Sundancer's Woman

by Judith E. French

  Her reverie was broken by the high, haunting notes of a flute. Startled, she looked up. The music was coming from a clump of cedar trees about twenty yards from the spring. Lingering notes drifted through the air and fell around her like silvery snowflakes. Emotion welled up inside her, bringing a lump to her throat and tears to her eyes. “Beautiful ...” she murmured.

  Then, abruptly, the tune took on a different air. The ringing notes became a melody of teasing laughter—raindrops striking the petals of spring blossoms. Her heart lightened, and she couldn’t keep from smiling. Curious, she propped her water container against a rock and took a few steps toward the unseen musician.

  The flute was silent.

  “Don’t stop,” she called.

  A ripple of teasing notes spilled over the snow.

  “Let me see you,” she said.

  The flute gave a saucy reply.

  Elizabeth laughed. “Show yourself, Flute, or I’m coming to catch you.”

  She was challenged by the taunting melody that answered. Her gourd tipped over, spilling the water, but she left it and waded through the pristine snow toward the cedars.

  Clear, sweet sounds flowed from the left, but when she turned that way, she heard an immediate musical response from the right. Surprised, Elizabeth stopped and looked first one way and then the other. What she had heard was impossible. “Who is it?” she demanded. Someone had been playing a flute outside her wigwam at night, but that musician hadn’t shown the skill of this trickster. Whoever made this music was a master flutist.

  She started toward the right where the flowing branches of an ancient hemlock hung to brush the snow. A tripping ascension of notes from the left confused her, but she scrambled up the slight incline and pushed away the boughs to confront a shaggy brown wall. She opened her mouth to cry out, and Hunt threw open his buffalo robe and drew her into his arms.

  “You?” she sputtered, before he silenced her protests with a kiss. When his lips touched hers, it seemed to her that all the glory of the flute’s sweet song flowed into her soul. She swayed against him, savoring his firm jawline with the palm of her left hand and slipping her right arm around his neck so that she could tangle her fingers in his hair.

  She supposed that her feet were still on the ground, but she felt as though she were floating in air. Her heart pounded, her mouth molded to his. His kiss was gentle, yet sensual; it drew her doubts and fears from the recesses of her soul and cast them into the crystal-clear air.

  “Elizabeth,” he murmured hoarsely. And when he kissed her again, she felt the banked fires within her spring to life and blaze up with joy.

  “Hunt ... Hunt,” she whispered. “God, how I’ve missed you.”

  “I still don’t see what I get from this,” a man’s voice said.

  Trembling, Elizabeth pulled free of Hunt’s embrace and turned to see a grinning Fire Talon watching them. A flute dangled from a cord at his waist. For an instant, she felt as though she didn’t quite fit into her own body. Her lips still felt the imprint of Hunt’s lips. Her soul still soared above the trees with the enchanted music.

  “Am I interrupting something?” the Shawnee teased.

  “Yes,” Hunt said.

  “N-no,” Elizabeth stammered at the same time. She drew in a breath and felt body and spirit settle into place. Her eyes focused on Fire Talon’s flute. “That’s one,” she cried, but where ...” She felt Hunt’s waist and chest, searching for another instrument. “I don’t understand. I heard ... There had to be two flutes.”

  “There were.” Hunt joined in the laughter. From his sleeve he pulled an eagle bone flute decorated with feathers.

  “Which one of you played first?” she asked. “Who’s the real musician?”

  “Me,” both men said in unison.

  Feminine laughter came from behind Elizabeth, and she turned to see two village women. One caught her hand. “Sweet Water would not like to see you court a second wife,” the youngest matron teased.

  “The Pigeon Dance is tonight,” the second woman, Quiet Eyes, said.

  “Yes, you must wait,” her friend agreed. She tugged on Elizabeth’s hand. “You do not know our ways, and these men would take advantage of your ignorance. They play games with you.”

  Elizabeth glanced back at Hunt, wishing they were still alone ... wishing he was still kissing her. If what he’d done was taking advantage of her, he was free to try again whenever he wished.

