Thorns in Eden and The Everlasting Mountains

by RITA GERLACH

  Rebecah turned to her.

  “Theresa—”

  Theresa looked at Rebecah with such misery and helplessness that her breath escaped her. Maddie’s face was one of horror and sorrow.

  “Maddie,” and she threw out her arms to her.

  The trees swallowed them in the misty darkness. Rebecah’s face was wet with tears, her heart pounding as the world spun. Trembling, for the dark, for the shadowy hemlocks encompassing her, for the hands that pushed her forward, she laid her face against Maddie’s shoulder.

  “Jack. Jack, my love,” she whispered against a rising wind.

  CHAPTER 22

  Nash stopped at the edge of a cliff overlooking the Potomac. Deep pools swirled below and great fish moved like shadows within them. Reflecting the trees and the twilight sky, the river murmured like a cooing mother giving life to all upon her banks.

  An eagle cried, wheeled like windblown thistle above the jagged rocks imbedded deep into the river. The breeze lifted it higher until it reached the top of a tall pine.

  Normally to see such a magnificent bird would have caused Nash to smile. But not today, not after he had discovered his wife and two others had been taken by renegades.

  He stalked down the narrow path to lower ground where the murmur of the river grew louder. He and his men had spread out, and seeing the position of the sun, he headed back to join Clarke and then the others further downstream.

  For a week now, he ate the dried venison in his pouch, drank from the river and streams, and slept restless in the woods. He followed the old hunting paths. Here he found broken twigs on bushes and a woman’s ribbon. He snatched it in his hand, smelled lavender and rosewater upon it.

  Rebecah! He knew then she was alive.

  He had seen crouching on a limestone cliff a mountain cat with its ears flattened and its jaws snarling with hunger. He had seen a solitary bear on the hillside prowl through the woods, halt, and pant, with its hair on end.

  All these he expected, but what he saw now evoked a deeper instinct of caution. He crouched and examined tracks. He waited, listened to the sounds of the woods and wind, discerning anything different. A moment more and he stood, the tassels of his sleeves flitting in the breeze.

  Sinking back, he fixed his eyes upon a man coming in his direction. Sweat beaded on his forehead and soaked his hair. A green-eyed horsefly whirled before his face, fierce for the taste of salt and blood. Nash flinched, but dare not move.

  The Indian paused. Then he bent and drank from a stream of water flowing down the limestone wall. He wore no war paint. But his dusky, half-naked body glistened with oil. He stood there, dressed in his beaded leggings and moccasins, clout and sporran, like some regal prince of the wilderness. His face umber. His eyes black as coal.

  Narrowing his eyes, Nash looked through the trees. Another warrior crept among them. A moment more and another brave moved up the edge of the mountain slope, so close that Nash could make out the scar on his right cheek.

  This was enough evidence for him, and so he remained still until they moved on. He started at a run up the mountain slope, plunging through rhododendron and wild grape vines. Meteor lifted his head, flicked his ears. Nash pulled up onto his back and dug in his heels.

  The sun sunk deeper. The last remnants of rays drove deep into the water and the fathomless forest. Faster Nash went along the leafy trail. He smelled pine and rotting leaves. Another odor hung in the air, the putrid scent of death and blood. He drew rein. Before him hung scalps, eagle feathers, and other ornaments meant to strike fear into the heart. His blood ran cold. A chill ran up his spine. He saw something hunched against a tree.

  Clarke was dead. Blood covered his face and dripped down his neck into his buckskins.

  Anger rose and Nash choked under its force. Then he smelled the scent of savage men, unmistakable as the scents of bear and elk, fox and wolf. There was no time to grieve or bury his friend.

  He moved off the path and dismounted. A bullet smacked the trunk of a pine, splintered the wood beside him. He turned to meet the attackers. Angry Bear was on Nash before he could fire. One sinewy fist slammed into his face, while a knife caught the last glimmer of sunlight across its blade.

  Nash raised his musket and blocked the blow. Angry Bear threw his body against him, and they tumbled together down the slope.

  Nash’s head struck a rock and the world went dark.

