Colours of the Wind - Chapter Eight
Author: emocezi
Title: Colours of the Wind - Chapter Eight
Wordcount: 2886
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I do not own Pocahontas nor do I make a profit from this work of fiction.
Previous Chapters: ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN
A/N: So, once again, I'm sorry for the long wait times inbetween updates. Real life is kicking my butt, not to mention I'm having writers block with this fic, even though I know exactly what I want to do and where I want to go. The entire plot is running around in my head like a cracked out hamster on a wheel, but the words refuse to cooperate and be written down. *sigh*
Special thanks to grimcognito for beta, kyuubi_paw for holding my hand and poking me with sticks when I needed to be. And also to sarah_potter146 for reminding me that updates are important.
As much as the men of Virginia Camp want to rush into the newly discovered Indian village and rescue Thomas, a few of them have actually thought the idea through and realized a little more finesse and planning was needed to attempt a rescue mission.
Running into the woods with barely enough gunpowder and ammunition to hunt a pack of squirrels just wouldn’t cut it. And so rather then leave the morning after John Smith had discovered the village, they wait for a week. Plan their route into the village, and what they would do when they arrived.
At first they discuss which of the savages are the biggest threats, and after a few hours of talking, they decide that anyone that isn’t Thomas would be considered hostile. No matter how young or old, male or female. Every savage in the village is a danger to both themselves and the man they were rescuing.
It’s the morning of the fifth day when they pack up their guns and gear and head into the woods, determined and grim and fierce. Today is the day they would bring back Thomas, even if it would mean the slaughter of every man, woman and child.
XxX XxX
John seem as grim as the rest of them. Before, he would have been cracking jokes and lightening the atmosphere, but now he marches alongside his men, filled with the same angry intent.
He refuses to believe what Thomas had told him a few weeks before. That he’s happy living like an animal. Wallowing in the mud, wearing the skins and leathers of an uncultured people who are happiest rolling in the dirt and talking to imaginary spirits.
That isn’t the Thomas he knows. That isn’t his Thomas. John can’t help the fierce scowl that sweeps across his face at the memory of the younger man he’d rescued from the storm and the ocean. The one who’d watched him with a mixture of hero worship and envy. That is the Thomas he remembers, the quiet, shy, clumsy Thomas who gets in everyone’s way even when he tries to stay off to the side.
Joshua claps a hand on his shoulder, his own face a mirror of John’s. The blonde Captain glances around at the men who walk alongside him and saw their expressions seem to match his own thoughts.
The boy seems to be more trouble then he is worth. But he is theirs, and that’s all that matters. The savages didn’t have the slightest clue of the storm headed their way.
XxX XxX
Thomas shivers, curling into the warm spot Kocoum had just occupied and wrapping the blankets closer to himself. He feels strange, no, that’s wrong. The air feels strange, the way it does before a storm. Too quiet and too calm.
He takes a breath and listens, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to calm his heartbeat. He waits, his ears straining to hear something, anything.
they are coming.
“Who’s coming?”
stand tall windchild. the storm approaches.
All at once Thomas sits up, his heart beating loudly in his ears. He’s afraid, the fear petrifying him, freezing the very blood in his veins. He doesn’t want to move, wants to curl back on the bed and pull the bison fur up over his head. Ignore whatever’s about to happen and pretend it’s all a horrible dream.
Instead he moves, his hands shaking as he pulled on his leggings, foregoing the vest he habitually wears. He needs to get to the trees, already knowing what’s about to happen as if he’d dreamt it the night before.
we are with you windchild. stand strong.
He takes a moment to let the fear run through him, shuddering against it even as a warm puff of wind brushes over his cheek. A week before he’d have dismissed it as nothing, a figment of his imagination maybe. But that was before he’d had a conversation with a willow tree and started hearing the soft voices of the things that lived around him.
