Savage Betrayal (37 page)

They were both silent for a long while. “Why are you telling me this?” asked Precious Copper gently. “Your dreams? Your thoughts?”

“Don’t you know why?” he returned.

Precious Copper looked down at the ground. In her low, musical voice, she answered quietly, “When I was a girl, I didn’t have such wars to fight.” She looked at him, the dimples deepening in her cheeks as she smiled. “When I was a girl, my thoughts were of all the young men I’d overwhelm with my beauty and talents. My father would have many suitors asking for my hand, but he would defer to my wishes, of course. And my wishes,” she went on dreamily, “were that the most handsome and kind man, one I didn’t already know, would be the one man for me. He’d be so smitten with me, he’d carry me away to his village, and we’d marry and live so happily together.” She suddenly looked uncomfortable and turned her gaze out to sea. “Alas, I too have grown up.”

A slight flush covered her cheeks, Feast Giver noticed. “Do you think I might be that man?” he asked in a low voice.

She stared at him. “I don’t know,” she answered impishly. “I never got a good look at his face!”

But Feast Giver was not to be put off so easily. “It must be me,” he said confidently. “I carried you away to my village. I even saved you from those rotten Kwakiutl slavers!”

Precious Copper looked down at the ground, embarrassed. “Yes, you did that,” she agreed quietly.

“Of course,” he added, “I realize that not all our childhood dreams can come true, but it seems to me that parts of them can.” He smiled over at her. “I’d like to be the man you thought of when you were a child,” he said gently. “I’d like to keep you with me always, for I’m deeply smitten with you, with your ‘beauty and talents.’“ This last was said so softly, Precious Copper thought she hadn’t heard correctly.

Feast Giver reached over and took her small dark hand in his, pulling her closer. One arm snaked around her narrow waist and clamped her to him. Precious Copper felt Feast Giver’s lips against hers, ever so softly touching, then harder as his hold on her tightened. He slanted his lips across hers again and again.

She could feel herself falling into an abyss where only he was real. The blood pounded in her body as he ran his hands up and down her small frame. Unsteadily she pushed against his chest, lifting her eyes to his face and gently touching her fingers to her swollen lips. “Ohhh,” she breathed wondrously. Feast Giver looked at her, taken slightly aback. “I can do even better than that,” he laughed.

“No, no,” she cried. “Don’t mock me.” Still touching her lips, she said, “I –I didn’t know people did this. That it could feel—“

He ran his hands lazily down her back, then pressed her into him. “They do even more, Precious Copper,” he murmured into her hair.

She tried to pull away from him, but he would not free her. He gazed longingly into the depths of her eyes, as if he would seek out her soul. “Let me love you, Precious Copper,” he urged. “It will be so good. Let me love you,” he repeated, nuzzling the hollow of her neck and her shoulder.

She lifted one shoulder, trying to stop the light, tickling touches of his lips on her sensitive skin. Again she tried to draw away.

“Don’t you like me?” he asked at last. “Was I wrong to think you might care for me? Even a little?” His sparkling ebony eyes sent shivers through her.

“Oh, yes,” she breathed. “I do like you. But—but I can’t—It’s not right—“

“It’s right for us,” he murmured, continuing his gentle assault on her vulnerable defenses.

Precious Copper closed her eyes for a moment and leaned into him. It would be so easy to yield to him. She had admired, respected, wanted, yes, loved him ever since he had rescued her from the Kwakiutl warriors. At last she could admit it to herself. It would be so easy to relax. To let their love culminate naturally here in this beautiful setting.

Then a cautious thought intruded. He might be toying with her—wanting only her body to satisfy his very masculine needs. The thought gave her added strength and determination. “Feast Giver,” she said firmly, “please listen to me.”

Feast Giver raised his head to stare at her and Precious Copper felt the full impact of his haunting ebony eyes. She forced herself to continue, “I don’t know how you feel about me. I’ve told you my feelings, but what are yours?”

The pause between them grew, and her heart sank. At last he answered, “My feelings?” He snorted and pushed her away. Heedless of the brown grass and ferns he trampled underfoot, he paced the small area near the rock. “My feelings?” he repeated.

“Don’t do this to me,” she cried out in agony. “Don’t torment me with your pacing, your mockery.”

