Cherokee Storm (25 page)

The next thing she knew, Storm Dancer had given a mighty tug on her arm. She ran after him for a few yards, and abruptly, they were falling in midair.

Down and down.

She screamed, but the air rushed by her face so fast that it was all she could do to utter a small squeal. With a great splash, they landed, feet first in water. Water closed over her head and the cloth he'd tied around her eyes slipped down around her neck and drifted away. She held her breath as they plunged deep and then kicked their way up to break the surface of an enchanted forest pool.

“How did you like that?” he shouted in her ear. “I told you we would fly.”

It was hard to hear him above the great roar of tumbling water. Directly ahead of her, a waterfall cascaded from rocks a hundred feet above. The air was thick with flying drops of water, the spray so thick that it formed a curtain around them.

Shannon knew she had been in this place before. It was the magic spot of her vision. She clung to him, encircling his neck with her arms, gazing into his dark, enigmatic eyes, eyes filled now with love for her. “It was like flying,” she agreed.

For a long time, they floated in the deep pool, kissing and touching each other, and then Storm Dancer swam toward the falls, bringing her with him. She knew what would come next. He would gather her in his arms and carry her into the secret cavern behind the falling water. He would carry her to a warm, bubbling pool, as he had before. And there, he would make love to her.

“My Shannon,” he murmured. “Do you remember?”

“I do,” she said. “I do remember.” And then he swept her up and climbed the slippery rocks to the base of the cascade.

This time, she was prepared for the hush of the cavern. She kept her eyes open, taking in the beauty of the cave as he walked deeper into the earth's womb.

“You were always meant to be mine,” he said, kissing her throat and trailing caresses down over her breasts. “No other woman but you.”

She sighed with pleasure as he lowered her into the mineral pool. “Is this heaven?”

He laughed, stripped off his loincloth, and slid into the water beside her. Shannon paddled backward, putting space between them. “I suppose you would have me take this off.” She tugged at her doeskin dress. He grinned. “I would.”

“And you would have me let you touch me?” she teased, lifting the wet clothing over her head.

He moved closer.

She laughed, tossing the dress to the pool's edge, moving just out of his reach.

“And if it's not what I wish?” She tried not to smile but her joy tickled the corners of her mouth.

“Oh, you wish for it.” He dove for her and she squealed with laughter and she, again, moved just out of his reach.

“Come to me, Shannon.” He gestured with one hand, beckoning her.

“Come to you?” She moved through the water slowly, enjoying the moment of anticipation. “And then?”

He slid his arm around her back and drew her close. “And then this.” He kissed her mouth firmly. “And this.” He cupped her breast in his hand. “And this.”

She watched him lower his hand beneath the water, felt its warmth along the inside of her thigh, then its heat against her woman's place.

“Let me show you,” he whispered in her ear. “You will like this, what I have.”

“Will I?” She giggled, enjoying the play. But as he stroked her steadily, the playfulness fell away, replaced by a white-hot heat…a hot need she knew no one would be able to satisfy but him.

Shannon rested her hands on Storm Dancer's shoulders and opened her legs, letting them float upward, then wrapped them around his waist. Pressing her warm wet body against his, she reveled in the feel of his steely hardness against her woman's folds. “Show me,” she whispered, letting her eyes drift shut.

Storm Dancer pushed her wet hair back, smoothing it in a tender caress. “Do not close your eyes, dear one. Look into mine as we share this union. Let me drink of you as you drink of me.”

Shannon opened her eyes to look into the darkness of his, and their mouths met with a building hunger. She wanted to take it slowly, to enjoy every precious moment she had with him, but her body revolted against the idea. She wanted him. Needed him. Now. Hard. Fast.

There was little foreplay. She was already wet for him, already breathing hard. And he was well past prepared. Their mouths tangled in a kiss, Shannon reached beneath the water and boldly stroked him, guiding him inside her.

Storm Dancer resisted, but she would have her way with him. Perhaps there would be time for slow, patient lovemaking later, but right now she needed consummation. Needed to feel him fill her.

Shannon moaned as he entered her and she clung to him, her arms around his neck, her cheek against his shoulder. Catching her breath, she thrust against him, pushed back, and did it again.

