Savage Betrayal (30 page)

Next came a dancer. Clad in a cured deer hide with deer hoofs and pieces of bone dangling from the legs, he wore a carved wooden wolf mask on his head. Reddish-brown hair was attached to the mask at the crown and hung down like a mane. With every step he took, the hoofs rattled and clicked against each other. At intervals he would punctuate his dance by opening the painted wooden jaws wide and then snapping them shut. Throughout the dance, a shrill whistle pierced the air. The audience knew it came from the dancing wolf. He ended his performance with a flourish and swept dramatically out into the night.

The concert concluded with the young women returning to sing a farewell song. Graceful gestures accompanied the song as the women reminded the guests to return again soon. The girls again rustled off, giggling, to the sidelines, and the audience resumed their conversations.

One of Fighting Wolf’s friends leaned over and playfully inquired of the war chief, “Why haven’t we seen more of you lately? You’ve been leaving the gambling games early. I even noticed that you didn’t stay long at old Birdwhistle’s feast. And you were the inspiration for it! Are you just working hard or is there some great secret you don’t want us to know about?” His eyes twinkled.

The men sitting around listened curiously for Fighting Wolf’s response. Many of them suspected they already knew the answer.

Birdwhistle, another nephew of Scarred Mouth, looked at Fighting Wolf through narrowed eyes. “I don’t suppose,” he began snidely, “that a certain slave woman, who shall remain nameless—“ Here there was laughter at his witty pun on the woman’s now tarnished family name, and his pretense of civility, as if he would not bandy the lady’s name in public, “—that a certain slave woman has succeeded in captivating the captor?”

Fighting Wolf looked at him through fathomless eyes and answered, “Keep your suppositions—
and
your sick jokes—to yourself, Birdwhistle. It’s none of your business where I go or what I do.” Taken aback by Fighting Wolf’s sharp retort, the others ceased questioning him and turned quickly to other matters.

Birdwhistle, however, could not leave well enough alone. While the others were caught up in an argument on the relative merits of this season’s sea otter pelts, he hissed at Fighting Wolf, “Any time you get tired of her, let me know.”

“I thought we’d discussed this, Birdwhistle,” answered Fighting Wolf evenly. “I’m not giving her away nor trading her. Do you understand? Besides,” he chuckled, but no humor reached his eyes, “I’d have thought that cold bucket of water she dumped over you would have discouraged you.”

“Who do you think you are, reminding me of that shameful incident?” demanded Birdwhistle huffily. “You know,” he went on, “I could demand her life for that little incident.” Sharp black eyes regarded Fighting Wolf challengingly.

“You could,” acknowledged Fighting Wolf. “But,” he added, “should anything happen to her, you’d better watch your back in the next raid we make. As your war chief, I tell you who and where to fight. Should you be so unfortunate as to meet with an accident,” he shrugged carelessly, “I’ll be the first to extend my condolences to your wives and children.” He eyed Birdwhistle steadily.

Birdwhistle regarded the implacable stare before he looked away. “Enough,” he said gruffly.

“We understand each other then,” said Fighting Wolf evenly. He watched, unperturbed, as Birdwhistle got to his feet and slunk out of the longhouse. The remainder of the evening passed without incident.

Later, some of his friends invited Fighting Wolf to a neighboring longhouse for a gambling party, but Fighting Wolf politely declined. The smirks on his friends’ faces annoyed him, but not enough to make him stay.

He headed out into the cool night. Walking leisurely back to his longhouse, he paused to look up at the clear night sky. The twinkling stars overhead were silent and serene. He was content with his life. Things were going well. He quickened his pace, anxious to see, and to hold Sarita.

Sarita knew the time of the full moon was quickly approaching. She must find a way to meet Rottenwood, without anyone observing. Now, more than ever, she could not let Fighting Wolf catch her discussing escape plans with the slave.

She pondered the problem. Now that Fighting Wolf was coming to her bed every evening, it would be extremely dangerous to sneak away at night. Yet, she had to know when they were going to escape.