  He smiled at her, a slow, lazy smile that tore at her heart. “Go along with them,” he said. “They’ll give you no peace if you don’t.” He winked. “But I am good, aren’t I?” He held up his flute.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “You are good.” And she meant more than the music.

  “Tonight,” he promised.

  Tonight, she echoed silently.

  Later, after dusk had fallen and the first stars had appeared in the velvet-black sky, Elizabeth nervously took her place at one end of the dance ground with the Shawnee women. Rachel and Jamie had been tucked into bed with other small children in the care of someone’s grandmother. “Do not worry,” Shell. Bead Girl had told her. “Your children will be safe. The Pigeon Dance is no place for little ones.”

  “But is it any place for me?” Elizabeth wondered aloud, and her friend laughed.

  Shell Bead Girl had loaned her a magnificent doeskin dress with twelve-inch fringes and a cascade of tiny silver beads across the bodice. Shell bracelets adorned her wrists, and a white doeskin choker decorated with feathers and porcupine quill-work laced tightly around her neck. Sweet Water had brushed out Elizabeth’s hair, plaiting a thin braid to hang on either side of her face and letting the rest flow loose down her back. Shell Bead Girl wove azure ribbons of velvet and silver drop-beads into the braids; around Elizabeth’s neck, she hung a silver amulet.

  “Stay away from Fox,” Shell Bead Girl admonished. “You are so beautiful that you would tempt him.”

  Elizabeth felt her cheeks grow hot. “Thank you for saying so,” she stammered, “but I know that I’m not beautiful. I—”

  “Nonsense,” Sweet Water chided her. “My brother does nothing but brag about you.” She smiled and touched Elizabeth’s cheek. “You are different than Shell Bead Girl, but that doesn’t take away from your loveliness. Would God have made flowers in so many different colors and shapes if he did not love them all equally?”

  “Have you not heard the courting flute outside your wigwam?” asked another woman, a bold matron Elizabeth knew as Copper Kettle. “My husband’s cousin has been playing his flute for you, but you never come out and smile at him. You’ve broken his heart.”

  “Your husband’s cousin?” Elizabeth was puzzled. “Hunt plays the flute ... and Fire Talon, but—”

  “Talon helped Hunt play the joke on you,” Sweet Water explained.

  “All the men play when they want to catch the eye of a woman,” Copper Kettle said. “Some worse than others.” She giggled. “Surely, you’ve seen the young braves looking at you. You could have your pick of husbands.”

  “That’s true,” spoke up Flying Wren. “Little Horse told my father that he would offer two muskets for you if he knew what clan you belonged to.”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the group. “Little Horse has seen more than seventy winters,” Sweet Water told Elizabeth.

  “But he has six sons by three wives,” Copper Kettle said. “He thinks your boy has promise.”

  “It’s not the child he’s after,” Shell Bead Girl teased. “It’s another young wife to keep his old bones warm.”

  “Yes, if Hunter of the Far Mountains doesn’t wed you soon, he’ll lose you to another,” chimed in a stout matron. “You should pick someone to act as your family.”

  Shell Bead Girl touched the amulet that hung around Elizabeth’s neck. “This is our family totem. We will be her family.” She took Elizabeth’s hand and squeezed it. “I lost a sister in childhood. My grandmother would be glad to adopt you into the Bear Clan. Then we would be s
isters.”

  “And Grandmother would have two French muskets,” Copper Kettle observed.

  “Elizabeth has her own family,” Sweet Water said. “My brother will take her back to the Great Salt Sea to the white settlement of Charles Town. She will wed a white man.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Shell Bead Girl said. “I think—”

  The sound of a drum silenced their chatter. Quickly, the women moved into line. Another squaw—tall and graceful, despite her graying hair and advanced years—handed out red wool blankets.

  “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” Elizabeth whispered to Shell Bead Girl. “I’m going to make a fool of myself. And ... and I still can’t believe that men think I’m attractive. The Seneca said that my green eyes weren’t even human.”

