Black Eagle (32 page)

The view was spectacular. The village was positioned on a cliff overlooking Mohawk fields and the Mohawk River, which flowed and gurgled over rocks and boulders in an ever continuing cascade of white waves. In the distance, mountains and hills, rich with autumn color, rose up both east and west of them. Set against a blue sky, the site for the Mohawk village was surrounded by breathtaking beauty.

It gave her hope. Surely people who appreciated such aesthetics couldn't be completely savage.

The first sight of the village that met her view was that of a wooden stockade. Sharp wooden poles, driven into the ground, and tied at the top, enclosed whatever of the village she was about to see.

The entrance to the town was unusual, as well; it consisting of overlapping logs instead of a gate. At this entrance, she noted, was yet another outpost. Men stood there, heavily armed.

At the sight, Marisa cringed. But Black Eagle, who was in the lead, couldn't see her reaction. He paid the guards no attention. Marisa, however, was having second thoughts about the wisdom of coming to Black Eagle's home. What had seemed a good idea in theory was, in the flesh, rather daunting.

Black Eagle turned back toward her. He queried, “Are you ready?”

What could she say? There was no possibility of retreat. Not only could she not find her way back through the forest, but until she discovered what had motivated Thompson's behavior, Albany's safety remained in question.

Indeed, all she could do in response to Black Eagle's query was to smile, and say, “Ready? Indeed, I fear I am not. But lead on.”

He smiled at her and winked. “Come.”

A sentry post, consisting of a lean-to set atop four sturdy poles, sat at the inside position of the stockade's entrance. However, instead of a gate that opened and closed, the village entrance consisted of overlapping rows of spiked poles. Men stood on guard here; they were big, dangerous looking men. They were heavily armed. That each of them stared at her, not in greeting, but as though she were an enemy, was intimidating.

Marisa gazed at them, then away, swallowing hard. However, a quick look forward had her noting that she was lagging behind Black Eagle, and she hurried forward. As she and Black Eagle rounded the corner of the overlapping logs, the village at last came into view.

Like a scene gradually opening up before her, she first noticed colors, the greens of crops and grass, the browns of dried grass and buildings; the oranges, yellows and golds of produce set on the ground, as well as the various tree leaves turning color. The village, she decided, was not without beauty.

It felt warmer here, also, she observed, and it was a busy place, though oddly quiet. Women sat in groups, working and talking softly. Scantily dressed children were running freely, playing and speaking to each other, but even they were not overly loud. Older children were seated around their elders, helping with the work. There was drumming in the background, but it was muffled, as though it were coming from within a building.

There was a definite scent of smoke in the air, as well as the farm-rich fragrance of corn, beans and husks. And somewhere in the village, someone was barbecuing meat, or perhaps it was a soup that she smelled. Whatever it was Marisa's taste buds came alive. Her stomach growled, reminding her that the steady diet of dried corn and meat that she had been consuming was not the only food to be had.

She and Black Eagle were pacing down what appeared to be a major street. Here and there, trees and other flora decorated each side of the passageway, adding yet another layer of beauty to the enclosed village. Interestingly, except for the manner in which the people were dressed and the fact that they were obviously of a different race than she, the Mohawk village might have looked like a village anywhere.

Along the street were a few log cabins, but mostly the buildings consisted of very long structures, which looked to be made of logs and bark. In many aspects, she thought, they resembled barns.

Glancing under her lashes from one side of the street to the other, she noticed that conversations stopped when she passed and that many curious glances followed her. Although no one overly stared at her, she could feel their eyes upon her as she passed by them.

Through it all, a thought kept running through her mind, one that she couldn't shake.

In Albany, hadn't she heard rumors that this was required of all captives? It was an ordeal, a circumstance where villagers lined up and forced a captive to run between them, beating a person as they ran through.

Was this to be her fate?

Briefly, Marisa shut her eyes and swallowed, hard.

Why hadn't she asked Black Eagle about this when she'd had the chance? Why hadn't she remembered the rumor until now?

Suddenly, and perhaps without cause, she felt as though she could not have been more on display if she had been walking naked through the village. To counter the feeling, she kept close on Black Eagle's heels. Perhaps too close.

A few times, she had come in so near to him that she had tripped him. But he had said nothing. Instead, he had merely turned to her and smiled, as though to give her courage.

At last they came to a particular longhouse where Black Eagle stopped. She was staring at the odd-looking bark structure when Black Eagle turned to her and said, “Remain here. I will be gone a moment only.”

Marisa nodded, but she must have looked as worried as she felt, for he added, “No one will hurt you. You will see.”

Again, she nodded, but as he left her to enter into the dwelling, she began to wring her hands.

A child who was dressed in a garment of dark blue, which was heavily embroidered, came up beside Marisa and chattered at her in a language Marisa didn't understand. Marisa paid the little girl no attention.

The child, however, was persistent, and pulled on Marisa's dress. At last, Marisa gave the little girl her attention, noticing that except for a different manner of dressing, the little girl looked like children everywhere. Two braids were caught at the sides of the child's face and in her arms was a corn-husk doll, a doll whose head was missing a face.

The child was prattling off words at such a rate, however, that Marisa felt slightly dizzy; she was also offering Marisa her doll, which Marisa steadfastly refused to take. Marisa did make the effort to show the girl that she didn't understand her words, but it seemed useless. The little girl persevered, pushing her doll into Marisa's hands.

