Wind Dancer

by Jamie Carie

  Yet Jesus, the son of God, had seemed a foreign person. He taught in parables and riddles, seeming slowly to walk the earth, skimming the sand in His holy sandals through desert cities, pouring water into the dry mouths of the Jews. She understood that His death on the cross had paid her redemption fee, like the dance fee, heaven’s golden ticket. But she did not understand the man Jesus. His only ambition had been to lay down everything. To die. And that was something she had never had within her.

  Who will be your survival if you do not die to yourself?

  The words frightened her. What if she was never rescued from this place? What if she couldn’t escape? She didn’t want to give up, lay her wildness, her strength, on a cross like His. But she saw, sudden and complete, that she could not save herself. Her strength had not deterred the enemy; it had only made them more determined to have her.

  In that moment, in that minute, Isabelle faced the fact that she was a captive.

  It was only a matter of time. The Shawnee would wear her down, wear her out. And she would, eventually, give in.

  She turned her head into her pillow and allowed the silent, shaking sobs to overcome her. She had been so close with Sunukkuhkau this afternoon, so close to giving them what they wanted. And she knew, deep in her heart, that if she did, she would never live the life she was meant to live. She would lose everything.

  She was on the very edge of losing everything.

  Tears coursed down her face, wetting her hair, her neck, her dress, her bed. Tears of grief, tears of turmoil, tears of anger. “I can’t do this anymore! I can’t do this without You,” she breathed, quiet and fierce. “I need you, Jesus. You are my survival.”

  A great heaving occurred in her chest that she tried to still for fear of waking her lodge mates. Tremors shook her, and she was soaked in a baptism of tears. Then, gradually, as the emotion was spent, she quieted, and a deep, unfathomable peace came over her. She wept silently now, breathing it in for a long time.

  Then, for the first time since Julian’s death, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  25

  Hope’s thighs quivered as she half crawled, half stepped over the huge fallen tree in their path. She looked down at the foot she’d thrown over the log and frowned, thinking the red seeping from the top of her shoe might mean something was bleeding. Well, that would explain the constant pain.

  Adam Harrison looked back at her, saw the difficulty she was having, and stopped. “Need a rest?” There was concern in his eyes as he walked back toward her. He handed her his canteen as she stretched out a hand for him to help her over. She settled on top of the log and took a long drink.

  “I’m afraid so,” she said, drinking deeply again. “These legs aren’t used to marching.”

  Adam nodded, looking her over and noticing her foot, the red now soaking through the brown leather. “Hope, why didn’t you tell me you were bleeding? Here, give me your foot and let’s have a look at it.”

  Hope leaned down to unlace the shoe. They were stout, sturdy shoes but not made for trekking through the wilderness.

  “I only just realized it myself a few moments ago. Is it the shoes, do you think?”

  Adam nodded as he watched her slowly, painfully remove the offending footwear. He squatted down in front of her and took the foot in his lap, carefully easing down the stocking. “What you need is a good pair of moccasins.”

  “Ha! I’ve never worn a pair of moccasins in my life.”

  “Well, once you do, you will never go back to wearing clunky, hard leather like this.” His hands took firm hold of her foot as he turned it slightly to examine the large welt on the outside edge, a raw and ugly wound bleeding profusely. Pouring some of their precious water onto a handkerchief from his pocket, he gently dabbed at the throbbing sore.

  Hope drew in a hissing breath. “Maybe you are right. You don’t happen to have a pair of those wonderful moccasins in your pack, do you?” She smiled at the top of his head, his dark hair streaked with gray but still thick and wavy.

  “Wish I did, but no. We can get a pair in Kaskaskia for the trip home.”

  “I have a better idea.” She smiled at him, her eyes wide. “Let’s buy a horse and ride back.”