A soft breeze shoves against his bare back and he takes a step forward, then another, and soon he is running, racing to the edge of the village and praying with every step that he wouldn’t be too late to stop the awful thing. He can feel it in his bones, the black hate of the pale faces. Feel their ignorant contempt scraping across his skin until he’s almost burning from it.
Only a few people are up this early, and they call out greetings as he runs, one or two offering to share a morning meal with Miskwa. But he can’t stop, won’t stop. Everything depends on him.
He feels wind racing next to him, spurring him on faster, pushing at his back and tugging his braid apart. Finally he stands just outside the village, in the shade of the trees that stand in a circle; giant watchers of the forest.
Alawa steps up next to him, worry in her eyes and acceptance in her heart.
“There’s a storm coming windchild.” She speaks softly, her gnarled fingers clutching the carved oak walking stick.
“I know.” Thomas feels himself shiver and wonders for a moment if he’s going to be sick. “How do I stop it?”
“You cannot stop a storm.” Alawa places a hand on his back, her fingers cold against his skin. “You can only wait it out.”
“The willow...” Thomas stops and makes himself go on, knowing Alawa won’t judge him for his words. “Grandmother Willow told me I have the power to change the minds of men.”
“Sometimes Miskwa, the spirits guide us on the paths they think are right. Sometimes they give us too much.”
“I don’t-I don’t know what to do.” Alawa smiles and pats his back.
“Yes you do. You’ve always known.” Thomas takes a breath, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling the wind die down until the air is calm and still.
peace, windchild. i am with you
“That doesn’t help me right now.” Thomas mutters, ignoring Alawa’s knowing glance.
we are all with you.
The first sounds of the pale-faces could be heard through the forest. Their heavy footsteps marching in tandem echoed through the still morning air. Thomas can’t stop from trembling, wondering how to quell the mob and make them return to Virginia camp. What can he say to them? What can he do to make them see that this isn’t the way, that this is wrong?
Is he supposed to forsake the people he’s taken as his own, is he supposed to give up the happiness he’s found here, the love? Is this the path the spirits have chosen for him to walk? It seems unfair and cruel to give him everything he’s ever dreamed of finding and then rip it all away. But when has his life ever resembled anything easy?
Thomas draws in a careful breath and takes a step forward, holding out a hand when Alawa makes to follow him.
“Stay here. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you because of me.” The shaman nods, her knuckles going white on her walking stick as she watches Thomas walk away from her, slowly fading in the shadows of the forest.
XxX XxX
It’s a shock to see Thomas standing in the middle of the game path, wearing only a pair of deerskin breeches and a mulish, stubborn scowl. His hair reaches past his shoulders, and most of it has fallen out of the messy braid he obviously slept in.
He looks upset and afraid, and for a moment John wants to go to him and tell him everything will be alright if he lets them do what they came here to do. But then he remembers that Thomas is on their side and the anger rises up again, a black, choking anger that blinds him for a heartbeat.
“Move aside lad.” Joshua speaks, and there’s a rumble that slides through the other men. They stare at the red-head they came here to rescue. Obviously expecting him to look more beaten down and starved, more like a captive and less like a member of the tribe. A few of them cast curious glances at John, wondering why he wouldn’t tell them that Thomas was well and fine and in good health.
“No.” Thomas was never known for his stubborn nature, but it seems his time with the savages have taught him bad manners.
“Thomas, we’re doing you a favour.” Kit, one of them men closer in age to Thomas speaks up, making his way from the back of the group to the front. If anyone can get through to Thomas, it’ll be Kit. They were almost friends once, before this whole mess started.
“I already told John I wasn’t coming back.” Thomas says quietly and the murmur of discontent rumbles through the men again. “What use is it to start a war over someone like me?”
“You were ours first.” Ben says, tightening his grip on the axe he brought with him.
“Don’t be a fool lad, step aside and let us do what we came here to do. You’re not one of them.” Joshua says, scowling at Thomas. John lets the other man take the lead, not trusting himself around the red-head.
