Firebrand's Woman

by Vanessa Royall

  “No,” he said, gently but firmly. He stepped away from her.

  “Is something wrong? Are we not again as one person?” Gyva suppressed an impulse to panic. Had she done something so terrible?

  “Are we not going to make love?” she blurted.

  Torch smiled, bent down and retrieved his necklace from the grass, and fastened it behind his neck. “Gyva,” he said, “you are young. And so you do not know that a woman is to be enjoyed when battle is over, not at a time when strength must be shepherded to win a forthcoming ordeal.”

  What? How could anything like that be true?

  “The woes of love are even more draining than its pleasures. That is what Hawk and Little Swallow knew, and so they wished to stir trouble between us, that I should neglect to prepare for the trials of the contest.”

  “I think my love would make you stronger than ever,” she answered bleakly.

  “Do you understand?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He put his arm around her waist, as a brother would do. “I must become chief,” he said. “Hawk, as leader, will only bring war. Even if I do triumph, the hotheads who follow him will prove to be a constant source of dangerous agitation.”

  “I would not rob you of anything,” she tried again.

  “No,” he said, with a tone of finality that left her disheartened. “Instead, we must sleep. There will be time for ecstasy when the struggle is won.”

  Gyva did as she was told. For a time, lying awake in her sleeping place, she almost believed what he had told her. But then she remembered all the times he had made love to her. Never had she felt so vibrantly alive as at those times, and afterward, when they lay together—their bodies savoring the glow, their minds still dizzy with living delight—she and Torch fairly trembling with bursting vitality.

  No, what he had told her could not possibly be true. It must be one of those ancient tales passed along from generation to generation, invented by a misfit who did not wish men and women to enjoy that for which they were made!

  Yes. That was it. Entirely.

  Then she remembered that, once again, Torch had said nothing of marriage. Or of love.

  Gyva did not sleep for a long time. She had been made for loving; she was sure of that. Perhaps the problem was simply that she had not been born for a bed of rabbit skin.

  If little Swallow had indeed taken Torch into herself, if she had not been lying with her insinuations of the deep pleasure she had experienced with him—well, then Gyva would find a way to take revenge. And, of course, if she had told a lie, it was a terrible one, and Gyva would get even for that, too.

  She did not realize, that night, how perfectly she was playing into the hands of her enemies.

  Chapter IV

  “Let the contest begin,” proclaimed Teva. “With these words do I summon the warriors forward.”

  Since sundown of the previous day, the six braves who wished to be considered as candidates to take up the mantle of Four Bears had been fasting and praying. And for three days to come they would be permitted, in spite of the rigors of the ordeal, to take only a small ladle of water at dawn, and another at nightfall, at which time they returned to special tents erected for the duration of the contest, one for each brave. During the day, eyes would follow them at all times, to make certain none of them weakened in will and tried to steal nourishment. At night, members of the tribe would watch over the tents.

  Any brave who took food, or transgressed the rules of the manhood ritual in some other way, would be immediately disqualified. Violation of the rules was high disgrace; there were tales of warriors who, caught in perfidy, simply killed themselves, or went off into the mountains, never to be seen again. By the same token, a warrior might choose to drop out of the ritual at any time, in which case no stigma would be attached to him. That was the purpose of the ordeal: to sift the wheat from the chaff. Better for the Chickasaw nation to learn who its leaders were than, by misguided gentleness, to suffer any but the strongest as chieftain.

  The seeress turned toward the row of tents, out of which emerged Arrow-in-Oak, Hawk-of-the-Sky, Dark Eagle, Fleet Cloud, Brittle Serpent, and Torch-of-the-Sun, called Firebrand by the white men who had known his prowess. Each brave wore a simple breech-cloth, undecorated, and none of them wore jewelry of any kind; they offered themselves without the accoutrements of position or reputation. Kill-cuts alone gave evidence of individual distinction, but they proved only that the Great Spirit had sent one brave more enemies than he had sent another.

  Gyva watched along with the rest of the tribe as the contestants approached Teva and stood before her.

  “Upon your honor,” she demanded of them, “do you vow to offer all of your strength in the ordeal to come, and to obey the restrictions regarding sustenance?”

