Somewhere to Dream (Berkley Sensation) (8 page)

CHAPTER
12

Savages and Healers

The first days were the worst. Physically, Jesse was a mess, but he figured that was the least of his problems. In fact, when it came down to it, he didn’t much mind the injuries, because that meant Adelaide had to come and tend to those. He looked forward to seeing her more than he’d ever admit.

His physical injuries were slowly healing, and his mind was clearing, which meant life with the Cherokee was no longer a blur. When they’d first brought him in, bound like a wild animal, Jesse had been a vibrating mass of fury, bent on destruction. He had welcomed the fight with Dustu and had almost looked forward to more of them challenging him after that, even after the bastard had opened up his damn leg again. The gauntlet had been fierce, a beating like none other he’d ever received. And yet he’d survived. And he’d apparently impressed them enough that no one led him to a burning stake. Not yet, anyway.

When he’d been entrusted with the same tools he’d intended to use on his captors, he had wanted to laugh. He’d wanted to strike out, shoot that damn “brother” of his in the face, then scalp him as his doting mother watched. It was inconceivable to Jesse that anyone could be that stupid. They couldn’t possibly think he
wanted
to be there.

But Adelaide, that pretty little white mouse, had been there, whispering, reminding him of his limited options. He was divided about the girl. She was undeniably beautiful, and smart, though she said little when they were together. Her eyes jumped around a lot, dancing with a constant stream of nerves. Fear? Was it him she was afraid of, or just everything in general? He would have suspected the Cherokee of subjecting her to something horrible, but it was clear she was comfortable among these people. She’d
chosen
to be here. Well, that made him think twice. What kind of woman would do that? Maybe she was crazy. A looney like his great-aunt Bonnie. The Injuns had killed Bonnie, sliced her down when she ran screaming out to meet them. Their blades had cut that scream short.

Bonnie’s murder was probably the first memory Jesse had. He’d been about four or five, he guessed. He and his father had gone off to check traps then come home to a smoking house with nobody left alive in it. His father had yanked him down behind a little hill, and they’d lain there on their bellies, watching the whole thing go down. He wanted to run, to stop the massacre, but his father shook his head.

“Nothin’ you can do, boy.”

So they’d lain unmoving, helpless, watching the monsters hack at Great-aunt Bonnie, then walk away carrying her braid of long, gray hair, still attached to the bloody skin of her scalp. They’d left with a lot of scalps that day. He hadn’t seen them take his mother’s or sisters’, but fifteen years later, he could still remember burying their mangled bodies after they figured it was safe to come out. His brother had been slung over one of the horses, and Jesse remembered the crazy sight of his head bobbing and bouncing as the Indians galloped away. Jesse had never seen him again after that day, but a few days after he’d arrived here in the Cherokee village, Jesse saw how he’d probably died.

Since they wanted Jesse to be one of them, the savages had forced him to pay attention to this ritual. They’d squeezed his cheeks with iron fingers so he faced the fires, even pried his eyelids open so he couldn’t blink. The heat on his skin was scalding, but that was only a breeze compared to what the others felt.

There were three of them. Men he’d known his entire life, friends of his father. Two of them were big men, the other wiry as a weasel. He’d always known them as tough scrappers, and unafraid. They all saw him, their captive audience, and their eyes had pleaded for help.
Jesse! Jesse!
But he couldn’t do anything. The prisoners forgot about Jesse after a while, forgot about anything but the pain, the unthinkable, unbearable pain. They wept and screamed, begging for death as tomahawks sliced and flames crackled. Jesse breathed through his mouth, as he’d done every time he’d cleaned the chicken coop back home, and silent tears poured down his burning cheeks. And all around him the Cherokee had danced and sung, their strange painted faces alight with celebration.

Not Adelaide, though. When they’d finally released their hold on him, he’d sought her out, needing something familiar to lean on, even if it was just the colour of her skin. But the little mouse was nowhere to be seen.

He found her the next morning, down by the stream. As usual, Soquili was with him, but for some reason, when Adelaide was nearby, Soquili gave them space. It was the one thing for which Jesse was grateful.

She watched him come toward her, her expression curious but sad. She knew what he’d seen. “Still thinking of running?” she asked.

