Chapter Nine
"I can't believe that's what women don't like about marriage." Deborah attacked her handful of dried berries greedily.
The hurricane still raged, but inside the wigwam time had lost all meaning. To Deborah and Tshingee no one existed in the world but the two of them. Nothing else mattered.
Tshingee looked up from where he tended the fire. "It is not the same for everyone, my Red Bird. We fit together as one." He demonstrated with his hands, intertwining his fingers. "Matches are made in the heavens between two souls."
Deborah's dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Have you made love to many women?" When he didn't answer immediately, she prodded him with her bare foot.
"A few." He sat down beside her on the hide mat, taking some of the berries from her palm.
"And was it the same with them? Did you make them all feel the way you made me feel?"
Tshingee nibbled on a berry, a sparkle of amusement in his ebony eyes. "You ask too many questions, woman." He reached out to toy with the tip of her rosy nipple. Both had remained unclothed after they made love.
Deborah giggled. "And why not? I'm just trying to understand. My sister Martha says it disgusts her when her husband demands his rights."
"His rights?" Tshingee scoffed. "No man or woman has a right to anyone. We give of our bodies freely."
"So tell that to Lord Danforth." She finished her berries and brushed her palms together. "No sooner does my sister give birth to one child, then he gets her with another."
"That is not good for a woman's body. The white man does not treasure his mothers as he should."
"But what's there to do to prevent it except abstinence?" She stroked the length of his sinewy arm. "Were you my husband," she said boldly, "I don't know that I could refrain."
"You are such an innocent, my Red Bird." Tshingee caught a lock of her dark hair and wrapped it around and around his finger. "There are ways to prevent birth. Our people have only two children. Our method has worked for centuries."
"Method?" Deborah's brow creased. "You don't—"
"There is a plant, an herb that our women take each month. It prevents unwanted children."
"What . . . what if I were to get with child now?" Her gaze met his.
"When was your last woman's time?"
Deborah blushed. "Th . . . three weeks ago."
He shook his head. "There will be no child."
"But . . . but what if there was?"
"There won't be." He kissed her soundly. He didn't want to talk of such things. He didn't even want to think about them. All he wanted was to be with Deborah here and now, the rest of the world be damned. "I told you, you ask too many questions."
"And I asked why."
"Because . . ." He pushed her back onto the mat, straddling her waist and pinning her arms down. "You are my prisoner and prisoners do not ask questions."
She sniggered. "Oh, they don't, don't they?"
He shook his head, his midnight black hair falling in a curtain around his face.
"Then what do they do?"
"They kiss their captors," he answered, swooping down to take her mouth with his.
"How much further?" Deborah picked up a stick and hurled it into the air.
The forest was littered with branches and fallen limbs as a result of the previous day's hurricane. The leafy ground was soggy and a cold wind chilled the air, but little else remained of the furious storm. Nature was forgiving. The sun had risen bright and bold in the sky, and now it was setting again.
"Tshingee," Deborah repeated, tugging playfully at his tunic. "How much further."
He looked at her, seemingly startled by her voice. Deborah sighed. He had been like this since they'd risen at dawn. Not a trace of the loving, playful man of yesterday remained. This man was dark and moody, a shadow of the man Deborah had made love with.
"Not far," Tshingee answered. "Tonight you will sleep in my mother's wigwam."
Not in yours? Deborah thought. But she didn't dare voice her fears. "Not far? Not far," she teased. "You've been saying that for hours."
He refused to take the bait and was silent again. Undaunted, Deborah walked past him, humming to herself. She felt so free, so happy. She had left her shift behind in the wigwam—the only evidence of her life on her father's plantation. Instead she wore Tshingee's moccasins and tunic and the doeskin robe over her shoulders to ward off the September chill. Today she was Red Bird of the Lenni Lenape, traveling with her lover, Tshingee.
Tshingee walked lightly, his stride long and purposeful, but his heart was heavy. What have I done? he mused. Yesterday it had seemed so right, loving this woman. But today, in the sunlight of reality, he realized his grave error.
"What's that I hear?" Deborah asked, breaking his thoughts. "Children?"
The sound of laughter filtered through the trees. The half light of approaching dark fell upon Tshingee and Deborah like a mother's blanket.
"I told you we were not far."
Deborah slowed down, waiting for him. Suddenly she was wary. What would these people think of her? Would they blame her for John's capture? She was thankful Tshingee did not know that John's land was to be her dowry. What would he say then?
"Do not worry," Tshingee said, as if reading her thoughts. "My people will treat you honorably. I will explain that it is your father who has taken John and that you had nothing to do with it."
"A pawn," Deborah replied sarcastically.
