Native Gold (40 page)

Sakote had been a fool. The wise men of the other tribes, who left now in disgust, would agree. Living in two worlds was not a blessing. It was a curse.

"Why do they hate me?" Mati’s sobs tore at his heart.

"They don’t hate you," he said fiercely. "They’re only...afraid."

"Of me?" Her eyes brimmed with tears.

"Of your kind, of the
willa
."

"But why?"

He swallowed hard. She truly didn’t understand. She knew only that their people were different. She’d never seen how those differences could fill a man with hate, could drive a man to kill.

He’d seen it, from the time the first whites brought death in the form of a sickness that had slaughtered half of his people. Since then, his sister had been raped, a pack of drunken miners had strung up three Konkow elders, and even the white man’s pigs had gorged on the acorns the Konkows needed to survive the winter. And not long ago, according to the elders, a neighboring headman’s young son had been shot and killed by a
willa
.

The settlers created havoc. And yet, many of them, like his friend Noa and the kind yellow-haired man Mati called Swede, bore no blind hatred for the Konkows. They, like Mati, simply didn’t understand the ruin they brought.

How could he explain all that to her?

The Konkow elders had made it clear they didn’t trust Mati. But he couldn’t tell her that.

Mati gazed up through her tears, her eyes as bright as serpentine rocks in a stream, and Sakote knew at once he would never give her up, no matter how he displeased the elders. She was his
kulem
now. Whatever happened, he would stay by her side.

He’d never defied the elders before. But though he feared for his people and feared what mayhem the white men might bring to the village, he loved Mati even more.

"I won’t let you go," he vowed. "You’re mine,
kulem
, and I won’t give you back to the whites."

Sakote’s words, whispered against Mattie’s hair, brought fresh tears to her eyes. She loved him fiercely, passionately, and she couldn’t bear to cause him such anguish among his own people.

Somehow she’d fix things. She’d learn to speak his language. She’d learn to like the taste of grasshoppers. She would even learn to weave a basket. She’d do whatever it took to belong to his world.

Comforted by renewed determination, she sniffed back the dregs of her sorrow and wiped away her tears.

"You shouldn’t cry," he teased, tucking a curl behind her ear. "My little brother will think I’ve beaten you, and then he’ll tell our mother, and she’ll beat
me
."

His silly words coaxed a smile from her. Dear Sakote, he always knew just what to say. She looked into his dark eyes, twinkling now like the first stars of evening, and felt suddenly overwhelmed. He knew her so intimately now, not only every inch of her body—which he’d touched and kissed and bathed and worshipped till she no longer remembered what modesty felt like—but also her heart.

Yet, as close as they’d become, she felt as if she’d hardly scratched the surface of his soul. His life might be simple, but he was as complex as the shifting color of his eyes and as deep as the waterfall’s pool. She wondered how long it would take to know Sakote, truly know him. She doubted anyone could ever learn him completely. But she prayed she’d get the chance.

She straightened his abalone shell beads and stood on tiptoe to brush a soft kiss upon his lips. "I’ll make them like me," she promised him, trying not to think about all the times she’d murmured those words in the past.

"
Kulem
, how could they not?" Sakote took her head between his hands then and kissed her so thoroughly that when he was done, her heart hammered like a woodpecker, her knees turned to custard, and her only coherent thought was that for a novice, he certainly had mastered the art of kissing quickly. She moaned in protest when he pulled away, and he chuckled at her wanton complaint. They both knew that Kaminehaitsen was upon them, strangers filled the woods, and this was neither the time nor the place for lovemaking.

Sakote left to greet the arriving guests, and Mattie remained behind to pick wild mint from the cedar grove. When she returned, she dismissed the curious stares of her sisters and set about making tea, dropping a hot stone into the tightly woven basket of water to heat it, as she’d seen Sakote’s mother do.

Meanwhile, more and more guests arrived, and, despite the racks of dried salmon, the burden baskets of acorn meal, and the dozens of camas bulbs she’d helped to dig up, Mattie wondered if there’d be enough food to last the several days of the celebration.

Certainly there was enough tea. Those few who actually accepted the drink Mattie offered did so with great reluctance. She supposed they feared the nefarious white woman might have slipped poison into it. Nonetheless, she tried to remain as gracious as possible under their scrutiny, mimicking her Hardwicke cousins’ unflappable grace.

It was sunset by the time the last tribe padded into the village. A huge fire was lit, and gradually everyone gathered around it, chattering and laughing, elbowing each other, talking behind their hands, squirming to get comfortable. Mattie smiled. Their celebration bore a striking resemblance to the affairs Uncle Ambrose hosted. She supposed their purpose was no different. It was called Kaminehaitsen, the Feather Dance, but it may as well have been dubbed the Hardwicke Winter Ball. It was an occasion for friends to exchange news, young swains to court, and old ladies to gossip.

Sakote’s mother directed the serving of supper—roasted trout, yellow-jacket eggs, and bread made with acorn meal and flower seeds. Sakote sat beside her so he could serve as translator while the visiting Konkows finished their meals and began a series of formal speeches.

As the stars glimmered overhead, putting the crystal chandeliers of Hardwicke House to shame, the best storytellers of each village related the news of their tribe. If Sakote’s translations were to be trusted, the tales seemed to be more fable than fact, but everyone listened with hushed interest and nods of accord to what were surely grossly exaggerated accounts of bravery and cunning.

One man claimed to have battled a pack of
yeleyena
, wolves, and come away without a scratch. Another recalled his flight in the talons of a sacred eagle. A third had spoken to Henyakano, Old Man Coyote, and tricked him into revealing where a herd of fat deer grazed.

She could see by Sakote’s bemused expression that he, too, doubted the verity of the stories. But stretching the truth was apparently a Konkow custom of the highest order, and Domem, the storyteller of the village, carried on that tradition with just as much bluster as his brothers.

