Somewhere to Dream (Berkley Sensation) (3 page)

CHAPTER
3

Moving Onward

I didn’t have much choice but to move on, move ahead. The world around me showed no signs of slowing. Maggie stepped right into the Cherokee world without a backward glance, which was how she always did things. I didn’t think there’d ever be much to add to my life, since it no longer got either bright or dark after that one eternal day I refused to remember. But I did what I could. I let the Cherokee voices and songs, the smells and sounds of the village, soothe my pains and bind a tentative wrapping over my wounds. I tried to be happy. I tried to understand them and my place among them.

The Cherokee were a generous, loving people. Their world was all about family. The entire tribe was one big family, and now Maggie and I were a part of it. The People lived at peace with Mother Earth, offering prayers of thanks before hunting, before eating, offering songs of praise for just about any event. Their closeness was almost smothering at times, their connections to each other unquestionable and impossible to break, should anyone ever wish to try. Their bond seemed even stronger than familial love. It went blood deep, as if being connected to each other was vital to their existence. Their children laughed together, cried with whichever parents they chose. They were all one.

But they were also a cruel, vicious people. Any hint of threat to their families or to their pride was punished without mercy. When white settlers began multiplying, their farms spreading like a stain across the Keowee Valley, the Cherokee wanted them to go back to their homelands. Of course, the settlers had no intention of leaving. They had discovered a harsh but fertile land where, given a lot of hard work, they might someday prosper. They spoke of sharing with the native people, of staying separate from the Indians yet still reaping the benefits of the land, but it was not to be. The two worlds could never coincide in a state of peace. The white folks considered the Cherokee to be little more than barbarians and treated them as such. The Cherokee saw the settlers as unwanted vermin who showed no respect for Mother Earth and had to be exterminated.

Among the men in the tribe, there were constant grumblings about the whites, complaints hissed through bared teeth as they worked themselves into a froth. The elders held out hope of living in peace with these strange pale people, but the warriors saw the truth. They were adamant: get rid of them before they get rid of us.

They sent out scouts, who studied the timber homes from a distance, watching the comings and goings, learning what they could about the enemy. Every day they crept closer, surrounding the oblivious settlers like coyotes around a dog. Eventually they were spotted, and the white men gathered, raising hysteria levels and planning their defence. When the first rifle shot cracked through the air, it echoed for miles. It also killed a careless Cherokee youth who had been keen on getting as close as he could, answering a dare from his friends. That was when it started, the back-and-forth killings. The Cherokee, given a perfect excuse to release their fury, did exactly that, enthusiastically burning and slaughtering. Once the bloodletting began, the frenzy spread, and fighting wasn’t reserved for white people. The strange-looking Choctaw, with their flattened brows, were always spoiling for a fight. They attacked our village frequently, and as a result they were punished accordingly, again and again.

Neither Maggie nor I ever went on any of the raids. Few of the women did. But I saw the warriors return, blood-streaked and burned by gunpowder, eyes gleaming with ghoulish delight as they described the battles. I watched the warriors march captive men back to the village one day after a raid, and I asked Kokila what had become of their families. She told me the women and children were usually left behind in their still-smoking homes, believing their menfolk were as good as dead. The thought reminded me of when my father had died. My mother and sisters and I had been left on our own, faced with the daunting prospect of living without a male provider. I pitied the widows and wondered if their fates might be worse than those of the men. That was my initial thought.

I had been wrong. Had there been any sort of competition regarding who would suffer more, the prize went to the captive men. Some were kept as slaves, treated little better than dogs, but some were doomed to another fate. Sickly green with terror, drenched in sweat and fear, the prisoners were led into the centre of the village. There they were surrounded by shrieking dancers whose painted faces only added to the confusion.

For a few days after that, captives were kept in solitary confinement, fed small bits of food, and ignored, for the most part, by everyone. I understood and hated the reason for this confinement. They wanted their victims to be paralyzed with fear by the time they were punished for their pale-skinned existence. The Cherokees’ skill at instilling terror was unmatched. If the captives fell into an uneasy sleep, one of the women dashed in, screeching unintelligible threats, poking their wounded bodies with sticks or slapping their faces with open hands. If anyone dared attempt an escape, they were stripped naked, bound to a pole in the centre of the village, and flogged to the bone for the crime of fearing for their lives.

