Torch shook his head.
Gyva nodded, and smiled, and kissed him again.
Deftly did she slip the garment from her shoulders and slide it off her body; his eyes and body grew more hungry than his belly had ever been.
One last time, with a suppressed groan and a twist of his head, Torch tried to tell her no. But Gyva knew what she was about, and knew it was true. If there was any strength she might give him now, its source must be love, and that she possessed in great abundance, and knew how to give as well.
Pale waves of light flooded the valley as her supple hands sought his readiness, to fondle and enhance. Leaning on one elbow, she hovered above him, pressing her full, tender breasts upon his bronze chest, and bringing her mouth down upon his. Giving strength with her kiss, Gyva could fairly taste his hunger; feeling his hunger in her hands, she knew the blood-throb of his strength. Mist rose, wavering on the dawn; and she rose above him, carefully, gently, slowly, within the soft embrace of the little tent. She felt her body all open and warm for him, felt herself flow around him, came down and molded herself unto him.
Then it was with them as it had been since the first time beneath the willows, but with greater meaning and wonder, a consecration one to another for the days ahead. Gyva felt the glow begin to build in her. She knew once more the swelling tide that once possessed, can be but dimly remembered, which one must have again in order to possess, yet even then cannot remember, and so must possess again. Lying upon him, laying with him, her body fitted every inch to his, she moved as he did when he was upon her, the sweet pull of her need matching his.
Light grew within the valley, casting rainbow colors on the morning fog, and in the tent their melded bodies-climbed a spectrum of delicious colors. In the back of her mind, which seemed now to be receding from her just as the very air was gone from her breast, Gyva remembered: Do not cry out, do not cry out, do not cry out… Then his arms came around her like steel, like bronze serpents. He shuddered, a fountain of life, full life, flooding into her, and she trembled all along the length of her body as a current of ecstasy flooded her, crashing all the way up the length of her supple spine, and broke like a vast golden wave within her mind, upon the shores of her soul.
DO NOT CRY OUT, DO NOT CRY…
When at last she opened her eyes and looked into his, she knew she had been right Torch was fully awake, alive in every fiber of his being. He understood, too, what it was that she had done for him, and kissed her once in gratitude. Moments later Teva called from outside the tent, and Torch went out to drink water and face the last of the challenges, the burden of the third day, the duration of which no one knew.
Gyva waited until she heard them leave, the warriors going into the wilderness, the tribespeople accompanying them to the edge of the forest. Cautiously, very cautiously, she peered out of the tentflap, emerged, and went to her wigwam.
There was much to pray for on that day, both in thanksgiving and in hope.
The people of the tribe were tense with expectation, a tension that grew as the day wore on. Torch, it was said, had drawn a straw from the soothsayer’s hand that directed him into the west. Hawk departed toward the east, seeking his vision there. Hawk and Torch. Hawk or Torch. Somehow everyone seemed to have known always that the final choice would be between the two of them. Arrow-in-Oak said it best:
“I did not think Torch would be able to catch me during the race, since he was last to come down from the rocks. But all through the late afternoon I could hear him as I ran, his footsteps on the trail behind me like those of the spirit of death. I was as far ahead of him as Hawk was ahead of me, yet Torch would not fall back. The sound of his footsteps became a burden to me, and it seemed with each step the weight upon me was heavier.”
Many grunted. Some sighed in casual sympathy.
“There was also the matter of your archery,” someone suggested.
“It is a thing I still do not understand,” muttered Arrow-in-Oak disconsolately. “Never was I prepared to shoot better.”
The rest of the tribe went about performing daily chores, trying to keep their minds off the mystery that must now occur, in the mountains of home, within the hearts of two men. But it was difficult to concentrate. Most of the adults did well, losing themselves in the dull intricacies of labor; but on the field the children played with shrill agitation.
“Take them into the forest,” Teva ordered. “It is chokecherry time. Let them pick until their excitement is diminished.”
Gyva volunteered to go with them; she was uncomfortable in the village now, with almost everyone ignoring her. There were eight or nine boys and as many girls. Carrying wicker baskets, they followed her down along the river past the willows and the honeysuckle hedge, then across the shallow ford and into the trees beyond the grave of Four Bears.
Away from the river the earth swelled into gently rolling hills, covered with grass and bushes and small trees. There, in easy groves, were the delicate-looking but hardy chokecherry trees, hung heavily with the small black fruit. The berries were sweet yet dry (hence their name) and left a heavy aftertaste and a thirst for water. But the juice stained hard and was used in war paint. Gyva told the children to begin picking and sat down nearby to keep an eye on them.
An hour passed, perhaps a little more. The day was warm. She was drowsy. And there, in that dreamy state of half-sleep, she sensed it. The blood of hunters throbbed in her; the experience of a thousand ancestors nourished her wariness. The day was still as fine as it had been, and the children chattered, working happily; but Gyva sensed something alien and alarming in the chokecherry grove.