As soon as he began, Mattie froze, her cup of mint tea halfway to her lips. Everyone had turned to stare at her.

Sakote translated in a murmur. "Domem will tell the tale of the white woman’s bravery." He clearly approved of the idea.

Mattie felt ill. She wasn’t brave. She couldn’t even enter her
hubo
without checking for stray rodents first. What possible story could Domem tell? Or invent?

He began by making a swirling gesture with his fists, and Mattie recognized the movement instantly.

"The white woman," Sakote translated, "once lived in the village of the men who winnow gold rocks from the water."

Mattie, trembling, set her tea on the ground before her for fear she might spill it. Ever since that horrifying spectacle she’d caused at her Uncle Ambrose’s party, she hated being the center of attention.

"She came over many mountains to be the woman of the healer there," Sakote whispered. "But when she arrived at the gold camp, her man had already traveled to the other world."

Mattie swallowed uncomfortably. The way Domem described the rugged journey, it sounded almost poetic.

"The white woman was filled with sorrow," Sakote told her.

Domem mimicked a woman wailing, and Mattie had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Heavens, she hadn’t wept that loud when her own parents died. She certainly wouldn’t make such a fuss over a husband she’d never met.

"And so when the brother of her husband came to the village, she welcomed him."

Mattie stiffened. She didn’t want to hear about Henry, didn’t want to relive that horrible incident.

"But the man was a bad man, an evil spirit."

Domem raised his arms over his head and grimaced, frightening some of the children into giggles. But Mattie could no longer enjoy the story.

The storyteller growled, baring his teeth, and began swinging his arms about violently, chopping and hacking. Mattie didn’t need to be told what event he portrayed.

Sakote spoke through clenched teeth. "The evil spirit attacked the men of the village. He tore them into pieces with his sharp teeth and claws, stabbed them with his knife and shot them with his golden gun."

Mattie could hardly breathe. The Konkows around her seemed entranced by the story, but she felt sick, as if the cool, crisp night was airless.

"But when he came to the house of the white woman, she did not know all this, and she invited him in."

Mattie felt dizzy, remembering, but not so dizzy she didn’t notice some of the tribesmen muttering amongst themselves as if they argued.

A headman with cropped hair raised his hand suddenly to stop the story, which drew gasps from the villagers and a look of shock from Domem. It was undoubtedly a breach of etiquette to interrupt a storyteller. The headman asked Domem something which Sakote didn’t translate. Domem replied. Then the headman raised himself to his full proud height and issued a proclamation that made the village fall utterly silent.

Sakote jumped up, startling Mattie, and began arguing with the man. She sat, bewildered, while two younger men joined the debate against Sakote, poking fingers in her direction. Finally, Sakote’s mother placed a comforting hand upon Mattie’s forearm, but worry clouded the Konkow woman’s face. Mattie knew she’d done something terrible again.

She wished she could understand what they were shouting. Sakote seemed very upset, and the Konkows of his village muttered nervously amongst themselves, glancing fearfully in her direction from time to time.

"
Akina
!" Sakote spat the word at the larger of the two men. Apparently their argument was at an end. The man grunted back, and everyone returned to their place by the fire. But Sakote wouldn’t look at her, and his brow was deeply lined with brooding. He mumbled something to his mother, and she motioned for Mattie to follow her.

Mattie was only too happy to oblige when the woman led her away to her
hubo
. The peaceful ambience of the evening had been destroyed, and somehow she was to blame. Disapproval from a society whose language she couldn’t comprehend was even worse than the cutting remarks she’d overheard in her uncle’s parlor about "that wayward Hardwicke girl."

But she didn’t intend to give up or run away—not this time. The tribes’ approval was important to Sakote, and she’d do everything in her power to assure that approval.

She nestled into the rabbit fur blankets and fell asleep to the faint sound of singing around the distant fire.

In the middle of the night, Mattie was startled awake by a strange Indian girl holding a makeshift pine torch. The beautiful young woman bore the black chin stripes of the Konkows, and her face was framed by sleek curtains of ebony hair, but her skirt was made of blue calico, and she wore a red flannel shirt. She stared curiously at Mattie, and Mattie sat up, self-consciously brushing back her own sleep-tousled tresses.

Trailing after the Konkow woman was a man who was dark-skinned, but not an Indian, and who looked as uncomfortable in her
hubo
as a hunting dog invited into the parlor. He wore a woodpecker feather in his miner’s hat and a Konkow soapstone pendant around his neck. The man shifted from haunch to haunch, doffing and fidgeting with his hat, then replacing it, clearly full of something to say and unsure how to begin.

The woman had no such problem.

"I am the brother of Sakote," she said proudly in English, sitting cross-legged on the ground before Mattie.

"Sister," the man corrected, "sister of Sakote." He nodded to Mattie. "Hello, ma’am. Sorry for the intrusion. I’m—“

"Noa?" Mattie guessed. She supposed she should be more cordial. Aunt Emily would have scolded her for her lack of manners. But she was too drowsy for hospitality. Besides, they hadn’t even knocked.

"Yes, ma’am, I’m Noa."

"Mathilda Hardwicke." She didn’t bother to extend her hand.

"Yes, ma’am, I know." He touched his hat in a vague greeting. The whites of his round eyes gleamed, and his jaw worked as if he were chewing the words up before he spit them out. "Now, ma’am, I know it isn’t my business. But Sakote’s a friend of mine and a brother, and I’m very..."

He clamped his lips together, as if he might actually start to weep. Towani, Sakote’s sister, rested a calming hand on his arm. He cleared his throat, then swept off his hat and whacked it against his thigh. "The fact is, we’re very worried about him."