After the first time, I could never again be witness to the Cherokees’ idea of destroying their enemies. The man I saw tortured was old enough to be my father. After two days of near starvation, he was forced to run between two lines of tribespeople, all of whom swung their weapons of choice. They beat him mercilessly, slamming his head with clubs, whipping the backs of his knees so he fell and had to struggle back to his feet. He ran desperately, stumbling toward what he would have prayed was a safe haven.

He survived, but only because it was part of the ritual. The Cherokee believed the greater the torture they inflicted, the greater the honour to their ancestors. They needed their victim to be alive when they tied him to a stake and danced around him, hurling obscenities he couldn’t understand, whipping him with branches, using tomahawks to shear skin off his legs and stomach.

The tribe, the people I knew as caring, loving individuals, who had nursed me back to health with the same care a mother would use tending an infant, cheered and sang as the man’s fingernails were torn off. When the screams weakened, the warriors were handed long splinters of pine about a foot and a half long. One end was sharpened. The warriors used what was left of the man’s tortured body as a target, and when the pieces of wood stuck out of him like quills on all sides, they lit them. The man still breathed as his flesh roasted, his heart still beat as they hacked into him with tomahawks, sliced off his fingers, and held the stumps to the growing flames.

I raced from the village, running as far as I could, afraid to let any of the others witness my reaction. What if they saw my horror? What if they knew my heart bled with the poor soul whose body now spattered and sizzled within the flames? Would I, too, be strapped up and torn to shreds for their entertainment?

Their depravity disgusted me. And through the systematic torture and killing of my own people, the Cherokee proved the white men correct. These kind, loving, healing people were barbarians who revelled in the agony of others.

My white-blond hair and blue eyes tied me to the wretches on the stakes. My new home and friends rooted me here. In truth, I belonged to neither, and that knowledge sharpened my loneliness to a dangerous edge.

And yet when the excitement died down, the dead cut loose and disposed of, life in the village continued as if nothing had happened. The women taught me basket weaving and put me to work sewing. We gathered at the stream for bathing and cleaning clothes, giggling with gossip as we worked. I was treated like a friend, a sister, a daughter. My closest friend was an older woman named Nechama, the village healer. She worked with both Maggie and me, teaching us how to mend the warriors when they returned from raids, how to help a sick child, how to welcome a babe into the world.

She did what she could to ease the agony raging within me, the ache I refused to acknowledge. But that kind of vacant pain could never completely disappear, nor could it be filled, because the missing part of me was my lost sister, little Ruth. Her dancing blue eyes still watched me, like corn cockles bobbing in the breeze. She was there when I fell asleep at night, waiting beyond the council house door, hoping to entice me to play. She watched me eat, stared over my shoulder as I sewed. She possessed every moment of my days, and her absence sucked any hope of happiness from my heart.

I cried every day. Every single day. I cried in the morning, when I remembered her sunrise smile, and every twilight when the sun set on those memories.

I visited Wah-Li every few days. I was no longer afraid of her but still wasn’t as enthusiastic about our meetings as Maggie was. Maggie seemed to float when she came from Wah-Li’s house. I, on the other hand, went to see her out of duty, not desire. She and I spent hours in the quiet, eyes closed, thinking of nothing. Her mind probed mine, eased open the door I had so tightly locked. I fought back, all the while telling her I was willing to learn. No one argued with the Grandmother. Who was I to refuse her?

But I feared what she said existed within me. No one was supposed to know about what I could do within my mind. I hadn’t even let myself understand it. But she had seen it that first day in her council house, within just a few seconds, and she had let me know she believed it was my responsibility to learn and appreciate what I had been given. I had spent my entire sixteen years ignoring whatever my mind wanted to show me, but Wah-Li had spent an eternity learning about the thoughts of others. She worked and worked on me, like a fire under a pot refusing to boil. That was what it felt like. As if all my life my body had simmered with something, pressing against my skin, demanding to be set free. After a while, the flames persist too long, and the bubbles cannot resist rising to the surface.

It took a few weeks of sitting, breathing, opening my mind, and spending hours in pure nothingness with her before anything happened. The only sensation I felt was a strange pressing and kneading as Wah-Li’s thoughts massaged mine. Suddenly, everything released; my willpower disintegrated and strengthened at the same moment.

Pictures began to come, their images rippling like water at first, their edges blurred. Nothing like what Maggie had described to me, of course, but perhaps that was because she had always used her gift, and had honed its powers. This was new to me, and completely intimidating. It was as if I had sprouted wings, but I didn’t trust them enough to step off the ledge. I clung to Wah-Li’s ancient strength as she taught me to chase away the rest of the world and disappear with her. In the darkness where Wah-Li led, when all was quiet, I began to choose my own paths, following images that presented themselves to me like offerings.