She did not move. As she had been taught so often, as she had done on the night Hawk and Little Swallow made love in the grass, Gyva swept the area with her eyes, taking everything in, missing nothing. There next to the edge of the grove, little Bright Badger was filling his basket with berries. He had wandered away from the others—not too far away, true, but he was definitely separated from them. Bright Badger was far from the cleverest boy in the tribe, a dull, stolid child who obeyed if he remembered what it was he had been told to do, but only if he remembered. Gyva was irritated with him, but at the same time she realized that it was not his carelessness that had caused her disquieting perception. Simultaneously she felt compelled to call him back to the others and to remain silent as well. For some buried reason she did not wish to give away the position in which she sat. Danger has its reasons.
The children were chattering and yelping.
The air was sweet and heavy. There was no breeze. Bees droned, and somewhere a snake slipped into a bed of wet leaves.
A moment passed, as quiet and natural as the day.
Then, unseen by the children but all too visible to Gyva, three men emerged from the underbrush. They moved stealthily, expertly, like men trained in ambush and attack. One of them—he had a great, red beard—seized Bright Badger, clamping a hand over the boy’s mouth. The basket was shaken from his hands, and chokecherries filled the air for a moment, like a swarm of black bees, until they fell onto the earth. Red Beard was dragging Bright Badger into the bushes; the other two men—white men—advanced upon the happy, unsuspecting children.
As Gyva realized that the men thought the children were all alone, she screamed. It was as blood-chilling a scream as any Chickasaw had ever let loose.
The children looked up, startled. She saw the fear upon their faces as clearly as she saw the surprise on the hard visages of the jackals.
The children screamed.
The white men turned and fled, still not having seen her, she later believed.
Then everything, as in a battle, was madness and chaos. Gyva did not think the white men would pursue, but she was not sure, and brought up the rear to protect the children as best she could. Helter-skelter, stumbling, falling, they raced back toward the village.
Gyva was proud of the children now. After an initial display of fear, they remembered what they had been taught: Never cry out while in
flight. Sink away into sanctuary or safety as water into the ground. They were not quite expert yet—too young for that—but the lesson had been learned. In minutes all of them, except for hapless little Badger, reached the outskirts of the village.
Gyva knew that her aid in saving the children could not make up for Bright Badger’s abduction while he was in her care, and she felt the weight of further disapprobation upon her head. How should she explain it? What would she say? Who would ever have suspected that the white men would come so close to the village? And why in heaven did they want to steal a child?
Ransom? The boy was not even related to the family of a chieftain. And all the Indians had to give was land. Blood sacrifice? Perhaps. She would put nothing past the white men. Their religion—she had heard once in shuddering horror—had something to do with the body and blood of a man dead for thousands of years! If that was truly what they believed, it was quite clear that the white jackals were capable of anything.
Gyva was trying to decide how to phrase the terrible news about Bright Badger when she saw a big crowd gathering at the opposite end of the village.
Had Hawk or Torch returned with a vision already?
Children raced to mothers or fathers, spreading the awful news of what had happened in the woods. Gyva ran to the crowd of villagers, saw dark concern and even alarm written on their faces. Had they learned of Red Beard already? She tried to push her way into the center of the group, where Arrow-in-Oak stood listening to two agitated braves who had just returned from a scouting party. In the absence of a designated chief, and due to his creditable participation in the manhood ritual, Arrow was serving as temporary tribal head until a true chief was chosen.
“It is a very large party,” one of the scouts was saying. “The men must number three full score, and women, children, animals—who could count how many!”
“They were skirting Lake Santeetlah, on the westward course for our homeland,” added the other. “As soon as we observed them, we made like the wind to bring this news.”
Arrow frowned.
“Please, I must get through,” Gyva tried, but most attention was directed toward Arrow. On the fringes of the crowd, however, some of the children had found their parents, and the name Bright Badger was repeated now and again.
“It is likely they wish to join the Harrisville settlement, if they are farmers,” Arrow-in-Oak surmised.
“In any case, it will be days before they reach our territory. We can wait and keep them under our eyes, to see what—”
“I have bad news,” Gyva managed, slipping through the crowd.
Somewhere one of the squaws keened in sudden anguish. Bright Badger’s mother.
Tell it fast, Gyva. “There were white men in the forest,” she blurted. “One of them took a child from under our very eyes…chokeberry picking…there was nothing I could—”
“Bright Badger has been abducted by the white men!” someone cried. “Let us arm ourselves!”
The suggestion was met with blood-chilling enthusiasm, and braves turned away to seek their bows and knives. Arrow-in-Oak still evaluating what the scouts had told him, called them back.
“Let us consider these things,” he ordered, his voice sharp and decisive. “How can we chase beneath the trees after a few men and one child when a jackal party of fearsome size bears down upon us from the east? Tell me,” he demanded of a scout, “were there soldiers with the party?”
“Armed men there were,” admitted a scout. “But no uniformed men with fire sticks.”
“And you, Gyva? The men you saw? What was their apparel and appearance?”
She told them there had been very little time to notice. Everything had happened within the space of an instant. The man with the red beard had seized Bright Badger, and—”
“A red beard?” exclaimed Arrow, disturbed. Many in the crowd murmured darkly, some of them with a kind of awe, all of them with hatred.
Gyva affirmed it.
