Wind Dancer

by Jamie Carie

  Isabelle shook her head, insisting. “I’m good at tea.”

  Samuel considered her offer for a long moment, then nodded, a smile in his eyes, taking it from her hand and draining it in one long gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grinned at her, handing the cup back. “It’s good. Thank you.”

  Isabelle frowned, a line pressing between her brows. “You couldn’t possibly taste it like that.” She took the cup out of his hand and walked away, hearing Samuel’s small chuckle dog her heels. She refilled the cup from the small pot by the fire then walked back to him, sinking down in front of the frontiersman, the edges of her skirt covering his feet.

  “Like this,” she promised with a sly smile. She put the cup to her mouth and inhaled the steam. Looking over the metal rim, she tilted the cup slowly back, tasting the sweet honey, the rich, black tea her father had brought back from New Orleans just for her. She tilted her head back a little more with the next sip, showing him the long column of her throat. Then she lowered the cup and gave him a slow smile.

  “You see?” She feigned sudden innocence as she held the cup out to him. Who had taught her this? She didn’t know.

  Samuel looked to be torn between trying not to laugh and remembering to breathe. He nodded at her though, took the cup in his hand, sniffed at the steam, and then took a giant gulp, nodding. “You’re right, miss. That was much better.”

  She made an irritated noise and pressed her lips together, considering him with her head tilted a little to one side.

  Samuel grinned suddenly and grasped her hand. “I’d rather watch you drink it.” He said it in that voice—that low, silky voice that made her knees go to water. She found herself blushing, something she couldn’t remember ever doing in her life.

  Isabelle pulled her hand from his grasp, turning brisk. “Well, as you’re such a slow pupil, I’m afraid the lesson was lost on you. You are a hopeless … male.” She stood, wishing to retreat as quickly as possible.

  Samuel nodded and grinned, biting off a hunk of the dried beef she had given him. “I surely must be, miss, as you are the best teacher I have ever seen.”

  He was making fun of her! She turned her back on him and stalked over to her forgotten plate. Every time she glanced in his direction, he was staring at her and smiling.

  “It is good. Did you dry it?” Samuel shouted over to her, holding up the beef.

  A memory of her mother and Julian working in the smokehouse flashed through her mind. She had been target-shooting at the time. “I believe Julian helped dry that batch. I only brought home the buck.”

  Humor lit his eyes. “A worthy contribution.”

  She smiled back, softening a little. Not many of her acquaintances would praise her for that particular skill.

  She covertly watched him finish his meal, watched him take long pulls on his water cask and wipe his mouth with the back of his sleeve, watched him brush away imaginary crumbs, then stand and stretch. He helped clean the dishes and pack them away, then directed Julian as to the finishing touches on the lean-to.

  It was full dark when she decided she would speak to him again. “I am going to the stream. I could refill your water.”

  Samuel nodded while unwinding the leather strap from his belt. “Have a care. The woods are full of the spying ears, British and Indians alike.”

  She nodded, taking the strap tightly in hand with the two she already carried for Julian and herself. She picked up her long rifle and looked at him over her shoulder. “I can take care of myself.”

  * * *

  AMID THE SURROUNDING stillness of night, the water tripped lightly over the river rock, each trickle melodious and calming. Isabelle crossed, barefoot, to the grassy bank, then the water’s edge. A nearly full moon reflected yellow on the rippling surface.

  Squatting down, she submerged Samuel’s cask, allowing it to bubble and fill, closing her eyes, enjoying the cool night air and the musical water. A song hummed inside her, growing, then straining to get out. Giving into it, she began to hum softly as she filled the other two casks.

  It happened like this sometimes, rare moments that she treasured. She rose, the canteens forgotten on the bank, beauty bursting inside her. Swaying to the sounds of the water and the sounds within her head, she smiled and allowed the feeling to encompass her. The music soon took over, making her forget where she was and what she was doing. Eyes closed, head back, her hair heavy on her back, she drank in the wind song, the tree song, the water song, the song of living things, harmonizing with the rich tones coming from her throat. Her arms twined over her head, her hips swaying gently. Her feet moved with the natural, sweeping grace of a world-class ballerina.

