Scars of the Heart (15 page)

Tentatively she moved forward and took the soap from the woman. Bringing it to her nose, she confirmed its scent.
Lavender.
She closed her eyes for just a moment and found herself snuggled tightly in Momma’s embrace. They sat on the brocade davenport in the parlor, and Momma hummed sweetly as she rocked her darling child.

But Carly wasn’t in the parlor, and she wasn’t with Momma in Virginia. Her eyes snapped open to find the two women staring at her quizzically. With a tilt of her chin, she turned her back and stepped to the water’s edge, dropping the pelt behind her.

For as long as her escorts allowed, Carly lingered in the cool water. She sat with her back to the women—and whoever else might happen upon them—and lathered every inch of flesh, every strand of hair. Fragrant bubbles washed away dead skin the sun had baked, black soot from the livery fire, and any trace of Fletcher’s touch.

At their insistence, Carly rose from the pool and donned a dress similar to their own. Each was made of supple hide, golden brown in color, and knee length. She noted that hers lacked the fringe and bead adornments. Her escorts showed her how to wear the soft hide foot coverings and untangled her hair with a crudely fashioned comb. As they applied the soothing salve to her cracked lips and tender arms and face, Carly grew nervous. They were certainly preparing her for something . . . or someone.

A drum began to beat in the distance—a slow, steady lull that beckoned to Carly’s companions. The threesome followed the sound, joining streams of Indians funneling into one flowing body.

Uncertain of her fate, Carly trembled. She briefly considered running, as far and fast as she could before they struck her down. Yet pride dried her brimming tears and nipped at her heels, urging her on.

She searched the strange faces for Kade—to assure herself he’d survived or to plead for help; she wasn’t certain. He was not among the throng of people steadily making their way up a grassy knoll. And Carly realized none of these stoic, copper-skinned strangers gave her notice. They stared straight ahead, their faces neither curious nor condemning.

The procession halted and spread in a semicircle, but she couldn’t see what they surrounded. One of her companions took her by the arm and urged her forward. The drumbeat stopped, and someone began a mournful chant. Carly strained to see over the crowd.

A simple wooden structure stood stark against the pale blue sky. It resembled a table with long, thin legs. Beside it stood a horse. The black! Kade’s stallion! He appeared well rested and clean, his ebony coat glistening with blue highlights in the noonday sun. Carly searched the surrounding area. Kade must surely be nearby.

Several men moved around the animal. She noticed a sled of sorts strapped to his back. Long, slender poles hung from his shoulders and trailed away behind, supporting a hide bed. The Indians lifted a large bundle from the travois and carried it to the tall structure. Two of the men climbed crude ladders on each end and took the heavy burden as the others raised it above their heads.

Carly understood she was simply a spectator at this odd event, not the main attraction. But she still couldn’t locate Kade or understand what they were doing.

The sad song continued, and she studied the people around her. No emotion escaped any face. All stared straight ahead. She looked back to the odd structure.

Women now moved about the framework, placing branches and bundles of dry grass underneath. As Carly’s gaze traveled upward, she gasped. The bundle, silhouetted against the afternoon sky, was clearly a corpse wrapped tightly in thin hides. She followed the outline of the man’s face down the subtle contours of his torso and legs to the obvious angle of his feet.

As an ancient-looking man touched a burning torch to the pile of kindling, the black whinnied and shifted nervously. Tears blurred Carly’s vision, and her heart sank to her stomach. The hungry blaze crackled and popped, consuming the word that escaped her in the form of a groan.

“Kade.”

Much of the next few days passed in a fog for Carly. Under the direction of the two Indian women, she worked diligently from sunup to sundown. Every muscle in her body ached. Her hands were raw and sore. Exhausted to the point of collapsing, she fell to her pallet each night, sure she would drift into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Though the hard work kept her thoughts at bay during the day, Carly’s tired mind could not keep them from intruding at night. Her dreams were haunted with images—images of her mother and father, images of all her captors since her parents’ deaths, and, most disturbing, images of Kade.

She saw his eyes full of anger and determination as he fought to save her from Fletcher and Buck. She saw his unconscious form as he lay against her in the cave, burning with fever. She saw the fire that consumed his lifeless body only days before.

