Though the chief knew English, he spoke to Xander for several moments in Powhatan.
The lad needed an Indian name.
He had the look of his mother.
Was he hungry after so long a journey?
All the while, Oceanus stood in watchful, respectful silence.
Finally, Opechancanough placed a hand on the boy’s recently shorn head. “It is good you have come to see your grandfather. My heart has long been on the ground since your mother sailed to the land of the English king and failed to return. We must feast to celebrate your coming. But after, I have an important matter to discuss with your white father that concerns you.”
As they gathered to eat, Xander spied Shay. Disbelieving, he blinked to clear his vision. Gone was the oft clumsy, ham-fisted Hopewell. A stone or more had been shaved off his thickset frame. His longish hair was shorn on the left to accommodate his bow hand as was Powhatan custom, the right side braided, a lone feather dangling. But his infectious grin was the same, his successful adjustment to this new way of life evident. He approached Xander and Oceanus as they were seated at the feast, joining them cross-legged upon rush mats.
“Oceanus has grown up.” Shay extended a hand in friendship, retaining the English custom. “I am the brother of Selah Hopewell.”
“Selah, who lives with Watseka?” Oceanus glanced at Xander. “The one you will marry?”
At this, Shay’s hopeful gaze swung to Xander. “Am I to call you brother?”
“Lord willing, aye.” Xander pulled Watseka’s shell beads from beneath his shirt and let them dangle down his shirtfront. “Not long after I return to Rose-n-Vale.”
With something resembling a subdued war whoop, Shay signaled his appreciation.
They commenced eating, partaking of endless bowls of smoked fish, succotash, roast squash, maize, and far more. Upwards of two hundred Powhatans consumed the feast, the bounty never ending. Such a grand welcome was for Oceanus whether the lad realized it or not.
Sated, Xander contented himself as the dancing and entertainment unfolded. Observing the color and whirl about him gave him room to mentally roam. The chief wanted something from him, something that would delay his leaving. But the matter wouldn’t be broached tonight, he wagered. Unlike with the English, time was neither consulted nor considered. They knew no such thing as hurry. Events unfolded as they would.
For now, Shay took care to explain to Oceanus what was happening, who was dancing and why, which noisemakers were being used, the significance of each. The lad’s trail-weary legs were at rest, the blisters made by so much walking relieved. Tonight they would sleep near the heavily guarded chief’s lodge, mayhap close to Shay.
Hours later when Oceanus’s head was sagging and the dancers grew exhausted, all dispersed to their beds. Shay led them to their lodging, taking up his own mat near them. But sleep was long in coming for Xander.
Insects buzzed about them, but as he smelled of smoke from the tribe’s fires, few alighted. He lay awake on his back,gaze fixed on the most brilliant star. Sirius shone upon them, brightest during the dog days of summer.
Turning on his mat, he wished for a pillow, his own bed, the peace to be had on his porch in the gloaming. He yawned, turned again. ’Twas Selah who kept him awake long past his prayers. He smiled into the darkness. Might she be pondering Sirius this long, sweltering night, same as he? The distance between them chafed. Already he was anxious to return. Name a wedding day.
Start life anew with the woman he loved.
Panic propelled one to rash acts. As dawn smudged the sky, Selah traded the security of the house for the courtyard and realized the truth too late. Within seconds of being in the open, she heard a horse move in the woods behind the stable.
“Watseka, where are you?”
Whoever had been prowling rode hard away. At once her father was behind her. In one hand he held a pistol.
“Daughter, come inside.” The breathless words had no sooner left him than he clutched at his throat and then his chest. With a groan, he sank to the dew-damp ground.
“Father—” Stricken, Selah moved toward him when his pistol discharged.
The early morn was rent open by the jarring sound, wrenching her ears even as she grappled with searing pain. Her musket gave way and fell to her feet.
Hit.
Woozy, she sank to her knees, curling her legs to her chest. Scarlet soaked her nightgown, certain to render it nothing but a rag. ’Twas her last fleeting thought.
33
As the next day unfurled, Opechancanough met with Xander privately, though the werowances who usually hovered were not far. “Tell me how my granddaughter Watseka fares with you.”
Xander could not stay a smile at the question, the memory of her playful ways never far. Nor could he staunch his surprise. So much of what was discussed regarding Indian-English relations was grim. He was only too pleased to talk of more cheerful matters.