But I stepped carefully. Often too carefully. And that was, as usual, my downfall. Every footfall brought terrifying images whose meanings could be unclear, and the sight of them sent panic shooting through my veins. Unable to deal with the terror in my head, I burst from the semi-slumber that I had welcomed in the visions, allowing any possibility of their completion to evaporate harmlessly into the air. If I dreamed of a fire raging within a council house, I awoke in a sweat and raced to the house, only to discover the fire had been extinguished, the family returned to their meal. When I saw a cougar tracking one of the hunters, I paced the village continuously, dreading the news of his death, then saw the body of the cat hanging on a pole carried between two of the hunters. Apparently, they’d known about him as well. Had I waited, allowed my dreams to finish, I would have known I had nothing to fear. I was my own worst enemy.

In effect, while Maggie’s dreams warned the Cherokee, told them everything from the impending weather to where the best hunting would be found, my dreams were mostly useless. Wah-Li continued to encourage me, to placate me when I admitted I believed my dreams were a curse, so I kept up my lessons.

When I was with her, quiet in the dark, my nostrils tingling with the smell of the smoke she constantly drew from her fire, I was braver. Wah-Li didn’t see what I saw unless she had her fingers pressed to my temples, but she could sense my panic before it happened. Her ancient voice vibrated like a bowstring, urging me forward, assuring me I hadn’t yet received the message and I should stay in the dream a little longer. But my fear ran too deep.

So I knew he was coming before she did, I think. Her seeking fingers were nowhere close when I saw the white warrior with the golden hair, his brown eyes so light they seemed almost yellow. Those eyes carried the piercing malevolence of a wildcat, both hunting and hunted. I sensed the rage in him, felt how his soul had hardened to rock. The white warrior began to take over my dreams almost every time I sat with Wah-Li, and when I followed the angry line of his thoughts, I touched on hate so deep, it burned. And seeing him, I became more afraid than ever.

CHAPTER
4

The Dark Side of Light

Though I averted my eyes from men, for the most part, even I could admit that Soquili was impressive-looking. He stood tall and noble, with strong Cherokee features and dark eyes intent on every word. And he loved Maggie. He loved her with an intensity everyone could see. At the Green Corn Ceremony, I watched from the doorway of my council house as he finally leaned in and she let him kiss her.

Oh, I had cried after that. Because when Maggie opened her heart to a man, any man, that left me alone in my pain. To me, men were still beasts to be feared, avoided whenever possible. After a few months, I could watch them, appreciate their existence, perhaps even speak with one, but to let a man touch me was inconceivable. The Cherokee seemed to understand this and didn’t push me toward any contact I might have refused. Soquili spent every minute he could with my sister, right up until the day she left the village.

His brother, Wahyaw, stood by me. If Soquili was impressive, Wahyaw was magnificent. Both were tall, but Wahyaw looked down his straight nose three inches or so when he spoke with his brother. The corded muscles of his biceps were ringed by black tattoos of triangles and wolves, and the lower half of his face was permanently painted the red of poppies. A gold ring adorned his nose, passing straight through, and the lobes of his ears were stretched, dominated by black, cone-shaped earrings. He didn’t often wear shirts, and breechclouts were his preferred trousers. Other than the red on his face, any other colour came from the two or three feathers that occasionally dangled from his tuft of spiked black hair. Like the other men, he had no facial hair, and the sides of his head had been plucked clean since childhood.

Wahyaw paced like a wolf. He often appeared unable to sit. If he did, it wasn’t long before he lunged to his feet and hunted down whatever was bothering him. Wahyaw was my protector, but he never touched me. With my natural fear of men and his natural dislike of conversation, we didn’t speak much. But he came to my side whenever possible, standing sentry if the least threat arose. I came to feel comfortable with him and nervous when I couldn’t see his familiar profile. As a gift, I made him a pendant in the Cherokee style, using a beautiful abalone shell. On its surface I carved the triangular pattern of his tattoo. He wore the pendant all the time, occasionally stroking the back of it—though I’m sure he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. He was my friend, and I missed him when he wasn’t there. I believe it was the same for him.

After three months of this friendship, he stared at me with his usual, unsmiling expression and laid out his plans.

“We shall wed,” he declared. “After the next moon.”

I stared back, speechless. When I found my voice, it was stronger than I’d expected. “No, we won’t.”