It could not be put off much longer. Every day, she watched the Ahousat women packing up their many possessions into cedar baskets and boxes. Soon they would be taking down the very house planks and leaving the naked frame of the house behind them as the whole village moved en masse into the interior of the land. There, along a river, or inlet, they would set up their winter village, safe from the cold winter storms that viciously lashed the coast.

She went slowly about the task of preparing breakfast. She had slept later than usual, indeed the whole house had, and she knew it was because Precious Copper, an early riser, had not been there to start the fire and wake the servants and slaves. Sarita wondered briefly where Precious Copper was.

Her thoughts quickly reverted to the forth-coming meeting with Rottenwood. Perhaps one reason she was hesitant to meet with him was that she felt ambivalent. She wasn’t as eager to escape as she had been when she first arrived at Ahousat village. No, now she found herself trying to think of excuses to put off the escape attempt. After all, what difference did another moon make?

With difficulty, she forced herself to acknowledge that the real reason she did not want to leave yet was Fighting Wolf. Something was happening to her. Something that had never happened before with any other man. She couldn’t wait to see him every day, to hear his voice, to feel his touch. And oh! How she looked forward to those warm, passionate nights of love! Never had she known that it could be so wonderful between a man and a woman. And the things he did to her! She blushed as she recalled the previous evening when they had lain entwined in each other’s arms. No, she could not go just yet.

But—she caught herself. What was she thinking of? She had to go. She had to leave him, leave this place. Her spirits plunged. Her feelings towards him were so confused. She wasn’t even sure what she felt anymore. She should hate him for the raid on her family and village. And for stealing her away from her people. And for ravishing her.

But now, after all this time together, the long nights of lovemaking, the protectiveness he had shown towards her, his strength, his consideration—all this made her love him. There, she’d said it. She loved him. She sighed heavily.

But what was it like for Fighting Wolf? Was she only a toy, someone to play with after a long, hard day of work? Never would he consider marrying her, she knew. Her status precluded that.

But the most important point now, and here her lips compressed together in a tight line, was that her children by him would be born slaves. The thought made her want to cry, and with good reason. She suspected she was pregnant. Her monthly courses were almost a month late.

She could not bear the thought of her son, or daughter, condemned to a life of slavery. Would her children hate the mother who birthed them into slavery because she had been too much in love with her captor? What would they say to her should they ever find out she had the opportunity for escape but had let it slip by? Would her avowals of love for them ring hollow in their ears when they were old enough to understand the lowly existence they were doomed to? Did she love Fighting Wolf so much that she was willing to stay with him and condemn her children to a lifetime of servitude? No, she sighed despairingly, she could not do that. Not to her children, and not to herself. No love should ask that of a woman.

Sadly she continued her morning chores, her thoughts returning again and again to her dilemma. As she brooded, she used the heavy wooden tongs to place fire-heated rocks into cedar boxes filled with water. Every morning she heated water this way, sometimes to wash in, but usually to cook vegetables or fish for the morning meal. As the last rock dropped with a splash into the water, she looked up to see Fighting Wolf striding towards her.

She blushed and looked down at the water. She did not want him to see the torment she was in. She knew he did not suspect her pregnancy at all. If she
were
pregnant, she would be gone long before she started showing and he would never know of his child. It was better that way, she told herself. She would bring up the child in her own village. Her father and brother would help her raise the child. The summer nights when Fighting Wolf had made love to her would be nothing but beautiful memories by then. Perhaps, later, she thought sadly, when she had forgotten him, she would marry another man. She ignored the tiny voice that asked how she was going to forget Fighting Wolf so easily when seeing his child every day would be a constant reminder.

Fighting Wolf approached her, his handsome face alight with a grin, his intelligent eyes piercing hers, the wide chest half-naked, his kutsack tied jauntily over one shoulder. Sarita felt herself melt inside. Holding her breath, she gazed at him, her heart unknowingly in her eyes.

Fighting Wolf’s intense gaze caught the soft look. He knew it was for him. And he knew its cause—warm memories of their passionate joining the night before. Pleased with her, he gently touched her face, his big hand caressing her jaw-line.

“You look very beautiful this morning,” he murmured softly in her ear. He ran his hand possessively over her thick, glossy tresses. “Could it be that something very good happened to you last night?” he teased. Abashed, she turned away, not knowing what to say.

