Firebrand's Woman

by Vanessa Royall

  “You must do it,” he whispered, as they struggled with the dead body, “or you shall be held in great scorn.”

  “Am I not already?” Gyva snapped, meeting his eyes.

  “There are things you do not know.”

  “And many that I do!”

  “Did you not find my necklace?”

  “Do not worry. You may have it back, although you are the one who lurks outside the walls of wigwams, and makes love by the honeysuckle bush.”

  “You do not know the half of what you speak!”

  “Scalp him! Scalp the white man!”

  Torch rolled the body over and yanked away the hat.

  Gyva was astounded, and a little afraid.

  “Evil portent!” swore Torch, standing up.

  For the body of the victim was not a white man’s at all, but an Indian’s. Even in disguise, no brave would venture into battle without the distinctive war markings peculiar to his tribe, and these were visible on the dead man’s face. A Choctaw! The wide hats had been used to conceal the truth and mislead the Chickasaw.

  “They have attempted to foment great bitterness between us and the whites at Harrisville,” Torch concluded. “They wish to set us and the white settlers against one another, that we both perish. Or, as I have already surmised, they did not take kindly to our absence at the raid today.”

  He looked directly at Hawk.

  “You would have gone upon that raid yourself,” swaggered the other brave. “So what does it matter if the Choctaw stir us against the jackals? Is it not our will to drive them back to the great sea?”

  “I go upon all raids because I am a member of the tribe and do what I am ordered, whether I agree with certain decisions or not.”

  The people stirred and murmured. Now the conflict between these powerful young men was clearly visible for all to see.

  “Then what is your point?” Hawk demanded.

  “My point is one for all to ponder. We must be far more subtle than we have been. Just as all white men may not be our enemies, equally so has it been proven that all Indians are not our friends.”

  He gestured toward the man Gyva had killed. She herself was confounded.

  “You are foolish—and a dreamer, too,” declared Hawk. “When the white men are all dead, every problem will be solved. This matter of the Choctaw raid can be readily attended to. Let us form up now, ride, and kill some of their women and children. Let us burn their villages now.”

  He paused, believing that he would hear cheers in his favor, and bloodthirsty calls for attack. He had miscalculated. There were many who would ordinarily have followed him; but the people were without a chief, and it was not right to form battle parties without a chosen leader. Hawk understood and fell silent, although he did not retreat from his position.

  “Take the scalp,” Torch whispered to Gyva. “It will distract the people from this unfortunate clash.” He thrust a knife into her hand.

  “I cannot,” she pleaded.

  “What? You are neither fool nor weakling. You must. So do it!”

  He tossed away the broad-brimmed hat, grabbed a handful of the dead man’s hair, and jerked the lolling head from the dust.

  “Be quick. One swift slash. You need only show a small amount of blood. It will suffice.”

  “But I cannot.”

  Torch looked at her for a long moment. In the background villagers were clamoring for the scalp. Gyva saw her beloved’s eyes, and her own image reflected in them. But she saw also his mouth, his lips, which just yesterday Little Swallow had kissed. How was it, then, that Torch’s eyes showed no sign of infidelity? In spite of what had happened between Torch and Swallow, Gyva would gladly forgive him if only he would show contrition.

  His voice pulled her from the reverie. “I will help you through it. Raise the knife.”

  Little Swallow and Hawk had edged closer. “Do you not think a true Chickasaw would readily take scalp?” the maiden asked, so that many could hear.

  “Raise the knife!” Torch hissed urgently. “This does no good for any of us. You should be proud!”

  The dead Choctaw filled her vision, her mind, the whole world. Gyva saw his long black braided hair, the low flat forehead, a sharp jutting nose. His mouth, thin and cruel in life, seemed lax and comic in death. His eyes were open, fixed upon nothing.

  “When the Choctaw rode out of the village,” Torch was telling her, “one of them deliberately upset the bier upon which Four Bears lay beneath the stars.”

