Behind the Raven Mask

by Cherime MacFarlane

  A glance at the clock told her it was too early for Nita to be up and working. After draping the towel over the bar to dry, Camille dressed and went down to the kitchen.

  The stove was cold. She found kindling in the wood box for starting the fire. Camille used the thin sticks, combined with a twist of paper, to start a fire. When the fire had caught, she added larger pieces of wood.

  After filling the water kettle, Camille removed one of the round cast-iron plates from the stove. The kettle would heat faster set over the fire.

  Still queasy, the young woman looked through the cupboards, until she found the tea, along with the teapot. Camille ignored her discomfort as best she could and sprinkled tea in the bottom of the china pot before placing it on the table.

  She sat down at the kitchen table and glanced out at the view. Mare's tail clouds were gathering in the otherwise blue sky. Perhaps she would take a walk near the edge of the forest after she had a cup of tea. The fresh air might be just the cure she needed. Recalling Dmitri's warning about the bear which had made the island its home, Camille reasoned if she stayed close to the house she should be in no danger.

  Her churning stomach brought a taste of bile to her throat. Camille swallowed several times. With her head on her arms, Camille tried to regain control over her digestive system. Once the water had come to a boil, she poured hot water over the tea, then put the teapot to one side to steep.

  A spoonful of honey went into a cup as she waited for the tea to brew. Camille filled the mug and took a sip. The knot inside loosened. By the time she finished drinking the tea, Camille was impatient to be gone. After setting the dampers on the stove, she went outside.

  It was amazing how high the sun was already. Camille doubted she would ever get used to the long summer days. A light breeze kept the big trees murmuring in the background. Camille recalled a faint path she had seen behind the stable. Now would be a good time to explore it.

  The tall trees closed around her and enveloped her in the cool forest. Clumps of large ferns nestled against the trunks of the trees. Moss was everywhere in many varieties. A clump of violets caught her eye and she reached down to pick one. Twirling it between her fingers, Camille smiled at the tiny flower. This forest was much like the bayou country of Louisiana except for the mountains.

  The forest in California was drier, without the lush carpet of moss and ferns. Because of the resemblance to the bayou country, Camille felt comfortable here. The musky scent of the forest was pleasant, and she breathed deeply of the moist air. It was beautiful here. A measure of peace settled within.

  Camille followed the path upward, toward a ridge behind the house. It was a steep trail, but she watched her footing and was only a little out of breath when she reached the ridge.

  Wearing a smile, she turned to look at the view. The trees were like a green sea surrounding the clearing and the building. The house itself looked like a dollhouse below her. It startled her to realize she had walked much further than she intended.

  A fallen log covered with moss and strips of decaying bark lay near the trail. Camille dusted off a place and sat down to rest. A bird trilled behind her. Eyes closed, she listened to its song.

  Then the bird stopped singing. A hush descended on the forest, and uneasiness caused her to jump to her feet. There was a strange swishing sound. Camille moaned in terror when she glanced to her left. A knife protruded from the tree trunk beside her. If she had not moved, she would be dead or dying.

  Too frightened to make a sound, Camille picked up her skirt with both hands. She ran as fast as she dared down the path toward the house. Twice she fell on the steep trail. But ignoring the scrapes on her hands and knees, Camille picked herself up and continued to run toward the house. On reaching the safety of the back porch, she collapsed on the top step and tried to catch her breath.

  Eyes closed as she gasped for breath, a vision of the gleaming knife blade quivering in the wood, caused her to open them again. Someone tried to kill her! When she could breathe again, she went inside. Camille climbed the stairs to her room.

  Terror overcame her and she threw herself on the bed. She sobbed until her eyes ached. With a hiccup, she curled into a ball and tried to think.

  Who had thrown the knife? Why did anyone wish to kill her? Marrying Dmitri was the only thing of consequence she did. Dmitri? He had another woman now. That woman was in Juneau, did he meet her before their marriage?