But always the bright flames of the blaze mellowed to form the copper planes of Kade’s face, and the black spiraling smoke became long strands of hair blowing in the breeze. Piercing ebony eyes beckoned to her, seeing through her and beyond.

She would awaken suddenly and check to see that the two women still slept. Her dreams left her shaken and kept sleep at arm’s length for hours. Often, unable to help herself, she’d cry, burying her face in the soft fur to keep from disturbing the others and drawing attention to herself. Tears fell for all she had lost, all she would never have.

This was to be Carly’s existence. She would live her days as a slave to these savages. Though constantly surrounded by people, she would be forever alone, neither understanding their language nor wanting to.

Sometimes, in the predawn hours, Carly pushed the self-pity aside and admitted her situation could be worse. She was not beaten or abused, though the labor was much harder than anything she’d ever attempted. She wasn’t tied up, but the women were never far away, and Carly had noticed large, stoic sentries all around the small camp. She was fed and clothed, even given the bar of lavender soap and a white woman’s calico dress. The latter filled her mind with questions to which she was afraid to guess the answers.

One morning dawned with a definite chill to the clear air. Though the sun burned brightly, it couldn’t scare autumn away forever. Carly breathed deeply, enjoying the clean feel of the day and the light glaze of frost on the grass. She turned as if to announce to someone that fall would be upon them soon. But there was no one to engage in polite small talk. Her moment of contentment shriveled under the thick cloud of despondency that settled about her once more.

After a hasty breakfast, her taskmasters set Carly to work scraping the heavy hide of an elk. One of the braves brought the buck into camp before the sun fully left the horizon. It had been but a matter of minutes before the women had the animal cleaned, sectioned, and distributed.

Everyone helped. Some of the women and older girls prepared the meat, either for roasting or for drying into strips of jerky. Others carried the large antlers and choice bones to the older men who would shape them into utensils, weapons, even sewing needles. The intestines and stomach became storage vessels for food and water. Carly had noted that some hides were treated on just one side, leaving the thick coat intact for protection against the harsh winter elements. However, her constant companions indicated she was to clean this pelt completely. After a brief demonstration and instructions she couldn’t understand, they left her to her work.

Sitting on the ground near the tepee, Carly struggled with the large piece of flint they’d given her, just as she continually struggled with this new way of life. She looked to where the others sat a few feet away, talking quietly while busy at their own tasks. Biting her lip, Carly refused to ask for their assistance. While they had been nothing but civil toward her, she didn’t doubt for a moment that if she couldn’t pull her own weight or became too much trouble, they’d kill her in the blink of an eye. Besides, she had somehow managed to accomplish every chore they’d given her thus far.

Turning her attention to the hide, Carly pulled it over the smooth, round rock between her legs and grabbed a fistful of black-brown hair. After adjusting the cool stone in her right hand, she attacked the skin with a vengeance. The razor-sharp edge of the flint careened into her left hand, efficiently scalping two knuckles.

Carly cried out in pain as she brought the wounded hand to her mouth.

“You do that wrong. Let me show you.”

Someone squatted beside her and reached for the stone.

“No, I can manage my—” Realizing the intruder spoke English, Carly glanced up quickly, her injury forgotten.

A petite Indian woman smiled brightly, sparking her dark eyes with dancing lights. She knelt beside the pelt. A single thick braid fell over her shoulder. She was small and compact, with a round face and tiny hands. An unmistakable warmth emanated from her.

“You speak my language?” Carly knew the question had already been answered, but she didn’t know what else to say.

The woman laughed lightly. “Yes, though I don’t get much practice. I am Little Bird. Black Hawk sent me to see how you are doing.”

“Black Hawk?” Because of the woman’s easy manner, Carly relaxed a bit, despite herself.

“My uncle. He thought you might grow weary of those two old clucks.” She nodded in the direction of Carly’s keepers.

They seemed not to hear or not to understand if they did hear. Little Bird laughed again and continued. “Black Hawk wished me to see you and sends his greeting. He will visit you in a few days.”

