“I didn’t doubt it. You’re like a son to him already.”
“When I return, we’ll name a day. Your parents are welcome to make Rose-n-Vale their home as well.”
Gathering her in his embrace, he kissed her more than once. These weren’t stolen garden kisses in the scattered light of pitch-pine torches. These were kisses of farewell and separation and longing. Hope and glad-heartedness and promise.
“Something to remember me by,” he murmured into the closeness between them, again smoothing that wayward flaxen strand beneath her coif. “Though I would rather take the pins from your hair . . .”
Never had he seen her hair unbound. Such was a husband’s privilege. Would he be surprised it fell nearly to her knees?
“I’ll stop on my way west to collect anything you have for your brother.” Taking her face between his callused hands, he kissed her lingeringly a final time. “Take steadfast care, Selah.”
Already she felt a widening chasm both inside her and around her, as if some protective buffer were being removed. “I wish I could go with you.”
“You do go with me, in both head and heart.” Looking like he wanted to kiss her again, he turned and left the house instead, calling for his horse and Oceanus. Both came posthaste, though Oceanus immediately asked when Watseka could play again.
Xander helped him into the saddle. “Mayhap on the Sabbath after our journey. We’ll likely meet at divine service.” Swinging himself up, he met Selah’s eyes.
“Godspeed.” She reached out and squeezed his hand. “I’ll watch for you. And pray.”
Selah missed him. Missed him so much she pocketed her father’s pistol and rode with Watseka to Rose-n-Vale. There she earned the curious looks of farm managers and indentures as she stood apart from the fields and watched the last of the tobacco harvest unfold. Most of the crop had already been transported to Xander’s barns before he’d gone west. There it would cure for several weeks, allowing him to take Oceanus to the Powhatans. Lord willing, he’d return before the striking began, the next step after harvest.
Factor McCaskey approached. He and the farm managers had been left in charge during Xander’s absence. “Mistress Hopewell, what brings ye out on such a Hades-like day?”
Selah peered at him beneath the wide brim of her beaver hat as he swiped the sweat from his brow with a grimy sleeve. “Living in James Towne, I’ve rarely seen Orinoco cut, at least not on this scale.”
“’Tis a sight to behold, truly. And such an excellent harvest to boot.”
She nudged the horse nearer the biggest barn and stood in its powerfully scented shade. Since childhood she’d become accustomed to tobacco drying, familiar with its peculiar aroma, the very essence of Virginia.
“Marry you the tobacco man?” Watseka’s oval face shone with delight as she craned her neck round to look at Selah.
Selah reached into her pocket and withdrew the shell beads in answer. Wonder engulfed her. Here she was amid fields as far as the eye could see, poised to be Rose-n-Vale’s mistress. And Xander had graciously made provision for her parents. Would they all not benefit, coming under Xander’s protection by marriage?
“When I return, we’ll name a day.”
She would wear her purple gown. Sew a new coif that bespoke her married standing.
For now, she looked west, to the land Watseka knew so well and would soon return to.
My beloved, hurry home.
Was being four so . . . absorbing?
Since the start of their journey, Oceanus had not lagged behind. He’d forged ahead. Now that he was away from his nurse and the routines of Rose-n-Vale, something seemed to have unlocked inside him. No longer was he the old soul who’d landed. Out in the open without clock or tie to tether him, Oceanus missed nothing around him—the call of a bird, the shift in the wind, a tortoise beneath the river’s surface. Xander was riddled with questions, some he gladly answered, some he couldn’t, glad the lad had a quick wit and a ready memory.
As for himself, the journey west seemed less arduous than before. Mayhap because of fair weather. Or Oceanus’s company. Or because he had finally confessed all and revealed the truth of the lad’s origins to Selah? Whatever the cause, Xander felt lighter in both step and spirit. Oddly, he’d begun to view Oceanus through a different lens since. Not as Laurent’s son. Not as the result of a vile act. But as a youth who’d inherited his mother’s intrepid spirit, her love of the land.