  “What do the Seneca know?” She shrugged. “We have had blue-eyed women among us, why not green?” Shell Bead Girl gave Elizabeth a long, careful inspection. “Your breasts are small and your nose as well, but those things do not make you plain. No,” she said firmly. “You are striking. It doesn’t do for a woman to underestimate her qualities. I was once considered a rare beauty. My fame spread far, and a man came from the west to marry me. But that is in the past, and my dark hair has streaks of gray. I am no longer a young woman. You are. Use what you have to your advantage.”

  “Shh,” Copper Kettle whispered. “We are ready to start the dance.”

  “Do as we do,” Shell Bead Girl instructed Elizabeth. “I showed you the step. Open your arms and spread your blanket on the turns like a pigeon.” She giggled. “Just don’t choose a man you don’t wish to sleep with.”

  Shell Bead Girl used the word for sleep that also carried a sexual connotation, and Elizabeth’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “Most will choose their own husbands,” Shell Bead Girl confided, “but some may not. The suspense is part of the fun.”

  “And if a woman picks a man other than her own?” Elizabeth asked.

  Shell Bead Girl shrugged. “It means that their marriage is dissolved. For honor’s sake, he can’t take revenge or even complain. He must smile and pretend he doesn’t care.” She leaned close. “I’ve threatened Fox every year. This time, I may choose another.” A mischievous smile played over her lips. “I haven’t decided yet. If I do, you’re free to pick him. His feelings would be crushed if no one wanted him.”

  “You say that every Pigeon Dance,” Copper Kettle declared. “You’ve not deserted your handsome Fox yet.”

  “But you keep hoping,” Shell Bead Girl replied.

  Copper Kettle laughed. “If you don’t want him, one of us—a younger woman—might as well grab him before—”

  “You see what I mean,” Shell Girl said to Elizabeth. “You’ve no need to feel sorry for Fox . . .” She paused. “Or for Hunter. Crow Tracker is the tall warrior with the yellow deer-tail crest. He is a good man whose wife died in childbed. He was always kind to her; her lodge was never without meat. If you wanted to stay here and you didn’t want to take Hunter of the Far Mountains, Crow Tracker would be a wise choice.”

  “She speaks truth,” Copper Kettle put in. “Crow Tracker’s lance is long and sure.”

  “Copper Kettle is an expert on the endowments of men,” Sweet Water said.

  “Copper Kettle can describe a great many of our warriors’ prized shafts,” Shell Bead Girl added.

  “Even Fox’s,” Copper Kettle agreed. “He is—”

  Shell Bead Girl gave Copper a little push into line. “Lucky that he tired of you before we married,” she finished tartly.

  “Enough of such talk,” chided the dance mistress, Claps Her Hands. “There are respectable women present.”

  The women all giggled.

  “We just wanted Elizabeth to know that she has her choice of men,” Shell Bead Girl replied.

  “Don’t let them tease you, Elizabeth,” Sweet Water advised in careful English. “It is a dance, nothing more. You can take part without picking a man. Most women dance for the fun of it.”

  “And some do so to cause a scandal,” Copper Kettle said.

  “Who are you to talk of scandals?” Shell Bead Girl teased. “Copper Kettle has used up three husbands, and two she snagged during a Pigeon Dance.”

  “What can I say?” Copper Kettle asked. “I am a woman of great appetite. I love venison, but I don’t always wish to feast on deer meat. Men are much the same as food; variety is best.”

  “Do not judge the Shawnee women by Copper,” Sweet Water said. “Most of us remain happily faithful to the same man for a lifetime.”

  “Faithful you may be,” Copper Kettle answered in her own tongue, “but happy? That is a question each woman must answer for herself. We are fortunately free Shawnee women who may follow our own paths, not white women bound by custom to stay with bad husbands for the sake of their souls.”

  Elizabeth’s face must have registered her lack of comprehension. Sweet Water murmured the English translation in her ear, adding, “If you choose to remain with us, you would be welcome, of course. My concern has been for my brother and for you. I only ask that you do not make light of his feelings. He cares for you deeply, and I do not wish to see him hurt again.”

  “I have no wish to hurt him,” Elizabeth whispered.

  “Then you and I have no quarrel.”

  Claps Her Hands shook a turtle shell rattle, and a water drum boomed a reply from the stomp ground. Other drums, large and small, took up the rhythm; and the line of blanket-covered women began a slow, stately movement around the perimeter of the dance area.

