Lord of the Wilderness

by Elizabeth St. Michel

  She held out her hand to Mary, the cold numbing her feet. For a mile, they scrambled on slippery rocks. Mary’s teeth chattered, and Juliet worried over her friend’s well-being.

  On a steep embankment, Juliet climbed up on rocks, turned around and hauled Mary up beside her. They rubbed the circulation back in their legs. No way could they rest, not here in the open and not with the Indians tracking them. She stumbled onto an animal path and disappeared beneath the hulking branches of hemlock.

  They traveled north. At least, Juliet, believed they were heading in that direction, as they ambled into an open meadow looking for the North Star to guide them.

  “I’m so cold,” Mary coughed. “Couldn’t we light a little fire?”

  “It would be so easy yet we dare not. You saw what happened to Orpha. If they observe the glow from our fire, they will find us.”

  Sleet bit at their faces and the girls huddled beneath an outcropping of rock, shivering, their feet wooden from traveling through the creek. Juliet pulled her coat tight around her, stepped away and scanned the horizon. She cocked her head to the side and perceived no sound except the click of sleet on branches. No thud of foot or sway of branch. Even the animals had hunkered in their dens.

  Surely the Indians would have discovered them by now? Perhaps content with their prizes from the Hayes’ farm and conceivably settled before warm fires in their lodges. A wind rattled through the bare trees, a portent in a world of ice and darkness.

  Mary coughed behind her. The unending cold, the enemy.

  Juliet returned to Mary and unsheathed the long knife from her waistband and cut pieces of beef and bread. She insisted they put on dry socks. Not much good that would do since their boots were soaked. Mary slumped on her shoulder and Juliet eased her friend to the ground and lay beside her, her muscles stiff from the cold.

  * * *

  “Juliet!”

  Mary clawed Juliet’s arm as an Indian dragged her across the snow by her long golden hair.

  Gripped with terror, Juliet shot from deep sleep to wakefulness, throwing her body across her friend. The warrior’s eyes, veiled pools of sinister black revealed the monster that lurked beneath. Never before had she witnessed a more frightening figure. This was the leader who had hacked Master Hayes to death, raped Orpha, and scalped the cook. Like a bizarre raccoon, his head and face congealed with red-blood paint, and a black mask daubed around his eyes with detailed black lines descending across his cheeks. A black line of lightning brushed across his forehead. Secured to his tuft of hair dangled a lone eagle feather.

  She would fight him. Juliet sprang. She scratched, digging her nails into his neck, his ears, anywhere she could reach. She kicked with her booted foot against the savage’s shins.

  Her head jerked back. She felt a tearing pain. He had ahold of her long braid. Her hand tightened on the hilt of her knife. On a low, throaty scream she yanked it loose and slashed the Indian’s face. His hand swept up to the gash she made, his blood now dripping on her.

  He reared, dropping her suddenly to the ground, and leapt away as if touching her had reduced his strength. He pointed to her hair. Was it fear she now saw in his eyes? Did it have something to do with the color of her hair?

  The painted warriors launched into a discussion with each other, gesticulating wildly and espousing deep guttural tones directed at her hair. Unbidden, a flock of crows lifted from their roosts, circling and cawing, adding their voices to a howl of sudden wind. Owls hooted. She couldn’t see the creatures but the savages pricked their ears to the sound, scanning the heavens, their harshly whispered words hanging in the air like little frozen clouds.

  “What are they going to do with us?” cried Mary, scooting from beneath her.

  “Quiet.” Juliet placed her arm protectively round Mary’s shoulder and stared at the number of scalps looped on their belts—proud trophies. Sick fear coiled in the pit of her stomach. Black hair with a white tip at the crown congealed with blood. Master Hayes.

  The leader with the red and black stripes painted on his face, returned his gaze to her and gestured roughly. Juliet held back a scream, rose to her full height and craned her head back looking at this mountain of a man and his crazed, inhuman eyes. Do not show weakness.

  From his side, one of his warriors, spoke harshly, “Onontio.”

  Onontio. Joshua had warned her of the War Chief, his posture stiff as an arrow, his downturned lips, spoke of cruelty.

