Candace McCarthy (2 page)

 

Fireheart entered the wigwam silently, unwilling to disturb the ailing man who lay on the sleeping pallet. Beside him on a rush mat sat the man’s wife, Stormy Wind, embroidering a new set of moccasins. She rose when she saw Fireheart, as if waiting for him to come.

“Stormy Wind,” he greeted her as she approached him.

Their gazes locked, hers tired and sad, his worried. “He does not wake, does not eat,” she said gravely.

He gave a silent nod, and then Stormy Wind touched her nephew’s arm before leaving to allow Fireheart time alone with his uncle.

“How is he?” he asked the shaman who had remained, standing near the bed.

Raven Wing shook his head. “He sleeps uneasily.” He studied his chief with concern. “This man worries.”

A ball of tension formed in Fireheart’s gut. The sick man was his uncle, and he had loved him for his entire life. As Wild Squirrel’s health continued to fail, Fireheart felt an overwhelming fear.

Wild Squirrel was their leader,
sachem
of the Lenni Lenape. If the old man died, Fireheart would become the next
sachem.
It was destined to be, Fireheart knew, but he was in no hurry to become chief. He wanted his uncle to live long and prosper, and to be alive for the birth and marriage of Fireheart’s sons.

Raven Wing left the wigwam, leaving Fireheart alone with his uncle. Approaching the sleeping pallet, Fireheart studied the sick man.

“Be well, Grandfather,” he said, using the title of respect. “Fight your sickness and come back to us.” His eyes glistened as he bent his head and began to pray.

As if the Great Spirit were listening, the old man stirred, drawing Fireheart’s attention, at the moment he opened his eyes. The chief’s gaze cleared as he focused, and lit up when he saw Fireheart.

“Fireheart,” he rasped.

“Grandfather, it is good to see you awake. How are you feeling?” Fireheart could barely contain the rush of joy.

The old man grimaced as he shifted in bed. “I’m alive, but barely.”

Fireheart experienced alarm. “Shall I get Raven Wing?”

Sighing, Wild Squirrel closed his eyes. “No.” After several seconds, he opened them again. “We must speak.”

The young man nodded. “If you wish.” But he feared what his
sachem
would say.

“You are the son of my sister, Doe at Play,” the chief said. “When I leave this great white path, you will be
sachem.
”

“You must not talk of leaving—”

“I am an old man.”

“Maata,
you are not old, merely a man of experience. You have many years left as our leader.”

“If the Great Spirit wills it,” Wild Squirrel said.

“He must,” Fireheart said forcefully. “He must!” Wild Squirrel smiled faintly in acknowledgment of his nephew’s loyalty and love for him. “You are a good man, Fireheart. A wise choice for
sachem.
I could not have picked a better chief for our people.”

“Do not talk of me as chief!” Fireheart exclaimed, upset by the discussion. “You are chief! You are
sachem.
It is you our people need for wisdom and guidance.”

“Fireheart.” The
sachem
spoke quietly and with patience. “You must face the fact that someday I will pass from this life, and you will lead our people.”

“I know this,” the brave replied. “But the time is not now.”

“I grow weaker by the day.” The chief closed his eyes.

“Nay! You are awake. It is more than you did yesterday.”

“Aye,” Wild Squirrel admitted. “It is so.”

“Then let us not continue such talk. Let us speak of other things instead.”

“What shall we discuss?” the old man asked.

“I will tell you of Raining Sky and her latest antics.”

The chief’s eyes glowed at the mention of Fireheart’s cousin. “Ave.” A smile of amusement touched his lips. “Tell me what the girl is doing to make your life hard these days.”

But as Fireheart began to tell tales, Wild Squirrel slept again.

Memories assailed Joanna as she entered the Indian compound. A huge fire burned in the center square, and from the kettle hung over the flame came the delicious smell she’d detected while still in the forest.

Women and children came out of their lodges, eyeing the white people curiously, with a wariness that Joanna understood.