  Elizabeth concentrated on the steps, swaying when the others did, letting her draped arms simulate the graceful wings of a flying bird. Only gradually did she become aware that the audience lining the cleared space was all male.

  Warriors, young and old, stood as motionless as carved statues, all garbed in pagan splendor. Furs, feathers, beads, and silver adorned their magnificent garments. And in the blaze of firelight and the pale ivory flickering of moonlight through the clouds, each man seemed larger than life, and each possessed a wild beauty that Elizabeth had never realized before.

  The drumbeats quickened their cadence; rattles and flutes joined in the song. The dancers’ steps took on a new pattern as the women tightened their circle, then opened it to receive a single male figure wearing nothing but a small blue loincloth, blue moccasins, and a blue blanket around his shoulders. His hair was all but hidden under a cap of white feathers, and his face was painted with white and blue dots and slashes, but still, Elizabeth recognized Fox.

  He swept into the circle with thrusting chest and proud, tossing head. The women dancers began to clap as Fox whirled and stomped, ending his spirited opening by coming to a sudden and complete stop before extending both arms to his wife. Shell Bead Girl turned her face away, forcing Fox to repeat his plea. A second time she refused him, but the third time, she relented and joined him. The circle of women flowed outward until each dancer stood three feet from her nearest partners’ hands. Then Shell Bead Girl and Fox danced together, imitating the courting ritual of the pigeon.

  The repeating rhythm of the drums was mesmerizing; the smell of burning wood and tobacco, of wool and feathers, of bear grease and herbs made Elizabeth giddy. She forgot about her apprehension and let her body follow the dance while her mind fixed on the man she’d seen when they first entered the stomp ground. Hunt . . . Hunt standing rigidly in the shadows.

  His gaze never left her. She felt the force of its power burning into her skin. She read his desire . . . his yearning.

  Yet, he could not come to her. He could not make the move. She had to choose, and she could take another.

  Once, when she was eight, she and her brother had crept downstairs after her parents had entertained. Her brother had retrieved wineglasses from the table, and they had sipped and sipped until Elizabeth had become foolishly drunk. She felt like that now, without even a drop of spirits. All reason, all caution had left her. She knew only that she wanted
Hunt.

  And she could have him, if only for a few short weeks. She could take him, Indian fashion, as her husband. No one would blame her, and the arrangement would be finished when he took her home to her father.

  Abruptly, she realized that Fox had left the center and returned to the line of men. Shell Bead Girl now led the women. The flute music rose and fell, as each man in turn lifted his own instrument and joined in the call for the women to choose a mate.

  Like fluttering leaves, the line of women glided around the dance ground. In and out they wove, and one by one, they began to drop out of the serpentine chain and stretch out their arms to the man of their choice. Sweet Water was one of the first to signal her love for her husband. He lifted the blanket from her shoulders, wrapped it around them both, and led her away into the darkness. Then Copper Kettle chose a man. Elizabeth couldn’t tell if it was Crow Walker or not, but she didn’t care. She had eyes for only one warrior.

  When she summoned up all her courage to fall out of line, she heard Fox call out. “Here, little bird, come to me.”

  Startled, she looked into his face, but saw that he was only teasing her. He ran forward to snatch Shell Bead Girl from the dancers, but was driven back by the laughter of the women. Elizabeth stopped a few feet away from Hunt.

  He waited, his face hidden in shadows.

  Her heart swelled within her. Would he refuse her? Shame her in front of all these people? She took a single step toward him.

  He lifted his flute to his lips, and once again the exquisite beauty of the sweet, high notes brought tears to her eyes. He had no need to speak, and the music made her brave.

  She moved closer and held out her hands, palms up, to him. And as the thunder of her own heart drowned out the drums she walked willingly into the unknown in the circle of Hunt’s strong arms.

  Chapter 24

  “You know what you’ve done?” Hunt whispered as he led her to their wigwam. “For this night, we are husband and wife in the eyes of the Shawnee.” His lean fingers lingered at her throat before he tipped her head up to meet his long, slow kiss.