Tshingee glanced at her, but said nothing. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he made a strange bird-sound. A duplicate cry answered from somewhere in the distant trees.
"What was that?"
He led her over a stream and through a grove of black walnut trees, the sounds of a camp closing in around them. "The sentry. I warned him of our approach."
Deborah nodded, taking Tshingee's hand. They were almost upon the village now.
Barking dogs mingled with adult conversation and an occasional cry of a baby. Coming through the trees, Deborah's mouth gaped in wonderment. So many people! The village was alive with activity. Women cooked over fires outside their hutlike houses and children ran in circles laughing and chasing one another.
When Tshingee and Deborah were spotted, children and adults alike ran to greet them. Deborah clung to Tshingee as the villagers circled her curiously, reaching out to tug at her hair and stroke her pale flesh. Tshingee spoke quietly in his own tongue and the group took a step back.
Deborah studied the sea of red faces and dark eyes. Their skin was a deep, suntanned bronze, like Tshingee's, and they were dressed much like she was in soft leather tunics and low moccasins.
"Tshingee giis!"
Deborah looked up to see a plump Indian woman come running across the compound, her ample breasts bouncing.
"Tshingee, giis!" She pushed her way through the crowd, throwing her arms around Tshingee. She kissed him soundly on the lips, making a loud smacking noise.
Deborah took a step back, watching as Tshingee took the woman in his arms and hugged her, laughing. Deborah could feel a heat rising up her neck to color her face. Who is this woman? she wondered possessively. The two of them were still laughing and chattering in their native tongue. Though the Lenni Lenape woman was plump, she was heartbreakingly beautiful with a round face and stunning dark eyes. When she smiled, her features lit up with a joy few possessed. Is all of this happiness due to Tshingee's safe return? Deborah mused.
Finally, the woman turned and the circle of villagers parted to let her through. Tshingee grasped Deborah's forearm. "Come, Red Bird. We will wash and have our evening meal." He walked through the crowd and she followed. Some of the villagers had dispersed, but others followed in a clump just behind the new arrivals.
"That woman . . ." Deborah swallowed against her jealousy. "Is she your betrothed?" She knew she shouldn't ask. She really didn't want to know, but the words just slipped out.
Tshingee shook his head. "No." he chuckled. "That is my mother, Co-o-nah Aquewa, Snow Blanket."
Deborah's face lit up. "But she looks so young." She caught Tshingee's hand, overjoyed that he was not spoken for here in the village.
"No, she is my mother, but there is my betrothed." He lifted his hand in salute to someone ahead of them.
Deborah paled. "You . . . you didn't tell me there was someone else." On the path ahead a petite young Lenni Lenape woman waited. On a pole across her shoulders she balanced two buckets of water. She was younger than Deborah . . . not more than seventeen or eighteen.
"You didn't ask," Tshingee replied.
The young maiden set down her buckets and came to Tshingee, throwing her arms around his massive shoulders. She was so tiny! She stood on her tip toes to kiss him; her lips lingered over his.
"Welcome, love," Suuklan murmured in Tshingee's ear, and ran her hand over his cheek. She spoke to him in Algonquian, the language used by the Lenni Lenape. "You bring a guest?"
"The story is long and complicated. Let us eat and drink first and then we will talk," he answered carefully.
"I've missed you."
Tshingee tugged at one of her long ebony braids. "You mean you've not been busy fending off Sikihiila's attentions?" he teased.
Deborah looked away, brushing at an imaginary speck of dirt in her eye. She was hurt and she was embarrassed. Though she couldn't understand a word the two said, it was obvious she was listening in on an intimate conversation . . . one between lovers.
Tshingee spoke a few more moments and then signaled to Deborah to come along. She followed him like a wounded hound pup. Suddenly she wanted to go home, not so much that she wanted to be there, but that she wanted to be anywhere else but here . . . with him.
"We'll get clean clothes, bathe at the stream, and then we will eat in my mother's wigwam." Tshingee's voice was matter-of-fact; his mind was elsewhere.
Deborah's pain turned to anger as Tshingee gathered clean clothes from his mother's wigwam and led her across the compound. By the time they reached the privacy of the running stream among the walnut trees, she was seething.
"You can put these on after you've bathed," Tshingee told her.
Deborah snatched the soft hide dress from his hand. "You didn't tell me there was someone here you intended to marry."
Tshingee's eyes narrowed, his steady gaze turning dark with anger. "Did you ever think to ask me?"
She threw the dress to the ground and tugged her own tunic over her head, throwing it at him. One by one she plucked her moccasins off her feet and tossed them, hitting Tshingee in the chest. "If I'd known, I wouldn't have—"
"If you had known, you would have done precisely the same." He crossed his arms over his chest. "You seem to forget that you my chattering Red Bird, are a woman already spoken for."