  Words came, unbidden. Words of praise. Words of wonder for the beauty of the night and the joy she felt within. “O Holy One,” she sang, her feet flying, then her back bending until she faced the sky, her arms upraised, her hair touching the ground behind her. It was almost as if she could see the angels as they looked down from their place in the heavens. She could just imagine their voices joining in, giving her words and then taking them, taking her earthly attempts and combining it with their higher heavenly sounds to make beautiful incense that she imagined would rise up into the very throne room of God. Never did she feel so fully alive and complete.

  It swept her away into another world, a world that she touched only on rare occasions such as this.

  So she danced. In the light of the moonlight, in the reflection of the water and the moon. In the thick, heavy air of God’s glory.

  * * *

  SAMUEL WAS ARRANGING his bedding crossways at the entrance to the lean-to where Isabelle and Julian would sleep when a sudden foreboding crept into his consciousness. He looked up from his squatted position into the trees, squinting his eyes, searching everywhere for the source of his uneasiness. He didn’t know how or why he sensed these things, but he trusted his instincts. Standing, he noted Julian already asleep inside his bedroll to one side of the lean-to. The boy was worn through. Quiet Fox had wandered off without a word to anyone and still had not returned. Isabelle had not come back from the stream. He had assumed she had personal needs to attend to aside from filling up the canteens, but she had been gone much longer than that should take.

  While he was taking in the surroundings, his hands were feeling for his weapons, finding his tomahawk on his belt, his knife sheathed against his thigh. Picking up the long rifle, he headed into the woods toward the sounds of the water.

  He heard her before he saw her.

  Was that singing? Slowing, he approached the bank, alert for danger but finding nothing. As he broke free of the woods, he saw her. There, in the pale glow of the moon, she twirled and sang, her arms upraised, her feet flying. There were wet tracks of tears on her cheeks, reflecting silvery in the moonlight. She was so engrossed, so … free. Samuel had never seen anything like it. What kind of woman was this? Nothing like Sara, that was for sure.

  A crashing noise broke from the trees to Samuel’s right. His senses, so caught up in Isabelle, took a moment to comprehend what was happening. A wolf, snarling and grunting, had leaped from its hiding place and was bearing down with full force on the dancing woman. She stopped suddenly, facing the animal, comprehension dawning on her face in stages, turning from rapture to alarm.

  Without thought Samuel raised his rifle, aimed, and shot. A yelping sound tore from the wolf’s throat, but it kept moving toward her.

  Unable to reload in time, Samuel dropped the weapon and sprinted toward the now-enraged animal. He grasped the hilt of his knife as he ran, knowing he would not reach her in time. Knowing that the wolf had every intention of killing her.

  He watched, as in a daze or a dream, as Isabelle crouched down, wondering why she didn’t run. His throat wanted to yell, “Run!” but no sound would come. As in a nightmare, he watched as the bloody animal leaped several feet through the air to land on top of the woman. He heard a great cry tear from her throat.

  As he came upon t
hem, Samuel plunged his knife into the side of the animal’s belly but quickly realized that the wolf was already a limp pile of dead carcass. Isabelle rose from beneath it, like an Amazon, a Joan of Arc, a legend of old. She kicked the carcass off her, yelling and bloody. As she heaved the animal over, Samuel saw to his amazement another knife sticking out from the wolf’s chest. She had stabbed it.

  She stood over the animal, shaking and wild-eyed, her breathing fast and hard. “Is it—is it dead?”

  Samuel went to her and grasped both her arms, wanting Isabelle to focus on his face so that he could calm her, all the while checking for injuries. It was hard to tell with the wolf’s blood smeared all over her dress and face.