“If you want to kill these people, you’ll have to kill me first.” Thomas says, as fierce as any warrior. “I am one of them. I choose to be one of them.” He stands there, holding his arms open, unarmed and defenceless a child.
“Why would you choose to be a savage?” John snarls suddenly. It brings back the attention of the men, many whom had been shuffling awkwardly in place, refusing to look at Thomas, ashamed of their actions. They start looking angry at the thought of Thomas refusing their help. It’s obvious he wants to stay here and play in the dirt like the animals he’s been living with. And it’s more obvious that the men of Virginia Camp refuse to stand for this.
John smiles grimly, pleased his plan is working. For a moment he thought Thomas would go with them, that there would be no fight. But as he glances around the clearing and takes in the expressions of the men, he knows that the only way this is going to end is with bloodshed.
“Why are you doing this? What are you trying to prove?” Thomas asks, his voice quiet. “That you’re civilized enough to kill a tribe of peaceful villagers who’ve done nothing at all to bring harm to you?”
“They kidnapped you.” Lon says, his hands fisting at his sides. “They held you hostage.”
“They freed me.” Thomas snaps back. “They showed me it was fine to be different.”
“Just what are you saying lad?” Joshua asks, a queer note in his voice. There’s a moment where everything freezes and then Thomas stiffens, glaring at them.
“You’ve obviously made up your minds to slaughter my people no matter what I say. And after you hear my words, I have no doubts you’ll cut me down for being the godless heathen that I chose to be.” Thomas sneers, his eyes flashing. “I do women’s work. Weaving and cooking and watching the children. I like doing it. I enjoy it.” A few of the men shuffle awkwardly, staring at their feet and avoiding eye contact with the redhead.
“Thomas.” John’s voice is low and dangerous and Thomas turns to him, his face blank and closed off. A man with nothing else to lose. A man unafraid to die.
“I’ve shared a bed with another man for just over six months now. But it’s only been this past week that I’ve lain with him.” His words are meant to shock, and they do. John feels himself draw back, angry and repulsed by Thomas’ words. It’s not only unnatural, it’s a sin.
“You...what are you saying?” Lon asks, looking lost. Thomas glares at the group of men, his supposed saviours and walks closer until he’s standing in front of John.
“Go ahead. Send me to the devil. I know you want to.” Thomas says quietly and for a moment John thinks about it, lifting his gun and pulling the trigger and watching the light go out of Thomas’ eyes. “No? Then you?” He looks at Joshua who stares down at his feet, unwilling to met Thomas’ eyes. “Is anyone here man enough to do it?”
No one answers him and Thomas steps back, his expression still closed off, like he’s already dead.
“We-we were just trying to help.” Kit speaks up, his voice quiet. He peeks up at Thomas from underneath his lashes, his face red from embarrassment.
“It took me a week to realize no one was coming to find me. But I waited, I waited for three months until you sent Samoset to bring me back. And suddenly I found myself not wanting to leave. I wanted to stay with these people, my people.”
“But we’re your people.” John spoke suddenly, feeling his hold on Thomas and his men loosening.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had people before this.” Thomas sounds sad, almost apologetic. “I’ve never felt this close to anyone, not even my own family.” John narrows his eyes thoughtfully and watches Thomas.
“And what should we tell your wife?” Thomas stares impassively back, unmoved and unimpressed.
“Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I was eaten by a wild thing. Tell her I drowned during the storm. I married for duty, never for love.” Thomas shakes his head, a half smile breaking over his face. “I never thought I’d find love.”
“...What’s his name lad?” Joshua asks awkwardly and the rest of the men wait with baited breath. As if they suddenly don’t care that Thomas is like that.
“Kocoum.” Thomas says after a few mutually awkward moments. “He’s Kocoum.”
“I-” Joshua stops and looks blindly to the side, to where John is standing. It feels like the world has shifted under him. He knew what he had come here to do, but now he wasn’t sure why.