He twitched a half smile in her direction, then plunged headfirst into the cold stream. He didn’t want to talk. The water dug into his thigh, attacking the open cut, flushing it clean, though Adelaide had already done a skillful job with that. He swam to the other side, deft as an otter, then popped up and carefully wiped the water from one eye, letting it stay and soothe the swollen one. The stream wasn’t deep where he stood, and the slick pebbles underfoot were like velvet against the calluses on his feet. Soquili squatted on the shore, splashing water on his face, keeping a subtle but wary eye on his new brother.

What a strange, strange concept. Jesse scrubbed his fingers through his wet hair, scratching hard into his scalp. Yank an enemy off the field and decide, “Yeah. You’ll do.” What did the crazy savages expect? That his bone-deep hatred of Indians would just be washed away like the dirt that had masked the layers of bruises on his body? That he would forget everything his father had taught him? Walk away from his former life and just be
okay
with this idea? Made no sense at all, as far as Jesse could see. And yet it must happen occasionally, since Adelaide was here.

He glanced at her, trying not to be too obvious, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was scrubbing something, working out a stain, sitting with her long legs mostly displayed in front of her. One thing you could say for these folks, their fillies sure wore enticing clothes, though most of the women he’d never even consider looking at. Adelaide’s pale buckskin covered only halfway up her thigh, affording him a view of more soft white skin than he figured was proper. But he wasn’t about to argue, or even ask her about that. He wasn’t a fool, no matter what these people might think.

She was beautiful. No doubt about that. Like him, she was blond, a beacon among all the shining heads of black hair. This morning her waist-long hair was tied into one long, shiny braid down the centre of her back. He imagined tugging out the leather thong that held it in place, then fanning out her rippled locks. The sun had turned it almost pure white in places, and he imagined if he had her pinned beneath him, her hair threaded through his sun-browned fingers, it would be soft as the down on a dove. He backed up until the water licked the bottom of his chest, letting the sun warm his aching shoulders and back, then let her image wind its way through him.

As if he had said her name out loud, she looked up and stared directly at him, tilting her head slightly. Her nostrils flared briefly, like whiskers twitching on a mouse, and he had the eeriest sense that in that instant she had read his mind. He stared back, meeting blue, blue eyes before she looked away.

It was a shame he’d have to leave her behind when he left. But he obviously couldn’t stay here, and having her along would only complicate matters. She might not even want to go, foreign as that idea was to him. He did. He wanted out of this place, and he wanted it done yesterday. But he’d bide his time. He’d wait for the right time, a safer time, then he’d be gone, disappearing into the welcoming coolness under the trees. It would have to be done when he was trusted, left on his own, and that wasn’t about to happen anytime soon. Adelaide rarely came by to visit these days, but Soquili never left his side.

Didn’t matter. He was getting out of here. Eventually.

CHAPTER
13

Doc

Jesse figured he might not know these woods as intimately as the Cherokee did, but he’d be fine once he escaped their piercing eyes. He was a survivor. He’d spent enough time lost in the woods as a boy, and he knew how to get himself found again. All those nights he’d fled the alcoholic fumes on his father’s breath, knowing if he didn’t, he’d be at the quick end of a switch for as long as the old man could hold out. Then there were those other nights, when Thomas Black had called on his crazy friends and they’d spent entire nights drinking and getting worked up, eventually going out and hunting down some poor Indian or girl of any colour and doing what their natures drove them to do.

Jesse’d watched his father and his gang beat and string up an Indian boy once. He didn’t know what kind of Indian—back then, they didn’t have names, they were just “Injuns.” The boy had been young. Only about twelve or so. He’d been out with his friends when Thomas and the others had found him. The whole thing made Jesse sick just thinking of it. He’d wanted to stop what he saw, to try to speak reason to the men, but he was only a boy himself. As the men’s enthusiasm grew, he feared they might turn on him as well. But he remembered the tear-tracked face of the boy—his small, trembling chin before it jerked out of reach—and he always would. The other boys had escaped, but the one ended up twitching at the end of a rope. Thomas Black had never been a gentle man. Jesse knew from personal experience that he was capable of inflicting damage that could go on for a long time. All things considered, at the time Jesse had thought the hanging a blessing for the poor boy.

They’d left the body dangling from a branch, but in the morning, it was gone. Claimed by the boy’s family, he’d supposed. Jesse had always known his father was low, but that one time gave him a new word to use in his head whenever he addressed Thomas Black: coward. Who else but a coward could take pleasure in the murder of an innocent boy, no matter what colour he was?