  Adam laughed. “Yes, it’s too bad mine had a lame foot. If I’d had more time, I could have rounded one up, but what with the rush …” He let the thought trail off, they both knowing that had they not left that very hour, Joseph would have found a more forceful way than threats to keep Hope at home.

  * * *

  ADAM COULDN’T BLAME Joseph for wanting to keep Hope from going. He didn’t want Hope out in the wilderness traveling

  like this either; she wasn’t conditioned to it. But Adam did hold a deep dislike for the man and couldn’t begin to fathom a father who wouldn’t go after his children or heed his wife’s intuition concerning their safety.

  If he knew anything about Hope Renoir, it was that she had the ear of God; and if she thought her children were in trouble, then Adam would do just about anything he could to help her find them.

  And why not? He had been in love with Hope from the moment she stepped off the boat onto the muddy shore of the Wabash River. She had laughingly asked if there was an empty house in town because she was heartily sick of sleeping on the ground and would take anything she could get with four walls and a roof.

  She was so beautiful that day, standing in the late-afternoon sun, her hair blonde and shining, pulled into a loose knot at the back of her neck. Her eyes, when he finally worked up the courage to really look into them, were pale blue ringed in sapphire. He saw such pain hidden there, such strength, such forbearance and wisdom for a woman her age. He saw a lifetime in that long glance, knowing her better in that moment than any woman he’d ever known.

  Beside her stood a gangly, gypsy-looking girl with a glowing face and too much energy, straining against her mother’s hand. They watched her together, he and Hope, as she broke free and, with a running start and a mighty leap, her arms outstretched like the wings of a bird, jumped to shore with a whoop and a deep laugh that echoed across the water and their hearts.

  Hope ducked her head and laughed. Adam stared in wonder.

  The small boy, though—Julian, as he would later learn—clung to his mother’s hand, a blend of his parents in coloring with the dark-blond hair of his mother and the olive complexion and dark eyes of his father, eyes that were huge and solemn and saw the world from another place.

  They were the most beautiful children he had ever seen.

  He had fallen so fast and hard that day that he had yet to recover. Then he met the darkly good-looking Frenchman who was her husband, these children’s father, barking orders and pointing impatiently.

  God help me, he’d thought then and many, many times since. God, You must help me. Every day, every minute after that, he had repeated it, aloud sometimes: Hope Renoir is a married woman.

  Now as he looked into her beloved face, seeing the gray around her temples, her hair not quite so bright, the intervening years etched on her face, his heart still lurched within him. He had to look away, down at the injury, to breathe evenly again.

  “Rip a long piece of that petticoat off and I’ll bandage it up before you put back on that awful shoe.”

  “And ruin a perfectly good petticoat!” she demanded with a smile in her voice.

  “Better than ruining a perfectly good foot.”

  She shrugged, none of the usual tightness in her smile. “Well, there is that.”

  She was teasing him, and he could hardly stand the joy bolting through him, gripping his chest in a wave of triumph. He had to turn away to keep her from seeing it, using the excuse of her needing privacy so that she could hike up her skirt and destroy her petticoat. He heard the ripping sound.

  “You can turn back around, Dr. Harrison. I have your bandage ready now.”

  He turned, avoiding her eyes and squatting back down in front of her, trying not to notice the smooth texture of her skin
as he gently wrapped the cotton around her foot. Rising, he handed her the canteen again, waiting while she took a long swallow, following it with a quick drink himself, wanting to save as much of the water as he could for her.

  Growing brisk and cheerful, he turned them from the intimacy. “Shall we march, my lady?”

  “Why of course, dear sir. Was there ever a more beautiful day than this for a stroll through the wood?”

  He chuckled, taking her arm, loving the English lilt to her voice, leading them on to what now felt like a casual foray through a glorious park in some exotic location that they fixed in their minds.

  Two days later, mid-afternoon on a hot August day, Hope and Adam walked along the shore of the Kaskaskia River to the outskirts of town. She looked tired and dust coated but excited now. After all, her children might be in this place. Adam felt years younger, coming alive in the time he had spent with her.

