Cherokee Storm

by Janelle Taylor

  “He is.”

  “Excellent. I have a decent scout as well, a Delaware by the name of George Hatapi. Do you know him?”

  “Nein.” Luce tried not to meet the English captain’s gaze directly. He hoped the man would have the decency to offer him a glass of wine. Probably not, he thought. The British were such barbarians, living like this.

  A French gentleman, even one stationed on this remote frontier, would have suitable furniture in his office and would meet visitors in proper dress. This English dog hadn’t even bothered to shave this morning; his boots were dirty, his coat stained, and his white shirt badly in need of ironing.

  “The Delaware are relatives to the Shawnee, and he speaks their language as well as Cherokee. George has proven trustworthy. We would have lost more men than we have, if it wasn’t for him.”

  “Ja,” Luce agreed. “It is necessary to have translators you can trust.”

  “More so, now. As you may know, Fort Hood suffered two recent blows. First, the loss of our only other captain at the hands of hostiles, and then the unfortunate death of our commandant from a fever and misery of the bowels. I hold command only until Major Cook arrives with reinforcements from Williamsburg.”

  “You have my condolences, Herr Kapitan,” Luce said, careful to maintain his German accent.

  Had it been in his power, he would have consigned the entire garrison to hell. Stupid English. They were children when it came to dealing with the natives. No wonder they died like inhabitants of a plague ship. If the king would only take the Americas seriously and realize there was wealth here greater than beaver pelts, he would send enough troops to drive the British back to the sea.

  The captain toyed with his dirty stock. “As much as I would like to go to this poor woman’s aid, I can’t do anything until Major Cook arrives.”

  Luce nodded. “But I may offer hope to Herr Clark that help is coming.” He shifted his broad slouch hat from the crook of his arm to his head. “I am on my way to Green Valley with trade goods. If I could tell these farmers that you intend to go to—”

  Captain Sidwell shook his head. “Unfortunately, I can make no promises. I will press upon Major Cook the urgency of this matter, as soon as he arrives. If he permits, I will personally lead the expedition to recover the woman.”

  “Ja. I am sure that will be a great consolation to Frau Clark’s family.”

  “You’re certain this renegade, this Storm, hasn’t taken her elsewhere?”

  “Storm Dancer. He was the nephew of Winter Fox. Nein, Herr Captain. Storm Dancer has taken his captive nowhere else. Joseph reports that the man suffered grievous wounds in combat. After he took the junge Frau to his village, he and hostile Cherokee troublemakers formed a war party that threatened every white settler in these mountains. There was an incident, and this Storm Dancer died as a result.”

  “Well.” The captain smiled. “That should make our task easier. Nothing more than simple ransom. A few copper pots, some mirrors, and a bucket of beads, and we should be able to buy the Clark woman back.” He waved to an aide. “Will you take a glass of ale, Herr Klaus? I’m afraid our rum ration has run dry. I have nothing stronger to offer you.”

  Luce swallowed his disgust. “Danke. With pleasure,” he answered. “And be certain, that if you are short of any trade items to make up the ransom, I can provide them at a fair price.”

  Snowberry and Blue Sky came into Firefly’s cabin with another woman. It took an instant for Shannon to realize that the neatly dressed Cherokee in the deerskin dress, with a cradleboard on her back, was actually Oona.

  “Sorry. She would not leave the baby,” Snowberry said.

  “What baby?” Shannon studied the cradleboard with apprehension, half expecting to see a puppy or even a doll in place of an infant. But, to her surprise, a gurgling, curly-haired toddler stared back with solemn round eyes.

  “This is Acorn,” Blue Sky explained. “She was orphaned by the attack on our village. Her mother was Creek, her father an escaped slave. Both were killed by the Virginians. Many women wanted the baby, but she grieved for her own mother until we thought she would starve herself to death. She cried all the time and would not sleep.”

  “Oona believes the child is her own,” Snowberry said. “No one can take Acorn from her. She has cared for the baby since she first laid eyes on her.”