Carly had wondered if she would have an audience with the ominous chief. She’d caught a glimpse of him on two occasions. He seemed to be made of granite, never showing any expression on his chiseled face. He stood tall and proud. His voice was quiet, but it sent those about him scuttling off to do his bidding. It was obvious that all within the camp respected—or perhaps feared—him.

Just as Carly started to ask Little Bird about her uncle, a group of children ran past. They laughed at their game of chase and began circling the two women, kicking up a cloud of dust. Little Bird spoke harshly in her native language, although Carly noted the twinkle never left her eyes. The children stopped running and tried to appear chastised, but Carly realized they also knew they weren’t in serious trouble. They moved away quietly, then broke into a run again, their laughter echoing in their wake.

“I apologize.” Little Bird fanned the dust from her lap. “Sometimes children forget their manners.”

“It’s all right.” Carly giggled, thinking the wee ones’ good mood was infectious. She mimicked Little Bird’s actions to rid her dress of the dust. “Children are supposed to run and play. I’ve watched them these past few days. Are there no more? I always see just these few.”

The other woman’s mood darkened immediately, and Carly feared she’d said the wrong thing. Was it anger or sadness she saw in the black eyes?

Little Bird lowered her voice, though no one there would’ve understood her words. “Many others were killed last summer. Soldiers raided our village while the men were away on the hunt. Many of our women, children, and elders were slaughtered before we could escape.”

The soft-spoken words held little emotion, yet they tore at Carly’s heart. She’d heard such stories of random acts of violence by men sworn to honor and protect human life.  She hadn’t believed them to be until Kade relayed the events at Sand Creek, and now this.     

Somehow the soft words of this stranger touched her. Before, when the matter was distant and didn’t involve her, Carly found it easy to side with the soldiers’ stories. Yet now, sitting among the quiet, content people of this camp and looking at the solemn face of Little Bird, Carly knew the woman spoke the truth—or at least what she believed to be the truth.

A sense of loyalty surged. Perhaps the braves had done a little raiding of their own before setting off on their hunt. A nearby town? A wagon train? It was possible, Carly told herself. Then why, sitting there before a woman whose eyes held not a hint of judgment, did Carly suddenly feel guilty?

Little Bird broke the awkward silence as she added, “It is not our way to speak of the dead. They will not enjoy their new life if we continue to beckon to them from this one.”

That squelched Carly’s next question. She wanted to ask about Kade. Was he alive when they found him? Had he suffered before he died? Had he asked about her?

The air grew heavy with the oppressing thoughts. She straightened her back, determined to make up for the blunder of her words. “The children are delightful. I’ve enjoyed watching them.” Carly smiled at the woman and realized she’d spoken the truth. The youngest generation of the camp had offered her several hours of amusement as she observed their antics. Funny, she didn’t think of them as savages at all . . . just children.

Before Carly could analyze this sudden awareness, Little Bird once again reached for the piece of flint. This time, Carly let the woman take the stone. Patiently the Indian showed her how to hold the instrument, how it had in fact been carved so it would perfectly fit a woman’s hand. The mood lightened, and Carly caught on quickly, allowing herself a moment of pride as she scraped hair from the thick skin almost as deftly as Little Bird had.

Feeling someone watching them, Carly slowly raised her gaze to a stand of trees a few feet behind Little Bird. A small child, hidden among the thin trunks, stared out with large, round eyes. The other woman turned to see what held Carly’s attention. With a broad smile, she beckoned to the girl. The petite observer moved toward them timidly. She settled herself in the woman’s lap, never taking her gaze off the stranger’s face.

Little Bird smoothed silken black strands away from the girl’s wide eyes and smiled at Carly. “This is my daughter.” She hesitated, working through a thought. “You would call her Summer Song.”

The corners of the child’s mouth lifted in a shy grin as she burrowed farther back in her mother’s embrace. Carly couldn’t help but smile at her. She was the prettiest little thing Carly had ever seen. Her face was round with chubby cheeks and a button of a nose. Soft black tresses reached just to her shoulders and fell across her forehead, despite her mother’s grooming. Those incredible eyes surely captivated everyone who saw her. Carly thought she resembled a doll.