Storm Dancer let out a groan of surrender and tightened his arms around her, thrusting hard and deep. Water splashed around them as he thrust again and again, and she strained to ride the waves of the tide building deep inside her.

“Like this,” he groaned in her ear. “Like this, my love.”

Shannon bit down on Storm Dancer's shoulder as every muscle in her body contracted and relaxed. Unable to hold back any longer, make the pleasure last another moment, she gave in to it.

She surprised herself by the scream that came from her lips as her entire body was wracked with the joy of the union. She felt him thrust one final time, then heard his groan in her ear as she relaxed in his arms, satiated…if only for a few moments.

It was dark and beginning to rain when Shannon entered the village and returned to Snowberry's house to find the stout older woman sitting cross-legged on a mat by the central fire pit. When Shannon entered, Snowberry glanced up, smiled, and greeted her cheerfully.

“I hope the stew was—” Shannon began.

“The food was good,” Snowberry answered. “Another family joined me at the meal, but we saved you some. Also these.” She held out a shallow basket containing several corn cakes. “Cardinal made them for you.”

Shannon thanked her. She really wasn't hungry. She wanted more than anything to curl up on her sleeping platform and dream of Storm Dancer. Their hours together had been magical. She felt as though she'd been living a dream, one she didn't want to wake up from. But now that they were parted again, she was terrified that something would happen to him. He said that they'd not found any more Shawnee in Cherokee territory, but if they discovered fresh tracks, they would chase the offenders down, no matter where they ran.

“Please. Sit and eat.”

Shannon didn't know if she could eat anything, but courtesy demanded she make an effort. Snowberry had been kind to her. Cardinal's aunt treated her, not like an unwanted white stranger, but like a favored daughter. It would be rude to go straight to bed and not talk for a while.

She felt as though the easygoing widow was her first friend among the Cherokee, other than Gall. Back at the trading post, she'd enjoyed Gall's company, but here among the
Tsalagi,
Shannon wasn't certain if she still felt the same way. Neither Oona nor Storm Dancer trusted Gall. She wondered if she'd misjudged Gall's character. In any case, she had no intentions of going anywhere alone with him, let alone to allow him to take her away from the man she loved.

She nibbled at the cakes and ate a small bowl of the stew while Snowberry chatted on about the garden, someone's new baby, a new basket shape Cardinal was weaving, and the weather. Thankfully, the woman didn't require answers, just an interested listener. Snowberry never asked where she'd been all afternoon, and Shannon didn't volunteer the information. And by the time the fire died low and the two retired for the night, the storm had hit full force.

Gusts shook the roof and howled around the lodge while torrents of rain fell, streaming down the outside walls and running in rivulets down the town streets. The summer door covering, nothing more substantial than a deer hide, whipped in the wind, and water sluiced around the smoke hole cover in the center of the room. But most of the cabin interior, including the sleeping platforms, with their storage containers tucked underneath, remained dry.

The storm didn't frighten Shannon; oddly, she found the wind and the rhythm of the falling rain soothing. The doeskin mattress, stuffed with pine boughs, was wide enough for two and comfortable. Shannon's last thought before she dropped off to sleep, amid the soothing smells of rain and pine needles, was for Storm Dancer. She hoped he and the other men had found shelter. The villagers were snug in their cabins, but any living thing that couldn't find shelter tonight on the mountain would be in dire straits.

 

For three days, the rains fell. Some homes flooded and families had to take shelter with friends or relatives. Winds remained strong, tugging at roofs, knocking over tall corn grinders, and blowing away household articles that had been left outside. Shannon and Snowberry remained housebound, an island of dry in a sea of water. One evening, Nesting Swan came to visit and share bread and honey. And the following afternoon, Corn Woman dashed over with hot slices of freshly roasted venison and stewed green beans with slices of wild duck.

While the rains fell, Snowberry busied herself with basket weaving and sewing. Shannon attempted to start her own basket, but she was all thumbs. The beautifully designed containers that the Cherokee women made, some so tightly woven that they held water, seemed beyond her ability to create.

“You do not learn to weave in a day, nor in two,” Snowberry advised gently. “My mother taught me, but it took years for me to make a basket that my father didn't laugh at.” Even as she spoke, her callused fingers twisted the split oak strips into neat patterns. “Nesting Swan weaves the best river grass baskets. Once she has stopped being afraid of you, I'm sure she will show you some of her secrets.”