Young Indian maidens, each with their hair in two dark plaits, studied Joanna’s clothes and blonde hair shyly. A small Lenape baby was content in a cradleboard strapped to his mother’s back, perhaps steeping. Small toddlers with honey-brown skin played in the dirt, naked, while their mothers stood by protectively, staring at Joanna, her servants, and her guide.

Were they in the right village? she wondered. Was it possible that one of these maidens had been her friend?

She recalled one Lenape girl in particular—Little Blossom. Little Blossom had been Joanna’s confidante and closest friend.

As she waited for someone to approach them, Joanna studied her surroundings more closely. Some of the Lenape wigwams were domed while others were rectangular huts, all made of sticks and birch bark. Joanna was pleased as she recalled the pleasure of living inside. As she stared at one of the dome-shaped wigwams, she remembered how it felt to lie on her sleeping pallet in the warmth of a summer’s eve. As she pictured the onslaught of winter, she distinctly recalled how it felt to huddle inside near the fire to ward off the winter’s chill. Rising Bird used to tell stories as they sat by the warm fire, adventurous tales that had captured young Joanna’s attention and kept it riveted.

“Miss Neville,” Mortimer Grace’s voice drew Joanna from her memories.

She followed the direction of the guide’s gaze, and stiffened as she spied the approaching warrior. Everyone else had stepped back as if afraid to come closer.

“Talk with him,” Joanna whispered.

Mortimer nodded, then greeted the warrior. The Indian wore his hair in two long dark braids with a tuft of hair that stuck up at the crown of his head. A breechclout and moccasins were his only clothing. His chest was tattooed, and his ears were pierced with strips of leather for earrings. A beautifully embroidered belt was slung about the waist-string that held the fringed cloth covering his loins.

The men exchanged words in the Lenape tongue. They spoke so quickly that Joanna couldn’t follow them, and she wondered if she remembered how to speak the language. Aware of her servants standing in fear behind her, Joanna kept a respectful distance from the pair as Mortimer and the Indian continued their conversation.

“Dear heavens!” Cara exclaimed when she saw a bare-breasted Indian matron exit from a wigwam. “Don’t any of them have morals?”

Joanna turned to her personal maid with a smile. It hadn’t startled her that most of the women were bare-breasted. She had seen it before when she was a child.

“The Lenape see no shame in the female form,” she explained. “They are a proud people, surrounded by everything that they love.”

“You sound as if you’ve lived among them,” Harry commented.

She frowned as she remembered those early days. “I did,” she replied. “I lived here as a child, but my childhood seems like a distant memory.”

Where is Mary?
Joanna searched the sea of faces for one that looked familiar. Was her cousin among these people?

Where were Rising Bird and Wild Squirrel? What if they had come to the wrong village? What if the chief had died?

“Mr. Grace,” she said when the two men paused in their conversation.

The Lenape warrior focused his attention on her with a narrowed gaze. She stared back at him without intimidation.

“Did you speak about Wild Squirrel?” she asked.

“Aye, Miss Neville, I did,” Mortimer replied. “This is his village. They call it ‘Little River.’ ”

“I see,” Joanna said. The village might be in a different place, but it had the same name as when she’d been here last. The Indian frowned at her. “Ask him about Rising Bird.”

The tracker asked the question in Lenape.

The warrior’s brow cleared as he responded rapidly, nodding as he did so. He must have been telling Mortimer Rising Bird’s whereabouts for the Indian was gesturing with his arm toward the opposite side of the village.

“The warrior’s name is Turtle That Hops. He said to tell you that Rising Bird lives over there,” Mortimer said, pointing. “Nearer to the lake.”

Turtle That Hops.
Joanna tried to remember if she had known a brave by that name, but her memory didn’t serve her. She followed the direction of the tracker’s pointing hand with her gaze. “Tell him that I’d like to see Wild Squirrel before I visit Rising Bird.”

“The white woman wants to see your
sachem,”
Mortimer said in the Indian’s native tongue.