  The men answered affirmatively, and quiet debate commenced among the spectators as to who had answered most fervently.

  “And do you swear,” Teva continued, “to accept with full heart, and to serve with lifelong fidelity, whomsoever among you shall emerge triumphant?”

  There were many questions of this sort, to be followed by the joining of blood. Each brave would make a small slash on the palm of his hand and another on his forehead. Then, standing in a close circle, they would join hands and press their foreheads together, to witness by commingled blood their brotherhood and unity in spite of the competition on which they were poised to embark.

  Nervous and excited, Gyva could not wait for the first event to begin, and at the same time she wished it never would. What if Torch lost? She would still love him then, as much as ever. But would he, with his great pride, be wounded in spirit? Be wounded so grievously as to avoid others, thinking himself unworthy? And what if he won? Would he then give himself so thoroughly to his responsibilities that he would have no time for Gyva?

  And—lurking within the boundaries of her consciousness—there was the troubling question: Who is fit wife for a chieftain?

  Gyva put the matter out of her mind and drifted to the edge of the crowd. The first event was to be a race on the playing field, and to this end hurdles had been positioned, and six running lanes marked with pennants for the competitors. At first she thought her eyes were playing tricks with her, but then—yes, she saw it clearly. Someone, whose identity Gyva could not ascertain at this distance, was bending down to the ground next to one of the wooden hurdles at the far end of the course. Even as Gyva watched, the figure arose. But rather than coming across the field to join the villagers, whoever it was ducked into the forest. How odd, thought Gyva, and almost shrugged the matter off.

  Now the joining of blood was conducted, and all that remained was the distribution of the water, a pedestrian gesture that did not hold the interest of many. Children first, and then their elders, began to drift off in the direction of the playing field, the better to select choice positions from which to observe the race. Possessed by a niggling feeling that something was amiss, Gyva headed toward the far side of the course and eventually reached the hurdle at which she had seen the suspicious figure.

  The course was over a mile in length, laid out in a semicircle, and in each of the six lanes, at various locations, were hurdles of different heights. Some were no higher than a man’s knee; others would reach a woman’s shoulders. The hurdle that interested Gyva was one of the latter, and she inspected it carefully. Why anyone would have tampered with it was beyond her imagination. Indeed, how anyone might have done so was equally obscure. The device consisted of two simple upright stakes of wood, notched at the top to accommodate a flat wooden crossbar that would disengage and fall to the ground should an unfortunate contestant fail to leap high enough.

  But if the crossbar had been fastened hard, a contestant might be injured…

  She stepped to the hurdle and checked. No, the crossbar was loose, free.

  Puzzled, Gyva circled the device; and as she did so, she felt something hard press against her moccasin. Bending down to look, she saw only the clay ear
th of the running lane. She pressed her foot down on the same spot, harder this time, and cried out. Instantly she was down on her knees, scratching away the dirt. And in a moment she had uncovered the pointed tips of five long wooden nails, buried headfirst into the ground, their mean points slanted toward the hurdle. A runner coming over the top would slam down into the earth. The nails would pierce his foot. Stunned and furious, Gyva leaped up, prepared to make known what had been done. Then she stopped, thinking it over. She had already removed the nails; and, as closely as she could tell, she had not been observed. What brave was to run in this lane? She didn’t know. There would be time enough to reach the starting point and find out, but if she did that, the race would commence before she could get back here. And, Gyva was sure, whoever had caused these nails to be buried would be watching the race near this hurdle, the better to see the fruit of such handiwork.

  Gyva sat down on the grass, keeping her eye on the people who gathered around. It was only when she heard the cry “Go!” far down at the other end of the field that she realized more nails—or other types of dangers—might have been contrived along the course. Then she was on her feet, like everyone else, watching the racers approach, watching the spectators around her.

  None of them even so much as glanced at the hurdle; every eye was riveted on the contestants, who came now, pounding and panting and leaping along the lanes. This event favored neither Hawk nor Torch, who were fast men, but large; and approaching the halfway mark Fleet Cloud, true to his name, was in the lead. The brave ran like a demon, and when he leaped to clear a hurdle he left the earth like a deer in flight. He passed the hurdle at which Gyva watched, running with ease and authority, drawing away from the others. He continued to do so, and won easily, to a cascading burst of excited cheers. Hawk had been second, Torch third.

