Where were they going? There were herded along, through a clearing, marching through ice cold waters of a stream for some distance, then pushed through a thicket and into a meadow. Up and down mountains they marched, blue ranges looming high up on the skyline. Blinding snow drove in their eyes and the wind lashed their clothing tight about them. Her toes and fingers stung from the cold, her calves burned with steep uphill climbs. Each step was torture, her feet blistered, and heels scraped raw by the wet leather of her boots. Her lungs seared from frigid breaths and the piercing stitch in her side stayed a constant companion. At the top of the mountain, the snows were deep, the arduous task of lifting one foot high and then the next nearly breaking them.
They traveled day and night with little sustenance, stopping little to rest. The frigid temperatures gave way to torrid heat as winter vanished and seemingly skipped spring, emerging to summer. Mary whimpered and leaned on her. Juliet neither knew nor cared where they went. Keep moving, walking and running as fast as she could. No rest. No time to catch her breath. She stumbled and suffered the sharp blows from Bow-Legs’ hickory stick.
Northward they made their weary way over the mountains, climbing steep heights and running down abrupt slopes, wading through rocky brooks and waist-deep streams. At no time did Juliet see a road. How did the leader, Onontio know where he was going? Her gown caught on branches and brambles. Her legs were lashed and scratched by thorns. Her red hair hung tangled and uncombed. She tripped and picked up a piece of jagged flint, concealing it in her pocket.
Her stomach had shrunk into a hard, little fist, gnawing with unbearable hunger. The hunger eventually passed and, with it, all other sensations. Keep going. No pause. No rest.
Images of the savages burning their prisoners alive as told by Orpha caused her to panic. Juliet curved her arm around Mary’s shoulders and pressed her chin onto her silky head. “We will escape tonight, when they sleep.”
“But what of the forest? Won’t it be our demise?”
“Better than what they have planned for us. We will live on roots and berries.”
“They are cannibals. My father preached how they savor devouring white people.”
Juliet had not heard the sermon and wondered of the truth. Her eyelids grew heavy. She fought sleep, cutting through their bonds with the sharp flint and waiting for the snoring rhythms of the warriors. She rubbed her wrists and poked Mary awake.
With the light of the moon, they skirted the circle of men and moved through the forest. A cold wind stirred like a whisper through ancient hemlocks, a wolf howled in the distance, answered by the baying of other wolves and drawing shivers up her spine. She pressed through the woodlands not knowing where they were going, hoping to get far enough away before their captors were alerted to their escape.
The jerk of a cruel hand threw her prostrate and the lash of a whip stung her legs. Bow-Legs stood over her, his face twisted like a goblin. Behind him stood Onontio, sneering. Mary cried as they were herded back to the camp and tied to a tree.
The next morning food was handed out but not for the captives. Onontio picked up the pace. His way of punishment.
“We will survive,” she whispered.
“Water,” Mary rasped through parched and cracked lips. “I want to die.”
Bleak and lifeless, the sound in her voice struck terror in Juliet’s heart. Bow-Legs whipped them for talking. Fierce rage swelled up in Juliet. No more did she care what happened to her. No more would she tolerate Bow-Legs’ whipping. She swiveled, grabbing the whip and cracked the cane on him over and over again. He lifted his arms to ward off her blows. “You can kill us right here. We won’t move again until you give us food, drink and rest.”
At first shocked, the Indians now laughed to see Bow-Legs dodge her blows. They teased and humiliated him. A shadow crossed over her. Onontio yanked the whip from her, his face twisted like a gargoyle. Her legs shaking, Juliet pulled a length of her hair forward and thrust it in his face. He stepped back. Juliet laughed. Madness bubbled up from her throat. He feared her.
* * *
Days passed one after another until Juliet lost count. The land leaned down to rolling hills, and still they pushed their way through tangled brush and deep forest that led to a river. Now, two braves paddled them upriver, avoiding floating logs and rocks.
When the sun reached its zenith, she viewed smoke spiraling up beyond a bend in the river. Juliet curled her hands around the gunnels, sweat trickling down her back as the Indians paddled to a village. A group of scattered lodges stood in an open meadow, constructed on pole frameworks, with sides and roofs covered with great sheets of tree bark. Open platforms for storing hides and meat loomed up close by, and piles of firewood lay near doorways.
A white dog barked alerting the villagers of their arrival. So many people were coming and going, hollering, laughing, and merrymaking. The bloody scalps were displayed and rejoiced over by everyone from grizzled grandfathers to naked toddlers.
Many women walked toed-in, bent forward, with shuffling gaits to greet them. They wore deerskin leggings and embroidered moccasins on their feet. Silver earrings adorned their ears, silver bracelets were cuffed upon their arms and strings of beads hung round their necks. Their hair was parted in the middle with a streak of scarlet paint on the part, and fastened behind in single braids, doubled back upon themselves and tied. Onontio pointed to Juliet and growled a long narrative to the women.
“Juliet,” Mary said moments before she was ripped away and dragged into a longhouse. Were they going to be burned alive?
There was nothing Juliet could do. Women grabbed hold of her and tied a leather thong around her neck and secured her with a two-foot leash to a stake in the center of the village. They poked her with pointed sticks. She ducked her head when they threw rotten vegetables and jeered. No mercy would come to a white captive in this godforsaken wilderness. She did not cry out or whimper and stared boldly at them. She hated all of them and refused them their joy by not making her fear known. Juliet grabbed her hair, thrusting it forward, and shouted curses. The women backed away as if looking at a strange animal and pointing to her hair. They quickly disbanded and left for the longhouses.
Her lips were parched and her skin red and swollen where she’d fallen against sharp rocks. Her hair, a mass of knots flew about her face and shoulders. Her tether tied tight rendered sleep impossible. She slumped against the post and sobbed, her heart bursting under the crushing weight of grief, of years and days of suffering. What sin have I done other than be born into this world to deserve this punishment?Oh, God, please help me.
A blanket was placed over her, shielding her from the torrid sun, and through tear-stained eyes, she peered at a dark-clad figure. He lay his hand on her shoulder. “Do not weep, my child.”
* * *
Through her tears, a man with one arm appeared. He wore priest’s clothing and spoke to her in a thick French accent. “I am Father Isaac Devereux.”
He placed a bowl of food in Juliet’s lap, the skirts of his ankle-length cassock brushed against her. She held the gruel in her hands, savoring the warmth, but suddenly the smell of food made her feel faint. She pressed a hand to her stomach to ease the pain of hunger.
She picked up the wooden spoon and dipped into the watery substance, holding the spoon aloft as she first eyed the large crucifix hanging from Father Devereux’s neck and then at her uncertain food.
“It is a mixture of corn and meat, not poison.” His voice was soft, yet somehow reassuring. “You must eat to gain strength, but eat slow so you won’t lose what you have consumed.” He hiked up his cassock and sat in the dirt beside her.
