Wind Dancer (11 page)

As the wagon carrying Naomi and the girls faded into the long summer sun, Isabelle fell to her knees. She closed her eyes, a beggar's wail rising to the sky.

“Father!
Mon Dieu!
”

She stopped, her throat too tight to go on. A sob burst from her throat, but she stopped the next one. She breathed deep and long and paused, not knowing how to begin her plea. Words from the Psalms, words her mother had read aloud to her from the Bible rang through her mind. Her voice started out small. Started out unsure.

“You live above the circle of the earth,” she whispered, thick and heavy. “God of the sun and the stars, the mountains and the sea and all this glorious creation.” She paused, remembering the light in her death dream, remembering the love. She tilted her head toward heaven, felt her long hair fall back to pool in the grass, felt her throat exposed.

With growing faith she shouted to the heavens, “Turn your eyes toward me. See my desperation, my great need. Julian, my brother, is gone. Samuel, my friend, is missing.
From all appearances, evil has won this day. But you, O Lord, are mighty!” She began to cry, to break. “You, O God, are powerful.”

She thought more than said aloud the rest in quick staccato. “I need the wisdom of Solomon to track them. I need the strength of Samson to fight to regain them. I need the courage of David to approach the giant in this land. Clothe me with your power and might.” She leaned forward, her long hair a curtain around her grief. Then she whispered, “Let us win this day. Let … me win.”

Tears poured down her cheeks as she lifted her face toward the heavens. She sat still, in God's presence, basking in His love, knowing His power.

A warm wind rose and blew gently in her face, drying her tears. She stood, her knees strengthened, as though someone were holding her upright. Energy filled her. She turned toward the woods, mounting the borrowed horse that still carried the priest's old books. She didn't know which way to go, and yet she did. Somehow she knew.

* * *

SAMUEL WOKE TO the jostling of a horse. He was tied, his hands behind his back, his feet bound together, draped face down over the back of the animal, like a recent kill being taken to camp. His stomach heaved beneath him, making him think he might vomit or, worse, fall off. His head pounded where he had been struck down, but he saw no blood. He looked up to see that Quiet Fox rode just ahead, leading the horse Samuel lay on. He strained to take stock of the rest of the party, but there was no one else. Only the two of them.

Quiet Fox turned now, seeing that Samuel had regained consciousness. Black eyes, full of fury and satisfaction, locked on to Samuel's.

“Quiet Fox is a lie,” Samuel bit out.

“Yes,” the Indian smiled in agreement. “My name is Sunukkuhkau …
he who crushes
.” He said it as if he thought this to himself many times a day.

“Why were you with Isabelle and Julian Renoir?” Samuel demanded, mustering up as much dignity as he could from his position.

Sunukkuhkau shrugged. “I am often paid as a scout.”

“Then why did you desert them?”

The Indian said nothing, only dug his heels into the brown speckled pony he was riding. Samuel's head fell back against the jolting of the horse's belly while he contemplated his situation.

A shouting string of incomprehensible words rang out from behind them, causing Sunukkuhkau to slow and then stop. Samuel turned his head to see another Indian coming up behind them leading yet another horse. While the two Shawnee spoke, Samuel craned his neck to see Julian tied down to the fourth horse, much like he. He appeared to be unconscious, and blood dripped from a wound in his side onto the horse's spotted hide.

Samuel tried to retrace what had happened.

Julian had gone down first, then Isabelle, at the hands of this guide-turned-warrior. He could still see the Indian's crazed eyes watching him fall. He remembered the pain as it seared through his skull. The blow had been more forceful than someone of his size looked capable of, and Quiet Fox had fought them off easily. Samuel was amazed he was still alive.

Come to think of it,
why was
he alive? The raiding party had killed everyone else, hadn't they? Why take Julian and him captive? Was Isabelle dead too, lying in a bloody heap on the floor of the cabin? A deep wretchedness overwhelmed him at the thought. His mind replayed the blow to her head, her sliding, slow drop to the floor, her face becoming white and still. A fury filled him
anew. He had to somehow break free and get back to her. What if she was alive and needed him? Samuel searched his feelings, the intuition that always stayed him in any circumstance, but felt only blankness, a void. Yet he chose to believe she was alive. Until he held Isabelle's body in his arms, he would believe nothing else.