“We’re sorry.” John says softly, feeling shame pour over him like an ocean wave. All at once the silence breaks and the men murmur the sentiment, looking as shamefaced as John feels.
Thomas takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and waiting. A breeze blows by, ruffling his hair and shaking the leaves in the trees. Thomas smiles and opens his eyes, taking in the subdued expressions of the Virginia Camp men.
“I know.”
XxX XxX
Thomas is silent on the walk back to the village. He’s alone, and for all that he loves being around people, he’s happy to be alone with his thoughts.
He thinks about what could have happened. What might have been. Wonders at the bravery that seems to have swept over him like a tidal wave. He felt strong when he talked to the men who had once been his people, strong as the oak trees that grew thick and tall in the forest. All he feels now is tired and angry. Angry at the men, angry at himself and angry at the spirits.
Is this all a game to them? The lives of men and mortals?
He takes a deep breath, ignoring the soft touch of wind across his shoulders. Alawa is where he’d left her, standing between two sycamore trees. She looks fragile, and Thomas feels as if he’s a waterskin that all the water has trickled out of. Would they have wasted a bullet on her, or would they have bashed in her skull with their boot heels?
He walks up to the shaman and drops to his knees, all at once exhausted. Alawa cups the back of his neck and gently pulls him forward until his forehead is resting against her torso. They stay like that for a few quiet moments until Thomas feels strong enough to walk back to the village on his own power.
“Sometimes the spirits give us more then we can handle.” Alawa says quietly. “But not always. You did well today, windchild.” Thomas smiles weakly and stands when Alawa motions him upwards. “Walk with me, and we shall decide what to tell theChief and how much of this little adventure we should keep to ourselves.”
“Do we have to tell him anything?”
“We must learn something from this Miskwa. A calm wind can turn back a storm, and one man can turn the hearts of many.” Alawa pats his arm as they walk. “We cannot let our tribes get as close to war as they were today.”
“They won’t.” Thomas looks as fierce as any warrior, his hair shining copper in the newly risen sun, eyes flashing green fire. “I swear it.”
NEXT
Title: Colours of the Wind - Chapter Eight
Wordcount: 2886
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I do not own Pocahontas nor do I make a profit from this work of fiction.
Previous Chapters: ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN
A/N: So, once again, I'm sorry for the long wait times inbetween updates. Real life is kicking my butt, not to mention I'm having writers block with this fic, even though I know exactly what I want to do and where I want to go. The entire plot is running around in my head like a cracked out hamster on a wheel, but the words refuse to cooperate and be written down. *sigh*
Special thanks to grimcognito for beta, kyuubi_paw for holding my hand and poking me with sticks when I needed to be. And also to sarah_potter146 for reminding me that updates are important.
As much as the men of Virginia Camp want to rush into the newly discovered Indian village and rescue Thomas, a few of them have actually thought the idea through and realized a little more finesse and planning was needed to attempt a rescue mission.
Running into the woods with barely enough gunpowder and ammunition to hunt a pack of squirrels just wouldn’t cut it. And so rather then leave the morning after John Smith had discovered the village, they wait for a week. Plan their route into the village, and what they would do when they arrived.
At first they discuss which of the savages are the biggest threats, and after a few hours of talking, they decide that anyone that isn’t Thomas would be considered hostile. No matter how young or old, male or female. Every savage in the village is a danger to both themselves and the man they were rescuing.
It’s the morning of the fifth day when they pack up their guns and gear and head into the woods, determined and grim and fierce. Today is the day they would bring back Thomas, even if it would mean the slaughter of every man, woman and child.
XxX XxX
John seem as grim as the rest of them. Before, he would have been cracking jokes and lightening the atmosphere, but now he marches alongside his men, filled with the same angry intent.
He refuses to believe what Thomas had told him a few weeks before. That he’s happy living like an animal. Wallowing in the mud, wearing the skins and leathers of an uncultured people who are happiest rolling in the dirt and talking to imaginary spirits.
