Candace McCarthy

by Fireheart

  As the women continued to chant and sing, Joanna finished her prayer, and then met Stormy Wind’s gaze. The woman’s expression was stoic. Joanna knew, though, that for Stormy Wind to cry, moan, or show emotion of any kind would incite the others’ ridicule. The widow of the deceased must show her grief in the ways of the Lenape ... like the cutting of her hair, the discarding of fancy garb, and painting her face black. Later, once Wild Squirrel was buried, Stormy Wind would be allowed to go and weep over his grave in private.

  Joanna wanted to go to her, hug her, tell her how sorry she was for the loss of her husband, but this wasn’t the time or the place to do it.

  She stayed a short while, then left with the intention of offering her help where needed. She headed toward the fields where she was sure she’d find Mary harvesting vegetables for the feast.

  Word had been sent to the surrounding Lenape villages. Wild Squirrel’s death would bring many guests, many chiefs, to pay their respects to the deceased’s family.

  As she left the village for the forest, she wondered where Wild Squirrel would be laid to rest. It would be a place far from the village, a secluded place, a beautiful setting where a man who was loved would find his final resting ground.

  The forest opened up into the fields, divided plots owned and worked by the matrons. Joanna spied her cousin picking beans. A basket of freshly harvested squash lay on the ground near her feet.

  “Mary.”

  She didn’t see Joanna’s approach. Mary looked up, startled. “Joanna!”

  Joanna smiled. “Can I help?”

  “I am almost finished. You may carry the basket of beans back to the village.”

  She nodded and took the full basket of beans.

  Mary bent to retrieve the squash, and the two women headed back toward the village.

  “Is there anything else I can do?” Joanna asked softly, noting her cousin’s grief-stricken expression. If Wild Squirrel had meant a lot to a little girl, he must have meant even more to Mary who had known him much longer.

  “Soon, we’ll have visitors, then the funeral ceremony will begin. Turtle That Hops and some of the other braves have asked to do the dance. Rising Bird would like to, but he knows it is best if the others do it.”

  Joanna understood why. Those selected to do the funeral dance would dance to the beat of the drums and the rhythm of the gourd and turtleshell rattles nonstop for three days. Rising Bird might be needed elsewhere. The braves who danced would not leave the ceremonial circle.

  When the sachem died, his people usually mourned his death for a full year before replacing him, but while he was still alive, Wild Squirrel had decreed differently. He had asked Fireheart to take his place. His people needed a chief, he’d told the villagers. Fireheart must become sachem upon his death.

  Fireheart was the chief, Joanna thought, the realization truly sinking in for the first time. What a tremendous responsibility for him. She knew he would carry the weight well. She only hoped he would find the happiness he deserved.

  The guests started to arrive that day. They came from Bear Paw’s village, all of them—the men and the women and children who had returned to their homes shortly before this recent attack. The wigwams were filled to capacity. Some of those who had come to mourn and pay their respects brought wigwams with them that could be easily constructed, then taken down and moved again.

  A tall platform had been built in the ceremonial house for Wild Squirrel’s body. He would lie there for others to see while the dancers performed the funeral dance. With the arrival of the guests and the completion of the platform, several braves carried Wild Squirrel’s body to the top. Then everyone gathered into the ceremonial house except those women who continued to prepare food for the villagers and their guests.

  As she entered the ceremony house, Joanna looked at the platform and fought back tears. She saw that the different Lenape tribes sat together in separate areas around the perimeter of the room. The dancers stood with their faces painted black and the rest of their bodies oiled with bear grease. The drummers sat together inside the circle along with those performers who would keep time with their rattles.

  Joanna stood on the fringe of the circle near the door, debating whether or not to stay. She searched for a sign of Fireheart and was surprised to see him among the dancers. Fireheart would be doing the dance, she realized with surprise.

  Everyone in the circle sat on rush mats, cross-legged. They had brought with them small items, which lay near their feet, gifts for the deceased’s family.