Sunukkuhkau was watching him, allowing his horse to slow so that he could engage Samuel. When Samuel looked into his eyes, he wished he hadn't. The triumphant stare, filled with a sightless, single-minded malevolence, swept through Samuel's weakened body, making him shake inside. This was not like looking into the face of death; this was looking into the face of hell. And it was more terrifying than anything Samuel had yet experienced.

“Where is Isabelle?” he demanded, his voice weak and rasping. “Where is the woman?”

Sunukkuhkau looked troubled, kicking his horse into a faster gait. “Dead,” he said simply, and Samuel got the distinct impression that the final blow hadn't been meant to kill her, that they had wanted her too. He let his head fall back against the horse's flank, watching the blur of woodland grass and trying to breathe, trying to still the tremors within.

They rode like this for another hour, Samuel fading in and out of consciousness but careful not to look back up, careful to focus his scattered thoughts on things solid, such as the horse's hide against his cheek, a stone or leaf passing by on the ground below, pretending he was somewhere else and that his sanity was not on the verge of forsaking him.

Finally the jostling stopped. Samuel saw they had arrived at a Shawnee camp. The encampment was small, with wigwams in neat rows, campfires burning with the smells of cooking meat, and dogs roaming the dirt path.

Men, women, and children emerged from the shelters and walked toward them, cautiously at first. Then Sunukkuhkau flung Samuel from the back of his horse, and their audience broke out in laughter as he landed, face first, in the dirt. His lips and face were covered with a fine film of dust, his head throbbing. Samuel took a couple of deep breaths, spitting out the dirt and turning his head toward the growing crowd. He watched as Julian was similarly thrown from his horse, landing on his back with a deep groan, slowly becoming conscious.

The Indians drew closer as Julian kicked out in a panic, crying out, “What is this?”

Samuel watched in utter rage as his captor kicked Julian in the side, saying something in their language that Samuel didn't understand but which brought a cheer from the spectators.

Julian had begun to sob.

Samuel shouted over to him, hoping to turn the crowd's malevolent attention toward him. “I'm here, Julian.”

Julian's head jerked toward Samuel, his face marked with terror and relief and tears.

The ploy worked. Samuel's captor grasped him by the shoulders and heaved him up, like a prize won at the fair. He was pushed toward the crowd, Sunukkuhkau saying in a loud voice, “Long Knife! Behold the Glorious One of the Long Knives!”

Samuel recognized the name he had been given by the tribal chiefs.

The spectators grew more excited, talking at once, raising their arms with shrill yelps, celebration on their faces.

Samuel was shoved forward, falling in the dirt again, while another, younger brave was directed to untie his feet. Samuel waited, telling himself to be patient and not provoke them. There would be a chance of escape—he had nothing else but to believe it with all his heart.

He was hauled up again, seeing that Julian's feet were also now untied. They were pushed together as the Indians placed leashes about their throats and led them in a triumphal parade through the camp, the people falling in behind them, shouting and whooping in victory.

Then Samuel felt a sharp pain as a walnut-sized rock hit him in the chest, heard laughter as he jerked in reaction, then saw others, mostly women and children, stooping in glee to pick up rocks. He and Julian held their bound arms up to cover their faces and heads as best they could as rocks of all sizes pelted them. A large one caught Samuel on the cheek, and he felt a fresh trickle of blood down the side of his face. Yelling over to Julian, who looked ready to collapse, he shouted, “Get behind me!”

Julian scrambled to obey.

This didn't please the crowd, but they seemed to tire of the sport and soon threw down their rocks. They grew silent and stared as one at the pair. Almost tangible malice carried across the air and wrapped Julian and Samuel in a suffocating blanket.

“Stand strong, Julian. They despise weakness. Stand strong.”

Julian quaked at his back but nodded and adjusted his stance, trying to put on a brave face.

With little but strength of will, they held their terror at bay.