Turtle That Hops frowned. “Our
sachem
is ill. He cannot have visitors.”

Mortimer glanced at Joanna with an apology in his expression. “He said that Wild Squirrel is ill and cannot be disturbed.”

“Tell him I know this,” Joanna said with impatience. “Never mind. Let me try to talk with him myself.” She thought long and hard to find the Lenape word for “grandfather.”

“Nukuaa,”
she said, recalling the term for “father” instead.
“Nukuaa
...
Xan-eek-wh.
”

“What did you say to him?” Harry asked.

“I said “father” and “squirrel.” I wanted to say that Wild Squirrel was my grandfather, but I couldn’t remember the word for ‘grandfather’ or ‘wild.’ ”

“Your grandfather!” Cara exclaimed. “I didn’t know you had an Indian grandfather!”

“It is a title of affection or respect,” Mortimer said.

Cara blinked. “Oh.”

A woman exited the nearest wigwam, and froze when she saw the newcomers. “Joanna?” she gasped.

Joanna narrowed her gaze.
Mary.

Mary hurried forward to give Joanna a hug. She looked the same but slightly older, Joanna thought with dispassion. Dark hair worn pulled back at her nape, warm brown eyes, and the same sunny smile.

She didn’t return the embrace or smile after Mary released her. She gazed at the older woman as she would a stranger. She didn’t want to feel any love, any emotion at all. For the present, she was successful in tamping down her feelings.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Mary said with a waver to her voice. “You must have received my letter.”

“I did receive it. There wasn’t time for me to write back,” Joanna replied stiffly. “How is Wild Squirrel?”

“You haven’t seen him?”

“I’ve been trying to learn where he is.”

A grave look entered Mary’s expression. “He is ill and very weak. I am afraid for him.”

“May I see him?” Joanna felt a painful pang. Mary stared at her a moment before answering. “I will ask the shaman.” She started to leave.

Turtle That Hops followed her.

“Who is this woman?” he asked.

Mary halted. “It is Joanna—Autumn Wind. She has returned home to see our chief.”

“Little Autumn Wind?” The Lenape brave turned to eye Joanna with amazement. He recalled a young girl with hair like the golden sun and smiling eyes like the forest trees. “This woman is too sad to be Autumn Wind,” he said. He frowned. “She has changed.”

“Kihiila.
She has changed,” Mary agreed. “I pray to the Great Spirit that she will find her smile here in the village.” She looked back to find Joanna watching her intently. She gestured for her cousin to follow her. “Joanna! Come, and together we’ll see if Wild Squirrel can have visitors.”

Joanna hurried to catch up. As she accompanied Mary across the compound to the wigwam of the
sachem,
she continued to note the physical changes in her cousin. When she had left, Mary’s skin had been smoother, unlined. Now Joanna saw the effects of age . . . the small laugh lines near Mary’s eyes and mouth, the smattering of gray strands in her dark hair. But although age might have left its mark on her cousin, Mary still looked as beautiful as Joanna remembered.

Her cousin paused outside the wigwam doorway to glance at her. The tension between the two women was palpable. Joanna saw Mary’s struggle for something to say to smooth over the moment’s awkwardness. “Don’t be upset by how he looks,” she said finally. “He’s been sick a long time.”

Joanna swallowed against a lump in her throat as she nodded. She didn’t know what to say to her cousin. She had loved Mary like a sister, even a mother, certainly more than as just a cousin. But their separation had changed their relationship. Joanna couldn’t forget that it had been Mary who had sent her away, and she couldn’t forgive her cousin so easily for all the pain Mary had caused her.

The two women gazed at each other for several seconds in silence. When Joanna had nothing to say, Mary’s eyes took on a look of pain as she raised the wigwam’s door flap and stepped inside.

Following closely, Joanna entered the dark interior with a pounding heart. Her attention immediately went to the ailing man who lay on the sleeping platform, his form highlighted in golden light. There was a banked fire in the wigwam’s fire pit.

