Shawnee Bride (9 page)

Abruptly the chanting ended. Clarissa waited in the silence, trembling as she wondered what would happen next. She did not have to wonder long. Like the sudden bursting of a rock slide, all the women scrambled to their
feet and rushed toward her. Whooping and shrilling, they swarmed around her and began pushing her in a mass toward the door at the far end of the hall.

They were taking her outside. Painted, naked and blazing with humiliation.
They were taking her outside!

Clarissa’s hard-won composure nearly broke as they passed through the doorway and into the blinding sunlight. It was one thing to stand naked before a group of women. But before the entire village—this was too much to demand of her. “No!” she gasped, resisting for the first time. “I can’t do this!”

“It will be all right,” White Moon whispered, close to her ear. “See, the women will stay all around you. No man will see what he should not. This is one of the lessons you must learn today—that Shawnee women stand together and protect one another.”

And so it was as the women’s chief had said. Clarissa passed through the village, concealed in her nakedness by the throng of women who surrounded her. For a moment she glimpsed Wolf Heart’s face above the crowdboth of them being taller than most Shawnee. In the brief meeting of their eyes, she read his concern, and she realized how much he had worried about her acceptance of this strange ritual.

Lifting her chin, she forced her paint-smeared features into a brave smile. His gaze softened with love, and in the next instant the swarm of women had swept her away from him, moving swiftly downhill toward the bank of the river.

They skirted the garden plots where corn, beans and squash sprouted in hills of rich river-silt. Clarissa could feel the earth under her feet growing damp, then wet. The women were in high spirits now. When one stately matron began to sing, the others joined in, matching their
steps to the chant as they marched Clarissa hip deep into the chilly water. There, still laughing and chanting, they began to scrub away the paint that covered her skin.

There was nothing gentle about the scrubbing. The women used wadded grass, weeds, even sand to scour every inch of her painted flesh. “We will scrub away all the white in you!” the women’s chief laughed as she attacked Clarissa’s back with a piece of woven rush matting. “What is left will be all Shawnee!”

Clarissa clenched her teeth against the sting of her abraded skin, knowing it would disgrace her to show pain. The women laughed and sang as they scrubbed, taking so much time that it was all she could do to keep from screaming, breaking loose from them, plunging out of the river and running for the woods. Where were her clothes? Ruined, to be sure. What on earth was she supposed to wear?

At last, mercifully, the torture ended. Clarissa was dunked beneath the flowing water to remove the last traces of the paint. Then, as the women whooped and sang, she waded out of the river, as pink and raw as a newborn baby.

The sun was warm but the river breeze still carried a whisper of spring chill. By the time she reached the bank, her teeth were chattering and her stinging flesh had puckered into goose bumps. She did not feel Shawnee. She only felt sore and wet and cold. Even when White Moon stepped forward with an enfolding blanket she could not stop shivering.

The two young girls, Red Fawn and Laughing Bird pressed close and began to comb the tangles from Clarissa’s hair. From where she stood, bundled in the blanket, she could see Swan Feather sitting on a flat rock above the level of the wetness, her gnarled brown hands
clutching a thick bundle. White Moon strode up the bank, took the bundle from her and brought it back to Clarissa.

“This is for you,” she said, smiling. “Many hands helped in the making of it, even your own.”

Puzzled, Clarissa unrolled the bundle, only to gasp in astonishment as it fell open in her hands to reveal a long fringed tunic of the softest white buckskin, decorated around the neck with an elegantly simple pattern worked in quills and tiny glass trade beads. There were leggings, as well, and a pair of beautiful new moccasins, exactly the size of her own feet.

She clutched the gift, overcome by its beauty and the generosity of the givers. Only then, as her fingers caressed the baby-soft buckskin, was she struck by something the women’s chief had told her.

“Such fine work is beyond the skill of my hands,” she said cautiously, not wishing to offend. “I took no part in making these things.”

“Oh, but you are wrong!” White Moon’s black eyes sparkled. “It was you who flensed and scraped the hides! You did the hardest work of all!”

Clarissa’s throat hardened as she stared down at the exquisitely worked garments. Those deer hides! Those hateful, awful, smelly deer hides! If only she had known what they would become! Tears blurred her vision and, for a moment, she all but lost the power to speak.

