Chapter Twenty-five
The rhythmic beat of a hollow drum filled the crisp night air, calling the members of the Wolf Clan to their tribal meeting. Villagers walked with their hands clasped, their heads bent in respect of the duty that called them. Each adult member of the tribe would be expected to listen carefully to the evidence presented and then cast their vote. A tribal meeting was no place for prejudices or grudges; it was the place where decisions would be made that would affect each and every member of the Wolf Clan for the rest of their days.
Copying Snow Blanket's show of reverence, Deborah lowered her head and followed her out of the wigwam. The eerie cadence of the drum lifted the hair on the back of Deborah's neck as she crossed the compound in Snow Blanket's footsteps. Ducking, the two entered the Big House and Snow Blanket took her appropriate seat. Deborah sat crosslegged beside her.
One by one the villagers entered the Big House and took their positions within a circle according to age and importance within the clan. Suddenly the drum picked up in beat and another higher-pitched drum was added. A hollow gourd rattle filled the crevices in the alternating drum beats, and the sounds joined as one, rising in the air to escape through the hole in the center of the meeting house
The ancient wizened shaman entered the Big House and all eyes turned to him. The old man pounded his feet on the dirt floor, beating out an intricate grapevine-step to the center of the circle. His waist-length white braids swung rhythmically as he waved a small chamber of burning herbs, turning around and around in an established invisible path. The shaman's voice rose clear and true in some primal call to the gods of the heavens and the villagers echoed him.
Behind the shaman came the council members, twelve in all. They walked, just as the villagers had, with their heads bent and their hands clasped in prayer. A few feet behind the men and woman of the council came Tshingee.
Deborah's heart rose in her throat at the sight of the man she loved. He was dressed in otterskin leggings and a long beaded tunic. His hair fell free down his back, but two narrow braids brushed his broad, bronze cheeks. His face and the backs of his hands were painted in blue and red and white in a complex pattern of diagonal slashes and vertical and horizontal lines.
The door to the Big House was closed and lashed shut, and the villagers rose in unison, allowing the council members to take their seats. Swinging his burning pot over the heads of the council members, the shaman changed the rhythm of his chant and the drums followed in pattern.
Snow Blanket leaned to whisper in Deborah's ear. "Our shaman blesses the council members, sending prayers heavenward. He prays the members will guide the clan well. He asks the gods in the Twelve Heavens to help us make the right choice."
Deborah followed Tshingee with her eyes as he paced back and forth behind the seated council members. Suddenly the drumbeats ceased and the silence that followed seemed as unearthly as the music. The tribal chief raised his hand in greeting and the members of the clan responded in the same manner.
"Good evening, children of the Wolf Clan," Gimewane greeted in Algonquian. "Tonight I call you to this special meeting at the request of Co-o-nah Aquewa."
Snow Blanket nodded slightly. "The chief welcomes us and tells us why we are here," she said quietly to Deborah as he went on.
"First our brother Tshingee will speak, then each one of you will have a chance to give your opinions. We will then vote and the council will make the final decision." Gimewane withdrew a clay pipe from beneath his tunic and began to pack it with tobacco from a pouch on his waist. On cuc, more than half the tribal members, male and female, withdrew pipes and began to do the same.
"I do not need to instruct you, my children," the chief went on in Algonquian. "Listen with your ears, weigh with your hearts, and speak with your heads." He tapped his temple lightly. "You must not only consider your own personal feeling, but how your decision will affect the other members of our clan."
"Gimewane tells us to weigh our decisions carefully," Snow Blanket whispered, lighting her own clay pipe with a blazing stick that was being passed around. "Our chief reminds us that we must take care to consider how our vote will affect the other members of the clan."
Deborah nodded solemnly. "Now what happens?"
"Tshingee will speak," Snow Blanket replied. "Then others will speak, and then we will vote."
Tshingee walked slowly into the center of the circle, his eyes fixed on the flames of the central fire that burned in the firepit. His hands fell to his narrow hips as he studied the members of the council. "Greetings, members of the council. I thank you for calling this special meeting so that I can make my plea."
Snow Blanket rose, lifting her hand.
"Yes, Co-o-nah Aquewa," the chief said. "Speak."
"This old woman asks the council if those who speak the English tongue will do so . . ."
Tshingee whipped around to face his mother. "We do not speak the white man's tongue within the Big House!"
Snow Blanket lifted an eyebrow and Tshingee lowered his gaze. Silence filled the room for a moment and then she spoke again. "I ask this because the woman, Deborah, is among us and the decision we make here tonight will change her life as well as ours. I remind you all that no matter what you feel for the white woman, you must remember that it is she who saved my son Bee and the woman Suuklan from death only months ago."
"This decision is to be made among us," Tshingee snapped in English.