  Gyva looked at him. Defilement of her grandfather’s body? As soon as she realized the heinous import of Torch’s words, she hesitated no longer. The great knife flashed in her hand, and lopped off a circled chunk of skull and hair. The dead man’s head slammed back down into the dust, and Torch held aloft the scalp, for all to see.

  A cry of revenge and triumph rose on the night air, to blend uneasily with the smell of scorched wood, and the terrible stench of the squaw who had been burned. Gyva stood up, staring at the blood upon her knife. This shall be the last time I kill, she vowed. I could not have been born for such a thing.

  The members of the tribe were already walking toward the body of the other dead Choctaw, killed by a spear at the hands of Arrow-in-the-Oak, who might himself become chieftain. On the fringes of the crowd walked Hawk and Little Swallow, still very close to one another, and Gyva understood what their aspect signified: Somehow, they were conspirators.

  But to what end, and by however many intricate byways, she did not know.

  Teva presided.

  The body of Four Bears, which, restored to its place on the bier, had lain for the night in the center of the village, was lifted by six braves—Torch was one of them, Hawk another—and borne down to the river bank. There, where the water was shallow, Four Bears was carried across to the burial ground at the edge of the pine forest. Tribesmen, their women and children, gathered in silence along the glittering river. Some of the children, half-expectant and half-fearful, studied the shadows where the trees were, looking for the black beasts that had appeared at death’s hour.

  The braves placed the body on the earth next to an open grave, and Teva stepped forward.

  “We gather here,” she said, “to place within the embrace of the earth we love, a man whom we have also loved and whose life was spent in leading us. Already, as we believe, his spirit is hunting the fields of far heaven. But he has remained with us in memory, to love and cherish, and thus do we inter with honor his body, whose strength in life was our protection. So let us lower him now into the earth beside the river, whose waters run to the sea, that in time our love for him and our memory of him will encircle the great globe.”

  Gyva felt grief wrap a cold hand about her heart, but she stood straight and true as a hickory tree, and did not flinch or weep or waver. Carefully the braves eased Four Bears down into his final sleeping place. His body was wrapped in the bearskins that had been his possessions during life, and his face was visible to the tribe. Then the braves moved back several paces, and Teva came forward. She settled her old bones on the ground at the grave’s edge, and cast down into it a long war bow, a quiver of arrows, a cup and bowl, and lastly bread and barley seeds in a birch-bark container. Then she took a handful of earth from the piled dirt, held it over the open grave, and opened her fingers.

  Torch and the other braves did the rest. They worked quickly and well together on this morning. Each of them knew—and so did every member of the tribe, right down to the smallest child—that one of them would surely become chieftain.

  Gyva had hoped that, following the burial, she would somehow be able to speak to her lover, but that was not to be. A village waited to be rebuilt; there were wounded to be tended and* as always, people to be fed. The men, for their part, had to deal with political matters of great importance: future posture toward the white men in Harrisville, plans for responding to the Choctaw attack. Then, too, there was much quiet speculation in the village as to why the sentinels had failed so miserably o
n the previous night, speculation that might readily lead to accusations and denials and grievous ill-feeling. Over and above those things, the manhood ritual must be planned immediately. Bereft of the council wigwam, which lay now in a mound of smoking cinders, the braves went down to the edge of the village, seated themselves cross-legged upon the ground before Teva’s hut, and, under her eyes, began to debate and discuss. Gyva saw them there when she came up from the river, and for the first time she felt the vast emptiness in the village which Four Bears had filled for so long.

  Gyva’s own wigwam was gone, but she had her clothing and her little leather pouch of treasures. She had something more, too: the watchful scrutiny of the people. All day, as she went about her work, the voices whispered.

  “It was upon Gyva that Four Bears placed his final touch.”

  “The dying do strange things. His touch was but a last gesture, of little meaning.”

  “No. I think otherwise. Because in the final moments of our chief, the bloody hand glowed upon the face of Teva.”