“Put your new clothes on,” White Moon said gently. “We need to finish this and get back to preparing the feast.”

Laughing, the women helped Clarissa dress. The supple deerskin slipped over her body to hang lightly in place, giving her full freedom of movement—freedom to run, to ride, to work, to dance.

When everything was in place, they led her up the
bank to where Swan Feather sat. A reverent hush had fallen over the group of women. This, Clarissa sensed, would be the most important part of the ceremony, the part that would make her fully Shawnee.

White Moon spoke. “Swan Feather, we have prepared your daughter. Will you accept her?”

Swan Feather rose to her feet. Her shriveled brown face betrayed no emotion.
My mother,
Clarissa thought, and the very notion seemed unreal, like something from a strange dream. She could scarcely remember her own mother except that she had been delicate and pretty and always smelled of rose water. How could it be possible that this gruff, unkempt old woman had assumed her place?

This old woman who claimed to love her?

Swan Feather’s mouth worked. Then she cleared her throat noisily and spat into the grass. “Does my daughter have a name?” she asked.

“We have chosen her name together.” White Moon glanced at the matrons who stood on either side of her. “Her hair is the color of the red fox’s coat, and her movements are swift and graceful. Your daughter shall be called Dancing Fox.”

“We-sah.
It is good.” Swan Feather nodded curtly, signifying her acceptance. Clarissa waited awkwardly, wondering what to do next. Should she embrace the old woman? Should she speak? Take her hand?

Silence hung in the air as the two of them, mother and daughter, faced each other, Clarissa tense and expectant, Swan Feather as impassive as a weathered gray stump. Then, as if nothing of importance had happened, the old woman turned aside. “The food will burn,” she said. “We should return to the cooking.”

Chattering like a flock of blackbirds, the women swept
up the bank, all of them intent on returning to their work. No one chided Clarissa when she tarried on the riverbank, staring out at the roiling greenish water while she turned the new name over in her mind.
Dancing Fox.
She liked the graceful sound of it. Still it seemed a strange fit, like a new pair of slippers that pinched. If the truth be told, everything that had happened today seemed a strange fit.

She was a Shawnee now. Why didn’t she feel Shawnee? What was wrong with her?

The morning breeze was cool on her damp skin. She clasped her arms across her breasts, her hand touching the beautiful quillwork on the deerskin tunic the women had made for her. Everything would be all right, she reassured herself. In time, the confusion would disappear. She would feel at home with these blunt-spoken, openhearted people. She would be one of them. She would belong.

“So it’s Dancing Fox now.” Wolf Heart’s voice, coming from behind her, sent a thrill of response through her body. She turned to see him striding down the bank, so tall and splendid that the very sight of him made her throat ache.

Only as he gathered her into his arms did she realize he had spoken to her not in English but in Shawnee.

For the space of a breath she stiffened against him. Then, resolving to let it pass, she lifted her face and surrendered, melting into him, pressing close until she was dizzy with desire. Here was belonging, all she could ever want.

He held her close for a long moment. Then, laughing, he eased her away from him. “Behave yourself,” he teased, “you’re liable to start a forest fire.”

“So?”

“Many people come here. Someone could be watching us.”

“Would that be so bad?” She answered in Shawnee to please him. “I don’t care if the whole world knows how much I want you!”

“Some things are best saved for when people are alone.” He took her hand before she could pout, tugging her gently but firmly toward the path that trailed along the riverbank. Clarissa allowed him to lead her, but she felt her spirits darkening with each step. She had thought everything m her life would fall into place when she became Shawnee. But nothing was as she’d expected. Not even Wolf Heart.

They rounded a bend in the river where willows trailed graceful branches in the current, concealing the spot where they stood. Here, at last, he stopped, turned and gathered her into his arms again. She sank against him, feeling dispirited, needing refuge.

“So where is that forest fire now?” he teased, his lips nibbling a light trail along her hairline. “Has it burned out so soon?”

Clarissa shook her head, a storm of emotions churning inside her.

“What is it?” He curled a forefinger under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes were so blue they almost broke her heart. Biting back a little sob of frustration, she edged away from him until they were a step apart.