  “Yes, it’s dead. Are you hurt?”

  Isabelle stared at him. He could see reality return, taking the place of the shock as she stared into his eyes. Suddenly, she was laughing. Small and low, then building into a deep laugh. It was a victor’s laugh. With a whoop she threw herself into his arms and against his chest. “I killed it! I did. I did it!”

  She turned her face up to his, then grew suddenly serious. “We are meant for each other, you know.”

  Samuel gazed into her blood-smeared face and knew fear like he’d never known. His heart had yet to stop the wild pounding that had begun when he first saw the wolf. Now, as he looked down into her fierce countenance, he wondered if she wasn’t a little mad.

  Before he had time to respond, she had backed out of his arms. “He came out of nowhere. Did you see any others?”

  Samuel looked down at the wolf. It was large and so gray that it appeared black against the dark ground. Its eyes were open and glassy. Pulling himself from the haze this woman held him in, he looked to the dark tree line where the wolf had entered the clearing. A frown creased his brow. Where had the wolf come from? It was strange to see one alone and attacking boldly like that. It didn’t look particularly hungry either; it was large and well fed. A strange feeling assailed him, the same feeling that had made him come looking for Isabelle in the first place. Something was happening here, something he couldn’t quite place, but it was sinister, and for some reason he couldn’t explain, he was certain that whatever it was, it wanted to destroy this woman in front of him.

  He said, “It is strange, his being alone.” He walked back to where he had thrown his long rifle down, reloaded it as he talked. “I should check for others. I’ll walk you back to the camp first. I don’t want you alone at night anymore.”

  Glancing up, he saw a slow smile spread across her face, her eyes slanting provocatively at him. “Are you my protector now?”

  How could she be flirtatious after such an ordeal? It was all he could do not to shake some sense into her. He contented himself with, “As far as you’ll let me. But it seems obvious you know what to do when you have to.” He finished reloading, then looked up from his rifle, their gazes locking in the silent moonlight. “You knew not to run, to crouch down. You knew just where to stab it, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I knew. The position making me the most vulnerable was the only position strong enough to kill it. I didn’t think all of that through, mind you.” She smiled at him. “But something … something inside me knew.” She laughed. “I must wash, though. If Julian sees me like this, he’ll try to pack me off back home to mother, and that I will not allow.”

  Samuel nodded his understanding. “Jump in the stream then.” He grinned his own wicked grin at her. “We’ll say you tripped and fell in while dancing.”

  Isabelle gasped. “How long were you standing there watching me?”

  “Oh, long enough, I think. I don’t suppose you can complain… . I did slow him down a bit.” He looked pointedly at the dead wolf.

  Isabelle gestured toward her clothing. “If you were going to go and spy on me, you could have at least killed the thing and saved me the trouble of a ruined dress.”

  Samuel took a step closer, then another and another. Reaching out, he grasped the side of her face, wiping a smear of the wolf’s blood from her cheek with his thumb. His voice lowered. “Next time, I will not fail your dress.”

  Isabelle tilted her head into his hand. “Why do I feel I know you?” It was a breathy thought, as if to herself. “As if I have found the place where I can finally breathe?”

  Samuel inhaled as he heard his own feelings being put into words, feelings that were unheard and unsought and more frightening than any wolf or enemy or an entire army even.

  Had he ever felt this connected to Sara?

  “I shouldn’t want to put you to sleep.” He took refuge in teasing, trying to make light of the intensity between them.

  Her lips curved into a provocative smile. “What should you want with me then, sir?”

  He groaned. Did she know what she did to him? Did she really want the truth? “I should want to awaken something in you,” he heard himself say.

  Isabelle took a step toward him.

  His heart began a steady drumming that he thought she must be able to hear. He wanted to kiss her. But he just stared at her, his gaze roving over each delicate feature, a face a moment ago that was so fierce in victory but was now pliant and open to him.