  Knees shaking, she stood on stiff legs while they argued. A tattooed warrior with many nose rings wanted them dead, she surmised. Onontio pushed him to the ground, glanced at her and grunted.

  A warrior with a string of bear claws around his neck and a red jacket fondled and blew upon Mary’s golden locks. He shouted in angry tones to others of the group who dared to come near. Had he claimed ownership of Mary?

  “Joggo!” The gorget of silver on his neck and wide bands made of the same material around his upper arms vibrated with his command.

  Juliet interpreted “joggo” to follow. She stumbled on her skirts and reached a hand down to pull Mary up. The tattooed warrior on the ground stood up and tied their hands, angry with the menial task. He jerked their leashes, yanking Juliet and Mary forward, following Onontio.

  Half of the group preceded them and the remainder tracked behind. The Indians had one idea in mind. Speed. They rushed the two of them forward, ever forward.

  Were they being followed? Did they desire to put as many miles as possible between them and Master Hayes’ home? Might a handful of staunch neighbors follow to avenge the massacre? Fueled with the hope, she dragged her feet often to slow their progress.

  Onontio ordered a short and stocky Indian with bowed legs and gripping a hickory sapling in his hand to walk behind them. When Juliet lagged for a moment to catch her breath, Bow-Legs lashed the whip around her legs. The Indians farther to the rear picked up grass and weeds broken down by their feet to blot out signs of their passing.

  Where were they going? There were herded along, through a clearing, marching through ice cold waters of a stream for some distance, then pushed through a thicket and into a meadow. Up and down mountains they marched, blue ranges looming high up on the skyline. Blinding snow drove in their eyes and the wind lashed their clothing tight about them. Her toes and fingers stung from the cold, her calves burned with steep uphill climbs. Each step was torture, her feet blistered, and heels scraped raw by the wet leather of her boots. Her lungs seared from frigid breaths and the piercing stitch in her side stayed a constant companion. At the top of the mountain, the snows were deep, the arduous task of lifting one foot high and then the next nearly breaking them.

  They traveled day and night with little sustenance, stopping little to rest. The frigid temperatures gave way to torrid heat as winter vanished and seemingly skipped spring, emerging to summer. Mary whimpered and leaned on her. Juliet neither knew nor cared where they went. Keep moving, walking and running as fast as she could. No rest. No time to catch her breath. She stumbled and suffered the sharp blows from Bow-Legs’ hickory stick.

  Northward they made their weary way over the mountains, climbing steep heights and running down abrupt slopes, wading through rocky brooks and waist-deep streams. At no time did Juliet see a road. How did the leader, Onontio know where he was going? Her gown caught on branches and brambles. Her legs were lashed and scratched by thorns. Her red hair hung tangled and uncombed. She tripped and picked up a piece of jagged flint, concealing it in her pocket.

  Her stomach had shrunk into a hard, little fist, gnawing with unbearable hunger. The hunger eventually passed and, with it, all other sensations. Keep going. No pause. No rest.

  Images of the savages burning their prisoners alive as told by Orpha caused her to panic. Juliet curved her arm around Mary’s shoulders and pressed her chin onto her silky head. “We will escape tonight, when they sleep.”

  “But what of the forest? Won’t it be our demise?”

  “Better than what they
have planned for us. We will live on roots and berries.”

  “They are cannibals. My father preached how they savor devouring white people.”

  Juliet had not heard the sermon and wondered of the truth. Her eyelids grew heavy. She fought sleep, cutting through their bonds with the sharp flint and waiting for the snoring rhythms of the warriors. She rubbed her wrists and poked Mary awake.

  With the light of the moon, they skirted the circle of men and moved through the forest. A cold wind stirred like a whisper through ancient hemlocks, a wolf howled in the distance, answered by the baying of other wolves and drawing shivers up her spine. She pressed through the woodlands not knowing where they were going, hoping to get far enough away before their captors were alerted to their escape.

  The jerk of a cruel hand threw her prostrate and the lash of a whip stung her legs. Bow-Legs stood over her, his face twisted like a goblin. Behind him stood Onontio, sneering. Mary cried as they were herded back to the camp and tied to a tree.

  The next morning food was handed out but not for the captives. Onontio picked up the pace. His way of punishment.

  “We will survive,” she whispered.