  Oh, yes, the wedding. The mystery surrounding the event took on a darker significance.

  Camille pulled a pillow over her head as she tried to control the sense of panic that hovered over her. He was not on the island, Dmitri was in Juneau with the woman. It could not be Dmitri! He had told her he loved her, how could he love her, then try to kill her? Not Dmitri, she refused to believe such a thing of him.

  Some demon within her refused to be silenced. Who else had reason to want her dead? His other woman, perhaps. But why? He had not married her before meeting Camille, so how could she think he would do so if Camille were dead?

  None of it made sense. Who else but Dmitri? The look on his face before he dashed the chair to pieces on the fireplace terrified her. The voice of reason within continued to blame him.

  But why? Perhaps he was mentally unbalanced. The last few months had been a great strain on both of them. There were stories of insanity in the families of the nobility. If Dmitri had tried to kill her, it was because he was ill.

  No, it could not be him. Rather than hurt her, he had destroyed the chair, then run from the house. She made up her mind to say nothing of the incident to anyone. It would look bad for her husband under the circumstances.

  She took a deep breath. "It was not Dmitri. He would not do that." Said aloud, the words reassured her. Camille sat up, looked at the window and jumped up to close the drapes.

  Then who? Some tiny voice inside asked insistently. "No more!" Camille whispered.

  With a damp wash cloth, she cleaned the scrapes and scratches on her hands and legs. She scrubbed until everything stung. It was as if she were trying to erase the entire incident.

  When Helena came to wake her, Camille pled illness. She told Helena she did not want to be disturbed until evening.

  ***

  Ooskada watched the house from high on the mountainside. The woman drew the drapes, and he waited for servants to rush about the clearing like frightened ants. When nothing happened he wondered what action the woman took.

  She eluded him this time, but it did not disturb him. Sooner or later, there would be another opportunity. There was nowhere for her to go. The odds were in his favor. Perhaps he should make magic again.

  It appeared the woman's totem was a strong one. She had been his, but at the last instant, something warned her. Was it the woman's totem or the Russian's? Yes, he would call on the raven again. Ooskada left his vantage point, then slipped back into the forest.

  He would prepare himself thoroughly before attempting revenge again. He had been too hasty. That must be the reason for his failure. It would take time to make the things necessary. In the meantime, she would become careless thinking herself safe. In their next encounter he would be the victor.

  While making his way home through the depths of the forest, Ooskada was careful to leave no trace of his passing. If anyone tried to follow him, they would not find it easy. With a grim smile, he walked into the clearing surrounding the village. Upon entering the big house he shared with the rest of his clan, Ooskada went to his quarters.

  Under his bed sat a cedar wood chest. He pulled it from beneath the bed. The shaman inspected the contents of the trunk in which he stored sacred items. There were a few things he would need. Ooskada sat cross legged before the articles spread out before him.

  A trip far to the north would be necessary. That he would undertake after speaking with Anya. He wished to know what the woman would say about their encounter.

  As he lit his pipe and took a puff, he stared at the lazy curl of smoke. Who did t
he woman suspect? With a dry laugh, Ooskada determined he would send a boy to Anya with a message.

  Let them all think he still refused to set foot on the Russian's home ground. The day of his sister's death was the last time Ooskada stood within the house. Nor had he entered the clearing on which the house stood until the well-being of the child forced him to do so.

  Anya came to him in her sixth year. She learned of her uncle's existence from one of the older children. Anya forced a boy to bring her to the village. Even then she was an independent child.

  He loved her as he had loved her mother. Blood of his blood, she was in his care. The Russian would never understand. He was not of the blood. Only Ooskada knew what Anya needed. Only he could give her peace.

  The shaman called a youth over and gave him a message to take to Anya. He was to tell her uncle was ill and wished to see her. The boy repeated Ooskada's words, then ran off toward the house. He settled himself in the sun before the big house and waited for Anya.