  His thumb stroked her jaw, and then he realized what he was doing, reminding himself why anything with this temptress would prove as wrong as his first marriage, and he let his arm drop back to his side.

  She stepped closer, not giving up, reaching for him, sliding her hands inside his jacket, touching his ribs. She traced a lower rib saying on a breath, “Here is where I was taken.”

  He drew in a sharp breath, felt the panic like a lance in that spot.

  Backing away, his hands outstretched as if to ward her off. He turned from her passionate stare and did something he’d only done once before in his life.

  He ran away.

  5

  Hope picked up a candle from the bedside table and quietly lit it, walking from the bedroom to the fireplace in her kitchen. She stretched as she walked, the ache in her low back more profound than usual.

  She had been awakened by a nightmare. An apparition, ferocious and huge, had attacked her daughter, mauling her while several people stood by and watched. She had stood in that group, frozen and unable to help, her throat working with the effort to shout. Isabelle, her daughter, had been torn to pieces.

  Still overwhelmed by the intensity of the dream, Hope crept out of the bedroom where Joseph quietly snored, home from his latest excursion, and went to calm herself with a cup of tea. While the tea steeped, the feeling that her children were in danger would not leave her. So she settled in to pray.

  This had happened to her before. And she recognized it as a battle, something she had to pray through until the pressure lifted from her. As she walked around the living area, working the aches from her body, she knew that this particular battle had not yet been won. “What now, Lord?”

  A memory assailed her. While living in the east, Hope had become friends with a Christian woman who could only be described as on fire with the zeal of God. The woman, Lydia, had spent much time with Hope, teaching her to understand and apply the Holy Scriptures to her life. And slowly her life had begun to change. She began to accept and love Joseph as he was. As she learned to trust God to meet all of her needs, she was able to allow Joseph and the others around her freedom to be who they were. She let go of her attempts to change Joseph so that she might feel stable and instead found stability in an intimate relationship with her Savior.

  Hope and Lydia had spent many hours together in prayer, and as God chose to answer their petitions, they saw strange things, wonderful things, and sometimes frightening, otherworldly things.

  Occasionally Hope was awakened at night and could feel the presence of God in the room with her. She would get up and begin to pray, often for an hour or more. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the burden would be lifted, and as tired as any soldier, Hope would climb back into her warm bed to sleep.

  It had been a long time since this had happen
ed, and as she thought about it, Hope realized that she still missed Lydia. In truth, it was harder to walk the road of the prayer warrior alone. Suddenly she understood that deep within she was still upset about being separated from her friend. Her whole life had been about moving away from people she cared about—about following Joseph’s dreams instead of her own heart. A few still moments passed as she reflected on this revelation. Yes. In her heart there was still hardness, some bitterness, some loneliness she had not yet dealt with.

  Then another revelation, and Hope took a sudden breath: She had allowed this resentment toward God to rob her of her prayer life. To rob her of what was quite possibly her reason for being on this earth. She felt her eyes well with tears. She might not be a great explorer like her husband, regaling an audience with stories of her conquests or holding people spellbound with her personal charisma. No, she was a warrior of prayer. A warrior in a realm more real than this flesh would prove to be, of that she was certain. And as God knew, she could carry this mission to anywhere on the earth, even in the shadow of her rainbow-seeking husband. No, especially in his shadow.

  Even now she lived in a time and place that was changing, with the war for independence in the east. True, she lived in a frontier village that seemed so small and insignificant by comparison. Yet her village and others like it had been fought over by the French, the Indians, and the British. That spoke of great significance. And yet she had prayed so little in recent years.

  She was sickened and angry that she had allowed her enemy to blind her with self-pity, not trusting that God, who saw and knew all, had a greater plan for her than her limited vision could recognize.

  “Dear God—” She had let so many years be taken! Hope sank to her knees, tears running down her cheeks. “I am sorry, Lord. Your will—not mine,” she cried out. “I am so sorry.”