  The gathering in the ceremonial house quieted as Fireheart stepped into the inner circle.

  “We have come to mourn the loss of our sachem. It is a sad time for us, but it is a cause for celebration, too, as he has gone to follow a different path . . . a path with the Great Spirit. We must give thanks to the Spirits of Life for giving him to us, and we pray that his journey to the next world will be a safe one.”

  He nodded toward the drummers who began to play. The dancers formed a line and began to dance about the circle, their feet stepping in time to the rhythm of the beat. Soon, the sound of the Lenape rattles joined the drums, and the Indians raised their voices in song.

  Joanna watched for a time, noting that she’d been mistaken about Fireheart. He did not dance but sat against one wall. His features were drawn; he looked tired. Joanna wanted desperately to go to him and offer him comfort, but knew such actions would be inappropriate.

  He watched the dancers with an intensity that displayed deep emotion, deep loss for his dead uncle compounded by the new weight of responsibility that rested on his shoulders.

  He had donned the cloak of mourning. Black streaks of paint coated his handsome face. He wore only his breechclout, but his skin had been oiled to a fine sheen, and he wore a beaded headband.

  As she studied him, she willed him to look her way. He stared at her almost as if unseeing, then focused his gaze elsewhere. Hurt, Joanna remained only a few more moments before leaving the building.

  With the sound of the Lenape music in her ears, Joanna approached the women who worked in the center square. She approached Little Blossom who silently handed her a knife and a basket of squash. Joanna sat in the yard, slicing squash and fighting back tears, her mind on Wild Squirrel and the one who would replace him.

  “What’s that?” John asked as he heard the drums in the distance.

  “Indian war drums,” their guide said.

  “War drums!” Gillian gasped, snuggling close to John’s side.

  “Or the savages could be having a feast,” the man replied without concern.

  “As long as the main meal isn’t a man,” John joked.

  Thomas Brown shrugged. “Who’s to say?” he said as he continued along the trail.

  They had hired the man in Philadelphia. He had seemed capable enough at the time, but now John wondered. Studying the man’s rifle, he hoped that Brown was as experienced a woodsman as he’d claimed, and as good a shot with his gun.

  John touched the pistol at his side, fingering the handle until the cool metal gave him comfort. He, if not Brown, was an excellent marksman.

  “John! John!” Gillian whispered anxiously, tugging his arm as they followed Brown. “Is it true? Do the savages eat people?”

  John met her worried gaze with a concerned one of his own. “I don’t know,” he whispered back. “ ’Tis possible, I suppose.”

  “Why isn’t Mr. Brown scared then?”

  She looked terrified. John placed a comforting arm about her. “Perhaps the savages know him,” he said. “Perhaps they are his friends.”

  Gillian relaxed slightly beneath his hold. “Then we’ll be safe.”

  “As long as we don’t make an enemy of Thomas Brown,” John said darkly as he released her.

  “I’ve been polite enough to him, haven’t I?” Gillian said with worry.

  His expression softening, John clasped her hand. “Yes, love, you’ve been more than polite to him. Don’t you worry. I’
m sure we’ll be fine.”

  Gillian studied her surroundings fearfully. “I can’t believe that Joanna has been living out here alone.”

  “She’s not alone,” he pointed out. “She’s with her cousin.” In the village of heathens! he thought with a scowl.

  They’d had a surprise encounter with Joanna’s servants in Philadelphia. Cara and Harry had been delayed, waiting for a ship. John had been dismayed to find out that Joanna had sent her servants home while she’d elected to stay longer. And he’d been shocked to discover that she had been living, not at a country manor house as he’d believed, but with heathen savages somewhere in the Pennsylvania wilderness. His only relief came from having learned from Cara and Harry that when the servants had last seen their mistress, Joanna had apparently been happy and safe.

  Gillian shivered and hugged herself. “I didn’t realize that her cousin lived with savages!”

  John frowned. “Neither did I.”

  A noise in the brush made them freeze. They breathed a collective sigh of relief when a deer exited from the forest onto the trail, then took off after one brief look in their direction.