“She's frightened because I'm white.”

“Yes,” Snowberry agreed. “Nesting Swan would rather die than be taken back to slavery. A woman with black skin, even a free woman, is never entirely safe. If there were ever papers that proved she had been legally bought, they are long lost.”

“Please tell her for me that I would never tell anyone she was here.”

Snowberry nodded. “I will pass on those good words, but she may not believe you.” She set aside her basket strips and removed a length of tanned deerskin from the wall.

Shannon watched as the woman marked and cut the leather in shapes to form moccasins. “When they are sewn, I will decorate them for you,” Snowberry offered. “A woman can always use extra footwear.”

Smiling, Shannon had to agree. Sewing leather was more difficult than stitching cloth, but again, it was something that she'd learned from Flynn. “Thank you. This I can do,” she said with a smile.

The Indian woman nodded her approval. “A good heart goes far to make a good human being. If you wish to be happy among the
Tsalagi,
I believe you will.”

“I want to be a good wife to Storm Dancer.”

“A wife, is it? To the chosen one? Let us hope that you are lucky as well as good. Firefly will do all she can to prevent such a marriage.”

“Do you agree with her?”

Snowberry chuckled. “She is my friend, but we do not always agree, and I have no son to protect.” She added another cherry log to the hearth. “Firefly is a powerful opponent, but her heart is good, as well. Who knows what may happen? You might even find another man you prefer to Storm Dancer.”

Shannon looked into the teasing eyes. “But you aren't against the match?”

“I should be. Cardinal is my favorite niece. She would have been his wife, if he hadn't met you.”

“I don't want to hurt her, but I won't give him up. I can't. And there is no other man for me.”

Snowberry pursed her lips and made a clicking sound with her tongue. “What will be, will be, child. I have learned that this is one of the joys of life. No matter how old I become, I find surprises around every turn.”

The days that the storm raged passed slowly. Each afternoon, Shannon made the dash through the rain to fetch fresh water. Snowberry had dry wood aplenty, stashed beneath the sleeping platform that ran all round the lodge. Still, Shannon was relieved when the downpour finally slowed to a trickle and then stopped. Clouds parted, and a bright sun shone down on the village.

Instantly, everyone in the village was out. Children and dogs scampered and played, young mothers and older girls eagerly sought out their friends while Snowberry, Nesting Swan, and the matrons set out immediately for the gardens. Snowberry handed Shannon a hoe and motioned for her to come along.

The storm had knocked down young corn plants, flooded hills of squash, and washed away beans and other vegetables. All around Shannon, women and girls were kicking off their moccasins and wading into the muddy gardens to rescue the plants. Shannon followed Snowberry to her own planting area and began to straighten and restore the vegetables that could be saved. What couldn't be salvaged, the women deftly replanted with seeds they had carried with them to the fields.

Soon, they were all laughing and covered in mud. For the first time since coming to Firefly's village, Shannon felt as though she was accepted, not simply a guest, but part of the group. She joined in the singing and jokes, and almost before she realized it, the women were pausing for a noon meal. They didn't return to the town, but walked to the creek, washed off the worst of the mud, and devoured bread and berries and morsels of roasted meat that boys had carried from the home fires.

Shannon had just reached for another piece of quail when silence fell over the chattering gardeners. Several women stepped back, and Shannon found herself face-to-face with Storm Dancer's mother, Firefly, and two other stern-faced matrons.

“What have you done?” Firefly demanded.

“Me?” Puzzled, Shannon looked around. Snowberry's expression was strained, and Nesting Swan revealed equal distress. “I was just helping—”

“Not today,” Firefly thundered. “Before the storm. What did you take from my cabin? What did you steal?”

Shannon scrambled to her feet. Had she misunderstood the Cherokee words? “Steal? I didn't steal anything from you.”

One of Firefly's companions, a white-haired woman Shannon had heard others call Yellow Bead, placed a basket on the ground, removed the lid, and lifted the pieces of what appeared to be a grotesque object fashioned of dried husks, corncobs, and wood. “This. The sacred Corn Mask.”

Snowberry uttered a low moan. Someone behind Shannon gasped. Another covered her eyes with muddy hands. Whispers rippled through the assembly.

