counted. They shared pemmican but fed her nothing. She grew faint and didn’t know what was worst: utter hopelessness, dread of the torture to come, or thirst. The day warmed, and blossoms bobbed in the zephyrs. The sun stroked her doeskin skirts but did not warm her.
They stopped early on a sizable river she did not know, one lined with cottonwoods and willows—firewood for what was to come. She watched Magpie flit from limb to limb, dodging behind leaves, swooping just in front of her horse. Magpie had come to watch her die. Her captor motioned her to step down, and she did, collapsing in the dirt beside the river. He said something, kicked her, and she rose. He pushed her toward a stately willow and lashed her to its trunk. This would be the place of her torment.
They ignored her, built a fire, staked the ponies on tender spring grasses, washed themselves, went into the bushes, devoted themselves to their prayers, their medicine, each in his own way. They trod this land with a lordly step, knowing themselves to be invincible. These people were much taller than hers, with hawkish faces, not the moon faces of her people. They had thinner noses and some of their eyes were gray instead of black or brown. She loathed them all the more for their proud manner, their handsomeness, their arrogance.
She grew dizzy, bound to the rough bark by tight thongs, and wished she would slip away into the spirit world. It grew dark, and she sensed anticipation among them. They eyed her now and then. They looked to their horses, examined the ones they had won at battle, made their medicine. Night came, and this night would be the night of all nights.
She watched their war leader, their headman, who issued quiet commands that were instantly obeyed. This night the horses would be well guarded. He sent three of his warriors into the deepening darkness. They would wander among the ponies this night, and none would fall to the Absarokas. They were warriors first, and whatever entertainments they had planned for her came second.
Her captor came at last, freed her, and led her away from the tree. So they would not torture her there. The warriors gathered about her now, and she understood what would happen this night. It was written upon their faces.
thirty
Her captor took her broken body to his village, but she was elsewhere. He had granted the Absaroka woman a reprieve—for the moment. Her fate would be whatever his whim might be. He could, even after she spent months of faithful service as a slave, choose to kill her and no one would interfere. She had become property.
She sat upon a pony, oblivious of the world. Her mind drifted away from its moorings and her thoughts turned to sacred things. She hurt, but not even that mattered. Her dress had rents in it that let in air and male gazes, but that didn’t matter either. What would they see that they hadn’t seen?
She rode through a fine spring day but it didn’t lift her out of her long drift into a spirit land. She had had nothing to eat for two suns, and it dizzied her. If she fell off her pony and they brained her with a war club, that would be a mercy. She was parched as well; they had not given her water. Her heart raced because of her thirst.
Then, at noon, they reached a creek that ran between barren banks, not a tree or bush in sight. Her captor untied her hands and pulled her to the ground, commanding something. She cra
wled to water and they let her drink. She sipped a little, and it tasted good. She cupped her hands and drank more, and more. Water was the ultimate blessing. A person could endure hunger, but thirst raked a body. The effect was immediate. With water came the will to live if she could. Around her warriors drank and left her alone. She took care of her needs, always in plain sight, and then went back to the creek to drink some more, soak her lithe body in water. Then she washed, not caring what they thought: her face and hands, her neck and limbs, her violated torso. Then she drank again.
The water even assuaged her hunger a little. They did not feed her because they were almost out of trail food and had shot no game. A warrior expected to go without if he had to, and she shared the warrior’s fate. The water restored her body to her, with its pain and shame. Now, at last, in the brightness of a summery day, she studied them. They were very like her own people, most of them dressed only in breechclouts, some with leggings and moccasins. They had started to paint themselves, each daubing color according to his medicine, drawn from small kits they carried with them. The colors had been found in nature, mostly from vegetation and blooms, but sometimes from the clays and rock of the earth. They were painting for victory this occasion. They could not be far from the Kainah village.
These were seasoned veterans of the warpath. Her captor was one of the youngest, she thought, but still a veteran warrior. These were tall people, muscular, their color ranging from amber to copper, their skills at war evident in their every gesture, in their elaborate war shields made of the thick neck hide of a buffalo bull and capable of deflecting arrows and even a musket ball that quartered into them. Their medicine was powerful: otters, lightning, falling stars, bears, geometric designs, crimson, blue, white, tan.
Her captor motioned for her to mount, and after she did he tied her hands with thong so tightly it slowed the blood to her fingers. This time he tied a braided rope around her neck, and mounted his own horse holding the other end. The device would symbolize her captivity when they rode through the village.
How often she had stood in her own village while the warriors rode in, their paint, their war emblems, and the burdens on the horses telling their tales without words. How often she had watched the arrival of a captive being brought to the Kicked-in-the-Bellies, and had spat at the victim, heaped insults upon whoever it was, woman or man, and enjoyed the thought of the beatings the enemy would justifiably receive. The Absaroka didn’t torture, not the way some people did, but the captive would suffer abuse—kicks, pummeling, starvation, exhausting work, cold, lack of clothing, discomfort. It was all the just reward of making war against the Absaroka.
Now all this would be her lot. She should be angry but she was beyond that. Anger required energy, and she had none left. But she might still be proud. Let a noose dangle from her neck; she would show the Siksika dogs that no noose and no abuse had broken a Kicked-in-the-Belly woman. She would sit so imperiously that they would know what she was, know that nothing they could do to her would break her pride or shame her. They would see her pride and wonder whether torture would shatter it. They would see her pride and envy her. The women in particular would torment her, cut her hair, jab at her, prick her flesh with knives, disfigure her, whip her, leave her naked to the cold. But they would not break her pride.