  He only hoped that Isabelle and Julian would be here, in full health and in trouble for worrying their mother so.

  * * *

  SAMUEL PACED THE floor of Clark’s office. “One hundred and fifty pounds sterling?”

  Clark nodded, his lips pressed into a grim line. “That was the redemption price of another female captive a few years ago. Delaware. I don’t know what the Shawnee price for Isabelle might be. Perhaps more, if they can even be bought.”

  “Which seems unlikely.”

  Clark stared off into the distance. “I don’t know. You know I would give it gladly if I had it, but I’ve barely enough to feed this army. We’re living on the credit of the good Francis Vigo. The men are being paid with land to fight, one hundred and eight acres of Kentucky frontier when this is over.”

  “Maybe I could sell my portion. How much do you think it is worth?” Samuel sank into a chair, his head hanging down.

  Clark rubbed his face with a hand. “Not enough. And you don’t have the deed yet. With the speed of the Virginia Legislature, you won’t have that for months after this campaign.”

  “I can’t just leave her there! You said you would help me.” He groaned. “I never should have left.”

  “I am trying to help, Samuel. I’ve put out word for any information of important Indian captives, someone to trade her for. I’ve also written to the tribes as far as five hundred miles away, offering them the red wampum or the white. I fully expect them to be arriving on our doorstep in the next weeks for councils. We could learn something valuable from them that might save Isabelle.” He paused, piercing Samuel with his bright blue eyes. “For now, all we can do is wait.”

  “She will think I have abandoned her.” It was said as a plea.

  “If she thinks that, my friend, then she does not know you well enough yet.”

  26

  The stars sparkled in their brilliance, confident in their name, against a thick, velvet backdrop of unending depths. The horizon met the night with hues of green, real and yet unreal in its facets of green, glowing beneath the moonlight. It was a magical night, and it called to her.

  Isabelle rose from her bed of tangled blankets on the cool, damp earth. She sat up, rubbing the tiredness from her eyes, looking up and feeling life pump back into her. Finally she knew she had to abandon sleep and meet the night.

  She had begged to be allowed to sleep outdoors earlier that evening. It was a fanciful request, the last request of a maiden the night before her wedding. Sunukkuhkau had backed her up and encouraged the privilege, as long as her sisters slept out with her. The other women lay silent and sleeping now, peaceful in the bliss of an unknown enchantment. Isabelle cast a glance at each of them, her gaze lingering over Sinchi, a true friend, making her smile.

  Rising, she slipped into her moccasins, trying not to make any sound that might disrupt their sleep, and made her way into the woods, heedless of danger, conscious only of her need to connect with the same God who had made these stars twinkle loud enough to wake her.

  She progressed deeper into the trees, felt the thinner grass of the shady places against her ankles and calves, felt them transition into scrub and bramble and then the prickling of small sticks and weeds. She picked her way to the stream, always drawn to any body of water where the clear reflection of the moon danced across the tiny, windblown waves. Reaching the small stream, the place where they had first tried to wash away the white of her skin, she sank down onto the mud-hardened bank. She picked a long weed and bit into the stem, tasting its bitter sourness, twirling it slowly with her hand, holding it out, examining its leaves in the moonlight. Her lips curved into a contented smile as she drank in the still beauty of the glade. So peaceful, so silent, with the wind blowing gently through her long, loose hair. She closed her eyes and lifted her face, feeling everything, feeling at one with her piece of the world. Since her night of surrender to the Lord, she had known many moments of this overwhelming peace.

  She realized with an inner jolt that even though she was still a captive on the outside, something had changed inside, and she was freer here than she’d ever been.

  They too had noticed the change, not entirely trusting it or her but wanting to believe that she was beginning to accept her place with them. She didn’t consider what they thought; she simply lived, one day at a time, and rested in the knowledge that she no longer had to carry herself, that she knew her survival.

