THE OUTCOME
When Holde exited the tent, he was completely expressionless. Enola had been keeping an eye on the tent flap and she joined him as soon as he exited.
“What happened? What did he say? What did he do? Are we ready?”
He managed a painful smile. “He told me to take care of you. He just wanted to make sure that his daughter was taken care of.”
“That was not all,” she said, and Holde sighed.
“He knew that we wanted something,” he said. “That we hadn't come just to celebrate the marriage and have a happy family reunion.”
“I see,” Enola answered. “And?”
“He will think about it,” Holde said. “He did mention a sweat lodge.”
“Of course,” she answered.
“What exactly is a sweat lodge?”
“It's where we all sit together,” she said. “They put herbs into the fire, and it's meant to heal you, to bring out the truth in you.”
“Does it work?” Holde asked and Enola glared at him. “Sorry, I'm a bit new to this. You're a healer, you have real skill. Does a sweat lodge work?”
“In a fashion,” she replied. “And if my father wants it to make a decision, then that's what will have to happen.”
“They are staring,” he said casually as a few people walked by. When he raised his eyes, they dipped low, bowing and then backed away.
“You are their prince, remember,” she said, and he looked up at the sky.
“Oh Lord,” he replied.
Enola took his hand. “Come. Food is in order.”
“Finally. That is something I understand.”
Her father ducked out of the tent then, and Enola froze, his hand in hers. He glanced at it, but then looked past them, into the clearing. He sucked in a lungful of air, and then bellowed across the field. “Jacob!”
Enola jumped, as Jacob looked up from across the way. Her father vanished again, and Holde winced.
“Well,” he said. “I thought I was in trouble.”
“My father has always treated Jacob like his own son,” Enola answered. “Which is both good and bad for Jacob.”
“And today?”
“Today, it's probably bad,” she said. “Come with me.”
They crossed the field together, and Enola watched as people she used to be close to, cousins and friends, looked away as she walked. However, as she went by, she could feel their eyes staring into the back of her head, watching her British husband. She wondered what they thought. Did they disapprove? Were they frightened? Did they just not know how to approach her?
She squeezed his hand tighter, mostly out of defiance. She knew what it was like to be an outsider and she didn't want those feelings to be rained down on Holde. This was her home, even if she had been away for a while, and she would make him feel welcome.
News of the fact that there was a sweat lodge to be built swept through the tribe like wildfire. There were some that were directly involved with it and others that simply crowded around, watching the fascinating process. The British were just as curious, watching as they sat around the campfire, eating until they felt like they couldn't eat any more.
“The officers,” Enola answered Commander Harper's question as she came to sit beside him. “Myself. My father. My cousin. The other elders.”
“Are all those people going to fit in there?” Holde asked, a little weary.
“You're not nervous, are you?” Aaron teased him. Holde snapped at him.
“No, I'm not nervous,” he replied. “It's hardly blood on the battlefield, is it?”
“It's a tradition,” Enola tried to smooth over the sudden tension. “No one emerges from the sweat lodge not feeling light and cured.”
Aaron looked down and she realized that he doubted it would cure what ailed him. This pirate lord walked a fine line between life and death, she knew, and a single sweat lodge would not cure his ailments right away. Nevertheless, she wanted to give hope; to show Holde that their marriage would be worth something, so she turned to Wesley.
“If you've...eaten or drank something that makes you unwell, the smoke in the sweat lodge will draw it out.”
“Oh really?” he asked. “And what herbs is that?”
“Raspberry leaves, today,” she answered.
“Can we eat them?” Holde asked, and she rolled her eyes.
“Is that all you can think about?”
“It is if you keep feeding me,” he replied and she smiled. This almost seemed like flirting, their eyes, and their smiles. The way his long legs were spread out, she wanted to sit on his knee, curl against his broad chest. Instead, she crossed her arms, remaining standing as she waited.
The natives had just had a sweat ceremony a few days before, so it didn't take long to reassemble. Enola could smell the familiar scent and feel the familiar heat as they approached. The heat was overpowering at first, but she quickly got used to it. She welcomed the moist heat, pulling the toxins out of her skin, clouding and then clearing it. When her father finally spoke, everyone had been silent for nearly three minutes, mesmerized by the flames.
“Now,” he said. “Tell me why my people should fight.”
“We are married,” Enola protested. “We are one.”
“No.” He shot a look at her. “Why should my people die?”
“Your people are my people,” Holde spoke up. “This land...this land is one we share. This is my home, and yours. Sir, if your people march with us, you will save far more lives than you take. The Americans are ruthless, they care not for any lives that are not their own. They have come into this country and demanded liberation from our King, simply because they have done so. When we resisted, they fought. Perhaps they are threatened, perhaps they are frightened. But they will not stop. They'd rather us all lie dead than give up. That is not what we believe.”
Enola looked at him in surprise His words were elegant and strong, and it was longest she had heard him talk since she met him.
Harper looked impressed as well, leaning forward to speak to her father. “The war will reach you too, whether you accept it now or in the next few days. If the Americans come through us, which they might, given their numbers, they will come for you next. And your numbers alone are not enough to defend your people, no matter how great your warriors are.”
“Our warriors are the greatest,” her father replied.