His eyebrows shot up. He was unused to anyone disagreeing with him. But I shook my head. “I cannot marry anyone, Wahyaw.”

He hesitated, showing the first glimmer of uncertainty I’d ever seen in him. “It—it is done. It has been blessed by the Grandmother and the council. After the next moon,” he repeated. He turned, paused for a moment as if he wanted to add something, then changed his mind and walked away.

I stared at his back as he loped across the open space. Marry him? Yes, he was a good man. And yes, he made me feel safe. But marry him? Live alone with a man? Engage . . . engage in the intimacies marriage entailed? Never.

As always, I hid from this new fear. As his words sank in, seeming more unavoidable with every one of my breaths, I fled to the council house and dove under the bearskins covering my sleeping pad. I didn’t cry, but I shook so hard the blanket eventually slipped off me. The sun beamed through the hole in the roof, warming the room and bathing it in a warm golden hue, but my fingers were like ice.

It was late in the afternoon, and I was alone in the house. My eyes flicked from wall to wall, searching for something—escape. Then, as if I had called to it, my newfound confidence, so tenderly nurtured by Wah-Li, shoved through the fear. I felt its strength and clung to the possibility that I could deal with this. I would be all right. I would find a way.

Oh, Maggie. If only you were here.
I tried to picture her face through my scattered thoughts, in search of her simple brown braids, her intelligent blue eyes, but couldn’t find her.

Because Maggie was gone. Over the space of a few months, everything in the world had changed for us. The story is hers to tell, but what I will share here is that in the end it was not Soquili who filled her heart and took her away. At the time, I could have gone with her, started a life with her new family, but I chose instead to stay with Wah-Li, to continue my training. I wasn’t ready for the white man’s world. I didn’t tell her I doubted I ever would be, but I suspect she knew anyway.

I roused myself from my sleeping pad and folded my legs neatly before the fire, sitting tall and dipping a branch of sage into the flames. It sizzled when it caught, and I waved the fragrant smoke around my head, filling the air with the scent of calm. The tip burned orange when I set it back down, and its thin line of smoke rose straight up, then curled and dissolved as the breeze caught it. I closed my eyes, and with each deep breath, I became more acutely aware of individual parts of my body. My mind eased my pains, softened my fears, focused my thoughts. This bringing of peace was what I had been taught over and over again, by the same woman who had just sentenced me to a marriage I couldn’t even begin to contemplate.

I had never before tried to summon dreams without Wah-Li’s help, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to sink low enough in my mind to reach the images I knew waited for me. If I could, I wasn’t sure what I’d do with them once I’d found them. But in my desperate state of mind, diving into my dreams seemed the only distraction strong enough to help me through this.

At first I saw nothing in the silence. Then the nothing evolved, becoming the side of a house, cracked and weathered as our family’s had been. At my feet, poking between my pale toes, quivered tickling blades of grass.

The silence rose, giving shape to raised voices: men in the heat of battle.

I followed the line of the wall until I reached the corner, then peered around the edge. Men ran, screamed, fought in faraway fury on the other side of a field. I could see no faces, but the colour of their skin and hair, the manner of their dress, was obvious. There were perhaps ten Cherokee, ten white men, all screaming like wild animals. Arms were raised, and I knew without seeing that the angry hands clutched tomahawks and knives.

A rifle went off, cracking a puff of white smoke into the air, shooting death into a man. I felt the impact in my own body, a solid punch I knew could only bring death. A warrior fell backward, clutching at his chest. The fallen was tall and young, but too far for me to distinguish much else. Except . . . something about the line of his body was so familiar. As he fell, I felt a sudden loss that left me aching and hollow. So he was someone I loved. I stared, waiting for an answer, aware of the tenuous pounding of his dying heartbeat. Then I knew. It had to be Soquili, his body torn and bleeding onto the rich green grass. Everything in me ached to go to him, to heal him, but I was trapped in my mind.

I had to get out. Had to stop this tragedy from happening. I forced myself from the trance, shooting upward until tiny stars spun in my vision. The ground rocked beneath my feet when I stood, and I stumbled toward the open doorway, needing to get to the Grandmother. She would know what to do. Maybe there was still time. Maybe I could save Soquili. I burst through the door, my arms held out as if I were trying to catch something, but was confused by the sunshine, dizzy with the effects of the vision. I collided with a body and a pair of solid arms closed around me.

Wahyaw. His fierce eyes glared down at me, the arch of his brow betraying a mixture of irritation and curiosity. “What is it?”