“That is the chief of the white men. He is named Roo-Pert by them, and it is he who gave our Torch the name Firebrand. The incident will show you what kind of bad blood beats in his foul heart.
“It was the time of our first foray on the villas of Harris, and we had planned only to view it from without, and study the number and manner of its inhabitants. Torch, who led the party that day, had advised caution. But once we reached the village, we were observed, and one of the jackals turned his fire stick against us, alarming all the rest of their number. Hawk retaliated, as is his wont, and soon we were drawn into the fray.
“The Red Beard appeared then, one of the fiercest of their fighters, and killed several of our braves. Torch pursued him into a dwelling, but Red Beard, a man of incredible strength, threw upon him a blazing log from the hearth. Torch escaped, but the dwelling was set afire and destroyed. We did not learn until much later that this man Roo-Pert Harris told his fellows Torch had set the blaze, and so one of our own has been christened with a fearsome name and gold is offered for his head.”
A frightening idea came to Gyva. Perhaps this man Red Beard Roo-Pert had abducted Bright Badger in order to hold him hostage in exchange for Torch! Never, she thought—uncertainly. Much as her heart feared for the welfare of the boy, no such trade in flesh must ever be made.
“And they did disappear back into the forest?” Arrow-in-Oak demanded of her.
She nodded. The eyes of the villagers were hard upon her, and in almost all of the faces she saw reproach. She did not know what to do, how to react. Since the death of Four Bears, both the things she had done and the things she had not done seemed to show her for a troublemaker or a fool, her honorable intentions transformed as if by some dark magic into the mocking perfection of folly.
“What shall we do, Arrow?” the braves were asking. “Pursue the Red Beard, or attack the oncoming white party?”
“You might wait until we have a chieftain,” blurted Gyva before she could stop herself.
Bright Badger’s mother—a squat, formidable woman whose initial wail of woe had become a characteristically bitter stoicism—stepped up and pushed her wide face forward. “So? You counsel the tribe to wait, do you? Shall we wait just as you waited, seated upon the earth, while the jackals made away with my son? A maiden who finds her backside of use only to take ease or attract pleasure ought not to speak at all!”
Many were forced to hide crude laughter, hearing these words.
Arrow-in-Oak made his decision. “The white settlers must be moving toward Harrisville, to join the village. If they reach it, we shall be greatly outnumbered. Thus it is my belief that we shall attack the approaching party first. Later we can turn to deal with Red Beard.”
The eyes of Bright Badger’s mother followed him.
“Even a white man,” he told her, “would not make such effort to take one child, if killing were the only purpose. I believe your son will remain alive.”
The decision made, the braves hurried to get their weapons and mounts. The long-familiar sense of impending battle settled on the village once again. Gyva, her senses dulled by what had happened, and by the ridicule to which she had been subjected, looked around to see Swallow smiling wickedly at her.
“Why do you not go from us and join your people in Harrisville?” Swallow suggested. “You are no Indian. Hawk has told me that when he becomes chieftain, he will banish you forever from our tribe.”
There was no reason to doubt that Swallow was telling the truth, or that Hawk intended just such a thing. Thus ha would have his revenge; and no one, least of all Gyva, could do anything about it. But the prospect terrified her. The tribe, the village, these mountains—they were all she knew, everything she loved.
“I said you are no Chickasaw!” Swallow tried again, disappointed at not having received a response to her earlier thrust. “You will be cast out, never to come back.”
For once Gyva’s spirit failed her. Too many things had happened, too many worries bore down upon her.
“These are
my people,” she said quietly.
The fervor of her words conveyed a sincerity of belief so deep that even Little Swallow was silenced. She followed Gyva with wondering eyes as the wounded maiden walked away.
Chapter V
When the village came awake the following morning, Hawk stood waiting. Grave of mien, straight of back, even more confident of gaze than he had been, the warrior seemed in no doubt that he possessed the vision that would elevate him to power. When he was told that half the braves had gone on a war party against a train of white settlers, he replied: “I shall review all matters when I don the headdress and beads of Four Bears and his predecessors.” When informed of Bright Badger’s luckless fate, Hawk said, “Within this moon, the blood of the jackal shall be streaked like war paint on the face of the earth.”
His own hothead braves—those who had not gone, on the war party—stood a little apart from him now, and even Little Swallow did not approach. His bearing was that of one who has passed through fire, survived a great trial, and thus become more than a man. Hawk seemed to know that. The tribe sensed it. And so they kept their distance, waiting with increasing anticipation for Torch to return. The dream-visions must be told to the assembled tribe; the leader must be chosen.
All day Hawk stood motionless at the edge of the forest, taking neither nourishment nor water, although water would have been permitted him now. Once the gnarled witch-woman was seen to approach him, and brief words were exchanged; but no member of the tribe learned what they were. For her part Teva kept close to her wigwam. Gyva, who now-had the feeling that the earth had forsaken her utterly, had also intended to keep to her lodging, but the restlessness of despair could not be borne in silence. She left her wigwam and began to walk, avoiding Hawk, avoiding whomever she could. At length she found herself near the small lodge of the soothsayer.
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