  * * *

  Awakening to the smell of charred flesh and the angry speech of those not his own people, fear seized Nash. His heart quickened to strike against his chest. His temples throbbed. The taste of blood and earth were in his mouth.

  Before he lifted his head from the ground, he uttered, “Preserve me from men of violence. Help me now in my time of trouble.”

  The words slipped from his lips slurred and whispered. His head ached. Scratches from woodland bushes were upon his face and hands, caked with dirt and sweat. He had been dragged through thorny briars and sharp twigs on the way to the Indian encampment.

  His bruised mouth bled and the blood caked in a corner of his lips. He tasted it, and spit out the tainted saliva into the dust. He pushed himself up on his knees. A word was shouted fierce and bitter. Laughter followed. Warriors moved around him.

  His vision cleared and what he saw before him caused his stomach to heave. He gasped at the gruesome sight—a blackened corpse. Flesh peeled away, revealed bone and sinew, the faceless head hanging against a hollow breast, now fodder for crows and buzzards.

  Who this unfortunate soul had been, Nash did not know. He could have been anyone—a settler, soldier, or trapper. A gust of wind whipped through the trees, stirred the embers at the foot of the pyre.

  “You’ll die as this one did.” An Indian crouched beside him. “You’ll die for the death of Logan’s people.”

  It was Angry Bear who spoke. He now carried Nash’s musket, pouch and powder horn. A fresh scalp hung from his belt, no doubt the scalp of the unfortunate human being dead against the charred post—or, dear Lord, Andrew Clarke’s.

  He stood to face him, his muscles stiff with rage. The bitter wind howled in his ears, and clouds above him blocked the sun.

  Clenching his teeth, Angry Bear struck him in the ribs. The fierce blow knocked him to his knees. He remained there a moment with his breath heaving. Angry Bear pulled his knife. Nash believed the warrior would have plunged it into his heart. But it would have been too quick a death. The stake was slower.

  He hoped he could have broken free and wrestled the warrior’s knife from his hand. But other hands held him fast. They tied him to the post. He strained to get free. His sweaty hair hung over his eyes. The shadow of death approached him, and in the horror and gloom, he saw it leering.

  The Indians’ awful cries were deafening. They piled sticks and branches around his feet, stuffed dry moss into the spaces. Terror shocked Nash out of his senses. He cried out to God, and called Rebecah’s name in a coarse murmur, for his throat closed and choked.

  Angry Bear stepped up to him, a splinter of lit wood in his hand. He passed it before Nash. Nash drew back. Then Angry Bear touched it to flesh. Nash clenched his teeth and let out a muffled cry. He panted for air, forced back the sting of tears forming in his eyes.

  A voice called out. As one the Indians turned. Out of the forest a chief came forward, his half-naked body glistening with bear fat, his beaded leggings gartered above his knees with scarlet cloth, his hair dressed with eagle feathers.

  With his face painted for war, he looked fierce and aged from his turmoil. An entourage of braves followed him. Raising his face proudly, he stepped up to Angry Bear and took the flaming stick from his hand. His eyes turned to Nash.

  Would he remember their friendship? Would Logan show mercy on his brother who never did him or his people any harm?

  CHAPTER 23

  The women huddled in each other’s arms. LaRoux sat across from them eating a piece of meat his men had roasted over the fire. His face looked hard, creased, an
d his black eyes cold as onyx.

  Rebecah watched him through the gray haze, wondering what he planned to do. Theresa’s head nodded against her shoulder. She was thankful the girl slept, that her tears had dried for now. Maddie too.

  Terrified, her emotions ran as high as the mountain that loomed before her. Yet for the child she carried, Theresa and Maddie, she knew she must bury her emotions and guard her tongue. She must clear her head and use God-given wisdom and courage as her guides.

  LaRoux glanced over at her.

  “What is it you intend to do with us?” she asked.

  He threw a gnawed bone into the fire. “Much of that will be up to you. We go to a village west of here. Life among the Indians isn’t so bad.”

  “Then you mean to trade us to the Shawnee.”

  LaRoux crawled forward and crouched in front of her. “When we first met, it was not a good thing?”

  “No.”

  “You will find it was. I intend to keep you for myself.”