  “Acorn loves her as well,” Blue Sky said. “In Oona’s arms she will take food, and she sleeps. Oona’s spirit has healed the child’s broken one. She has given the baby back the will to live, so perhaps it doesn’t matter whether she speaks or not.”

  “We didn’t think she should bring Acorn to a sick house,” Snowberry repeated. “But no one could get her to leave the baby.”

  “Oona,” Shannon said, taking her stepmother’s hands. “Do you remember me?” The gaze that met hers seemed almost blank. “Oona, please. You know so much about making sick people well. Storm Dancer was shot with a poison arrow. Can you help him?”

  Shannon motioned to where he lay sprawled, eyes closed again, so still that she could hardly see his chest rising and falling with each breath. “What can we do, Oona?”

  Intelligence flickered in her eyes as Oona moved to Storm Dancer’s side. She touched his forehead, leaned close and smelled his breath, and pressed a palm to his throat.

  “He’s very sick,” Shannon said.

  Oona ran her fingers over his skin. She untied the bandage on his arm and inspected the injury. Fresh blood seeped out. Oona sniffed the wound, made a clicking sound, and turned to Snowberry.

  “She wants something,” the older woman said. “What is it? What do you need?”

  Oona’s mouth moved, as though she was fighting to find the words, but only unintelligible sounds came out.

  “Bring what you have in your medicine chest,” Firefly said.

  Shannon looked around. She hadn’t noticed when Storm Dancer’s mother entered the cabin, but she stepped aside to allow her access to his bedside.

  Firefly leaned close and whispered in his ear. He raised one hand and took hold of her wrist. “What is it, my son? What do you want?” she begged.

  “Pr…Priest,” he managed.

  Firefly’s eyes widened. His fingers bit into her flesh, loosened, and fell away.

  “Priest.”

  Firefly glanced at Shannon. “I must go. Stay with him. Keep him with you. Do not let him slip away.”

  “I won’t.” Shannon took hold of his hand. “Please,” she murmured. “Fight, Storm Dancer. Fight as you have never fought before.”

  Ignoring her presence, Oona returned to her patient and removed the poultice that covered the inflamed wound on his thigh. Green pus oozed from the hole.

  Firefly took Oona by the shoulder. “I sucked out as much of the poison as I could,” she said. “But we didn’t get to him in time. Now, I fear it’s too late to draw the poison. I fear…”

  Shannon knelt beside the bed. She took Storm Dancer’s face between her hands as she had earlier and breathed into his mouth. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you, and I won’t let you go.”

  Minutes passed as women moved in and out of the lodge bringing various herbs, roots, and plants. Oona built up the fire and heaped skins on Storm Dancer. She brought a gourd containing a dark liquid, pushed it into Shannon’s hands, and motioned for her to give it to him.

  He was so weak, he could barely swallow. Drop by drop, using a bit of hollow reed to drip it between his lips, Shannon administered the foul-smelling concoction. All the while, she prayed silently for God to let this good man live. She would do anything to save him; she would pay any price.

  When the gourd was empty, Snowberry offered a basin of water and a bit of cloth. “Wipe him down,” she instructed. “We must get his fever to drop.”

  There was a stir in the doorway, and two men entered with Firefly. “This is Flint,” she said to Shannon, “Storm Dancer’s father.”

  Shannon looked up into the sorrowful gaze of a tall,
handsome man with features much like those of his son. “Flint,” she said in acknowledgment.

  “And this man is Travels Far,” Firefly said.

  Shannon glanced at the short, broad-faced Cherokee in the yellow turban, fringed hunting shirt, and leggings. She was about to greet him courteously, when she saw something unusual in his appearance. His eyes were not the walnut brown of the Indians, but a steely blue, and the shape was all wrong. And when she looked more closely, she saw that beneath the tan his skin was as fair as her own. “Are you a white man?”

  He smiled. “Long ago, I was. An imperfect one.” His English was measured and heavily accented, as if it had been a long time since he’d used it. Reaching inside his shirt, Travels Far pulled out a chain with a silver crucifix suspended from it. “Once I was called Father Luke. Men knew me as a priest in Charles Town in the South Carolina Colony.”