He smiled to himself at her reticence. Then, surveying the living space, he asked, “Where’s my sister, Precious Copper?”

“I don’t know,” answered Sarita just as quickly, glad to have something else to concentrate on besides him. “I haven’t seen her at all this morning.”

“Hmmm,” he answered thoughtfully. “Unusual. It’s not like her to absent herself with no word. I wonder—”

“Now that I think of it,” murmured Sarita, “I noticed she wasn’t here last night either.”

Fighting Wolf grinned at her. “I’m surprised you noticed anything at all last night, little one. I thought all your attention was on me. I must be slipping.”

Sarita blushed effusively.

Catching sight of one of the older slave women who usually attended Precious Copper, he called her over. The woman hurried over. “Where’s your mistress?” he asked briefly.

The slave woman cleared her throat carefully before answering. “I don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning.”

“Yesterday morning?” he mused. “Hmmm. That’s too long.” He paused for a moment. Then, decisively, “Find her. Make inquiries of anyone who might know where she is.”

Not even looking at the steaming platter of fern roots Sarita was holding out to him, Fighting Wolf strode off. “I’m going to get my men. We’ll search the village,” he called over his shoulder. Then he was gone.

Later, Fighting Wolf and several of his warriors and slaves were back, milling about the longhouse. A thorough search of the village had failed to turn up the missing woman. “Where can she be?” the women whispered to each other.

Finally, an old man extricated himself from the throng and made his way slowly toward the concerned war chief. The old man’s bones creaked as he bowed slightly before the nobleman.

“What is it?” demanded Fighting Wolf. “Have you news of my sister?”

The old man shrugged. “Perhaps,” he answered philosophically. “My good friend Slug is missing. We have breakfast together every morning. This morning he was not there.” The rheumy old eyes fastened unblinkingly on the impatient Fighting Wolf.

“And?”

“And the old woman known as Frog is also missing.” He stood there patiently.

Fighting Wolf looked at him in exasperation. “So?” he answered. Then, “Do these two, Slug and Frog, often go off by themselves?”

“No sir,” answered the old man slowly. “Can’t say they do.”

“Thank you for the information.” Fighting Wolf dismissed the old man with a brusque gesture. Just then, he felt a claw-like hand touch his elbow. Turning, he saw the older slave woman he had first questioned. “What is it?” he demanded impatiently.

“I just remembered,” she began. “It’s usually this time of year that old Frog goes with the mistress to gather white flowers for dyeing mats and basketry. Old Frog was complaining to me that she didn’t want to go this year. Her bones’ve been hurting her lately.”

“Did you see them go?” asked Fighting Wolf.

“No, sir, I didn’t. But the mistress doesn’t usually tell anyone. She likes to keep it secret. Myself now, I could probably find out from old Frog where they go. If I really wanted to know. If I wanted to, I could.”

Fighting Wolf was becoming impatient with the woman’s ramblings, but so far, no one else had stepped forward with any information. “Do you know where it is they go?” he asked as patiently as he could.

“Me? Oh no, sir, they don’t tell me that kind of thing.”

“Well, does anyone know?”

“Don’t think so, sir. Like I said, your sister, she keeps it pretty quiet.” She paused for a moment. “I do know they have to go by canoe,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

Realizing he’d get no more information out of the slave, Fighting Wolf ordered his men to their canoes. He barked orders at them to search the local area and report back by sunset. Taking two men with him, he set off in a canoe for his own search for his sister, all else driven from his mind.

Late that evening, Fighting Wolf returned alone to the longhouse. Head bowed, he looked weary and saddened. Sarita had never seen him so disheartened.

Without a word, she reached up and took his cloak from his slumped shoulders. Silently she guided him to his usual spot in front of the fire. He sank down on the cedar mat.

She bustled about preparing his evening meal. She handed him some smoked salmon she had saved from an earlier meal. She pulled four roasted fern roots out of the embers of the fire. Pouring a cup of cool, refreshing water, she placed it next to the ever-present bowl of whale oil, a tasty condiment, then she sat down next to Fighting Wolf.