  Rebecah stared back at him, panic growing within, as he stood and walked away. Theresa moved in her arms and awoke with a fright.

  “Hush, my dear.” Rebecah caressed Theresa’s hair. “It is well. Go back to sleep.”

  Rebecah felt her shudder. She watched LaRoux stand and walk away. He blended with the darkness as if it were a part of him. And she thought how true that was.

  “Are you frightened, Rebecah?” Theresa whispered.

  “Try to sleep.”

  “Are you weeping?”

  “I am, though I’m trying not to.”

  “We shall help each other, you, Maddie, and me.”

  “At least we have each other.”

  “Oh, my poor father. How shall he bear it?”

  “My husband and his men will look for us.” Her heart throbbed and her hands shook. “We must try to find home again. We must believe and trust that it shall be so. As we travel we must leave signs for the men so they can find us—cloth from our dresses, ribbons, broken twigs on the bushes, anything to give them a sign.”

  Theresa looked over at LaRoux, his back to them and his figure cut in blackness against the shadows of the hemlocks, etched by grim moonlight.

  “I pray he pays for the evil he has done,” she said.

  Rebecah pulled her closer and looked at LaRoux, but with different eyes. “What matters is escape and rescue. Leave LaRoux’s fate to God.”

  * * *

  Dawn rose. Rebecah opened her eyes. A broken night of restless sleep had ended, and reality came flying back at her.

  LaRoux pulled her up, separated her from the other women. Hands stretched out to her, but she could not reach them. The Indian who had been kind to her followed, then the women and the rest of LaRoux’s ragtag band of scoundrels.

  Rebecah stumbled over a root. The Indian helped her up. She asked his name. Grey Wolf it was. He could speak not much more English than that. His speech was Delaware, and from time to time he motioned with his hands for her to understand. There upon a limb, a red bird. Here a stream to drink from. What had brought him into LaRoux’s band of men she did not know. She found it bewildering he was with them.

  They entered a mountain pass where the river roared over rocks and black cliffs loomed. Theresa and Rebecah were strong enough to make the difficult trek, but Maddie struggled. Rebecah moved back to her and looped her arm around Maddie’s waist.

  “Here, let me help you.”

  Maddie held onto Rebecah. Roots and stones barred the way. With each step, Maddie heaved her breath. She was testing LaRoux’s patience, which was a perilous thing to do. Rebecah tightened her hold.

  “Maddie, you mustn’t weep. We will make it. Once we reach the bottom it will come easier.”

  LaRoux turned his fierce eyes. He waited as they drew closer. “She is too weak.” His lips curled into a snarl. His dirty hands were upon Maddie and he yanked her away. Rebecah and Theresa cried out, shrieking and clinging to Maddie as he dragged her from them.

  Grey Wolf looked on.

  “You would leave her here to die,” cried Rebecah. “You mustn’t.”

  LaRoux thrust Maddie on the ground. “Would you rather I kill her now?”

  Rebecah rushed forward. “Let her alone.”

  “She stays behind,” spat LaRoux. “She is too slow.”

  “I’ll not take another step without her.”

  LaRoux put his hands on his hips and laughed. Rebecah burned with anger. She had tried to be diplomatic for the good of the women and herself. However, with LaRoux’s cruelty, those reins of constraint slipped through her hands.

  “How I wish I had that knife of yours,” she said, her eyes aflame. “For if I did, I would plunge it into your heartless chest before you laid another hand on us.”

  His smug smile faded. He grabbed her wrist and squeezed.

  “You’re a woman. You are weak. What you wish to do cannot be done. For what you speak is it not a sin in the eyes of your god?”

  “What is in my heart, you’ll never know.”

  He threw her off. Grey Wolf stood behind her and caught Rebecah. LaRoux grunted and turned to go. “Mother,” said Grey Wolf, “needs dark-faced woman.”

  LaRoux paused and watched as Grey Wolf helped Maddie to her feet. He lifted the old woman into his arms and carried her as if she were a feather.

  Rebecah wondered if LaRoux were losing the allegiance of Grey Wolf. He would have no man turn on him. She had no doubt at the first sign of betrayal he would try to kill Grey Wolf.