Samuel's captor began speaking again. Samuel knew many native tongues, but Shawnee was foreign to him, so he listened instead to the pitch and cadence of Sunukkuhkau's words, hoping to find some clue as to his intent. The Indian seemed to be reciting something, some chant or story, as they often did. Like a play, the speaker built the anticipation of his audience to a hot fever. As he reached the climax, his words took on more strength, growing louder and more boastful. Hardened warriors, hard-eyed women, and gleeful children all chanted back to him, then whooped again
in victory, the sound sending fresh tremors through the young man at Samuel's back.

“What are they saying?” Julian whispered.

“I don't know. But they think they have a prize. They've won something this day.”

“Why would they want
us
? Why didn't they just leave us to die?”

“I don't know. I've been asking myself the same. We will have to wait for events to unfold. Brace yourself with everything you've got, Julian. It will not be easy.”

Next he knew, Samuel was bludgeoned again with a war club. Then he felt nothing. Then he saw nothing.

The woods were fast growing dark. Isabelle reined in the borrowed horse, a fine specimen that responded to her gentle guidance with the ease of long association. She dismounted, leading the horse to the sounds of water trickling over rocks. It was small, this stream she'd found, but it would suffice. Letting the horse look after its own sustenance, she kneeled by the water, scooping up handfuls to her face, first to drink and then to cool and cleanse her dusty skin. She scrubbed at the dried blood on her cheek, then carefully probed the gash, cleaning it the best she could. If she were in town, she would get stitched up by the doctor; but as that was not an option, she could only pray for a miraculous closing and healing of the wound. She had been talking with God constantly since departing the battle-razed clearing.

And her prayers thus far had been answered. She'd quickly found the prints of four horses leading away from the massacre. The riders had made no attempt to cover their tracks, which made Isabelle suspicious and cautious of a trap; but after two hours of solid riding, the woods growing deeper and darker, her progress
had been uncontested. Yet the trail remained clear—broken twigs, roughened bark, and best of all, hoof prints in the soft soil of the forest floor, where moss and grass grew only in patches as sunlight found its way through the dense foliage to give them life.

Now she had to consider whether to stop and camp for the night. It was too dark to see anything, and she was loath to make a torch that would draw the attention of who knew what. She appraised her condition and the cover provided by her current location. She wasn't tired. She wasn't hungry. And now that her thirst had been slaked, she wanted nothing more than to go on.

“What think you, Samoa?” She had named the horse, temporarily at least, because she hadn't the heart to call it Horse. Samoa looked at her with intelligent eyes, as if considering the question. Smiling, Isabelle moved to a stand of trees just up from the creek and sat back against a tree trunk, picking burrs and nettles from her skirt. She leaned her head back against the trunk and closed her eyes. It would only waste time to try and track them in the dark. She would wait for first light.

As she drifted into a light sleep, images flashed through Isabelle's mind. A watery grave. Someone pulling at her feet. Then she saw a man, the sharp angular lines of his face changing into something bright on one side and dark on the other. He fought with a spirit that reminded her of herself when she danced in worship, only he moved with malevolent violence. She dreamed that the two of them floated above the ground, fighting as if underwater, eye to eye, hand to hand, neither giving the other a chance for a death strike, equally matched forces. He leaned into her face, eyes wild, so close she could feel his breath across her skin, like that of a dog panting. Then his face changed into that of the wolf she had killed by the river. She wavered only a moment. Then the wolf snarled and leapt at her throat.

Isabelle gasped awake, fear rushing over the surface of her
skin, raising gooseflesh, her breath rasping in her chest. Who was this fiend? Why did he want to kill her so badly?

A hissing rattle sounded immediately behind her.

She leapt to her feet, fear pounding in her like a battering ram, and ran from the tree toward the clearing and the water. “What was that?”

The moon had risen. She crouched, shivering in its pale, cold light. She backed up to a small ledge that overlooked the stream, legs braced, expecting an attack, trying to see through the darkness. A sudden breeze tossed her long, tangled hair back from her face. “What is it? Show me what it is.”