"But you knew about Tom," she flung over her shoulder as she waded into the stream. "You knew the circumstances." The water was so cold that her teeth chattered as she cupped the water and let it flow over her breasts.
He laughed without amusement. "So that makes it all right?"
Deborah rubbed her skin briskly, as if she could wash away the mark the Lenni Lenape warrior had branded on her "Damn it! No, it doesn't make it right but I thought . . . You know why I did it! I thought you cared about me, you red son of a bitch!"
"My father once told me a tale of a two-headed green monster—jealousy I believe is the white man's word."
Deborah came up out of the water livid. "Jealous!" she raged. "How could I be jealous of that child? Over you?" She snatched the doeskin dress off the grass and pulled it over her head. "You kidnapped me! You came into my bedchamber and you carried me off. I was chased by dogs, kidnapped by savages that eat people, caught in a hurricane, and then raped by a heathen!"
Tshingee caught her wrists, his face equally livid. He spoke with his teeth clenched, his voice barely a whisper. "Never, never speak those words again. You came to me of your own free will and you know that to be true." He gripped her so tightly that his fingers bruised her flesh.
Deborah's eyes met his for a brief instant. What was that she saw there beneath his anger? Insult? Pain? No, it couldn't be. She yanked free from his grasp and swept her moccasins from the ground. Thrusting her feet into them, she stomped off.
He stood stoic for a moment, trying to gain control. He hadn't meant to fling such careless words. He hadn't meant to hurt her. It was just that now that he was back in the village, everything was tumbling down upon him again. John was still being held, Rain was begging Tshingee's attention . . . And then there was Deborah. He had made a grave error in making love to her and now he saw no way to right it. The only thing he could do was try to spare her feeling any more. At least if she was angry with him, it would help break the bond between them that he felt growing with each hour.
Suddenly it dawned on Tshingee that she was walking off. "Where are you going?" he demanded.
"Home!" she shouted, crashing through the trees.
"You can't go home! You are my prisoner, Deborah Montague!"
"Well, I don't want to be your prisoner anymore!"
Tshingee shook his head. "It is not your choice!"
"That's just it. Nothing is ever my choice, is it, you stupid bastard."
Realizing she was serious, Tshingee sprinted after her. "Come back before you're hurt," he barked.
"What, before wild Indians carry me off?"
Catching sight of her, Tshingee dodged a spruce tree and stepped into her path. "You are not free to go." He dropped his hands to his hips.
"I don't care about your brother! I don't care about you! All I want to do is go home!"
Tshingee didn't flinch, though her words sank to his core. "You want to home, Red Bird? Home to be sold on the auction block like a horse? You want to be a brood mare until it kills you? Who will care then? Your husband will have a new wife by the next planting!"
Everything he said was true. Tears flooded Deborah's eyes. "I hate you," she whispered.
"You don't hate me. You hate the reality of this life."
She pushed him so hard with her palms that he stumbled, falling backwards. "I hate you for making me see it!" Circling him, she ran off into the woods.
For an instant, Tshingee sat in the dry leaves. Had he not been so angry with her, he might have laughed. Pushing up off the ground, he ran after her, catching up with her swiftly.
"Deborah Montague, you are my prisoner." She swung her balled fist at him, but he ducked. "You are my prisoner," he stated flatly, "and you will be my prisoner until I set you free." Taking her by the waist, he lifted her and flung her over his shoulder.
Deborah kicked and screamed, pounding his back with her fists. Tears clouded her eyes and ran down her cheeks until she could no longer see. Then, in defeat, she hung limp over his shoulder.
Tshingee dumped Deborah on the dirt floor of his mother's wigwam. "Sit there, or I'll tie you up," he snapped angrily.
Snow Blanket glanced up at her son, lifting a feathery eyebrow, but said nothing, brushing past him. A moment later she returned with two wooden platters of steaming stew. She knelt in front of Deborah, pushing it into her hands. She felt compassion for the white woman with the tearstained cheeks. "Eat," she urged softly.
Deborah accepted the plate hesitantly. "Thank you," she answered, sniffing.
Tshingee stood in the entranceway of the wigwam, his arms crossed over his chest. "You serve my prisoner before you serve your own son?" he asked dryly.
"I don't like that tone of voice," Snow Blanket reprimanded in Lenni Lenape. "You are still my son. Sit down and stop trying to frighten her." She pushed his platter into his hand. "Eat before it gets cold."
Tshingee accepted the dish and sat cross-legged across from Deborah on the far side of the wigwam.