  The girl calling his name roused him from his meditation. There was a note of anxiety in her voice, which pleased him. It was pleasant to know she cared for him. It was often difficult to penetrate the girl's thoughts. Anya threw her arms around him, and he returned her hug. Ooskada calmed her fears by telling Anya his illness had been a temporary thing.

  "What I need to say is I am going on a journey far to the north to a sacred place. I wished to know how you were faring before I left. Has the woman bothered you further?"

  Anya shook her head. "Camille has not even been out of her room today. I believe she does not feel well."

  What was this? Ooskada asked himself. Was she keeping their encounter in the forest a secret?'

  "Do you know what has made her ill?"

  Anya shrugged. "No one tells me, but I hear things. Helena told Nita she had been ill early in the morning. Nita awoke and found a fire already lit in the cook stove. Camille made a pot of tea, then went back to bed."

  Very interesting. Why was the woman keeping silent? Ooskada pondered this new information. He would need to give this unexpected development much thought. "When I return, I will send you a message. For now, stay away from the woman as much as you can."

  "I will, Uncle." Her gray eyes searched his face. "Do not stay away too long. You are the only one I can talk to, the only one who understands."

  "I will only be gone a short time. Do not worry. Take care, Anya. Now, go home."

  With a smile, Anya returned to the edge of the clearing where Stanislaus waited. She scrambled into the saddle without waiting for his help. After turning the horses, they rode down the trail.

  The tall Tlingit watched her from the doorway. When he could no longer see the riders, he returned to his quarters. It was time he gathered his gear. Tomorrow, he would begin the journey northward.

  Camille sat in her bed, with the back of her hand pressed against her lips. She felt sick again this morning. She had had no liquor the previous evening why should she feel so ill? Helena knocked at the door. Camille's face was pale and her concern was apparent to the older woman.

  "I feel ill this morning."

  The breakfast things clattered when Helena shoved the tray she was carrying on the top of the wash stand. The older woman pushed the covers to one side, sat down and leaned forward to lay her hand on Camille's forehead. "You have no fever."

  Camille swallowed hard. "It is my stomach. Every movement of my body makes me feel as if I must throw up. Could I have a cup of tea, instead of coffee? The smell is sickening."

  Helena turned away so Camille would not see the smile that swept over her face. After scooping up the tray, she hurried down to the kitchen. As the tea brewed, Helena told Nita and Tatiana of Camille's illness. All three women were smiling when Helena left the kitchen with the cup and a roll on a small salver.

  Helena entered Camille's bedroom, then settled the tray on the girl's lap. The older woman tidied the room and glanced at Camille as she ate. As soon as she finished the roll and tea, Helena reached for the empty cup.

  "Now, Madame, you feel better, yes?" After placing the small tray on the night stand, Helena sat on the edge of the bed next to Camille.

  "Much better, thank you." With her head leaning back against the headboard of the bed, Camille closed her eyes.

  "I believe you are with child, Madame."

  The matter-of-fact statement brought Camille's eyes wide open. "My monthly is overdue."

  Camille glanced down at her body. "Do you think it is possible? It is a little early for morning sickness."

  "No." Helena shook her head; her gray braids swung from side to side. "Every woman is different. Every child you bear will differ from the last. I would say you are in the early stages of pregnancy. If your flow does not come this month," Helena shrugged, "we will know our assumption is correct.”

  Camille laughed. She was carrying Dmitri's child. God answered her prayers. Would he be pleased? With one hand on her abdomen, she tried to imagine what Dmitri would say. He must want an heir? Then again, he never sought another wife. It was a puzzle; the man was difficult to predict.

  Camille thought about the attempt on her life, and the fingers of her free hand clutched the bed covers. A pregnancy complicated matters further. She must be careful. If something were to happen to her now, the baby would die with her. She felt faint.

  "It is not so difficult to carry a child." Helena had seen her distress and mistaken the cause. Helena's voice flowed on around her, explaining what she could expect. Camille heard none of it. Terrified, she only knew she must avoid being alone with any male away from the safety of the house.