  “A holy father?” Shannon asked in disbelief.

  “Long ago, I left that life. For many years, I have considered myself to be Tsalagi. I am a poor sort of priest. I have a Cherokee wife and children. But since my holy father in Rome never stripped me of my office, I believe I still hold the authority to marry you to this man. If it is what you wish.”

  “Marry us?”

  “My son is dying,” Flint said. “He wishes to make you his wife, so that if you carry a child, none can say that it has no name.”

  “I don’t understand,” Shannon stammered. “I thought that all children born to the Cherokee were legitimate. I thought…”

  “For your sake,” Firefly said. “My son has his own religion. But for you, for your belief, he wishes to make you his wife in the Christian faith. He was christened in the Jesus religion as a babe. He should be acceptable to your—”

  “If you wish to become the wife of this man, he is most acceptable,” Travels Far said. “I have known him since he was a child. There is no better man.”

  “The question is, do you want to marry him?” Firefly asked.

  “Of course, I do,” Shannon said. “But he isn’t going to die. I won’t let him.”

  “Let us begin at once,” Travels Far said. “Knowing you are united in holy matrimony may give him the strength to fight the poison, but it will also join you to him so long as you live.”

  “Do you love my son enough to enter into this union?” Flint asked.

  “I do,” Shannon said. “Yes, I do.”

  Travels Far hung a beaded silk sash around his neck and took a small wooden case from a pouch on his belt. “First, I will give him last rites,” he said. “In case the Creator has other needs for him.”

  “He’s not going to die,” Shannon repeated. “He can’t die.” She turned to Oona. “Tell me that he’s going to get better!”

  Oona took a deep breath and shook her head. Her expression spoke louder than words to Shannon. Oona had lost all hope of saving him.

  Shannon crossed her arms over her chest and knotted her fists. If she let the tears flow, there would be no stopping them. She felt empty, already dead inside, but she knew she had to remain strong for him. And she would not give up hope. So long as Storm Dancer drew breath, she would fight for his life.

  “Is there any chance you could be carrying his child?” Firefly demanded.

  Shannon felt her cheeks grow warm. “Yes, but—”

  “Then the sooner the two of you are man and wife, the better.”

  “I thought you hated me,” Shannon said. “You believed that I was a thief and—”

  “You must still stand trial before the council,” Firefly replied. “But that can wait. What matters now is that you ease my son’s spirit. He has asked me to see that you become his, and I cannot deny what may be his last wish.”

  “My daughter?” Travels Far said. “If you would take his hand.”

  And silently, Shannon did. And there, in the smoky lodge, in a Cherokee village deep in the mountains, in the shadow of death, she became the true wife of Storm Dancer, the man she loved more than life itself.

  Chapter 27

  Shannon spent her wedding night wiping Storm Dancer’s fever-racked body with cool cloths, and dripping water and Cherokee medicine between his lips, one drop at a time. Outside Firefly’s cabin, the mournful cadence of Cherokee drums and the chanting of women offering prayers for Storm Dancer’s life filled the fog-shrouded streets of the village.

  Sometime in the night Egret Hatching, the village healer, returned, conferred with Oona, brought additional herbs to add to the kettle, and then, obviously exhausted, retired to her own home. Although Oona and the aging medicine woman exchanged no words, Shannon could see that the Cherokee wise woman approved of Oona’s care of the patient.

  Through the long hours, Oona remained at Shannon’s side, always silent, keeping the fire hot, placing hot poultices on Storm Dancer’s thigh wound and brewing medicine to strengthen his heart and ease his breathing. Reluctantly, Oona had allowed Blue Sky to take little Acorn to Snowberry’s lodge. The baby fretted at being parted from her, but Oona seemed to understand that the child would be better away from Storm Dancer’s sickbed.

  All the while, Shannon talked to him, telling him how much she loved him, promising that they would be together, and urging him to fight the poison in his system. Twice, Shannon was certain she had lost him. At dawn, his breathing had become so labored that Oona had placed blankets beneath his head and shoulders to elevate his head.