“Father, how shall I greet my Indian grandfather? When do I give him the gift we brought?” Oceanus touched the pouch in which the ivory compass was encased. With its fly and needle, it would be well received, even awe inducing. “Shall I speak of my mother?”
Xander pondered his reply as they traded walking for riding, Oceanus sharing a saddle. “Your grandfather the chief will be surrounded by a great many warriors and werowances. You’ll be held in high honor as his grandson. ’Tis wise to speak little and observe much, at least at first. There will be a feast and gift giving to welcome us. You’ll soon find you have as many kin as grains of sand.”
“But not Watseka.”
“Nay, she remains with the Hopewells for now. But you will meet Shay, the Hopewells’ son, who is living there.”
“He is not Powhatan like me?”
“Shay is British to the bone but desires to learn all he can of the Naturals’ ways, just as Watseka learns about the English, the Tassantassas.”
“I am not much afraid.”
Xander almost chuckled. The lad was greatly afraid. The nearer they drew to the Powhatan encampment, the more hunched his small frame became. For a few fleeting moments Xander was beset by doubts. Was Oceanus equipped for such a visit? Would he even remember it in time? Mayhap the changes dealt him—an ocean voyage, a new world, an Indian grandfather—were too much for one so young.
“You have nothing to fear from your grandfather’s people,” Xander reassured him. “Tomorrow we will come to the Chickahominy River and pasture Lancelot till our return. You have the unmistakable look of your mother. That is sure to please Chief Opechancanough.”
The yellow pine canoe on the river’s banks seemed an almost eerie acknowledgment that their arrival in Powhatan territory had not gone unnoticed but was highly anticipated. White oak paddles lay in the dugout’s rough-hewn bottom. Shoving off from the shore sunwise, east to west, Xander navigated as Oceanus sat on the loose board seat in front of him.
Here the landscape altered and became a vast, swampy expanse between southern bluffs and gentler northern hills. Cypress trees, their fringe a smudge of green against overcast skies, intermingled with tallow shrubs heavy with berries, their spicy-sweet scent reminding Xander of the candles Mattachanna once made.
“Father, what is that?” Oceanus pointed a finger at endless miniature mounds of mud along the river’s banks.
“Crayfish burrows,” Xander replied, paddling around a fallen birch with a fierce tangle of branches. “You cannot see these creatures by day. They come alive at night.”
“Can we eat them?”
“Some do, but they make better bait, as you shall find once you learn to fish.”
A woodpecker began a raucous tapping, the echo like a hundred hammers in their ears. Mallards and herons paid their swift, silent passage no mind, though a lone doe eyed them warily from a thicket. Soon, small Chickahominy towns appeared on both south and north banks, the Naturals gathering in small knots to bathe as was their morning custom.
Xander raised a hand in greeting, deciding it never amiss to teach a New World lesson. “The Chickahominy made friends with the English when we first set foot on their soil. Once they were our allies. They taught us to grow and preserve our own food. They even promised to supply us with bowmen if the Spanish came to fight us.”
’Twas a fragile, tentative alliance, further strained by the land-stealing English. Once, Xander had plied these waters in trade with the very Indians now estranged. Did they regard him with animosity and suspicion? Might Oceanus be i
n danger? Clearly the two of them were at the mercy of Providence above and Xander’s own earthly reputation here below. Not once had he cheated these people. Not once had he abused their trust. Would his previous fair dealings allow them safe passage?
At the next bend in the river, taking them away from the stone-faced onlookers, Xander felt a palpable relief. The very presence of a child, always a token of peace, boded well. And with his ebony hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin, Oceanus looked far more Natural than English. God be thanked.
Lord, is it low of me to ask Thee to hide any likeness of Laurent in the lad? Any and all baseness of spirit?
The desperate prayer swelled his heart. How could he parent the lad if he grew to resemble such a wicked man? When every glance at him was a reminder of the evil act that had spawned him?
Yet the child was not evil.
For I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well.