That isn’t the Thomas he knows. That isn’t his Thomas. John can’t help the fierce scowl that sweeps across his face at the memory of the younger man he’d rescued from the storm and the ocean. The one who’d watched him with a mixture of hero worship and envy. That is the Thomas he remembers, the quiet, shy, clumsy Thomas who gets in everyone’s way even when he tries to stay off to the side.
Joshua claps a hand on his shoulder, his own face a mirror of John’s. The blonde Captain glances around at the men who walk alongside him and saw their expressions seem to match his own thoughts.
The boy seems to be more trouble then he is worth. But he is theirs, and that’s all that matters. The savages didn’t have the slightest clue of the storm headed their way.
XxX XxX
Thomas shivers, curling into the warm spot Kocoum had just occupied and wrapping the blankets closer to himself. He feels strange, no, that’s wrong. The air feels strange, the way it does before a storm. Too quiet and too calm.
He takes a breath and listens, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to calm his heartbeat. He waits, his ears straining to hear something, anything.
they are coming.
“Who’s coming?”
stand tall windchild. the storm approaches.
All at once Thomas sits up, his heart beating loudly in his ears. He’s afraid, the fear petrifying him, freezing the very blood in his veins. He doesn’t want to move, wants to curl back on the bed and pull the bison fur up over his head. Ignore whatever’s about to happen and pretend it’s all a horrible dream.
Instead he moves, his hands shaking as he pulled on his leggings, foregoing the vest he habitually wears. He needs to get to the trees, already knowing what’s about to happen as if he’d dreamt it the night before.
we are with you windchild. stand strong.
He takes a moment to let the fear run through him, shuddering against it even as a warm puff of wind brushes over his cheek. A week before he’d have dismissed it as nothing, a figment of his imagination maybe. But that was before he’d had a conversation with a willow tree and started hearing the soft voices of the things that lived around him.
A soft breeze shoves against his bare back and he takes a step forward, then another, and soon he is running, racing to the edge of the village and praying with every step that he wouldn’t be too late to stop the awful thing. He can feel it in his bones, the black hate of the pale faces. Feel their ignorant contempt scraping across his skin until he’s almost burning from it.
Only a few people are up this early, and they call out greetings as he runs, one or two offering to share a morning meal with Miskwa. But he can’t stop, won’t stop. Everything depends on him.
He feels wind racing next to him, spurring him on faster, pushing at his back and tugging his braid apart. Finally he stands just outside the village, in the shade of the trees that stand in a circle; giant watchers of the forest.
Alawa steps up next to him, worry in her eyes and acceptance in her heart.
“There’s a storm coming windchild.” She speaks softly, her gnarled fingers clutching the carved oak walking stick.
“I know.” Thomas feels himself shiver and wonders for a moment if he’s going to be sick. “How do I stop it?”
“You cannot stop a storm.” Alawa places a hand on his back, her fingers cold against his skin. “You can only wait it out.”
“The willow...” Thomas stops and makes himself go on, knowing Alawa won’t judge him for his words. “Grandmother Willow told me I have the power to change the minds of men.”
“Sometimes Miskwa, the spirits guide us on the paths they think are right. Sometimes they give us too much.”
“I don’t-I don’t know what to do.” Alawa smiles and pats his back.
“Yes you do. You’ve always known.” Thomas takes a breath, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling the wind die down until the air is calm and still.
peace, windchild. i am with you
“That doesn’t help me right now.” Thomas mutters, ignoring Alawa’s knowing glance.
we are all with you.
The first sounds of the pale-faces could be heard through the forest. Their heavy footsteps marching in tandem echoed through the still morning air. Thomas can’t stop from trembling, wondering how to quell the mob and make them return to Virginia camp. What can he say to them? What can he do to make them see that this isn’t the way, that this is wrong?
Is he supposed to forsake the people he’s taken as his own, is he supposed to give up the happiness he’s found here, the love? Is this the path the spirits have chosen for him to walk? It seems unfair and cruel to give him everything he’s ever dreamed of finding and then rip it all away. But when has his life ever resembled anything easy?