  The nails had been in Fleet Cloud’s running lane.

  With the consummation of this first event, a mood of high-spirited good humor came over the tribespeople, just as happened at hunting festivals. And Gyva would have been caught up in it, too, except for the nails.

  The next event was archery, and she hastened to the place where the targets had been set up. Arrow-in-Oak was the best archer in the tribe, and everyone expected him to win. Straws were drawn to determine the order of participation, and Hawk went first. Shooting from distances of fifty, a hundred, and two hundred yards, he did very well. When the scores were determined, Torch had done almost as well. Brittle Serpent and Dark Eagle were good, but not startlingly so. And then Arrow-in-Oak stepped confidently to the fifty-yard mark.

  But this day had not dawned for him. It was not that he shot badly; he was too much an expert with the bow to offer a poor performance. But at each distance his efforts seemed slightly erratic, each shot just wide enough of the center of the target to lose valuable points in the competition. With a rueful smile he watched the flight of his final arrow and laid down the bow.

  People explained his mediocre performance by attributing it to nervousness, or overconfidence, or to the wind, and moved off to congratulate Hawk, whose score had been best. Torch was second.

  Gyva stayed behind for a moment as the others went on, puzzling the matter. First the nails in Fleet Cloud’s lane. Now Arrow-in-Oak, the best archer…

  She picked up his bow and inspected it carefully. Taller than Gyva, the instrument, shaped from a maple sapling and polished to a luster, was a beautiful, flawless thing, perfectly balanced and strung with cured, tempered catgut. This bow, and the brave’s natural skill, ought to have won the contest for him.

  Then she walked down toward the targets, where young boys were collecting the arrows, pulling them from targets and arranging them in neat piles. Making a show of interest, Gyva praised the boys and studied some of the arrows. It took some time, but here and again she found one whose feathers seemed to have been cut. Just slightly, ever so slightly cut, but nipped nonetheless, and enough to alter trajectory. Now she understood. In each contest, the brave who would normally be expected to win was being sabotaged.

  When the candidates retired to their tents for rest at midday, Gyva sought out the old soothsayer. Teva listened without expression, then spoke: “At one time, before you were brought here to the village, there was an old wooden smokehouse where the playing field now lies. It was used for the curing of meat. The nails have been long in the earth, I think, and have finally worked themselves upward. In a matter as solemn as selecting our chief, I do not believe any Chickasaw would-”

  “But don’t you see? Whoever made use of the nails also knew where the smokehouse had been. That further proves my point, not detracts from it,” Gyva said in exasperation. “And what of the arrows?”

  “What of them? By notching the feathers, the braves attempt to gain the perfect flight. Whose arrows were they? How do you know?”

  “I have but to ask Arrow-in-Oak.”

  “It is forbidden that any of the competing braves converse with the people.”

  “Well, then, you can ask.”

  “That I certainly can, but I do not intend to.”

  Gyva did not expect this attitude from the old woman. “Why not?” she asked, doubtfully.

  “What proof is there?” Teva replied. “You have already removed the nails. The arrows tell nothing. And both contests are over.”

  “But I did see someone at the hurdle, someone who drifted into the forest in a most suspicious manner.”

  Teva rewarded this bit of information with a dry cackle. “Ah! I see. And do you know who this person was? And are you not exactly the one to go around making accusations and telling tales of those who skulk about, doing strange things!”

  Gyva felt the color of shame rise in her face.

  “No, you have compromised yourself most seriously, most seriously, and it will be painful for you to learn that trust, once lost, is exceedingly difficult to regain. Why, if you were now to tell your story about this mysterious figure by the hurdle, do you know what people would say?”

  Gyva did not reply, but she knew. People would say, “Hah! The maiden conveys her own dismal mischief to shadows, thinking to lessen her folly.”

  “No, it is best you keep silent and be discreet in all things,” advised Teva. “In any case, I do not see how the events of this afternoon, nor of tomorrow, can be changed from whatever course fate holds in store.”