  “Water,” Mary rasped through parched and cracked lips. “I want to die.”

  Bleak and lifeless, the sound in her voice struck terror in Juliet’s heart. Bow-Legs whipped them for talking. Fierce rage swelled up in Juliet. No more did she care what happened to her. No more would she tolerate Bow-Legs’ whipping. She swiveled, grabbing the whip and cracked the cane on him over and over again. He lifted his arms to ward off her blows. “You can kill us right here. We won’t move again until you give us food, drink and rest.”

  At first shocked, the Indians now laughed to see Bow-Legs dodge her blows. They teased and humiliated him. A shadow crossed over her. Onontio yanked the whip from her, his face twisted like a gargoyle. Her legs shaking, Juliet pulled a length of her hair forward and thrust it in his face. He stepped back. Juliet laughed. Madness bubbled up from her throat. He feared her.

  * * *

  Days passed one after another until Juliet lost count. The land leaned down to rolling hills, and still they pushed their way through tangled brush and deep forest that led to a river. Now, two braves paddled them upriver, avoiding floating logs and rocks.

  When the sun reached its zenith, she viewed smoke spiraling up beyond a bend in the river. Juliet curled her hands around the gunnels, sweat trickling down her back as the Indians paddled to a village. A group of scattered lodges stood in an open meadow, constructed on pole frameworks, with sides and roofs covered with great sheets of tree bark. Open platforms for storing hides and meat loomed up close by, and piles of firewood lay near doorways.

  A white dog barked alerting the villagers of their arrival. So many people were coming and going, hollering, laughing, and merrymaking. The bloody scalps were displayed and rejoiced over by everyone from grizzled grandfathers to naked toddlers.

  Many women walked toed-in, bent forward, with shuffling gaits to greet them. They wore deerskin leggings and embroidered moccasins on their feet. Silver earrings adorned their ears, silver bracelets were cuffed upon their arms and strings of beads hung round their necks. Their hair was parted in the middle with a streak of scarlet paint on the part, and fastened behind in single braids, doubled back upon themselves and tied. Onontio pointed to Juliet and growled a long narrative to the women.

  “Juliet,” Mary said moments before she was ripped away and dragged into a longhouse. Were they going to be burned alive?

  There was nothing Juliet could do. Women grabbed hold of her and tied a leather thong around her neck and secured her with a two-foot leash to a stake in the center of the village. They poked her with pointed sticks. She ducked her head when they threw rotten vegetables and jeered. No mercy would come to a white captive in this godforsaken wilderness. She did not cry out or whimper and stared boldly at them. She hated all of them and refused them their joy by not making her fear known. Juliet grabbed her hair, thrusting it forward, and shouted curses. The women backed away as if looking at a strange animal and pointing to her hair. They quickly disbanded and left for the longhouses.

  Her lips were parched and her skin red and swollen where she’d fallen against sharp rocks. Her hair, a mass of knots flew about her face and shoulders. Her tether tied tight rendered sleep impossible. She slumped against the post and sobbed, her heart bursting under the crushing weight of grief, of years and days of suffering. What sin have I done other than be born into this world to deserve this punishment? Oh, God, please help me.

  A blanket was placed over her, shielding her from the torrid sun, and through tear-stained eyes, she peered at a dark-clad figure. He lay his hand on her shoulder. “Do not weep, my child.”

  * * *

  Through her tears, a man with one arm appeared. He wore priest’s clothing and spoke to her in a thick French accent. “I am Father Isaac Devereux.”

  He placed a bowl of food in Juliet’s lap, the skirts of his ankle-length cassock brushed against her. She held the gruel in her hands, savoring the warmth, but suddenly the smell of food made her feel faint. She pressed a hand to her stomach to ease the pain of hunger.

  She picked up the wooden spoon and dipped into the watery substance, holding the spoon aloft as she first eyed the large crucifix hanging from Father Devereux’s neck and then at her uncertain food.

  “It is a mixture of corn and meat, not poison.” His voice was soft, yet somehow reassuring. “You must eat to gain strength, but eat slow so you won’t lose what you have consumed.” He hiked up his cassock and sat in the dirt beside her.