Gimewane nodded thoughtfully. "This is true, my son. But Co-o-nah does not ask that we give the white woman a vote. Co-o-nah asks only that the woman be able to understand what we say."
Tshingee scowled as all eyes turned to rest on Deborah. Deborah took a deep breath, lifting her chin a notch. For the first time since she'd arrived in the camp, other villagers allowed her to make eye contact with them.
Gimewane took a puff of his pipe, watching the smoke rise above his head. "Yes. I think we will speak the English tongue." He studied his people's faces. "Those who speak the white man tongue, please do."
Snow Blanket lowered her head. "Thank you," great chief. She took her seat, patting Deborah's knee.
Deborah smiled. "Thank you, she whispered.
Heaving a sigh, Tshingee turned his back on Deborah and his mother. With reluctance in his voice, Tshingee lapsed into English. "As you all know, my brother was falsely accused of murder by this white woman's father. My brother, John Wolf, was taken from his home, held prisoner, and hanged for a crime he did not commit. His wife was killed by these white wolves and my brother's daughter barely escaped death."
As Tshingee paused for emphasis, Deborah watched the villagers and their reactions. They all seemed to be concentrating. She saw no ill will on their faces, only concern. Here within the bark walls of the Big House their malice feelings toward her seemed to be nonexistent.
"Brothers, sisters of the Wolf Clan," Tshingee went on. "I ask that we seek revenge on my brother's murderers. I ask that we remind these white men that we will not stand to be slaughtered at their will. They have driven us from our homes on the Chesapeake. Each year they drive us further west, taking the land that our grandmothers once walked on. I ask that we teach these white men a lesson. I ask that we tell them no more." He lifted a bronze fist in the air. "We will stand for their disrespect for us and our ways no more."
A middle-aged man rose from his place and the chief gave a nod. The man cleared his throat. "Elene, too, is tired of the deaths, but he thinks we number too few. The white men carry muskets when many of us still carry the bow. I cannot leave my wife, my children, my grandchildren, to fight. Right or wrong, I am needed here."
Tshingee nodded with reverence to the man. "I do not ask for you to lift your bow, my friend. I already have men who are willing to fight beside me. All I ask is the council's permission to beat the drum of war."
A young woman stood. "It has been a long time since this clan has banded to fight. I think we should take our children and run like our cousins the Shawnee. I want no more deaths."
The moment the woman sat down, a young man jumped up. "The Lenni Lenape do not run at the sight of their enemy. I say we drive the white men off our land. I say we burn their tobacco and send them back across the great waters of the Chesapeake." He hit his bare chest with his fist. "I will fight beside the Wildcat."
An elderly woman stood and the young man immediately took his seat. "Ah, to be young and full of dreams," she said in Algonquian. "This young buck has not tasted the blood of his loved ones as it spills to the ground. To fight is not the answer. I am sorry for John Wolf's death. I feel Co-o-nah's pain as if it were my own, but I want no battle. It is a battle we cannot win."
Snow Blanket repeated to Deborah what the old woman had said.
One after another the members of the village rose and spoke. Deborah was fascinated by how calm and collected the villagers remained when someone stood in complete opposition of what they had just said. She was amazed at how well the council's method seemed to work. Each member of the clan spoke as often as he liked, voicing his concerns. After hearing others speak, men and women sometimes changed their minds; sometimes they did not.
As an hour slipped by and then another, Tshingee paced, listening to the villagers voice their opinions. Sometimes he gave a rebuttal; sometimes he did not.
Finally, Gimewane lifted his hands. "Does anyone else wish to speak before we vote?"
Deborah started to stand, but Snow Blanket caught her hand. "You cannot speak," the Lenni Lenape woman whispered harshly.
Ignoring her, Deborah came to her feet. "I wish to speak."
Tshingee laughed. "She cannot speak within these walls. She is not a member of the clan.!"
Gimewane shook his head. "I am sorry, but the Wildcat speaks the truth. Only a member of the clan may speak in the Big House."
"But I know these white men. I know Tshingee and his men won't have a chance in—"
The chief clapped his hands sharply. "Enough! Gimewane has spoken. Sit."
Realizing the fruitlessness of her attempt, Deborah did as she was told. If she tried to speak again, she was afraid the chief would order her out of the ceremonial wigwam.
"And now a vote," the chief said, slipping back into Algonquian. "Those who wish to give their consent to Tshingee's request, lift your hand."
Hands lifted and a member of the council counted, making marks on the dirt floor.
"Those opposed."
Hands came up again, but this time there were more.
A silence fell over the villagers as the members of the council put their heads together. A moment later, Gimewane stood. "My children. The council has agreed with the voice of the people. We are too few to wage war on an enemy that is too many. We will not fight the white men. There will be no revenge," he finished quietly in English.
A buzz of voices rose in the Big House.