  The soothsayer seemed secure in that assumption. Wrestling would occupy the afternoon, a demonstration of strength in physical combat; and a day-long mountain climb on the morrow would pit each brave against the south face of the twin mountains, a battle in which human endurance vied with the stony majesty of earth itself.

  So that afternoon, when the time came, straws were drawn again; and Fleet Cloud was bested within minutes by the far sturdier Arrow-in-Oak. Hawk, matched against Brittle Serpent, fought ferociously, proving that the other brave was aptly named. Brittle Serpent, tossed viciously to the earth, found that he could not arise. His hip was broken in the fall, and suddenly but five contestants remained. Torch in his turn made short work of Dark Eagle. Fate then pitted Torch against Arrow-in-Oak, the winner to meet Hawk, who had won valuable time to rest. Teva herself held the straws; there was no doubting fairness.

  Arrow could read the odds as well as Gyva. Brittle Serpent had been eliminated. Dark Eagle and Fleet Cloud were strong, but not exceptionally so; they would have trouble with the mountain course tomorrow. So if Arrow could whip Torch now—Torch, who had failed as yet to come first in any event—then Arrow would be Hawk’s primary opponent in the struggle for supremacy. Of course, as everyone knew, the third day determined everything; but one must survive the first two days.

  Arrow’s strength was considerable, and desire for victory increased the fury of his assault. For long moments the two braves grappled, seeking an advantage, as the tribe held its breath. Then the wrestlers parted, panting and glistening with sweat, only to meet and grapple again. Gyva prayed that it would be over soon, so that Torch could conserve e
nergy for the match with Hawk. But it was not to be. The match went on and on. Twice Torch had Arrow-in-Oak on the ground, his shoulders jammed into the dirt; but both times the wild blood of desperation allowed Arrow to kick free.

  Finally, after more than an hour, the sun dropping now, superior strength made its mark. Torch pinned his opponent, then helped the crestfallen Arrow to his feet. Torch was pouring sweat, and Gyva saw that his hands were trembling slightly from the exertion. He reached down and picked up a pebble and put it in his mouth. But what little saliva he might engender thereby could not help him now. The ladle of sweet water was still hours away, and Hawk-of-the-Sky waited, rested and restless.

  “You may, if you wish, drop from the contest,” Hawk reminded his opponent. “You have fought much already. No one, and certainly not I, will hold it against you.”

  Torch neither spoke nor made gesture, but stepped slowly into the circle that had been drawn upon the ground.

  The final battle called for the winner to subdue his opponent three times out of five chances. Hawk’s hothead followers cheered him on as he swaggered out into conflict, crouched, ducked, feinted, and dove at Torch’s mighty legs, bringing him down. From the first moments it was clear to everyone that this fight would be different, in tone and texture, from those that had already transpired, save possibly for Hawk’s brutal dispatching of Brittle Serpent. Striking with the fist was not permitted, but open-handed slaps ware; and while gouging with elbow or knee was not considered exactly honorable, who could tell, in the heat of struggle, whether or not such blows were merely accidental?

  Gyva kept her eyes on Torch every minute, although as the fight went on, such devotion became harder and harder to maintain. For nearly an hour the two men rolled and grappled in the dust, too dehydrated now even to sweat. Blood ran from a cut near Torch’s neck or ear—it was impossible to tell—and blood came now and again from one or the other of Hawk’s nostrils. Again, no one could tell because of the dirt and the frenzy of the match, probably not even the combatants themselves. Dirt was their water, their food. Dirt was their clothing as well—the breechcloths had been long since ripped off in the fight. Two naked, powerful men stood toe to toe, grabbed one another, and went spinning onto the dusty ground, rolling and twisting and pummeling. Torch had suffered the first pin, but he came back and slammed an overconfident Hawk onto his back with enough force to stun him. The aftereffects of that episode won Torch his second pin shortly afterward; but Hawk came back, ripping and grunting and snarling. As the sun touched the western twin, the braves were tied at two and two. Teva reminded them that either could withdraw if he wished. Neither had the strength to make a reply. They simply stood in the circle, waiting for the call to begin again.