  “John, what if she wants to stay?”

  He shook his head, refusing to entertain the possibility. “I’ve no doubt that by the time we find dear Joanna, she’ll be more than ready to come home.”

  The young woman nodded. “This place is wild and dangerous.”

  The sudden clap of gunfire made her shriek and cling to John. When Thomas Brown turned to them with a rabbit in his hand and a grin, Gillian scowled.

  “Supper,” Brown announced.

  She fought to control her temper. I mustn’t make the man angry, Gillian reminded herself. “How nice, Mr. Brown,” she said, hiding her dismay.

  “Will we be stopping soon then?” John asked.

  “Aye,” the man said. “Over that rise is a small clearing. I’ve been through here a bit and again. We’ll camp there for the night before continuing to the village at first light.”

  Chapter 14

  The funeral ceremony continued into its second day, and the dancers kept up their steps. Joanna slipped in to watch on occasion, but she didn’t stay long. Her help continued to be needed by the women who were kept busy watching the children and keeping everyone fed.

  Joanna noticed that while he didn’t dance, Fireheart, too, did not eat, and she worried about him. When she mentioned the fact to her cousin, Mary suggested that Joanna prepare a plate and take it to him.

  “He may feel that as chief he can’t leave,” she said.

  Joanna hadn’t thought of that. Her heart began to thrum in her chest as she ladled out a bowl of venison and rabbit stew. She grabbed a corn cake as well, thinking that he would enjoy it also.

  She felt a bit awkward entering with the stew until she saw others within the building eating and passing around food. She wondered then if someone else had thought to make Fireheart eat. Then she saw him as he’d been before, seated on the dirt floor cross-legged, his eyes closed, no sign of food or drink anywhere.

  Drink! Once she’d brought him the stew, she would find him some fresh water.

  Fireheart was on the other side of the structure. Joanna carefully negotiated past mourners to get to the area where he sat. She murmured an apology when she accidentally bumped someone along the way.

  Soon, she was near the far wall, and she was able to edge along close to it and approach Fireheart.

  There was a space, but no one directly behind him. Joanna ventured into that space and waited for him to sense her. But Fireheart didn’t move, didn’t look over his shoulder, or say a word. She knew she would have to gain his attention if she were to get him to eat.

  “Fireheart,” she said softly. His back glistened in the light from the fires that lit up the room. “Fireheart, you must eat.”

  But he still didn’t turn.

  Frustrated, concerned, Joanna moved to his side and crouched down. She looked at him, expecting him to meet her gaze, but his eyes remained closed. He seemed to be in a trance almost. Frightened now, she set down the food, and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Fireheart—”

  His eyelids flew open. He stared at her, unseeing, until his vision focused, cleared. Then his gaze narrowed.

  His dark look made her swallow hard. “I’ve brought you some food. You need to eat. To keep up your strength.”

  He glanced down at the stew and corn cake, then stared straight ahead. “I do not need food,” he said, closing his eyes again.

  Alarmed by his demeanor, Joanna remained determined to get him to eat. She grabbed hold of his arm, squeezed it lightly. “Please, Fireheart. You are our sachem. You need to eat and keep up your strength. Everyone else is eating,” she said. Everyone else but the dancers, she knew. Had Fireheart longed to do the dance, too?

  She studied him, hoping to read something in his expression, but he kept his thoughts, his emotions, secrets locked up tight.

  “Fireheart? Fireheart!” she cried.

  But he refused to look at her, to open his eyes.

  She left him then, taking the stew with her because she knew that he wouldn’t eat it. As she negotiated her way out, she met Moon Dove near the doorway.

  Joanna stiffened as she met the young maiden’s gaze. Moon Dove was beautiful with lovely dark hair and eyes, and she was Lenape, everything that Joanna was not. “I tried to get him to eat,” she said defensively. “He won’t eat.”