  “But have you not heard? The soothsayer maintains that no omen came to her mind at that time.”

  “Ah! But has it ever been known that blood in Teva’s mark signified nothing? One knows that is untrue. There is always meaning. She herself will tell you this.

  “Why did Four Bears not beckon one of the warriors forward? According to the ancient tales, this was often done by dying chiefs.”

  “Perhaps his touch on Gyva meant that he had knowledge of how she was later to kill the Choctaw. Perhaps he meant to give her a measure of his final strength.”

  Much nodding and clucking followed this interpretation. Indeed, Gyva heard much appreciation of her marksmanship and courage. Some comments did not fail to note her hesitation at the moment of the scalping, but this was generally overlooked. What remained in the light of the subdued, buzzing talk was this: How would Gyva fare now, without Four Bears to protect her?

  “She is a maiden of exceptional beauty, and courage, as we now know.”

  “But there may be something unknowable about her, to which Four Bears’ final touch attests.”

  “In the end, she is a mixed-blood, and who can know what will become of such a one?”

  There it was again. Mixed-blood. The heritage she could not escape, and which no one else ever completely forgot. Gyva heard these last comments as she carried the tanned skins of oxen from the tanning lodge to the playing field. Temporary wigwams were to be erected there, in which would sleep those whose dwellings had been destroyed by fire. All day she had worked hard, trying to put the sadness out of her mind, trying not to think of Torch. It was impossible. One moment she resolved never to speak to him again. Next moment she was planning how to prepare a message, summoning him this very night. But what if, again, he preferred Little Swallow?

  “You do not know the half of what you speak!” he had said to her, in anger and exasperation. Was that the pose of a man who is caught in compromise? Or was that the justifiable anger of someone who is innocent, whom circumstance has played for a fool?

  “Do you remember how it feels, way deep?” Little Swallow had taunted.

  Such words conveyed little innocence. Wearily Gyva placed the hides on the ground, where young boys were at work tying poles and saplings into a frame for the wigwam. They were unprepared as yet to drape the hides over their framework. For a few moments Gyva could rest. She looked out across the village, down toward the soothsayer’s wigwam, in front of which the braves were still conversing. She could see the seeress seated there, too. Gladly would they welcome her counsel today, given the sorry state of affairs among the Chickasaw. What would they be speaking of now?

  In the history of the village, of the people, with its long tradition of leadership by braves, it is doubtful whether another maiden had ever possessed the impulse that now came to Gyva. Why should any woman even bother to think of it? She would know, in due course, whatever was necessary for her to know. But Gyva did not wish to wait. The playing field was on the slope above the river, but if one were simply to traverse the field, steal behind a section of squatting lodges, and enter the forest—well, such a person, quite discreetly, might find herself behind Teva’s wigwam, able to hear everything that transpired.

  Gyva picked up several pieces of firewood as she walked along, for convenient explanation should she be observed. The voices were indecipherable, although quite heated, as she came near the old woman’s dwelling. Quietly she made her way closer and closer to the broad-leaved bushes where the trees ended and the village began.

  “…must have a meaning,” Hawk was asserting, with his usual combination of arrogance and malice. “You yourself have spoken these words, Torch. I believe it is the right of all of us to know your meaning. Sentiments alien to our people ought to be grounds for disqualifying one who holds such sentiments from competing in the manhood ritual.”

  So that was it! Gyva, holding her breath, was instantly furious.

  “And what were these damning words of mine?” Torch asked, with excessive politeness.

  “On the raid of our first blooding, you did say to all assembled, ‘If courage is blood, then wisdom must be death. But if wisdom is life, then courage must be peace.’”

  “True. I did say that. And you did say, ‘The path of war is dearer than the path of plenty.’ And so?”

  “I wish to know your meaning, lest a deficiency of fighting spirit, by some mischance of destiny, become characteristic of a Chickasaw chieftain.”