  In this newfound place of safety, she found herself thinking a lot instead of always trying to do something. She spent endless hours allowing her mind to wander into the past, pick through images as they appeared while she cooked or washed clothes or hunted for berries. When she slept, she slept soundly and contentedly, but she found she needed little sleep these days. Her mind was filled with thoughts and her chest with feelings that she’d never before taken the time to explore. Behind her closed lids at night, she dreamed awake of all the things past and present. Often she saw her father’s face, a young face, from when she was a little girl. She lingered over the image, allowing her memory to turn over his features. She smiled, the air whooshing out of her lungs as she realized how much she looked like him. Her dark coloring, her gypsy-slanted eyes and freewheeling heart—those traits had come from him. Other times she remembered him as she last saw him, now older, his face rounder, his hair a little grayer, but his eyes—his eyes still fascinated her. They still held the light of youth. He was still full of a life of chasing rainbows.

  Isabelle closed her eyes now, a trickle of a tear seeping out and down her cheek and neck, making her cold where the breeze blew it dry. But it wasn’t a sad cry; she was happy to remember her father.

  Tonight her mind’s eye roved the childlike curves of her brother’s face. She saw Julian when he was little, laughing at some silly thing she had said. He had never taken her as seriously as she wished he would, but then he had seen her, seen inside her, something everyone else had missed. He had believed in her when she wasn’t doing anything great or special or beautiful. He’d loved her at her least lovable.

  Her chest heaved with a sob at the thought, the sound skipping over the water’s edge, her face pressing into her upraised legs. If only she had known! She would have been kinder. She would have . . . loved him better. “Oh God,” she breathed into the still night air, “I miss him so.”

  She thought back on their best times together, feeling in this moment the need to relive them in her mind. He had been so very different from her, his every thought from some other place of reference, that she wondered how it was that they hadn’t hated one another. But they hadn’t. If anything, they had clung to each other, enjoying their differences. They were both passionate about what they loved in life. They had lived as children, she saw now, always in the here and now, trying to make whatever that elusive thing was that made them feel the most alive as real and as tangible as possible. With Julian it had been his music, his poetry. With her it had been … something to rid her of the restlessness.

  Everything in her now stopped in revelation. There were many things that she loved—music, the f
eel of a heavy gun in her hands and knowledge that she had the ability to use it, time spent with her brother or her mother, those brief moments of connection with her father. And now Samuel, his face when he looked at her, his strength, his matching abilities and that feeling that, together, nothing could stop them.

  But something had stopped them. She sensed that God wanted to show her more, something bigger than all those things, that if she only asked, He would show her.

  “What is it?” she whispered into the dark sky. “What is it?”

  The night breeze caressed her face. She could hear the pattering of the leaves as they rustled in the tree above her head. The breeze became a wind, then a strong wind, gusting around her, making her hair fly.

  She found herself standing, rising to the challenge to stand against it. Her eyelids fell, and behind them she saw an image of herself dancing on that wind. She was floating upward, her hair twirling around her, colored ribbons in her hair swirling and twirling, covering and then revealing her face and her body. She saw herself becoming as one with the wind, not flying, for this wind didn’t move in one direction. No, this wind danced. Leaves whirled about her in a counterclockwise motion, reversing the flow of time, changing now from the dry death of winter to the brilliant hues of fall, then transforming into the strong, sure leaves of summer, going back, back, to the newborn leaves of spring. They danced as she danced, in all the seasons of her life.

  Isabelle stood completely still, her eyes still closed as she watched the scene unfolding behind her eyes. “I am to worship You,” she breathed, her chest quivering, undone at the way He chose to show her this.

  “Isabelle?”

  Her eyes were still closed, her heart still in the grip of His presence.

  “Isabelle!”

  But this was a woman’s voice calling her name, a voice she knew so well. She turned, startled, thinking she was seeing another vision.