Deborah clasped Snow Blanket's hand. "Oh, thank the Lord, Snow Blanket. He's safe! He can't go! There'll be no more killing."
Snow Blanket stood up, beginning to file out with others. "I hope you are right," she murmured, watching her son strut out of the Big House. "This old woman hopes you are right."
Outside the Big House bright campfires were burning, casting a golden light over the wigwams and mingling villagers. A light snow had begun to fall, filling the air with its powdery white flecks of light.
Around a nearby campfire, Deborah spotted Tshingee standing with a group of other young braves. The men were armed and stood close together, their heads bent in heated conversation.
"What's going on?" Deborah asked Snow Blanket. "Why do they have muskets?" Her breath formed puffy clouds of white as she spoke.
"I think they band to fight," the Lenni Lenape woman answered solemnly.
"Fight? But they can't," Deborah protested, running after Snow Blanket. "The council denied Tshingee's request."
"They gave their disapproval. Tshingee is still a free man as are they all free men."
"You mean they can still go and fight, even though the council has said no? What will happen if they go?"
"There will be a punishment for those who survive," Snow Blanket answered sadly.
"Punishment? What kind of punishment?"
"It will be up to the council. They could be cast out."
"Cast out?" Deborah breathed. "Oh, no!" Turning, she ran toward the clump of men. "Tshingee! Tshingee, please!"
The group separated, stepping back.
"Tshingee, please," Deborah begged. "Don't do this. It's not worth it."
"What is my brother not worth?" he barked.
"No, not John. Revenge."
Tshingee grasped her arm, pulling her out of earshot of the other men. His gaze rested on the curves of her face and for a moment he could not speak. His voice caught in his throat at the sight of the pain in her dark eyes. His anger with her was so strong that it was palpable, but at the same time, his heart ached for her. His arms cried out to hold her. No matter what had happened, he knew in his heart of hearts that he would always love this white woman.
Deborah stroked Tshingee's cheek with her fingertips. "Please. For me. For the love we once shared. Don't go out and die for this. John is dead, and no matter how many men you kill, John will not come back."
Tshingee held her arm so tightly that his fingers bit into her flesh, bruising her. "You do not understand, Red Bird. My brother is gone."
"I understand loss." Their eyes met. "I loved you more than anyone on this earth, and I have lost you."
Releasing her, Tshingee walked away. Calling to his men, he raised his hand over his shoulder and together the young braves set out across the compound.
Those villagers still standing outside their wigwams turned to watch the men go. Men and women ceased to speak and the air was filled with silence save for the bark of a dog in the distance and the sound of the men's feet as they walked over the frozen ground.
Walking to Snow Blanket's wigwam, Deborah stood, watching until the men disappeared from view. One by one the villagers entered their wigwams in strained silence until no one occupied the Lenni Lenape campground but a few ponies, a few dogs. Deborah stood alone, shivering with cold.
"Deborah." Snow Blanket appeared, laying her hand gently on Deborah's shoulder. "Come in. It is cold out here. Come in and sleep."
Deborah shook her head. "No."
With a sigh, Snow Blanket went back inside and closed the door flap.
An eternity seemed to pass as Deborah stood, huddled beneath her red cloak. staring into the forest. A tiny sliver of a moon rose, casting a silver light across the sky. The snow continued to fall in silence. Then, just beyond the circle of firelight, just outside the perimeter of the camp, Deborah saw a shadow.
Tshingee came walking out of the forest, his head held high. Behind him, in single file, followed his men. Without a word, the braves passed her and one by one they took their leave, entering wigwams. Tshingee was the last man to reach his wigwam and before he went inside he turned to look at Deborah. For a moment they stared at each other through the darkness and then he disappeared inside.
The following night Deborah waited until everyone had fallen asleep in Snow Blanket's wigwam, and then she rose. Slipping her soft doeskin dress over her nude body and donning her new moccasins, she crept silently out into the cold crisp air. Hurrying across the compound, Deborah's feet crunched in the fallen snow. An old hound dog keeping vigil over a wigwam lifted his head, then settled again, accepting Deborah as one of the villagers. Smiling to herself, she hurried on by.
All day long no one had said a single word about the departure of the braves following the tribal meeting the night before . . . nor had they said anything about their return. It seemed to have to do with some code of honor. Because Tshingee and the braves had not actually gone against the council's decision, the Lenni Lenape villagers pretended the men had never left the camp. The day's activities had been so normal that Deborah began to wonder if she'd imagined the whole thing.
Only the hard, pained expression on Tshingee's face was evidence of the decision that had been made concerning John's death. Tshingee had not spoken to Deborah all day and she had made no attempt to speak with him. They had simply watched each other from afar, but always turning away before eye contact was made.