  She glanced back. It was the farthest she had been from home. Her Maryland, her home, her beloved—they were behind her now and how her heart throbbed.

  The wind murmured and it began to drizzle. She clasped her empty stomach, where hunger was now a common thing. She longed to comfort the child within her womb. Let my child survive, dear God.

  A few miles upriver, they made camp for the night. Exhausted, their feet sore and their bodies aching, the women huddled together against the trunk of a beech tree.

  Grey Wolf walked into the forest. A moment later the crack of a musket echoed through the woodland. The sound startled the women, all looking up hoping it meant rescue. Instead, it meant they would eat that night. He brought them meat, of what kind they did not know.

  Grey Wolf glanced over at Rebecah, and in the glare of firelight and smoke, she saw pity in his eyes. Could it be possible he felt compassion for three unfortunate women, one carrying a child, the other young and frightened, the last a poor black woman who had endured hardship and despair all her life only to think she now faced the remainder of her days a slave to Indians? Rebecah could not tell, yet she hoped his heart convicted him.

  * * *

  At the break of dawn, the women were given water, but no food. Her stomach growling, Rebecah quickly gathered the nuts that lay on the ground. Before LaRoux could catch her, she handed some to Maddie and Theresa, and shoved the rest into the pocket of her tattered dress.

  On they traveled along the Potomac’s north branch, the mountains shadowing the water in lush splendor. Another river they met, the Savage, as it tumbled and spilled into the Potomac. They crossed to the other side, walked through great forests, rested beside gurgling streams with rocky waterfalls, where the trees were enormous.

  Over a crest, they came to an Indian village. The women looked down at the lodges, the campfires, the children romping in the grass, the Indian women cooking over a fire. Rebecah wanted to die then and there. Then she felt her baby move and set her hand across the tiny imprint of a foot. Tears sprang into her eyes.

  Maddie put her arm around her. “It’ll be alright. At least we are together.”

  Theresa laid her head on Maddie’s shoulder and together the women, clinging to each other, made their way toward the village.

  I must be strong. I mustn’t let them see me cry.

  CHAPTER 24

  “I have found their trail,” Black Hawk said, as he walked through the fog of the forest. He studied the prints alon
g the ground, the disturbed leaves and broken twigs. He moved to the right, paused a few yards off from the others.

  “They traveled west along the ridge.”

  “Nash and Clarke, you think? Or the women?” asked Maldowney.

  “Both. Many signs here.” He hovered his hand over the path. He bounded ahead and the men followed. Black Hawk froze and raised his hand to halt. He turned.

  “Turn away if you cannot look upon the face of a dead man.”

  “Who is it?” asked Dr. Pierce.

  “It is Mr. Clarke.”

  Maldowney moved ahead. Dr. Pierce and Mr. Boyd followed a few yards back. And that is when they saw the body of Andrew Clark, his bloody head hanging low upon his breast, his hands clenched at his sides.

  “Ah, poor Mr. Clarke.” Mr. Boyd looked away.

  Robert Maldowney sunk to his knees beside the lifeless heap of misery. Black Hawk crouched beside him.

  “Warriors have done this. My brother fought them here.” Black Hawk pointed with his hand northward. “If they had killed him, he too would be here dead.”

  “Then Nash has been taken prisoner?” Maldowney said.

  Black Hawk nodded. “They will kill him.”

  Maldowney straightened out Andrew Clark’s limbs and crossed his hands over his chest. After he spoke a prayer, they left him lying in the forest with the leaves of past autumns to cover him.

  * * *

  Logan listened to Angry Bear’s discourse. He’d captured a white man, triumphed taking the scalp of another. Logan raised his hand. Angry Bear acquiesced.

  When Logan turned, Nash raised his bruised face. He looked over at the war chief through the strands of sweaty hair hanging over his eyes. His breath heaved. Sweat beaded upon his forehead and trickled down his face, mingling with the blood upon his lips.

  He could not attempt to approach him, for he was still bound hand and foot, but free from the threat of being burned alive—at least for now. Logan loved him once as a son, even now spared him. But would he give in to Angry Bear’s demands?