Hope took hold, lighting his soul. With Selah by his side, he would see the boy raised right. Oceanus need never know about his true origins. What mattered was God had made him, made him fearfully and wonderfully and marvelously. As such, there was no impediment to his becoming an upstanding, God-honoring man in time.
All that his earthly father was not and might never be.
32
Selah awoke, the moon outside her bedchamber pouring pale light through the open window. Had she only dreamt the unusual sound, intermingled with the pup’s barking and other barnyard noises? Perhaps Father was awake, roaming about restlessly as he sometimes did.
Leaving the soft warmth of her bed, she trod barefoot to the door, hesitating at the top of the stairs. Through the nightly din of cicadas and frogs came another sound that roused her further. A rustle of brush. A footfall. Just beyond the bolted doors and shuttered windows.
She felt her way down the steps and into the parlor, then paused at the front door. The distressed whinny of their mare forbade her to venture further. She stood still as her heartbeat quickened, causing a roaring in her ears. Some prowling creature, perhaps. Father had mentioned seeing catamount tracks near the henhouse. Izella slept in a room off the summer kitchen. Surely she’d awaken if needs be.
Selah hugged the wall till she came to her parents’ bedchamber. Pushing open the door, she moved nearer till she could ascertain their rhythmic breathing and undisturbed forms in the shadows. Though she was unable to see the clock, instinct told her it was nearly break of day.
Returning to the parlor, she listened. Night seemed to have settled again. Not one untoward sound did she hear. Kentke’s barking had ceased. Slowly she went up the stairs, ever mindful of Shay as she passed his bedchamber. Lest she wake Watseka, she stepped gingerly across the worn floor toward her bed, stifling a yawn. The moon, snuffed by clouds, reappeared, slanting pale light across tousled bed linens . . . and an empty mattress. The chamber pot in the far corner had no one perched over it. Despite their admonitions, Watseka sometimes preferred to go outside.
Selah’s hasty return downstairs had her stumbling on a step and careening into a wall. To her dismay, her parents were on their feet, Father waiting as she descended the steps.
“I cannot find Watseka.” As a precaution, she took out the loaded musket from its resting place. “There was a commotion outside, so I came downstairs and checked all the locks. On my way back to bed, I found hers empty.”
“I shall go out and have a look myself while you return upstairs and stand watch by your bedchamber window.” Father cleared his throat. “Your mother will bolt the door after me. Make no move till you hear my voice. Perhaps the child simply went out to check on her pup.”
Selah balked. “But the doors are locked—”
“But not the upstairs windows, your mother says.”
Selah had forgotten. In the heat, she’d left the windows open. How could she have been so careless? Could Watseka have climbed out . . . or might someone have climbed in?
Xander had entrusted Watseka to their care. The appalling certainty that the girl’s disappearance was Selah’s own fault nearly buckled her knees. She would not see her ailing father suffer for her lapse.
“Give me the gun, Selah.” Father’s firm tone belied his weakened state.
She took a step back, her clutch tighter on the musket. Turning, she reached the door and rushed headlong into the last of the night.
At last they came to Menmend. Ever since they’d sighted the sprawling encampment with its haze of woodsmoke, Oceanus’s skittishness had spiked visibly. Xander knew that Chief Opechancanough, ever shrewd, would sense it, to the lad’s discredit.
“Father, I am not feeling brave.”
The whispered words brought Xander to one knee. Hard as it was for him to show any outward affection, he set aside his unease and embraced the boy. At first stiff, Oceanus finally leaned into him and laid his head upon Xander’s shoulder.
“’Tis natural to feel fear betimes. But remember the biblical queen Esther, who did bravely before the king despite her fears. And the shepherd David, who defeated the giant. Courage bears its own rewards.” He stroked Oceanus’s silken hair, so like Mattachanna’s. “Be stout of heart. Your coming will please your grandfather. Remember, you are a valiant soul crossing an ocean and now venturing further west. I am proud of you.”
With a nod, Oceanus lifted his chin and looked toward the outline of the village situated along the picturesque Pamunkey River. Domed dwellings spread in all directions, a multitude of reed-covered shelters offering shade and repose. Smoke from countless cook fires thickened the sultry air. The lively if distant shouts of children at play surely tickled Oceanus’s ears.