  From the assembled braves came a rumble of response, and from the sound Gyva deduced that about half were in support of Hawk, the rest sympathetic to Torch-of-the-Sun.

  “Perhaps we ought to compare kill-cuts,” rejoined Torch, with an edge in his voice.

  “Aha!” Hawk shot back. “You also stated, but a short time ago, that you have gone on raids because it was your duty. I say that such is more than duty. War is something that must be pursued with a spirit even greater than that which a man feels when he is in search of a fine woman.”

  This time the edge was in Hawk’s voice, and Gyva realized that the two might be thinking of her. Or was it Little Swallow who filled their minds? Gyva crept out of the sheltering bushes and crawled over the grass, huddled behind Teva’s wigwam.

  “If we speak of duty,” Torch averred, “let us discuss the matter of the sentinels last evening.”

  “We have been over this already!” Hawk cried, in hurtful rage. “I sent them to their posts, just as I have a hundred times. Choctaw crept upon them and cut their throats, and so we were not warned of the attack.

  “Teva!” he demanded. “I asked a question regarding the meaning of Torch’s words, and he is evading me.”

  The soothsayer was acting to facilitate the business of the council. She spoke dispassionately. “Perhaps it would be appropriate for you to speak about those words, Torch.”

  “Gladly shall I do so, then, that all may have it right in their minds. What I meant then, and what I repeat now, is this: If we must shed blood in order to be considered brave, then killing becomes a way of life. Even the blood of our own people will suffice to meet this definition of courage. But if we seek life for our people and an end to bloodshed, peace is not only the correct goal, but a courageous one as well.”

  “Hah!” Hawk scoffed. “You are forgetting that the jackals do not know the meaning of the word peace!”

  “Nor do we, I think, who have made raid after raid all these many years.”

  “We shall destroy them. The path of war is dearer than the path of plenty. And nobler than the path of peace.”

  “Then they shall destroy us!” Torch said. “I did also say, at the time of which you speak, ‘The Chickasaw must read what is written on the wind.’”

  “Perhaps you would like to be seeress instead of chief,” Hawk responded with an evil laugh. Some other braves, too, echoed him in mockery.

  But Torch held his temper, calmly explaining himself. “It is too late to drive the w
hite man away.” His words were met by an ominous silence, and Gyva herself was gravely unsettled by them. Too late is as absolute as forever, like loss or death or an arrow gone from the bowstring. “In a full-scale war, even with all the nations combined, we would still be the losers. There are simply too many of them. Moreover, just as we are fearful of them—”

  “I am unafraid!” Hawk cried.

  “—so are they fearful of us. So always there are misunderstandings and battles. I speak as a warrior with a price upon his head.”

  Hawk was silent this time. He possessed no such distinction.

  “But we ought not raid Harrisville. There is no fort in the place. It is a farming community. Perhaps if we were to demonstrate by restraint that we can live in peace—we in our mountains, they on their farms—we will be allowed to remain here in our ancestral homeland.”

  A great howl arose from the assembled braves. “Allowed to remain? What is this madness of which you speak?”

  Torch held his ground. “It is not difficult to see what is to come if we are not wise.”

  “The path of your wisdom is the path of disaster,” mocked Hawk. “Should you become chief—which pray Ababinili will never be—you would be the ruin of us!”

  From the people there was considerable assent to this conclusion.

  “As chief,” Torch said, his voice rising just a bit now in the face of much opposition, “I would fight harder and more fiercely than any man if we should be attacked. If we should be attacked.”

  “And what is the precise meaning of this if?”

  “If we are not attacked, there is no need for us to go to war. War is a folly now. As I have said, we are vastly outnumbered.”

  Once more great commotion broke out, and discussion became voluble and uncontrolled.

  “One Chickasaw brave is worth fifty white jackals!” Hawk was yelling.

  “You have it wrong,” Gyva heard Torch reply. “The cost of fifty dead jackals is one dead Chickasaw, and that is a price we can no longer afford to pay.”