At some length, Black Eagle returned and spoke to the child, then said to Marisa, “She welcomes you to her village. You'd best take the doll. To not do so is an insult.”

“Oh.” At last Marisa accepted the child's gift. “Would you tell her thank you for me?”

“
Nyah-weh
,” he said to the child.

The girl smiled, and leaning in close, placed her hand within Marisa's.

“I think you've made a friend. Come,” said Black Eagle. “I will introduce you to my mother.”

“Your mother?” Marisa gasped, and held back. “I'm to meet your mother so soon? Without even changing my clothing or bathing first?”

“She will understand. Come.”

Marisa sighed, wishing at this very moment that she were anywhere else but here. Nor could she make herself move to follow Black Eagle.

He stepped toward her, and taking a lock of her hair within his fingers, Black Eagle studied it as its burnished color glowed beneath the direct rays of the sun. He said, “Even unbathed and with clothes torn and dirty, you are the most beautiful woman I have known. Yours is a beauty, not only of the physical realm, but also of the heart. You have nothing to fear. My mother will be pleased to help you to bathe and to change. She will be honored.” Black Eagle paused, then went on to explain, “There will be a council tonight to decide what clan will have the distinction of becoming your new family.”

“My new family?” Marisa gasped. “I know you said something about that, but I . . . I don't understand. Why do I need a new family? Please tell me again. I thought I was to stay with you.”

“We will be together,” he said, “but to have your own family—a family that is not mine—is for your benefit. While you could live with my clan, you might find that things are not always to your liking.”

Marisa's head was spinning, and she took a step backward. Her own family? Adoption? A clan?

Shaking her head, she said, “Please, Black Eagle. I must apologize if I seem ungrateful, but I don't understand why we couldn't simply have our own home, our own house.”

He nodded toward the longhouses. “We could,” he said, “but we would seem odd here in my village. We Iroquois call ourselves the
Haudenosaunee
, or the People of the Longhouse. No two people here in our village live alone. We all reside in the longhouse of our separate clans.”

“Married people, children, elders, all reside with each other in the same house?”

“It is so. Each has his own quarters within the longhouse, however, and no one would ever think to disturb a person in his own part of the house.”

“I see.” Slowly Marisa let out her breath. She still had questions, however, and she argued, “But if all this is so, why couldn't I come and live with your clan instead of being adopted by people I don't know and have never met?”

“Because it would be unfair to you. It is true that we could live this way and no one would prevent it, but you might become unhappy.”

“Unhappy? Unfair to me? How can that be? It seems natural to me to live with your husband's people.”

“It might seem so at first, but all things here in my village are based on family or clan. What if we were to have an argument? Who would you go home to? Who would take your side? While it is true that there may be someone within my clan who might aid you, there could as easily be no one. But if you have your own family, it is certain that you will find a champion with them. They will treat you well. I promise.” Black Eagle smiled at her and bending toward her, he whispered in her ear, “I know it is all strange to you, but you must persevere through this. Good things will come from this. You will see.”

He planted a kiss on the delicate flesh of her ear. Then straightening away, he said, “Come. I think my elders will insist that a ceremony take place today. My mother will help you. It seems that Pretty Ribbon has decided to help you, also.”

“Pretty Ribbon? Is that the child's name?”

He nodded.

“Pretty Ribbon. What a fascinating name.” She smiled at the child, then said, “Very well. I will put my trust in you, then.”

“I am honored.”

“But Black Eagle,” she continued, “this is not easy, and I am worried about what is to happen to me.”

“I know you are. But I am here.” He smiled at her, and so handsome was the look of him, her heart lurched up into her throat. It was a half grin he gave her, and although she realized he meant it as goodwill, and to bolster her spirits, that smile of his was incredibly sexy. It served to remind her not only how much she loved this man, but how much she trusted him.

Squeezing her hand, he repeated, “I am here.” And turning to again take the lead, Black Eagle escorted her deeper into the village, with the little girl, Pretty Ribbon, holding Marisa's hand and skipping along beside her.

 

 

Marisa's mind was wandering.

Though her back was toward it, she knew the sun had journeyed to the west, if only because its orange and pinkish rays were coloring the dried grasses at her feet. In the distance from where she stood, fires had been lit. Women were busy cooking a celebration feast . . . for her.

The adoption had begun.

It was strange. She had been in the village no longer than a few hours and already she was being treated as though she had been born into the tribe.

Earlier, Black Eagle had indeed taken her to his mother, who had appeared pleased at the prospect of gaining a new daughter-in-law. She had been kind, considerate, acting as though there were nothing more important than ensuring her son's and her new daughter-in-law's happiness. This had done much to settle Marisa's nerves. It was especially so because Marisa kept expecting harshness from the woman, or from some other source, perhaps even abuse.

But it never came.

Black Eagle's mother, Blue Necklace, had escorted Marisa to a private place in the river to bathe; the little girl, Pretty Ribbon, had flounced along after them, happily talking to her doll. As Marisa had bathed, Blue Necklace had taken Marisa's own clothes and had set to washing them, hanging them to dry. Then the woman had set out a fresh set of other garments, Indian made, for Marisa's inspection. Next she had begun plaiting Marisa's hair.