Seneca Surrender (18 page)
“Still, I wouldn’t make your obligations any worse than what they already are.”
He paused, but his look at her was as ardent as ever. At length, he sighed deeply and put the same question to her again, saying, “Who is this man? ”
She stared away from him. “If I recall it well, it happened when I was young … ’Tis odd that I can remember this, while other things remain a mystery to me.”
He waited. “Yes? … You were young? ” he prompted.
“You must first promise me that you’ll not go looking for him with the design and intent to kill him.”
“I cannot give you my assurance on that,” he said as he shifted his position so that he was lying on his back. He continued, “He deserves to be killed. What this man did to you is a crime. Know that in my society such a man would be taken before a council and sentenced to a torture so gruesome that he would beg for death. And he would beg for it for many days, because we would ensure that he was kept alive for as long as possible. All would see what befalls a man who would stoop to so low an act.”
Sarah gasped, and came up to her elbows, where she leaned over him. “I … I can’t let you do that.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he gave her a quick glance, and asked once more, “Who is this man? Is it the same man who owns you, this John Rathburn? ”
“You remember his name? ”
His eyes narrowed a look at her. “You change the subject. Is it the same man? ”
“I … I cannot tell you. In your culture you would be expected to seek him out and kill him. In mine, I must forgive him and get on with my life.”
“It is he, is it not? The one who thinks he owns you? ”
She flopped back against his arm, causing him to wince. She’d almost forgotten that this man had only recently been injured. Instantly, she sat up and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“It was nothing,” he replied. “Is it he? ”
“Please don’t ask me about this any further, White Thunder. I cannot tell you because I cannot meet my Creator knowing that the death of a man is on my conscience.”
“And I will not meet mine without seeking true justice. Does not your good book say an ‘eye for an eye’? ‘A tooth for a tooth’? In this same book, even a thief is put to death. Tell me, in view of this, what would your good book do with a rapist? ”
Her look at him was frustrated. “Sir, you are putting questions to me that I can’t answer,” she said, “but I can say that there’s another book contained in that good book—the one that you so nobly quote—and that book teaches a person to forgive.”
“I will forgive this man,” he stressed, “after he is dead.”
Sarah inhaled deeply before saying, “Please, let us not speak of him any further. Can we not talk of us, of what we are doing and how we can go about solving our own problems? You must see, sir, that there are many problems between us.”
“You will not tell me his name? ”
“No, I won’t.”
He sighed. “You are a beautiful woman,” he stated. “You are a good woman. But you are not following this to its conclusion. What will happen if you do not accuse this man and see that justice is done? Do you wish to have that on your conscience? ”
“I … I don’t understand.”
“Do you think that this man has the moral fiber to withhold himself from doing the same thing again? If no one stops this, and he thinks he can abuse you with no consequence, how many more people will be harmed by him? Have you considered this?”
“I … No, I haven’t. But I fear I’m not in a position to bring this man to justice. I’m an indentured servant. I have no legal sway over what this man does. Besides, even if I did—which I don’t—if I were to go to the authorities, what court is going to believe me over a man of wealth and influence? ”
“Nyah-weh
.
”
.
”
“What does that word mean?”
“Thank you.”
She frowned at him. “Thank you? What are you thanking me for?”
“I now know who this man is. I will find him.”
Sarah sighed.
“Since I know who he is, tell me how it happened.” She tore herself away from the look in his eyes before she said, “I don’t know if I can. I’ve never spoken of what happened to anyone except to my friend, Marisa, and then only in a most general way.”
“Come here.” He opened his arms to her and when she fell into them, he brought her body in close to his. It was an odd, yet erotic feeling. She was still clothed in chemise, corset and petticoats, but he was naked, and in her heightened state, the touch of his body next to hers was as enticing as if he were beginning his kisses all over again.
He brought her head in close, in the crook of his arm, and said, “You should tell someone about it, and since I am here, I will be that person. Besides, what happened to you is important to me. There was pain; I saw that when we were making love. Tell me, how old were you?”
“I was fourteen. I had come to live in his household as a servant because … well, in truth, I still can’t recall why I was there.” She frowned. “I do remember that I wasn’t always a servant, though. Once, like you, I was free.”
“Did he force himself on you?”
“Yes, sir, he did.”
“How many times?”
“Perhaps as many as ten. It did stop after a while. Within months after my arrival, another came to live under his roof. That was Marisa. Her parents had died at sea and her only living relative was John Rathburn. Because she was only four years old, he required a companion for her, which became my duty. When that happened, the assaults stopped. I don’t know why. I am only glad that they ceased.”
White Thunder pulled her even closer into his embrace and simply held her. He said, “Together, we will take away the pain so that in the future when you think of the act of love, you will only remember how good it is.”
“Yes, I would like that. But, White Thunder, are you going to kill him?”
“I am,” he said without the least hesitation.
“You mustn’t.”
“I must. But that time is in the future, and I must plan it well. He is white, and if he is influential, as you say, it might be difficult. The killing of a white man is not ever an easy deed to accomplish, for one’s actions will often revert back against one’s people. I will have to consider how to do this thing in detail. I know only that it will be done.”
She shook her head, as if her slight disagreement might have him changing his mind.