  There was no censure in Moon Dove’s expression as the maiden looked at her. She glanced at Fireheart, then back to Joanna with a frown. “He is to be my husband. I will get him to eat,” she said, holding out her hand for the food.

  Stunned by the maiden’s words, Joanna could only nod and give the girl the stew and corn cake. She waited and watched as Moon Dove made her way to Fireheart’s side.

  Had it been decided then? That Moon Dove and Fireheart would indeed marry? The maiden acted as if it had already been announced.

  Joanna saw Moon Dove stop at Fireheart’s side, and bend to speak with him. The brave looked at the food, flashed Joanna a glance across the room, then nodded to Moon Dove and took the food.

  Joanna felt the sharp shaft of pain when Fireheart looked at her, then at Moon Dove, and began eating. He didn’t want food from me, but he took it from Moon Dove, she thought.

  “The matrons have decided that Fireheart must marry,” a feminine voice said from close by.

  She turned to find the one who had spoken, Woman with Eyes of Hawk. “I didn’t know. When did they announce it?” How could she have missed such an important announcement, words that she’d been dreading to hear?

  “It was said last night. Late,” the woman said softly. “This is not how we would celebrate a union, but it was made known that the decision of Fireheart’s marriage could not wait. Fireheart is sachem. He needs a wife. His wife will be Moon Dove.”

  “I see.” Joanna fought back tears, then turned away from the sympathy in the matron’s dark eyes, her gaze returning to the newly engaged couple.

  Fireheart was eating the food that Moon Dove had given him while rejecting an offer that Joanna had made.

  But wasn’t that how it should be? Moon Dove was going to be his wife while she was . . . what? His former lover?

  She was nothing to him now that the matrons had made their decision.

  Her pain intensifying, Joanna battled back tears as she hurriedly left the Big House. Outside, she raced toward the forest to be alone. Fireheart had rejected the food she had brought him because he had been making it clear to her that he was no longer free. He took the same food from Moon Dove because he was showing his approval of his future wife.

  John Burton and his traveling party arrived at the Lenape encampment during the final day of the funeral ceremony. They entered the village, strangers but for Thomas Brown whom one of the Indian matrons recognized.

  “Who are these people?” Woman with Eyes of Hawk asked.

  “The man is from England. He is
called John Burton,” Thomas said. “The woman is Gillian.” Brown studied the female whom he’d led through the woods. She had acted like Burton’s woman, but according to Burton, he was looking for his future wife. He eyed the pair speculatively, wondering if the two were lovers.

  “Why have they come?” Another matron entered the discussion. “This is a sad time. These people should not be here.”

  “Do you know a young woman called Joanna Neville?” the guide asked. “The man searches for her.”

  The second matron opened her mouth to speak until Woman with Eyes of Hawk bumped her arm.

  “What does he want with this white woman?” Woman with Eyes of Hawk asked.

  “He says she is to marry him.” The guide didn’t miss the flicker of surprise in the two women’s gazes. He realized that they knew where Joanna Neville was, but he didn’t press the issue. They would tell him what he needed to know when they were ready.

  “Mr. Burton,” Thomas said, waving the man to approach. “What other information can you give me? Anything about your fiancée that might help our search.”

  John looked at the Indian women’s bared breasts and stared until he became aware of Gillian’s displeasure. Averting his gaze, he turned his attention to the fur trapper. “She has a cousin . . . her name is Mary. Mary lives among the Lenape.”

  “Mary?” Brown asked. “Just Mary?” His tone was derisive.

  John’s cheeks turned bright red with anger. “I don’t know her English surname, and it wouldn’t matter if I did because she probably has some Indian name.”

  John listened while Brown spoke to the women in their native tongue. They replied, talking rapidly, and John decided he couldn’t possibly have understood them whether they’d spoken English or not.

  As they continued their discussion, John studied his surroundings. The heavy beat of drums permeated the air, accompanied by other foreign sounds. He could smell whatever was simmering in the large kettle over that big fire. He stared at the pot. He doubted that the meat flavoring the stew was human. He took a small measure of comfort from that.