Jesse didn’t consider himself to be a coward. But sometimes, when he got really angry, he struck out, pounded his fist hard against a wall or a post. It was like the anger turned into a hot, hungry lava that thickened his blood, making it so he could barely see. When those times came over him, he couldn’t help but wonder how much of Thomas ran through his veins. And when those thoughts came, he went off and sat by himself, trying to cool down.

There had been many other occasions when he could have witnessed his father’s violence, but Jesse had turned away, run to safety and sanity. His father had jeered at his departing form, calling out, “Hey, boy. This could have been you. You ought to be glad!” He knew it bothered his father at first, not having his only remaining son at his side while he was torturing folks, but Thomas eventually got over that. He was having too much fun to worry about sharing.

Jesse had run and hid so many times in his life, it was second nature for him to dive into someplace he’d never been before and swim with the ease of a fish. He could climb like a snake and was willing to eat just about anything that crawled his way. He had an uncanny ability to see clearly in the dark and could run soundlessly through the forest. He’d had to admit that Soquili knew the forests well and had a lot to teach about hunting, but nobody could teach Jesse much about survival that he didn’t already know.

To Jesse, the fabric of the forest was created to blanket him, to hide him when he needed to disappear. The water provided refuge as well, though he preferred the land, with its caves and trees and secret places. He’d taught himself to swim one dark night after his drunken father had thrown him into a lake and left him there.

Fortunately, just as Jesse had thought he couldn’t keep his head up for another breath, he’d been fished out by Doc Allen, a gentle—if somewhat odd—old man. Doc lived on his own, in a tiny white house outside of town, and every time Jesse had appeared on his warped doorstep, a big grin had spread across Doc’s craggy, bearded face.

“Come in, come in, my boy! How have you been? Ah, would you mind letting me take a look at your eye? Seems a bit puffy,” he would say, referring to an eye swelled by Thomas’s fist. Or, “I see your arm is paining you a bit. I have just the thing.” That was when he’d broken his arm against something—he couldn’t recall what now—and Thomas had threatened to break the other one if he didn’t stop crying.

And always it was, “Come and settle here, boy. I’ve something you’ll like.” Jesse would be led into the kitchen where he’d feast on fresh biscuits and sweet things, occasionally warm milk, then be shown to a comfortable bed, its mattress stuffed, incredibly, by cotton. It didn’t rustle when Jesse lay down, didn’t smell at all. Like Doc himself, the bed welcomed him, and sometimes Jesse slept the night, and the entire following day, before waking to more careful tending by the infinitely patient Doc Allen.

Thomas glared at his son every time he returned home bandaged and cleaned up, but Jesse never told his father about Doc. He decided in the very beginning that Thomas could beat him black and blue, but he’d never give up his friend. No way on earth would he lead the devil to the saint in the little white house. He had no doubt Thomas would kill Doc for the crime of healing his son. Because although Thomas seemed to enjoy punishing his son, he also wanted to be the only one to lay hands on him. Jesse was the only family Thomas had left, and that was his way of protecting his own.

And wasn’t it ironic, Jesse thought, that folks called Doc “crazy.”

Jesse didn’t call him crazy. “Eccentric” was one of the words Doc had taught him, and Jesse thought that suited Doc perfectly. Sometimes Jesse sat in the main room of the house while Doc bustled around him, fiddling with this or that. The old man spoke to himself most of the time, when he wasn’t speaking to Jesse, and from what Jesse could make out, it was a two-sided conversation within one man, a discussion that consisted entirely of unfinished sentences.

“But maybe the comfrey . . .”

“No, no. Remember the last . . .”

“Did I get enough willow . . .”

“Next time I must get more . . .”

Oddly shaped coloured bottles lined up like soldiers along the windowsills or in black boxes designed to keep out the light. Jesse liked the ones by the window, because on a sunny day the light flooded through them, spilling muted yellows, browns, and greens onto the sill and floorboards. Powders, liquids, leaves, even animal parts were filed neatly around the house, all a part of Doc’s eternal quest to heal the world. Unfortunately, not many people gave him the opportunity to try. For some reason, they feared that Doc, with his wild hair and confused rantings, would do more harm than good, which was untrue. So when Jesse appeared—and kept appearing—with injuries, he was almost a gift for Doc.

Doc’s one disappointment was that Jesse had no interest in learning the art of doctoring. His repeated pleas for “someone to carry on the knowledge” were consistently met by blank stares. Jesse couldn’t keep one bottle separate from another in his mind, and he didn’t care to anyhow. Eventually, Doc gave up trying, traded his frown for a good-natured shrug, and went on scribbling notes and fussing with his bottles.