Feast Giver halted then walked over to her. Taking her in his arms he said, “I don’t know where to begin.” He gazed into her eyes intently. “I’ve wanted you ever since the first time I saw you,” he said in a husky voice. Precious Copper shivered. “When I found out you were the sister of my enemy I tried to harden my heart against you. I couldn’t.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “Since you came to this village I haven’t slept a night without dreaming of you. I haven’t gone through a day without looking for you.” His gaze impaled her. Precious Copper couldn’t pull hers away from his tortured face. “Nothing, not even the raid I’m leading against your brother, can distract me from thoughts of you. It’s like a sickness in me. I’ve got to have you!”

Precious Copper’s eyes flickered with fear. They were alone on the hillside. Were she to cry out, no one would hear; he could do what he wanted. A tremor of fright shook her frame.

He grinned sardonically and ran his thumbs over the corners of her mouth. “Don’t be afraid. Precious Copper,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t hurt you. I know what I want. I want you, it’s true, but I want you willing. I’m not a Kwakiutl,” he said harshly.

“Oh, my love,” she cried out, throwing her arms around his neck. “I want you too. I haven’t been the same since you rescued me. I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off you, but I thought you didn’t care for me. I was afraid, too,” she admitted, “afraid you just thought of me as a hostage, someone to use.” She broke off, wondering suddenly if this was a part of his plan.

He saw the doubt. “No, no. You mean far more to me than that. I don’t need you as a hostage. I can make the raid without bargaining. But once I saw you, I couldn’t let you go. I used the hostage bargaining as an excuse to bring you back and keep you here.” They were silent for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes. “I love you,” he said softly.

“Oh, Feast Giver,” she moaned, “I love you, too.” They held each other, neither willing to let go. “What are we going to do?” she asked at last.

He hugged her tightly. “We’ll work something out,” he said confidently. “Now that I know you love me too, I’ll do anything, anything at all, to make you my woman.”

The fierceness in his declaration both scared and elated Precious Copper. He was so serious about her, about their love.

“Potlatches, hrummph,” muttered Crab Woman to herself as she sorted through numerous bundles of long, tangled roots. Cinquefoil was a favorite vegetable all year long, but it was especially tasty in the fall, when it was freshly dug. Each bundle was bound with a special, identifying knot, tied by whichever woman pried the roots out of the earth. “Waste of time. Just a lot of work,“ she grumbled. “There are some blind fathers around here. That’s for certain. Giving potlatches for worthless daughters. Hrummph. Worthless daughters who go and get themselves stolen by useless Ahousats.”

“Now, Crab Woman,” chimed in the voice of Abalone Woman. “If Sarita’s name is cleared, then the names of all Thunder Maker’s children will be without taint. Do you want your children taunted because their half-sister is a slave?”

Crab Woman continued sorting in silence.

“I thought not,” responded Abalone Woman with a lilt in her voice. “And neither do I. Thunder Maker is putting on this big potlatch for his entire family, not just for one daughter.”

Crab Woman heaved herself to her feet. “I’m going to find some worthless slaves to dig the steaming pits for these roots,” she said. She pointed to Cedar Bundle. “You, there. Come with me.”

On the way to the door, Crab Woman passed Sarita. “We’re late moving to the winter village site, and it’s all your fault. If we didn’t have to put on this potlatch,” she sneered, “we could’ve moved several days ago.” Crab Woman paused, her face screwed up with irritation. “You’d better appreciate all the work we’re doing for you.”

Sarita looked at her and smiled. “I do, Crab Woman. I truly appreciate your efforts on my behalf.” She chuckled at the suspicious look on Crab Woman’s face.

The older woman snorted, “Hrummph. I doubt that,” and made her way out the door, Cedar Bundle trailing reluctantly behind.

Sarita followed them and added, “It is true, Crab Woman. I saw you save Feast Giver in that fight at my false marriage ceremony. You risked your life to hide him. For that I thank you.”

Crab Woman stopped in mid-step and turned to gaze at her stepdaughter for a long moment. Crab Woman appeared disconcerted by the unexpected praise. “Can’t you find something useful to do?” she asked gruffly. “This potlatch is for you. Get busy and help me dig the steaming pits.”

Sarita smiled and nodded, falling into step again, behind Cedar Bundle. The three made their way in silence down the beach to where the pits were to be dug.