Thomas draws in a careful breath and takes a step forward, holding out a hand when Alawa makes to follow him.
“Stay here. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you because of me.” The shaman nods, her knuckles going white on her walking stick as she watches Thomas walk away from her, slowly fading in the shadows of the forest.
XxX XxX
It’s a shock to see Thomas standing in the middle of the game path, wearing only a pair of deerskin breeches and a mulish, stubborn scowl. His hair reaches past his shoulders, and most of it has fallen out of the messy braid he obviously slept in.
He looks upset and afraid, and for a moment John wants to go to him and tell him everything will be alright if he lets them do what they came here to do. But then he remembers that Thomas is on their side and the anger rises up again, a black, choking anger that blinds him for a heartbeat.
“Move aside lad.” Joshua speaks, and there’s a rumble that slides through the other men. They stare at the red-head they came here to rescue. Obviously expecting him to look more beaten down and starved, more like a captive and less like a member of the tribe. A few of them cast curious glances at John, wondering why he wouldn’t tell them that Thomas was well and fine and in good health.
“No.” Thomas was never known for his stubborn nature, but it seems his time with the savages have taught him bad manners.
“Thomas, we’re doing you a favour.” Kit, one of them men closer in age to Thomas speaks up, making his way from the back of the group to the front. If anyone can get through to Thomas, it’ll be Kit. They were almost friends once, before this whole mess started.
“I already told John I wasn’t coming back.” Thomas says quietly and the murmur of discontent rumbles through the men again. “What use is it to start a war over someone like me?”
“You were ours first.” Ben says, tightening his grip on the axe he brought with him.
“Don’t be a fool lad, step aside and let us do what we came here to do. You’re not one of them.” Joshua says, scowling at Thomas. John lets the other man take the lead, not trusting himself around the red-head.
“If you want to kill these people, you’ll have to kill me first.” Thomas says, as fierce as any warrior. “I am one of them. I choose to be one of them.” He stands there, holding his arms open, unarmed and defenceless a child.
“Why would you choose to be a savage?” John snarls suddenly. It brings back the attention of the men, many whom had been shuffling awkwardly in place, refusing to look at Thomas, ashamed of their actions. They start looking angry at the thought of Thomas refusing their help. It’s obvious he wants to stay here and play in the dirt like the animals he’s been living with. And it’s more obvious that the men of Virginia Camp refuse to stand for this.
John smiles grimly, pleased his plan is working. For a moment he thought Thomas would go with them, that there would be no fight. But as he glances around the clearing and takes in the expressions of the men, he knows that the only way this is going to end is with bloodshed.
“Why are you doing this? What are you trying to prove?” Thomas asks, his voice quiet. “That you’re civilized enough to kill a tribe of peaceful villagers who’ve done nothing at all to bring harm to you?”
“They kidnapped you.” Lon says, his hands fisting at his sides. “They held you hostage.”
“They freed me.” Thomas snaps back. “They showed me it was fine to be different.”
“Just what are you saying lad?” Joshua asks, a queer note in his voice. There’s a moment where everything freezes and then Thomas stiffens, glaring at them.
“You’ve obviously made up your minds to slaughter my people no matter what I say. And after you hear my words, I have no doubts you’ll cut me down for being the godless heathen that I chose to be.” Thomas sneers, his eyes flashing. “I do women’s work. Weaving and cooking and watching the children. I like doing it. I enjoy it.” A few of the men shuffle awkwardly, staring at their feet and avoiding eye contact with the redhead.
“Thomas.” John’s voice is low and dangerous and Thomas turns to him, his face blank and closed off. A man with nothing else to lose. A man unafraid to die.
“I’ve shared a bed with another man for just over six months now. But it’s only been this past week that I’ve lain with him.” His words are meant to shock, and they do. John feels himself draw back, angry and repulsed by Thomas’ words. It’s not only unnatural, it’s a sin.