The war party paused at the edge of the village, which lay in a half-moon along a river they would ford to reach it. There they were greeted by the village wolves, the sentries always on guard against surprise. The villagers began to gather across the sparkling river, women, children, old men, and boys itching to be warriors. The boys would do her harm as she rode by, pelting her, jeering, running close with a stick to count coup, maybe even driving blunted arrows from their small bows into her. She had seen boys in her own village put out the eye of one captive and open the wounds of another until she bled over her skirts. She braced for that.
Then the war party descended the gravelly banks of the river and they forded the low, glittering stream, which rose only to the pasterns of the horses. Her captor jerked his line, yanking her by the neck until she nearly fell, but she clung to the mane of her pony. To fall was to die, because he would not stop dragging her. What better entertainment than for the village to witness the death of an enemy? She clung, absorbed each yank of the cord, kicked her pony forward to gain some slack in the braided cord. Now they were walking through an aisle between crowds of people. This was a large village; the Bloods were many.
The women began to keen; she knew that sound. Their eyes weren’t upon those fresh Absaroka scalps dangling from lances but upon the burdened pony at the rear of the procession, upon the paint that told all who had eyes that this great victory was not without a price. The Bloods eyed her coldly, and she eyed them back, gaze for gaze, glare for glare, the stares locking. She did not surrender to their gaze. A rage to live rose in her; she was among the enemy and that became reason enough to survive. She would show these hated people what it meant to be Absaroka.
The boys she dreaded soon began walking beside her, shouting at her from both sides. She gripped the mane and held on. A rock stung her ribs, knocking breath from her. Then a youth darted close, a war club in hand, and swung it. The club landed on her shoulder, knocking her clear off her pony. She tumbled to the grass, felt the yank of line on her neck, flailed dizzily as the club found her skull, and then felt her head snapping under the tug of that cord. She crawled forward, not fast enough. Boys kicked at her, screaming their taunts. She grabbed hold of the line, let herself be dragged by it until she could put her bare feet under her. The line never stopped; her captor never slowed. She bounded up and forward, found her footing, and careened ahead. Her captor had speeded up, enjoying her desperation. The boy’s war club found her back, knocking her to the ground, where she writhed. This time the line slackened. She heard a sharp male command, and the boy retreated. She was too spent to continue; hurting, tired, starved, so faint she couldn’t even get to her knees. The Bloods swarmed about her, some taunting, others silent. She had to get up or die. She pulled herself to her hands and knees, staggered to her feet, felt blood welling from her head, pushed back tears and rage, and found herself glaring at the tormenting boy, a lean laughing youth on the brink of becoming a warrior. She slapped him. He was so astonished he didn’t respond.
Then the village women swarmed in, pummeling her, knocking her to the ground. She felt pain welling up in her until it burst in her skull, and she fought and clawed at the swinging feet and hands. Then something hit her on the head, and she saw whiteness. She did not lose her senses, but she lost time and place in a wash of bewilderment. Everything hurt. She heard a sharp command, and the pounding slowed and then stopped. She lay bleeding on the grass. Someone carried her somewhere, darkness, a lodge, silence. No one tended her. She lay in gloom, wanting oblivion, her last strength gone. She had not known a mortal body could yield such pain to its possessor.
No one was about. She lay there, the ache not diminishing, the Bloods celebrating. Some were drumming and singing or dancing. She heard the steady heartbeat of the drummers. This night they would be celebrating a great victory, each of them telling of his role, boasting of his prowess, calling down his medicine. Those rich in captured ponies would give them away, one for a youth, another for a widow, one for a woman with many children, and the best buffalo runners and war ponies for their friends, their colleagues at arms. She heard the beat; the throb of the drums matched her pulse, and when the drums quickened, so did her pulse. She was grateful for the darkness, and wanted night, blackness to enfold her.
She did not know how long she lay there, only that it had been long. Then she grew aware of some stirring. Her eyelids were so swollen she could barely open them to see. Her captor sat in the place of honor, opposite the doorflap, leaning into a reed backrest. A woman handed him a bowl and a bone ladle. He quietly ate stew. They noticed Victoria staring but offered nothing.
She drifted into darkness again. She was allowed to lie in
the place of least honor, next to the lodge door. No one gave her a robe. Ants crawled over her. She grew aware that this lodge sheltered others, mostly women, and two or three children, who whispered, pointed, poked her, and laughed. If she lay very still, almost not breathing, the pain lifted a little. To breathe was to hurt. She thought a rib might be broken; her shoulder was numb, and she could not move her left arm. Her head throbbed. A lump had formed on the side of her head, another just above the back of the neck. She could barely swallow, and she could not turn her head.
She lay adrift, the night passing through her brain like dark clouds, the stars glittering and then vanishing, the moon racing. She thought of Skye, long lost, and loved him as she had when she first set eyes on him at a white man’s rendezvous long ago. He had talked about strange things, his God, his long imprisonment, his desperate escape, the sacredness of marriage, his quest for peace, his hatred of slavery, his loathing of war. He would fight if he had to, she had seen that often during the years with the fur brigades; fight with the bear medicine he had received if war came to him. But he found no joy in it, sought no honor, and fought only for survival—or his liberty. She had left him, found his world not enough, played dangerous games with Beckwourth, and had come to this.
thirty—one
Victoria drifted into something like sleep that wasn’t sleep, and when she returned to consciousness light leaked through the smoke hole and the women of the lodge were arguing about her. She didn’t understand a word, but she knew. They were gesticulating, pointing, examining her. She lay inert, enduring pain, barely able to move. Her throat and neck were so swollen she had trouble swallowing.
She could imagine what was agitating these women: whether to feed her, kill her, torture her, nurse her, or throw her out. She was an enemy of the people, brought to these women by the master of this lodge—a trophy of war. She lay on the dirt, barely caring, feeling ants crawl over her body, find their way through the rents in her dress, and march across lacerated and abused flesh.
Dark Passage Page 18