She might have said something more, but he was continuing to speak, and he said, “There is one other matter between us that we must discuss.”
“Oh? What is that?”
“It is this: By our actions today, as you know, we may have conceived a child.”
“I doubt it,” she countered. “In all those times when Mr. Rathburn forced himself into my life, I did not conceive.”
“I am not Rathburn.”
“Yes, thank goodness. But I’m thinking that my lack of conception might hint at the fact that it may be hard for me to become pregnant. This is sometimes the case with certain women. Perhaps I am one of them.”
“Perhaps,” he said, as if in agreement. But there was enough doubt in his voice that it rebutted at once any such understanding. He said, “I suspect that the fault wasn’t yours. It would most likely be his, for the seed of such men, due to their own acts of violence, is often impotent.”
“Hmm. That’s an interesting observation. Do you suppose it’s really true?”
He shrugged. “It matters little. The important reason for us to speak of this is to agree that if you are with child, you will stay with me, regardless of whether I have found Wild Mint’s murderer or not.”
Something in his tone had Sarah bristling and she backed away from him slightly, enough to take her body out of his arms. She said, “I am flattered, sir, by your attention to me on my behalf. I see that you are trying to protect me, and I thank you. But you must see that I cannot stay with you. It was one thing to speak of marriage, as I did, when I had no memory of my past. But now that my mind has healed, I fear there are many reasons that I know of, to keep us apart.”
“And these reasons are?”
She glanced away from him before saying, “We have spoken of some already, but some are obvious. We have dissimilar values because we’ve been raised differently, and in two separate worlds. There is the matter of my servitude, as we have discussed, and the fact that I have pledged my word of honor to employ myself for the benefit of another for a certain amount of years. We spoke of this earlier. Surely you understand.”
He turned his head to stare at her, and he said, “You will not go back to that man.”
“You fail to understand. Whether I like it or not, I must go back. I have no choice.”
“You always have a choice,” he said. “The Creator made it so. Now, certainly, I grasp that you have been tricked into believing that you are not free to determine your own destiny and fate. But to tell me with all sincerity that another has the ‘right’ to tell you what you can and cannot do in your own personal life, I will never understand, nor will I ever agree that such things are binding. If there is a child created from our actions, all will have to change, and whatever is left of your servitude will have to be forgotten. Instead you will live with me in my village as my woman.”
When she made to speak, he held up his hand. “There is no need to argue with me, for that is the way it will be.”
His words had the effect of causing her to draw back farther from him. As she did so, she asked, “And who suddenly made you my master?”
His look at her was surprised, but he said nothing.
And she went on to say, “I beg to differ, sir.”
He exhaled slowly, then responded, “Differ all you would like without consequence—as long as you are not pregnant. If that happens, we will marry.”
She shook her head and frowned. “You are a contradiction, sir. You speak of freedom, yet you attempt to tell me what I can and can’t do in the same breath?”
“Because you must think of the child. I cannot fathom that you would presume that taking responsibility for our child would endanger you or weigh upon your conscience.”
“Sir, you now put words in my mouth that I have not spoken.” Anger had her sitting up, moving even farther away from him. “You go too far, sir, with your demands. I am trying to take responsibility, not only for a child that you and I don’t even know has been conceived, but for myself and my bond to others whom I have promised to serve. But there is more that weighs upon my mind: There is you, your injuries and your problems, and my desire to help you. All this in addition to the gaps in my memory. I am doing the best I can, sir, in a situation with which I am unfamiliar, so do not judge me, for there is much here to be considered, not simply one aspect of my life.”
His look at her was one of thoughtful consideration, and he was nodding, faintly, as though he might be deliberating on the delicate points of contract negotiation. At length, he said, “You speak well and you speak wisely, for I had not taken all this into consideration. I forget, too, that you have been raised differently than I, and as you say, with different values, because to a Seneca, there is nothing more important than a child. And no agreement between two human beings, regardless of its legitimacy, would supplant the necessity to put all aside, and to concentrate on the rearing of a child.
“But I see what is in your mind,” he went on to say, “and I respect all you have told me, and I respect you.” He breathed out slowly, casting his glance up toward the stone “roof” of their shelter. “If you are pregnant, how then would you attempt to raise that child?”
“I little know, sir, for I have not had the reason to consider such a thing.”
“If you were to return to the English settlement with a child, would the English put that child into servitude because you are its mother?”
“No, sir. Service to another is, indeed, a different matter than slavery in that the child I would bear would have no pledge or bond of servitude, which must be given before servitude can commence. Thus he or she would not be bound by the same oath that I am.”
White Thunder appeared reflective for a moment, then said, “This would be true, even if you failed to finish the last five years of your servitude? A child of yours would not be forced to answer in your place?”
“I think not, sir,” she said, although strangely, she had a bad feeling about this. Illogically and all at once, her eyes felt suddenly misty, and quite incidentally, her temples had started to pound.
“Is something wrong?” he asked after she had begun rubbing her forehead.
“No,” she said, “’tis only that … I have a strange foreboding, as though there is some memory that I can’t quite grasp.” She tossed her head. “Or perhaps it’s a feeling that I have done this before in some manner …”
“And have you?”
“I little know. Although I begin to think that perhaps, I may have … Do you suppose, sir, that my parents had something to do with my own servitude?”
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