“Look at me,” she demanded in English. “What do you see?”

His gaze swept over her, then his eyes narrowed beneath the black ridges of his brows. “I see beauty,” he answered softly. “I see courage and love. And much as I would wish to deny it, I see unhappiness.”

She stood her ground, resisting the urge to crumple into his arms again. “But do you see a Shawnee?” she pressed him. “Apart from the clothes, do you see a different person than the woman you saw yesterday?”

“Clarissa—” He broke off, then stared at her in dismay, realizing that his unwitting use of her Christian name had answered her question. Reaching out with both arms, he caught her shoulders and gathered her close again, cradling her against his chest. “Don’t be so impatient with yourself,” he murmured, his lips moving against her temple. “Today was only a beginning, like the birth and naming of a child. To grow, to learn, that will take time. Everyone understands that—everyone, it seems, but you. Swan Feather says—”

“You’re patronizing me now!” She twisted away from him. “And Swan Feather has said nothing to me! Even after the ceremony, when she’d just become my mother, she simply stood there! Then she turned away and muttered something about getting back to the food! I was afraid I’d done something to offend her-”

“You’ve done nothing to offend anyone.” His hands captured her shoulders yet again, turning her forcefully toward the riverbank this time so that she stood in the circle of his arms, her back not quite touching his chest. She stood in rigid silence, gazing out at the play of sunlight on the water, its brightness hurting her eyes.

“Shawnee are trained from birth not to show emotion,” he said, speaking English now so she would understand every word. “It begins as a matter of survivalone crying baby can alert an enemy and bring on the death of a whole camp. As children grow, they learn that to show pain is weakness. A warrior does not flinch. A woman will bite on a stick of wood or a leather knife sheath to keep from crying out in childbirth-”

“But Shawnee laugh,” Clarissa interrupted for the sake of argument. “I’ve certainly heard them.”

“Yes, and they grieve, too, but at the proper time, in the proper way. And lovers embrace—that, too, you know—but only when they are alone, if they want to be well thought of. Private behavior in front of others shows disrespect.”

Clarissa examined his words, her mind turning them like a curious pebble as she struggled to understand. “And Swan Feather?” she finally asked.

“As you come to know her, you’ll learn that Swan Feather feels things deeply. But her way of showing what she feels—” He groped for the right choice of words. “It’s the only way she knows.”

Clarissa fingered her soft deerskin tunic, remembering the gift, remembering the lessons in the meadow, the infinite patience. Yes, she told herself, things would come right—she would come right—in time. She could not expect a simple scrubbing to make her into a Shawnee. But she could learn. For Wolf Heart’s sake, she
would
learn.

“Tell me about the dance tonight,” she said bnghtly, changing the subject. “I’ve never seen Shawnee dance. I take it they don’t do jigs and reels?”

He laughed then, clearly relieved that the storm had passed. “We dance with our feet and our hearts,” he said, “and the drums are more exciting than any fiddle music you ever heard.”

“But what happens in the dance? Do you have partners? Do the men and women dance with each other?”

Again he laughed, softly this time, his breath tickling her hair. “After a fashion. The women dance in a circle, facing the fire. The men dance behind them, in a bigger circle. If a man takes a woman’s hands, they dance together.”

“Will you be dancing? Will I get to watch?”

“Watch!” His arms swung her around, hard against him. “You’re not going to watch! You are Dancing Fox, and you’re going to dance tonight like a proper Shawnee maiden!”

“I’m hardly any kind of maiden, let alone proper,” she demurred, delighted by the rise of color in his cheeks. “Besides, I don’t know how to dance!”

“They don’t dance in Baltimore?” he teased.

“Not around a fire, and not to drums.” She flung back her damp hair, feeling suddenly bold and reckless. “Teach me!” she demanded.

“It’s easy!” He moved to one side of her and began a shuffling toe-heel motion, chanting under his breath to keep the rhythm. Clarissa followed him awkwardly, struggling to imitate the slight bend of the knee, the twobeat striking of the feet, thinking how splendidly savage he would look dancing in the darkness with firelight gleaming on his golden skin. Desire fluttered in the depths of her body as she brushed against him. Merciful heaven, how she wanted this man! If he so much as looked at her, she would melt like hot tallow!