  The house was now her only protection and her prison. As long as her attacker was unknown, she could trust no one, including Dmitri. Camille stifled a moan.

  She rose from the bed, her queasiness gone. Helena had fallen silent. Camille sat staring into her mirror, as the maid dressed her, then arranged her hair.

  As she stared in the mirror, the young woman failed to see the worried glances her maid and companion was giving her. Camille had never felt so alone and friendless as she did at that moment. In this tight knit little world anyone could give the enemy information without realizing they did so. She could trust no one.

  Helena fastened the last hairpin into the braids she wound around Camille's head in a coronet. "I shall take the tray down to the kitchen now." Helena hesitated for a moment. As there was no response from her mistress, she left the dressing room. Helena picked up the empty tray and left.

  Camille heard the door shut. With a slight shake of her head, she rose from the bench to leave the dressing room. Her steps took her over to the rocker that stood before the fireplace and Camille trailed her fingertips over the smooth wood of the headrest. With a sigh, she sat and leaned back against the cushions. One foot rocked the chair back and forth.

  What on earth would Dmitri think of this? It was foolish to try to guess how her news might affect him. Her tall, cool looking husband was anything but predictable. His volatile temper no longer frightened her as it had in the beginning. He had bruised her, but only during the heat of battle. The injury had not been deliberate. Was it possible he wanted rid of her enough to kill her? If not Dmitri, then who? Dmitri's other woman perhaps?

  Why had he married her? That mystery could be part of this new problem. Problem? What a mild term to use for attempted murder. Camille laughed at herself.

  "I think I am losing my mind!" The sound of her voice startled her. She did not recognize the shrill tones. "Enough! Calm yourself."

  The words spoken aloud seemed to have some effect. She nodded her head in satisfaction. That sounded more normal. Camille took up her embroidery, sat in the rocker and concentrated on the work in her hand.

  Everything depended on Dmitri's reaction to her news. Could he mask his feeling from her regarding their child? She doubted that. As emotional an issue as a pregnancy could be she felt he would give himself away.

  And she could not bring hersel
f to believe Dmitri was the individual responsible for the incident. Was she honest with herself? Did she absolve Dmitri, because of the facts, or because she did not want him to be the guilty party? She must look at the evidence and judge the facts without bias. It was no longer just a question of her well-being, she now had a child to consider.

  From the beginning, he seemed to be concerned about her welfare. It did not seem reasonable that a man planning a murder would give the victim clothing and jewels. It was a fact; he had another woman in Juneau. But another woman was not enough reason to want her out of the way. He did as he pleased as did most wealthy men. Dmitri could settle an allowance on her and send her back to San Francisco if he became bored with her.

  He was a widower for many years, through choice. Dmitri did not seem to have a reason to want her gone. The only doubt which continued to bob to the surface concerned the reason for the marriage itself.

  Could Dmitri's paramour be the culprit? Would Dmitri marry his mistress if he no longer had a wife? Camille doubted it, given Dmitri's history to this point. However, that did not mean the woman did not have a different perception of the facts. Perhaps that was the motive.

  "Who else? Why?" The hysterical tone of her voice startled Camille.

  "I am not making this all up. Someone tried to kill me. The knife flew straight at me. It was not an accident."

  The words seemed to reverberate around her. She must take care to protect herself and the child. Could she leave? Was it a possibility? How in the world could she accomplish it? Without an allowance or a place to go, she had no means of leaving the island.

  Tell Dmitri, confide in him. A small voice inside urged. That brought back the question of their marriage. No, she would not confide in him now. She needed to know why he married her first.

  Regardless of the angle she viewed the situation from; she continued to return to one point. The answer to her question was key to knowing who wished her dead.

  Camille did not leave her room that day. There was safety in her cozy little cage. Camille allowed the warmth and the silence to calm her nerves. The rhythm of the rocker and the slight twang, as the needle moved through the cloth stretched in the frame, soothed her. She concentrated on the pattern which was taking shape on the shawl.