  Slowly she sipped the odd and tasteless food that rolled grainy over her tongue. “Strength for what? So they can torture me?”

  Father Isaac’s good arm dropped to his side and, immediately, his hand rose to steady his broad hat. “No, my daughter. Onontio plans to marry you.”

  A sharp spasm in her stomach pulled her gaze from the Jesuit to Onontio, cheered and admired by many of the village maidens. Their eager enticing had him disappearing into a longhouse.

  To be married to the monster would be a life of hell. She shivered with images of the warrior’s coarse fingers rough against her skin. His ghoulish painted face hovering over her, and flat black eyes possessing the penetrating cold of a serpent she’d seen under the statue of the Blessed Virgin. To go to bed each night with a beast like that?

  The priest tilted his head down to her, his great black hat with a rounded crown and wide, circular brim shadowed her shoulder. “You will endure. Onontio believes you have great power. Two of his young wives have died giving birth. To remove the curse and bear powerful sons, he demands a union to you. The Mohawks are a superstitious group who believe your red hair possesses the same potency of a demi-god.”

  The priest’s remarks reinforced her conjecture of Onontio’s fear of her hair.

  “Where is Mary?”

  “She is with Red Jacket’s wife, learning what work she must perform. Mary will be her slave.”

  “Are you not afraid of reprisal from Onontio for giving me succor?”

  The priest shrugged, the stump of his left arm raised. “Onontio and I respect each other. He is the one who removed my arm.”

  She dropped her spoon in her bowl. “How do you know he will not remove your other arm?”

  A young boy with a huge tooth suspended from his neck brought Juliet a vessel of water. “Thank you,” she said, marveling at the unbidden kindness of the boy.

  The priest ruffled the boy’s hair. “Onontio’s ruthlessness was my reward. By removing my arm, the Indians know I cannot hold a bow to hunt for food to survive. As a result of my sacrifice, I grew in esteem and was able to convert the chief’s wife and this boy, Garakonthie, or Moving Sun. I remain under their protection and they let me live in peace among them. They even protect me from the British who remain resolute in running off the French, especially the Jesuits.”

  He waved to an old woman who shuffled
across the grounds. “She is Ojistah, a Mohawk medicine woman and the boy’s grandmother. She is greatly revered for her skills as a healer. When Onontio cut off my arm, she took pity and nursed me back to health. She is sensitive and compassionate, capable of soul-stirring energy, and possesses special intuitive abilities.”

  “I could plead my case to Ojistah?”

  Father Devereux shook his head. “The Mohawk medicine woman wields great power, but even she would not go up against the War Chief.”

  Moving Sun, the boy with the single bear tooth ran off as Milburn Snapes marched through the Indian village. Her hands curled into fists and she tore at her tether to get free. She hated the British captain for he epitomized the worst kind of betrayal. He had wined and dined with Horace and Orpha though knowing of their fate at the hands of the Indians.

  “He was at the attack on the Hayes’ farm and condoned it, Father Devereux. As a British officer, his first responsibility was to protect loyal subjects of the Crown, but he did nothing. The slaughter was terrible. No one deserved to die that way—even the hideous Orpha.”

  Juliet gave the priest an abbreviated version of what had happened, how she and Mary had left the farm early only to be caught by Onontio and the agonizing journey they endured to the village. Not once did Snapes look in her direction. Did he know she was in the village? He spoke quickly in Iroquois tongue to an Indian woman. Juliet heard the name, “Onontio”.

  Just then, the War Chief thrust aside a deerskin flap, and exited the longhouse, his mouth tight from being disturbed. A half-naked woman giggled behind him. Onontio’s breechclout was raised from his swollen manhood probably from the woman’s continued stroking. He shrugged her off.

  Milburn Snapes squatted before a campfire, staring at the licking flames. A dozen Iroquois, large, well-muscled men wearing deer hide breechclouts, leggings and moccasins crouched around the fire close to him. They had adopted European long shirts decorated with porcupine quills.

  This must have been an important occasion. The red-jacketed leader with the bear-claw necklace who had taken Mary dipped his fingers into the paint pots, and with the other warriors, reapplied hideous designs upon their faces. Onontio, to demonstrate his supremacy wore additional gorgets of silver and wide bands around his upper arms.