Reaching Tshingee's wigwam, Deborah glanced around to be certain no one saw her, then she lifted the flap and slipped inside. A small fire burned in the firepit in the center of the floor, casting a soft glow of shadows across the walls of the dome structure. On the far wall Tshingee lay stretched out on a sleeping platform, his hand flung over his face. Without making a sound, Deborah pulled off her moccasins, then her dress, and slowly walked toward him.
Tshingee lowered his hand and turned his head to watch her.
Without speaking a word, Deborah knelt, wrapping her arms around him and lowering her mouth to his. She kissed him gently, thrusting the tip of her tongue out to tease his lower lip.
Tshingee responded sleepily, hesitantly. "You are a ghost," he murmured.
She shook her head ever so gently, parting her lips to deny it, but he pressed his finger to them, silencing her. "You are a ghost, else this man would not allow you into his wigwam."
Deborah lifted her eyebrows in puzzlement, but then smiled. Slowly, ever so painfully, she was beginning to understand this man and his people. "Yes," she whispered huskily. "I am a ghost." If being a ghost was the only way he would speak to her, and hold her in his arms, then she would be a ghost. "This ghost comes to you on her knees," she continued as she kissed the length of his cheekbone . . . the tip of his nose. "This ghost asks for nothing but that she be permitted to give of herself. This ghost is very proud of the difficult decision Tshingee of the Wolf Clan has made."
Tshingee lifted his bearskin pelt and Deborah slipped beneath it, stretching out over him. At every point that her bare flesh touched his, a spark ignited, spreading rapidly to warm her chilled body. Threading her fingers through his ebony hair, she pressed her mouth to his, her kiss hard and demanding. All the weeks of yearning for Tshingee and his touch rose and bubbled over as Deborah strained against him, glorying in the feel of his touch.
Brushing her hands over his broad chest, she ducked her head beneath the animal pelt and caught one hard male nipple between her teeth. Nibbling gently, she reached down to stroke his belly. Slowly she lowered her hand and he lifted his hips in encouragement.
"This ghost loves this man," she whispered, stroking him. "This ghost is sorry for all that has happened and wishes only to make things right again."
Tshingee rolled her nipple between his thumb and finger and Deborah groaned softly. Sliding her off him and onto her side, he buried his face in the valley between her breasts. Deborah's pulse quickened and her breath became more rapid as he stroked her with his hand, suckling the rising bud. A heavy-limbed aching consumed her as he kissed his way down the length of her torso, his fingertips brushing her flushed skin with a tantalizing deliberateness.
"Tshingee," Deborah moaned softly. "Tshingee."
He muffled her soft sighs of contentment with his mouth as he stroked the length of her creamy white thighs. Pushing off the heavy bearskin pelt, Tshingee straddled her, tucking his head in the hollow of her shoulder.
Deborah lifted her eyelids, gazing up at him. She stroked his bronze cheek with the back of her hand. The pain and anger were gone from his face; all she saw now was the heat of his desire for her. "Love me," she whispered, parting her thighs.
Lowering his body over hers, Tshingee took her with a single fluid movement, filling her with a sweet aching. Taking a shuddering breath, she ran her hands over his sculptured shoulders, lifting her head to accept his urgent kiss.
Limbs intertwined, Deborah and Tshingee moved as one, rising and falling in an ancient rhythm known only to them. A sense of urgency coursed through Deborah's veins and she moved faster beneath him, calling his name in utter abandonment. Again and again Tshingee took her to the brink of fulfillment, then slowed his pace until her breath came more evenly. Laughing in frustration, Deborah caressed the hard muscles of his buttocks, her blunt fingernails sinking into his flesh. "Enough," she cried. "Enough!"
Nibbling at her earlobe, Tshingee took Deborah's hands in his. Pressing her palms above her head, he drove home, lifting her over the brink and filling her with the ultimate joy of consummation. Shuddering with pleasure, Deborah held tightly to him, basking in the serenity of his love.
Tshingee kissed Deborah's temples, brushing back the damp tendrils of hair that clung to her cheeks. He cradled her in his arms, pulling the bear pelt over them. Without a word, he closed his eyes and slept.
Sometime near dawn, Deborah slipped from Tshingee's sleeping platform and dressed. Adding a log to his fire in the center pit, she kissed his cheek and turned to go. If she had to be a ghost, she knew she must not be here when he awakened. Whatever game he was playing, if she wanted him, she would have to play as well.
Then, on second thought, Deborah turned and went back to him. Out of her moccasin, she pulled the braid of dark hair Tshingee had once worn around his neck, and she laid it in his palm, closing his fingers around it. Smiling with satisfaction, she slipped noiselessly out of the wigwam.
Rolling onto his side, Tshingee pulled the bearskin pelt up over his shoulders and sighed contentedly. Bringing the braid of hair to his lips, he kissed it. "K'daholel, ki-ti-hi," he whispered. "K'daholel, ghost of mine."