Before they’d gone much farther, a tattooed escort appeared from a stand of oak and fell into step beside them, their official welcome to Menmend.
“Welcome, True Word.”
Gaze never settling, Xander looked for signs of Shay. Their meeting would hearten Oceanus too. For the moment, he was regarding their guide with silent wonder, gaze riveted to the headband he wore with its colorful feathers.
They passed palisaded walls much like those of the English before coming into the heart of the village and reaching the council house. Here there were at least a hundred werowances gathered beneath a bower of saplings that shaded their chief. Xander knew some of them and considered them sound men. Others, full of superstition and animosity, he avoided if he could.
As usual, the chief was expecting them, alerted by spies whose watchful gaze Xander had felt since the Chickahominy River. There was no deducing Opechancanough’s feelings about the moment. Faced with his favored daughter’s son, his grandson, the nearest living link to Mattachanna he had, the chief remained wooden. Oceanus regarded the mantle of raccoon skins the headman wore with such awe it seemed to make him forget his fears.
Without warning, the assembly gave a collective shout. Expecting Oceanus to start, Xander reached out a reassuring hand, but the lad did not so much as flinch.
A bowl of water was brought by the chief’s most favored wife. Xander paused to wash as was customary, as did Oceanus. After drying their hands with feathers, they drew nearer Opechancanough, who regarded them both with an unnerving intensity before breaking the silence.
“Is this my daughter’s son?”
“It is he, aye, and desirous of seeing you.”
Though the chief knew English, he spoke to Xander for several moments in Powhatan.
The lad needed an Indian name.
He had the look of his mother.
Was he hungry after so long a journey?
All the while, Oceanus stood in watchful, respectful silence.
Finally, Opechancanough placed a hand on the boy’s recently shorn head. “It is good you have come to see your grandfather. My heart has long been on the ground since your mother sailed to the land of the English king and failed to return. We must feast to celebrate your coming. But after, I have an important matter to discuss with your white father
that concerns you.”
As they gathered to eat, Xander spied Shay. Disbelieving, he blinked to clear his vision. Gone was the oft clumsy, ham-fisted Hopewell. A stone or more had been shaved off his thickset frame. His longish hair was shorn on the left to accommodate his bow hand as was Powhatan custom, the right side braided, a lone feather dangling. But his infectious grin was the same, his successful adjustment to this new way of life evident. He approached Xander and Oceanus as they were seated at the feast, joining them cross-legged upon rush mats.
“Oceanus has grown up.” Shay extended a hand in friendship, retaining the English custom. “I am the brother of Selah Hopewell.”
“Selah, who lives with Watseka?” Oceanus glanced at Xander. “The one you will marry?”
At this, Shay’s hopeful gaze swung to Xander. “Am I to call you brother?”
“Lord willing, aye.” Xander pulled Watseka’s shell beads from beneath his shirt and let them dangle down his shirtfront. “Not long after I return to Rose-n-Vale.”
With something resembling a subdued war whoop, Shay signaled his appreciation.
They commenced eating, partaking of endless bowls of smoked fish, succotash, roast squash, maize, and far more. Upwards of two hundred Powhatans consumed the feast, the bounty never ending. Such a grand welcome was for Oceanus whether the lad realized it or not.
Sated, Xander contented himself as the dancing and entertainment unfolded. Observing the color and whirl about him gave him room to mentally roam. The chief wanted something from him, something that would delay his leaving. But the matter wouldn’t be broached tonight, he wagered. Unlike with the English, time was neither consulted nor considered. They knew no such thing as hurry. Events unfolded as they would.
For now, Shay took care to explain to Oceanus what was happening, who was dancing and why, which noisemakers were being used, the significance of each. The lad’s trail-weary legs were at rest, the blisters made by so much walking relieved. Tonight they would sleep near the heavily guarded chief’s lodge, mayhap close to Shay.
Tidewater Bride Page 23