Snow Blanket fetched herself a plate and sat down next to her son. "What have you done here, my son?" she asked, glancing up at Deborah. She shook her head. It was obvious there was much between her son and the dark-haired white girl "What of John? The messenger you sent was brief."
Tshingee spooned the steamy venison into his mouth hungrily. "He is still being held for a murder he did not commit."
"And this girl? How is she tied to the thread of things?"
Tshingee studied his mother's enchanting round face. "It is Deborah's father who wanted John's land. He is the accuser."
"You ask for an exchange of prisoners then?"
He nodded. "I could think of no better way. You know John's feelings on bloodshed."
Snow Blanket licked her fingers, "And what of John's wife Bridget and my grandchild? Why did you not bring them? Surely they are no longer safe among the white men."
Tshingee scraped his platter with a pewter fork, a gift to his mother from his father many years ago. "I tried, but she refused. She insisted that she be there in case John was released. I could not even convince her to let me bring Mary back."
Snow Blanket sighed. "Bridget is a good woman but she is not bright. She doesn't understand the danger she places herself and her child in. These are funny times. It is not like when your father was alive. Our people are no longer accepted among the greedy white men."
"I did not wish to involve Deborah, but I did what I had to, Mother. You know that if there had been another path, I would have taken it."
"I know, my son." Snow Blanket brushed his cheek with her palm, her eyes shining with love as well as pride. "More stew?"
He nodded.
"Good." She smiled, pushing her plate into his hand. "You can get me some more when you are up."
Tshingee chuckled, getting to his feet. It was an old joke between Snow Blanket and her sons. "I am not your white servant," she had always told them.
Deborah watched Tshingee rise and leave the wigwam, the two platters in his hands. She had understood nothing he and his mother had said, but she had heard her name spoken. What had Tshingee told his mother? Had he told her how Deborah had thrown herself into his arms, behaving like some dockside whore? Her cheeks colored at the thought.
Why has this happened to me? Deborah wondered miserably. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, nibbling at the stew. It was hot and spicy. In other circumstances she would have enjoyed it thoroughly, but today she had no appetite. She set down the plate, the stew only half eaten.
"Eat, Deb-o-rah," Snow Blanket said softly in English. Her voice had the same fascinating lilt as Tshingee's did. "What is a woman without her strength?"
Deborah looked up. "It . . . it's very good. I just . . . I'm not hungry."
"I am sorry that this has happened to you." Snow Blanket studied Deborah with penetrating dark eyes. "But you are safe here. Do not worry. No harm will come to you. My son, Tshingee, is a man of his word. You will soon be home with your family."
A lump rose in Deborah's throat and she looked away. Baskets and bundles of dried vegetables hung from the rafters above. One section of the wigwam was heaped with folded furs and wool blankets. It was a cozy home, warm and richly scented with pungent herbs.
Tshingee stuck his head inside the door. "I've been called to the counsel," he said in English. "I must go, but look what I've found."
To Deborah's surprise a young black boy of five or six came bounding in. He handed Snow Blanket her platter of stew saying, "N'gattopui, Onna."
Snow Blanket laughed. "Find your platter and eat then," she answered in English.
Deborah watched in astonishment as the boy ducked out of the wigwam. She looked at Snow Blanket, but said nothing.
The Lenni Lenape woman chuckled. "Bee, is my son. You think I am too old a woman to be a mother?"
"N—no." Deborah's forehead crinkled in confusion. The boy had short, crisp black hair and ebony skin. "But how can he be? He's . . . he's a negro!" she blurted.
Snow Blanket make a clucking sound between her teeth. "He is a child who needed love. I'll never understand why the color of a man's skin is so important to you Englishmen."
"Where did he come from?"
Snow Blanket started in on her second helping of venison stew. "I stole him."
"Ma'am?"
The Indian woman chuckled. "We are not stealers of children." She took a deep breath. "But when I was visiting with my sister in Penn's Colony, she told me of the boy. He was a slave child on a small farm near their village. He was beaten and nearly starved." She shrugged. "So I took him."
"But what of his mother?"
"His parents had been sold to another man. Bee was never to see them again. He would not have lived out the winter if he had stayed with the cruel farmer."
Deborah nodded in fascination.
Just then the boy ducked in.
"Greet our guest," Snow Blanket said, nodding in Deborah's direction.
The child grinned. "Good evening, guest," he said in perfect, singsong English. He had none of the accent that Deborah's father's slaves had.
"Good evening," Deborah replied.
The boy giggled and ran to sit beside his mother. "Do you think she would play stick and ball after the meal, Onna?"
Snow Blanket shrugged, licking her spoon. "You will have to ask, son of mine."