“Yes,” Harold replied. “That may be the case. However, we are outnumbered somewhere between five and ten to one. Do you understand?”
He remained silent so long that Harold turned to Enola.
“Can you translate?”
“I---” she started, but her father cut her off, waiving his hand.
“I understand,” he answered. “How do you know they will come?”
“They are already coming,” Harold said. “And they have come for other tribes. I'm sure you've heard of it. Native or British, they don't care.”
It seemed to be a turning point in the conversation. The smoke filled Enola's eyes. She wiped away the tears that were forming, trying to breathe in the healthy smells. British life had made her soft, and she had forgotten how powerful nature was.
“Father?” she said, after a long silence. “Do you---”
Beside her, Patrick shifted, making a noise. She ignored him at first, assuming he was just getting comfortable. However, she suddenly turned in alarm when she heard him choke.
“Patrick” Aaron said, leaning forward. “Are you alright?”
“Patrick!” Aaron cried, pressing him back against the wall. Wesley clawed at his throat and Enola leapt down from her bench.
“He can't breathe,” she said, ducking around their stunned heads. Her voice was calm as she assessed the situation. She couldn't figure out what was happening. His eyes were swelling; his throat was clearly blocked.
She couldn't figure it out until she saw the raspberry stains on Wesley's hands, grabbing onto Patrick as he nearly pitched forward.
“Raspberries,” she said. “He's allergic to raspberries. We have to get him out of here.”
Raspberries were not common in Britain, she knew. It was likely that Holde, born a peasant, had never had any before he came here. They were very expensive in British society, which she thought was odd. They were free in the forest, and he should have picked and eaten millions by now.
“Let the sweat lodge heal him,” her father said, but she felt her rage rise.
“It's the raspberry leaves that are doing it,” she said. “Help me, please.”
Her father looked defiant, as if he couldn't understand how the sweat lodge could possibly hurt anyone. Nevertheless, one look at Holde's bulging eyes and choking motions made him move quickly.
The community crowded around in confusion as the officers helped get him onto the grass. Enola plunged forward, her hands on his chest. She tried to think quickly, but she had never seen anything like that.
There was a healer or two she had worked with who had spoken of such a reaction, and she tried to remember exactly what they had said. In a moment, she knew she would need to cut his throat open, just to help him breathe.
“Blueberries,” she cried at last. “Blueberries. Somebody. Ciel, will you help?”
Her sister stood on the edge of the crowd, and the look in her eyes was defiant. “Your British will only bring death,” Ciel answered. “Let it start here and end here.”
“No!” Enola cried as Holde struggled to breathe. “Please, please. We are all one people, Ciel, we are all one blood.”
However, her sister stood there, doing nothing.
It was Jacob who found the blueberries at the edge of the clearing, and brought them back with haste. She crushed them in her hand and then shoved the mess down his throat, knowing that she only had a slim chance of success. He was fighting to breath and she could see his throat was closing.
“Patrick!” she screamed as he started to go limp. “Patrick! Jacob, bring me my bag, it's there. Quick.”
“What do you need?” Jacob came to her side in a moment, pulling the various vials out of her satchel.
“Charcoal,” she cried. “Black, in a vial.”
“Black?” Jacob pulled out vials of white powder, yellow powder, every other color except black.
Patrick went limp, and Enola screamed, pounding on his chest and listening for a heartbeat. “Patrick, don't leave me now,” she cried. “Please, please don't leave me now. We just got started.”
The words that were coming out of her mouth were raw feelings that shocked even her. She had seen death before; stared it in the face and watched it pass her by. However, Patrick slipping from life scared her more than any of the things she had seen in her years.
She felt a cool vial on her shoulder and turned around. To her surprise, there was her father, standing there silently with charcoal. She met his eyes, shaking.
“Thank you,” she said, taking it from him after a quick moment. Her father regularly had medicine and herbs on him as the chief. He carried the most valuable and useful items at all times; to help his tribe.
Enola mixed it with a bit of water from her canteen and poured it down Holde's throat as he choked.
She wasn't entirely sure this was going to work. Blueberries couldn't possibly save someone's life, could they? And charcoal was for poison.
He rolled over, clawing at the ground, and threw up, his great body shuddering.
His Sergeant, Hunter, flew to his side then, putting his hands on his shoulders. “It's alright, sir, I got you. It's alright.”
“Raspberries,” Enola said. “Is he allergic to raspberries?”
“Probably,” Harper replied. “Everything else red does badly.” He looked up to her. “He didn't tell you that?”
“Oh Creator,” Enola dropped her head with a sigh. He hadn't, and she felt guilty. They were married, and she should know these things.
Even as Patrick recovered slowly, his eyes beginning to clear, she knew another truth. She had never been so scared, so remorseful, as the moment she thought she might lose him.
She cared for him, deeper than she thought, and she wasn't going to let anything happen to him.
When the trauma was over, she sat back on her haunches. Everyone was crowded around, trying to smile; trying to bring their normal light hearted humor back into things. Patrick wouldn't let go of her hand, and when she saw her father's moccasins approach, she looked up without rising.
“Today, you rest,” he said clearly. “Tomorrow, we march.”
Something had changed his mind. Enola wasn't going to ask what. She had a feeling it was seeing his eldest daughter sob over the British man, beg the gods for his life, that convinced him. They were one.