“A bad omen.”

“Our gardens will fail.”

“She did it—the yellow hair.”

“I'm not a thief,” Shannon protested. “I never touched your mask, if that's what it is.”

“For generations, the Wolf Clan has guarded this mask,” Firefly said. “It was old when my grandmother's grandmother's mother was born. Since I was your age, it has been in my keeping. Today, we went to bring it forth, so that the spirits would see that we honored them, so that our fields would recover from the great rains.”

“Not only did you steal it,” Yellow Bead said, “but you shattered it.”

Nesting Swan began to weep.

“I didn't touch your mask,” Shannon repeated. “I've never laid eyes on it before.”

“She denies it,” someone murmured.

“It's broken. The power is lost.”

“Our children will go hungry this winter.”

“I saw you go into Firefly's cabin, with my own eyes.” Cardinal stepped out of the crowd. “Days ago, before the rain, when you minded the stew pot for my aunt. I saw you enter Firefly's house while she was in the cornfield. You carried something when you came out.”

Shannon took a step back. Angry faces, angry words pressed closer.

“Sacrilege,” came a shout from the back of the group.

“Think carefully about your words,” Firefly said. “Among the
Tsalagi,
these things are great sins: theft, desecrating a holy object, and lying about your crime.”

“I told you, I didn't touch your mask,” Shannon insisted. “The only thing I took from your lodge was an empty water jar.” She looked around her. “You must believe me. I would never—”

Firefly's eyes welled with regret. “You will be judged, daughter of Truth Teller. The council will decide whether you are innocent or guilty.”

“And if you are found guilty, the penalty is death,” Yellow Bead said.

“She's guilty,” someone muttered. “You can see it on her face.”

“I'm innocent,” Shannon repeated. “I'm not a thief. The door flap was open. I only went into your home to see if you were there.”

“If you didn't steal the sacred Corn Mask,” Firefly replied, “then why did we find it hidden in the storage space under your sleeping platform?”

 

Gall summoned Cardinal to meet him in the dark of the night at the joining of two game trails near Ghost Ledge. He was here, ears straining for the rustle of her footsteps, and she was late. She should have been here more than an hour ago. Few sounds echoed over the meadow, save the dripping of water, the lonely hoot of a barred owl, and the chirping of crickets.

Centuries ago, in the time when the Cherokee had lived far to the east, forces of an angry earth had split this mountain. The thick forest opened on a flower-strewn meadow where Gall crouched waiting, and on the far side of the expanse of grass stood a small wedge of trees. Once, more oaks, chestnuts, and beeches had thrust their roots deep into the rich soil there, but one by one, rain and wind and cliff had claimed the trees, and they had toppled over the sheer precipice to tumble hundreds of feet to the rocky floor below.

In another time, when snows were deep and blizzards roared down from the north, early hunters had driven herds of deer to their deaths off this ledge. It was said that desperate women, whose men died young, came to this spot to leap to their deaths. Many testified that the meadow and thin line of woods were haunted, and that they had seen and heard the weeping ghosts.

Few
Tsalagi
would dare to come here, but Gall knew that Cardinal was bold and feared nothing she could not touch. It was a good place to meet without fear of others seeing and listening.

He saw her the instant she moved from the shadows of the trees. “Here,” he called. “I am here.” And when she came closer, he asked, “Did anyone see you? Are you certain you've not been followed?”

“No, no one saw me.” Cardinal's voice came high and breathy. “I could have driven a white man's wagon through the camp, and no one would have noticed. They are all talking about her stealing the Corn Mask and desecrating it.”

She had always been a quiet woman, calm, Gall thought. Perhaps she did fear this place. He rose and went to her and took her hands. “What have you done?”

“Nothing. It was her. The yellow-haired witch. She stole the Wolf Clan's mask and—”

“Save it for the council. You lied. You took the mask yourself, didn't you? Stole it and smashed it.” He chuckled. “You really don't fear the spirits, do you?”

“I do.”

He felt her tremble.

“I dropped it by accident. I wanted to hide the mask where it would be safe and quickly found, but it was dark in my aunt's cabin, and I stumbled over a hearth stone.” She tried to pull her hands free, but he held her tightly.