Joanna had recognized the old man as Wild Squirrel instantly although his illness had aged his features, which looked pale and drawn. The strong smiling
sachem,
who had patiently taught her how to use a knife, was a mere shadow of his former self.

Tears filled Joanna’s eyes as she approached his bedside. She became oblivious to everyone in the room but the man who lay on his bed, a man who had shown her only kindness and love when she was a little girl. Wild Squirrel was the loving grandfather that Joanna had never known. It was her affection for this man that had prevailed upon her to leave England and return to a place that she’d thought she’d never visit again.

The low murmur of voices drew Joanna’s gaze to Mary and a man.
The shaman,
Joanna thought. She frowned when the shaman turned briefly and flashed her a look of displeasure before presenting her with his back.

Mary and the man appeared to be arguing.
About me,
Joanna thought. Ready to defend her right to visit, she glared at the brave, willing him to turn her away. It was too dark to see much of anything but the honey-brown skin of the man’s naked back. Once her gaze fully focused in the dim interior of the wigwam, she was surprised by how muscular he was . . . his powerful back and arms and the muscled thickness of the back of his legs.

His dark hair fell past shoulders that were broad and as muscular as his arms and back. He was naked from the waist upward. He wore only a loincloth, and Joanna felt a flutter in her stomach as her gaze traveled down the back of his muscled calves.

The shaman’s sinewy body looked like it should belong to a warrior rather than to a holy medicine man.

Where were his medicine man’s tools? Joanna suddenly remembered another occasion when she had been living among the Lenape,, and there had been an ill child within the village. The boy had been the brother of her best friend, Little Blossom. Walking Dog had been sick with fever, and Little Blossom’s father had sent for the shaman. Joanna recalled the arrival of Raven Wing with his cloak of many colors, his turtle-shell rattles, and other implements of his position.

Raven Wing had chanted and sang, and worked his special magic on little Walking Dog. By the next afternoon Little Blossom’s brother was up and running about the compound, once again a young healthy boy.

Joanna had always been amazed and in awe of the shaman’s powers and ability to heal. She wondered now if it wasn’t simply Raven Wing who had won her admiration. She had yet to speak with this new shaman, but she already doubted his abilities.

The man turned then, and Joanna experienced a jolt as she became the focus of the shaman’s intense dark eyes. He gazed at her without kindness. She was startled by his animosity, wondering at its cause.

And then Mary drew her attention by speaking in English. “Joanna, the shaman is not here. Fireheart says that Raven Wing will return soon. I don’t see why you can’t visit with Wild Squirrel as long as you don’t disturb him while he sleeps.”

Joanna realized then that the man in the wigwam was not the village shaman. Apparently, Raven Wing was still the shaman.

Frowning, she studied the man before her. So this brave was called Fireheart, she realized. Who was he? And what right did he have to argue against her being here? Although Mary did not tell her of the reason for their argument, Joanna was certain that the subject was her and her desire to see Wild Squirrel.

To Joanna’s disconcertment, Fireheart scowled as he continued to study her. Unwilling to be intimidated, she glared back at him while wondering what it was about her that irritated him.

After several seconds of tension between them, Joanna dismissed the angry brave and returned her attention to Wild Squirrel. She remained conscious of the warrior’s presence as she went to the sachem’s bedside. Studying her beloved adopted grandfather, she began to pray.

She felt the tension in the wigwam ease and guessed that Fireheart had left. She glanced back and sighed. She was right. Fireheart had departed, and only Mary remained, silently studying the changes in her young cousin.

 

 

He had never expected to see her again. Fireheart left the wigwam for the forest where he could be alone to think. The appearance of Joanna—Autumn Wind—had startled him speechless. It had been many years since he had seen the golden-haired beauty. Then he had had a wild love for the young girl, but she had wanted nothing to do with him.

Joanna had had many admirers. She had seemed most taken with Broken Bow, the eldest of his group of friends. He himself had been the youngest. He had been known as Yellow Deer then, before he had become a warrior, earning his present name.