I struggled out of his embrace and grabbed his arms instead. “You have to go, Wahyaw. You have to save your brother.”

The frown deepened. “What are you saying?”

A flush rose up my neck, burned in my cheeks, but I couldn’t stop now. “I had a vision. Just now. Soquili—”

“He is not here.”

“Did he go on a raid?”

Wahyaw narrowed his eyes, studying me. I know he saw confusion, but it was a confusion based on belief. “A vision?”

“A dream.”

He took a step back, crossed solid arms over his chest, and eyed me speculatively. “You. Not Ma-kee, but you.”

I straightened, slightly offended. “Yes, me. I have been working with the Grandmother, too, you know. Maggie’s not the only one with gifts.”

“I did not know—” He blinked, clearing whatever he’d been thinking from his mind, then nodded. “Soquili rode out. I will go, but I wanted to see you first. I felt bad for our last talk.”

I shook my head, dismissing his worries. Mine were bigger. I pressed my hands against his arms, shoving gently at him. “Go. He’s in terrible danger.”

He nodded, then bit his lip. I hadn’t seen that expression before. Almost apologetic. “I did not mean to frighten you, Ad-layd. We will marry. But I can wait for you to be ready. I understand.”

To witness this warrior, this powerful, unshakable man, holding his heart in his hands before me in a poignant display was moving. Any other time, I would have treated his emotions with more care.

“Thank you,” I said. “Now go.”

He did, running toward the corral and swinging easily onto the back of a large spotted horse. He urged the animal toward the trees, and they disappeared within. I stood frozen, staring at the place where I had last seen his broad back. My thoughts weren’t with him anymore, but with the question of what to do next. Should I go to the Grandmother? Tell her what I’d seen and done? What if she was angry? But how could she be? I had only done what she had always encouraged me to do. I had trusted my visions, let my mind sink into them until a message—an important message—had come to me. I had done everything she’d taught me to do, except for one thing: at the first hint of danger, I’d panicked, breaking out of the trance, determined to escape the threat.

Maybe I had saved Soquili’s life. But what if . . .

I turned toward the seven-sided council house in the centre of the village and ducked inside. The Grandmother huddled by the stack of orange embers pulsing in the centre of the room, in quiet conversation with Nechama. Silver strands from both women’s braids caught the sunlight when I entered, shimmered briefly, then dulled again as I lowered the flap of the doorway. The room was dark, providing only a vague outline of their profiles as I stepped in. The women turned, startled to see me standing in the doorway. I rarely visited Wah-Li without an invitation. No one did.

But she welcomed me in as if she had been waiting. “What is it, Shadow Girl?” she asked. “Come and sit with us.”

Nechama cocked her head, intrigued. I took my place across the hearth from them, slightly out of breath from racing across the field to her home. Neither was used to seeing me in that condition. Usually I was so quiet they had to keep checking to make sure I was still breathing.

I told them what I had seen and what I had done. The women exchanged glances, then Wah-Li extended her hand to take mine. Hers was dry and wrinkled, but soft as a dove’s wing. Her ancient eyes flickered with curiosity.

“And how did it feel, my girl, to open your wings on your own? Were you afraid? Or did you step into the unknown with feet ready to walk?”

“I . . . I felt . . .” I shrugged. “I don’t know. I did it because something else had frightened me, and I thought if I tried, I might be able to find calm. I didn’t expect to see anything.”

“And Wahyaw? What did he do when you told him?”

I smiled, remembering. “I think he was surprised. He didn’t know I could do that.”

The women chuckled. My eyes had adjusted, and I could see Nechama flick one eyebrow. “I think you are right,” she said.

“He went to save Soquili.”

“Tell me,” Wah-Li said. “Was it the end of the dream when you walked away?”

I flushed. “I don’t think it was, Grandmother. I saw Soquili fall, and I couldn’t wait to see anything more. I wanted to
do
something.” She was quiet, and I bowed my head. “I should have waited. I understand that. But—”

Wah-Li still held my hand, but her eyes hardened into circles of black as I watched. Her voice hardened as well, though it wasn’t accusatory. “You cannot always trust what your visions tell you. We do not know yet what you can do. It may be as you think, or it may be something different. You must be careful.”

I frowned. “But I did right, didn’t I? Sending Wahyaw to Soquili?”

“We will see,” she said. Icy fingers of dread scratched at the base of my neck and flitted down my spine. “We will see. But we must always be careful when we speak of dreams.”