“You...what are you saying?” Lon asks, looking lost. Thomas glares at the group of men, his supposed saviours and walks closer until he’s standing in front of John.
“Go ahead. Send me to the devil. I know you want to.” Thomas says quietly and for a moment John thinks about it, lifting his gun and pulling the trigger and watching the light go out of Thomas’ eyes. “No? Then you?” He looks at Joshua who stares down at his feet, unwilling to met Thomas’ eyes. “Is anyone here man enough to do it?”
No one answers him and Thomas steps back, his expression still closed off, like he’s already dead.
“We-we were just trying to help.” Kit speaks up, his voice quiet. He peeks up at Thomas from underneath his lashes, his face red from embarrassment.
“It took me a week to realize no one was coming to find me. But I waited, I waited for three months until you sent Samoset to bring me back. And suddenly I found myself not wanting to leave. I wanted to stay with these people, my people.”
“But we’re your people.” John spoke suddenly, feeling his hold on Thomas and his men loosening.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had people before this.” Thomas sounds sad, almost apologetic. “I’ve never felt this close to anyone, not even my own family.” John narrows his eyes thoughtfully and watches Thomas.
“And what should we tell your wife?” Thomas stares impassively back, unmoved and unimpressed.
“Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I was eaten by a wild thing. Tell her I drowned during the storm. I married for duty, never for love.” Thomas shakes his head, a half smile breaking over his face. “I never thought I’d find love.”
“...What’s his name lad?” Joshua asks awkwardly and the rest of the men wait with baited breath. As if they suddenly don’t care that Thomas is like that.
“Kocoum.” Thomas says after a few mutually awkward moments. “He’s Kocoum.”
“I-” Joshua stops and looks blindly to the side, to where John is standing. It feels like the world has shifted under him. He knew what he had come here to do, but now he wasn’t sure why.
“We’re sorry.” John says softly, feeling shame pour over him like an ocean wave. All at once the silence breaks and the men murmur the sentiment, looking as shamefaced as John feels.
Thomas takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and waiting. A breeze blows by, ruffling his hair and shaking the leaves in the trees. Thomas smiles and opens his eyes, taking in the subdued expressions of the Virginia Camp men.
“I know.”
XxX XxX
Thomas is silent on the walk back to the village. He’s alone, and for all that he loves being around people, he’s happy to be alone with his thoughts.
He thinks about what could have happened. What might have been. Wonders at the bravery that seems to have swept over him like a tidal wave. He felt strong when he talked to the men who had once been his people, strong as the oak trees that grew thick and tall in the forest. All he feels now is tired and angry. Angry at the men, angry at himself and angry at the spirits.
Is this all a game to them? The lives of men and mortals?
He takes a deep breath, ignoring the soft touch of wind across his shoulders. Alawa is where he’d left her, standing between two sycamore trees. She looks fragile, and Thomas feels as if he’s a waterskin that all the water has trickled out of. Would they have wasted a bullet on her, or would they have bashed in her skull with their boot heels?
He walks up to the shaman and drops to his knees, all at once exhausted. Alawa cups the back of his neck and gently pulls him forward until his forehead is resting against her torso. They stay like that for a few quiet moments until Thomas feels strong enough to walk back to the village on his own power.
“Sometimes the spirits give us more then we can handle.” Alawa says quietly. “But not always. You did well today, windchild.” Thomas smiles weakly and stands when Alawa motions him upwards. “Walk with me, and we shall decide what to tell theChief and how much of this little adventure we should keep to ourselves.”
“Do we have to tell him anything?”
“We must learn something from this Miskwa. A calm wind can turn back a storm, and one man can turn the hearts of many.” Alawa pats his arm as they walk. “We cannot let our tribes get as close to war as they were today.”
“They won’t.” Thomas looks as fierce as any warrior, his hair shining copper in the newly risen sun, eyes flashing green fire. “I swear it.”
NEXT