  It was so hot in the cabin that Shannon’s clothing and skin were damp with sweat. Her eyes burned, and her back ached from bending over Storm Dancer, but she would not leave him. “Live, darling,” she whispered. “Live for me. Live for the children we will have together.”

  At midmorning, Flint entered the cabin. Oona glanced up at him and then left the house. Flint approached his son and stood looking down at him.

  “He’s not going to die,” Shannon repeated, more for herself than for him. She should have been intimidated by this man, Storm Dancer’s father, but she wasn’t. She found his presence oddly comforting.

  “If my son dies, you will be free to do as you wish. You may claim a home here with us, or I will take you East to your own people.”

  “I don’t think Firefly wants me here. She’s put me on trial for stealing a Corn Mask. If they find me guilty, I’ll be put to death.”

  Flint leaned down and brushed his son’s forehead with his lips. “Only if you remain with us,” he said. “If you wish to go, there will be no trial. It will be the same as if you had been banished. You can never return, but no one will judge you.”

  “I’m innocent.” She looked up into his kind face. “I don’t know who did the things they accuse me of, but someone wanted me to be blamed. And that someone hid the broken mask under my sleeping pallet.”

  “My wife has many faults, but she would never do such a thing. She is a good woman. Bossy, stubborn, but her heart is good. She is not your enemy.”

  “He’s going to live.”

  “If you stay, you will have to face the council.”

  “I’ll face the council, no matter what.” Her insides clenched as she realized that she’d admitted that Storm Dancer might not survive, that she might lose him. She touched Flint’s lean arm with a trembling hand. “I have my own honor to uphold. And I want to stay here.”

  He nodded. “You have found a place among the Tsalagi, haven’t you?”

  “Oona is my family, and Snowberry, Blue Sky, and little Woodpecker. I have no one to go back to in the white world. I think I could build a good life here.”

  “Even without my son at your side?”

  She bit her lower lip and choked back a sob. “Since I’ve been a child, I’ve never belonged to anyone…to anywhere. I need to belong.”

  “We are strangers to you, daughter of Truth Teller.”

  “Not strangers,” she answered softly. “I see how much family means to the Cherokee.”

  “Do you want to remain out of duty? To care for your father’s wife?”

&nbs
p; “Yes, that’s part of it, but more than that, my spirit calls to these mountains, to your people.”

  “And to my son.”

  “Yes. To my husband.” And he was her husband, she thought. There might have been no church, no ring, and no marriage lines, but a priest had blessed their union. She and Storm Dancer were man and wife in the eyes of God.

  “You must be strong,” Flint said. “No matter what comes. Your father was a strong man, a good man. You come from good stock.” He smiled. “Even if your eyes are the wrong color for a human being.”

  “I’m trying, but it’s hard,” she admitted.

  “Yes, daughter, and this will be harder still.” He leaned and gathered Storm Dancer in his arms and lifted him. Even with his weight loss from his illness, Storm Dancer was heavy, and muscles corded on Flint’s lean body.

  “Where are you taking him?” she cried. “He’s alive.”

  Flint cradled Storm Dancer against his scarred chest as though he was a small child. “He must not die here,” Flint said. “A Tsalagi warrior breathes his last resting on Mother Earth, with the sun shining on his face, and the mountain breeze blowing through his hair.”

  “No.” She moved in front of Flint to block his path. “I won’t let you take him. I won’t let him go.” But he pushed past her, crossed the room, and carried Storm Dancer out into the shimmering heat of the summer day.

  His mother waited outside. Around the house stood what seemed to Shannon as every person in the village. Men and women and children, all dressed in ceremonial clothing, faces painted, and decked out in necklaces, rings, armbands and earrings. Some, including Firefly, wore elaborate engraved silver nose rings, others capes of feathers.

  Shannon didn’t need an explanation. Storm Dancer’s friends and relatives had all come to honor him in his last minutes of life. Everyone had accepted his impending death. Standing next to his mother in all her finery, Shannon felt like a beggar in her stained skirt and vest and dirty bare feet, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was her man, her beautiful husband. And no matter where they took him, she would not leave him.