Isabelle threw back her head and threw her arms out wide. “I want to kill him. I know it's wrong and … forgive me, but I want his life. Give me his life.”

She heard nothing but the gentle wind blowing through the trees.

Clicking to the horse, she mounted. It no longer mattered that it was dark. Something beyond her eyes and ears was guiding her. She decided to trust it, determined that nothing would cause her to let it go. Speaking softly to Samoa, she headed back into the woods.

The horse, too, seemed to sense some kind of supernatural guidance. She easily sidestepped fallen branches and thick patches of stinging nettle. She turned, and Isabelle had a shaft of doubt, wondering if they shouldn't go around a grouping of bushes the other way. As she stopped, searching her feelings, an owl hooted off to the left. She grinned, turning Samoa toward the bird, then seeing in the faint moonlight the recently broken branches of a tree going that way. It was as if evil was all around them but could not touch them. She rode in the moonlight like water sliding through the grooves of a streambed—such was their path, laid out before them.

* * *

SAMUEL CAME TO with a strangled gasp as a strong, stinging smell engulfed him. He struggled to breathe, realizing as he rose to consciousness that a wet rag was being pressed over his nose and mouth. The sucked-in air stung as it made its way down into his lungs, causing them to spasm, giving him a moment's panic as he wondered if he was to rise to consciousness only to die now.

Then, behind closed eyes, he saw a vision of Isabelle's face. Saw her on a brown horse. Saw her coming to them.

She was alive.

Turning his head, he fought, kicking, rising up, jabbing with his shoulder. He heard a grunt of pain as his shoulder struck something solid, the rag suddenly gone. Taking great gulps of fresh air, Samuel's eyes opened and blazed with anger at his captor. A stout Indian woman glared back at him as she backed away. She threw the rag into the fire, where it quickly caught, turning bright blue with a sudden blaze, soon engulfed by the whole.

Samuel spit the evil taste from his mouth.

“Water,” he demanded, looking hard at the woman.

She considered him for a moment, then acquiesced. She turned away, coming back with a hollowed-out gourd.

His hands were still tied behind his back, so the woman set the edge of the gourd on his lower lip and tilted it up. Water trickled down his chin. Samuel gulped down as much as he could before she took it away. The woman smiled, showing a gap-toothed grin, as if his earlier attack had pleased instead of riled her.

Samuel struggled to adjust his sitting position, swinging his legs toward the edge of the sleeping pallet. He rolled his neck and shoulders, trying to lessen the ache in his muscles.

“Your name?” he said to the woman.

The woman shook her head, not understanding.

Samuel gestured to himself with his chin. “Samuel.” Then he jutted his chin toward her. “You?”

The woman's face broke into a smile, pleased she understood. “Chinkachook.”

Samuel nodded gravely, relishing this small success. If he could keep any kind of upper hand with the enemy, he could win. He tilted his head to the side and swung his hands out from behind his back as far as he could, gesturing. “Untie?”

The woman comprehended immediately, shook her head no and scowled as if to say,
Do you think me a fool?
Samuel couldn't help but acknowledge that it was a ridiculous request. Sighing, he settled for another. “Food? Eat?” He imitated chewing with his mouth, thinking that he had to keep her focused on sustenance, something women everywhere knew womb-deep.

The woman nodded and brought out a bowl of what looked like corn mush. Samuel made himself swallow as fast as she ladled it into his mouth, knowing any food would bolster his strength.

Sunukkuhkau stepped into the wigwam midway through the bowl, causing the woman to shrink back and avert her eyes. “Get up,” he demanded in thick English.

Samuel glared at him from under scowling brows. But he obeyed, scooting to the edge of the pallet, shifting his weight to his feet, then struggling to gain his balance.

“Why didn't you kill us when you had the chance?”

The Indian smiled, spreading his lips over straight teeth. “I want the honor of your death, Glorious One of the Long Knives.”

Samuel scoffed. “Let Julian go. He is only a traveler on an errand. He is nothing to you.”

Sunukkuhkau reached for Samuel's arm and jerked him toward the door. “I wanted the woman. I will settle for the brother.”