Doc had a shaggy black dog who lived inside the house. She seemed to have the same even temperament as her owner. Gentle, welcoming in an unassuming way, tail always wagging. The mutt was named Chiron. Doc explained that she’d been named after an ancient Greek centaur who had apparently been credited for having invented medicine.

That was another thing Jesse loved about Doc Allen. The man was a walking encyclopedia, always teaching Jesse new words and amazing facts he’d never have learned otherwise. Every time Jesse visited, Doc slid heavy, leather-bound books from his ceiling-high shelves. He set them carefully on a worn but always clean table, declaring he had come across something fascinating that he wanted to teach Jesse on that particular day.

“So good of you to stop in today,” he’d say, absently bandaging up one or another of Jesse’s injuries. “I’d felt the urge for a celebration, so now we may share it. Did you know, Jesse,” he’d ask, eyes bright with amazement, “that the planet Jupiter has four moons? Imagine that! Look here, Jesse, in my telescope.”

Or he’d spin the large globe in the corner, indicating continents and oceans with one slightly crooked finger. “If it hadn’t been for explorers over two hundred years ago, you and I might still be living somewhere across the sea . . .” Occasionally, Doc stuck a finger somewhere on the globe and declared himself determined to discover something about the place. Geography books filled with drawings and facts, both amazing and dull, found their way in front of Jesse.

On slower, more reflective days, when words seemed almost to weary him, Doc pulled out books of art, showing Jesse paintings from all over Europe, leading the boy through a maze of sculptures and architecture from ancient Egypt and Greece. On those days, he rhapsodized with a kind of wistfulness, marvelling at the greatness of the human spirit, the voice of the heart. Those were the days when he sat Jesse down afterward, looked into his eyes, and tried to convince him that he carried greatness within himself. He told Jesse he could be whatever he wanted to be, if he strove to live well and always worked toward that goal.

Jesse never fully bought into that particular lesson. While Doc might be able to lose himself in lessons and faraway stories, Jesse was stuck in his father’s shabby house on a flat pile of nothing in the middle of the Carolinas. And as much as he’d love to discover something new in his life, he really didn’t see a whole lot of options. But Doc had persevered, telling him that even if he did nothing but raise horses and marry a good woman someday, the way that he did it meant the most of all.

“Your time will come, Jesse. You are a great man, and you’re here for a reason.”

Jesse held his tongue. Despite everything Doc tried to tell him, there was always a part of Jesse—a small, scared part of him—that dreaded what he might become. He was Thomas Black’s son, which made him the son of the devil.

Doc seemed oblivious to Jesse’s worries. “A man such as you,” he said, “is not one to fritter away his days on nothing at all. Remember the great Shakespeare, the poet and storyteller?”

Jesse nodded. “
Hamlet
,” he said. “You read me that.”

“And
Macbeth
?”

“The old man and all the blood. Yeah. I remember that one.”

“Then remember this, my boy:

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts . . .
”

“Uh-huh,” Jesse grunted.

Doc showed him books of the stars and showed him how to read them, how to use their light if he was ever lost in the wilderness. He taught him the origin of everyday things, told him stories about inventors and scientists, about explorers and adventurers who had made history. He expanded Jesse’s vocabulary, teaching him words that made Jesse feel intelligent.

Most important of all, Doc taught Jesse to read. They laboured over books, with Doc demonstrating the different sounds each letter made and Jesse throwing regular tantrums when his brain reached its limit. But he kept coming back. When written words became familiar to Jesse, he had to be careful not to let his father know. Thomas couldn’t read, and never even once suggested Jesse should learn. But because of Doc, he had. Jesse devoured books. One of Jesse’s favourite pastimes was losing himself, and reading gave him a whole world to escape into. Though he politely refused to read Doc’s library of philosophical, medical, or political books, he read other books for hours, ensconced among
Gulliver’s Travels, Leonidas,
and the works of Daniel Defoe. He must have read
Robinson Crusoe
five times.

He wondered if that little blond mouse could read. She looked smart, but he didn’t know how long she’d lived here at the village. Or where she’d come from. He didn’t know much about her at all. She wasn’t exactly the sharing type. Tended to clam up at anything that even hinted at a personal question. But that was okay. Jesse had time. He knew he could eventually crack her, find out what she was all about. All he had to do was wait, then use that charm the girls back home couldn’t resist.