The weather had remained warm and Thunder Maker insisted the potlatch be held in the open air. He expected many guests from other villages.

Sarita labored with several other women, digging the pits deep into the sandy beach gravel. Each pit had to be lined with rocks also. Tired, Sarita sat resting on the sand and watched as Crab Woman deftly started a fire in the bottom of a pit. Huge stacks of fern fronds and salal bushes were piled to one side, awaiting use.

Sarita knew the method of steaming cinquefoil roots. After the fire had burned all morning, and the rocks were red-hot, the fire was doused. A circular wooden post would be inserted in the middle of the pit. Around it, layers of fern fronds and salal leaves were spread over the hot rocks, followed by a layer of cinquefoil roots. Additional layers of ferns, salal and cinquefoil were piled on until the hole was filled to the top of the post. Then several containers of water were poured down the hole. The remaining fronds, packed onto the pit, were covered over by cedar mats. To make the oven airtight, sand was mounded over the mats and the vegetables left to steam overnight. Her mouth watered at the thought of delicious roots awaiting her on the morrow.

She was finishing her work at the steaming pits when she noticed her father walking along the beach. He was shouting orders to some of his slaves who had been out fishing and were bringing in a huge catch of fish for the potlatch.

Sarita hurried over to where her father was standing. “Nuwiksu,” she said breathlessly, “I haven’t had a chance to talk with you about the potlatch tomorrow.”

Her father turned to her. “Aah, yes,” he said. “It’ll be a great feast. I’ll be giving away many valuable things—carved dishes, furs, blankets, too. I think the guests will be favorably impressed by our wealth.” He smiled benignly at his daughter.

“I’m glad our family could call on our friends to support us for this potlatch,” Sarita answered politely.

“Well, they certainly did that. Our relatives came up with some very fine items they must’ve hidden away from me before.” Then he said, more seriously, “I’m doing this for you, yes, but also for our family name. Our family has always been proud. My father and mother, and their fathers and mothers before them, passed on the most honorable name they could. With that name came all our fishing territories along the river and our right to hunt on Gooseneck Island.” He continued reverently, “Some of the dances you’ll see at the potlatch were handed down from my grandfather. One of your grandmothers owned many songs; I’ll sing two of them tomorrow night.”

After a long pause during which Thunder Maker appeared lost in thought, he added, “It’s because we have such a distinguished history that I can’t stand by and see our name tarnished.”

Sarita looked down at her feet. “I’m ashamed that our family has fallen so low,” she said softly.

Thunder Maker continued as if he had not heard her. “This potlatch will show people that our illustrious name cannot be mocked. Our family is one to be reckoned with!” He stopped, noting the red flush on his daughter’s cheeks. “There now, daughter. I did not mean to embarrass you. It’s not your fault the Ahousats attacked us and took you away. I should never have trusted that devious Fighting Wolf,” he said bitterly. “The humiliation of your slavery rests upon me, not you. Your shame is mine.”

Sarita cringed at the pity in his voice. She did not want his sympathy. She needed to be strengthened, not weakened. Her response was stiff. “As you say, Nuwiksu, after this potlatch no one will speak disparagingly of our name.”

She looked at her father with new eyes. For the first time, she noticed his hair was thin and gray, his once straight body now stooped. The past months had taken a terrible toll on him, she suddenly realized. “Nuwiksu,” she began tentatively, “Rottenwood, the slave, helped me escape. Without his aid I could never have returned to you. I promised him his freedom. Will you grant that? For me?”

Her father looked at her assessingly. “You can’t make rash promises to every slave who helps you. What about Spring Fern? She makes your bed and cleans up after you. Next thing you’ll be wanting to free her too. Where would I be if I freed my slaves so easily?” His gaze hardened. “No, I won’t free Rottenwood. He merely did his duty.”

“Didn’t you just finish lecturing me about the honor of one’s name? How am I supposed to be proud of my family name if my own father won’t help me keep my promises?”

Stung, her father retorted, “Promises to slaves don’t count.”

“Slave or not, that man risked his life for me.”

Thunder Maker stared at Sarita for a long while. He was suddenly tired of all the trouble this daughter brought him. What happened to the happy little girl he used to dandle on his knee? She’d grown up to give him nothing but problems. He sighed resignedly. “I’ll give him to you. He’s yours. I’ll present him to you formally at the potlatch. Do with him what you will.”