~2~

AS TO THE EVENTS during and after the time the children and I were removed from the loft and escorted through the farmyard, my memory is mostly darkness and terror. I clearly remember stepping o’er the body of a beastly looking savage at the bottom of the stairs, his red blood pooling across the floorboards. Outside was mayhem and I believe my two escorts were hard-presst to protect me from the madness and murder taking place all ’round.

I have an all-too-vivid memory of my brother Thomas attempting to douse the fire an arrow had establisht in a hay pile by the barn. Tom struck down every savage who beset him, swatting them aside like bothersome bees at a picnic. E’en when a flying tomahawk finally knockt him into the fire, he continued flailing, trying to put out the flames. To no avail. His clothes caught fire and soon his twitching body helpt to feed the very flames he had been trying to extinguish. As the inferno rose to engulf the barn and flames shot thirty or forty feet in the air, I could hear Tom’s wife and children shrieking from their hiding place in the loft.

In the meantime, my captors directed me to sit beside the well, where my mother and sister Eliza huddled beside my fifteen-year-old brother William, who had been knockt in the head but was not dead. A few of Liza’s children were there, tho’ I do not recall now if they were some who came with me. I do know some of the children who had been in the loft ran off as soon as we stept outside, and at least one was grabbed by a savage and had his brains dasht out against a tree. But the fate of most of my family members will forever be unknown to me.

Tho’ the particulars of my removal are vague now, I distinctly recall my two captors making it abundantly clear to their comrades-in-arms that I belonged to them and was not to be molested in any way. Whilst they suffered me to be tied with a leather strap to my sister and mother, they permitted no one to push or prod me. My brother William, wounded as he was with a great gash on his head, was forced to carry a large load of goods looted from our farm, as were both Liza and my poor mother. But I carried naught save my own pack.

I saw immediately how unlike the others were the two men who had taken me from the loft. The few Indians I had seen heretofore were uniformly savage and vile, with heads plucked bald save for a tuft atop, and odd bones and stones woven through ears or noses or lips. Most were tattooed or painted with garish designs, and all savages I had e’er seen were capable of understanding English if they did not, in fact, speak it as well as me. But the two who laid claim to me not only understood no English but clearly did not speak the same language as the others. They communicated with the main body of marauders only through an elaborate language of gestures, accompanied by grunts, groans, and a wide range of facial expressions.

Whilst we captives were marched through the woods like prize cattle, my two guardians remained always at my side. I quickly noted their peculiarities. Tho’ they, like all the savages, wore only breechclouts, they carried large packs which the others did not. Their skin was several shades darker than the others, neither wore paint (tho’ the short one did have a small tattoo on the side of his face), and both wore their long black hair in a single braid down their backs. E’en at a glance I could see the muscles of their arms, shoulders, and backs bulged disproportionately, making them appear top-heavy. Their faces were wider, rounder, plumper, and, in short, everything about them was quite unlike the others. As we stumbled through the forest, I passed many silent hours wondering about these two odd fellows—who they were, where they came from, and why they had taken such a particular interest in me.

Because there was no doubt about it. My mother and sister, bound to me at the wrist, immediately saw my situation. At first Mother hoped we might benefit from the keen interest, and it was certainly true I wanted for nothing. But when I tried to share the choice bits of food my guardians gave me, they intervened, making clear my family members were dependent upon the goodwill of the other savages. As the other savages were a monstrous bunch, my relatives suffered and blamed me for it.

I remember my sister questioning me about what happened in the loft and how it came to be I had time to gather provisions. I did not want to reveal I had long hoped to run away, but when I failed to explain my preparedness, she accused me of somehow knowing my captors and scheming with them to plan this event, which was such a bizarre accusation I could find no words to respond. William dismissed the idea as absurd and told Liza to stop lashing out.

Still, the intense favoritism of my guardians did little to dispel my sister’s jealousy and suspicions, and because I myself did not understand their interest, I suffered a great unease as the short savage worked to win me over. On the first night after our remove, for example, when Mother snatcht my wool blanket, the short man shyly offered me his thick bearskin. I was, quite naturally, terrified of what he might expect in exchange for this kindness, but his gentle smile and my violent shivering eventually persuaded me. I wrapt myself in the thick fur, grimly awaiting ravishment, but the short savage only smiled as he lay nearby under a thin hide. Oddly, I found I slept more soundly, knowing my peculiar protector was attending me thus. When I awoke in the morning, his smile was the first thing I saw, and after the first few mornings I could not help but greet him with a smile of my own.

I should note I was not the only captive being pampered. Three children were with us, two of whom were Liza’s sons, and none were bound. Instead, certain savages claimed them, and tho’ at first the youngsters naturally clung to us, as the days passed they, like me, became more comfortable in the company of their new masters. William, who understood some of the language, said the savages debated which of us they would adopt and which they would take to a French outpost for exchange.

In the two years since moving to the frontier, we had all heard tales of what happened to Christians held by the cruel and barbarous heathens—tales of torture and torments that ended in being roasted alive. As relieved as I was to hear I was not fated for the firepit, I was naturally alarmed by this unexpected alteration in my fortunes. I had ne’er enjoyed living in the wild, and had, in fact, been planning to escape it as soon as practicable, yet here I was being dragged e’er farther into the demon darkness, faced with the very real possibility of ne’er seeing the light of civilization again. But, as Gran always sighed, mere mortals must bow before God’s Will.

After several days of hiking, I began to fear the special treatment I was receiving might bode particularly ill for me. One evening the short savage, smiling as always, sat down beside me so that we might eat our meal together, and Liza eyed the tender fish he gave me whilst she and the rest had naught but tough strips of dried sinew. “Y’best be careful about enticing your new beau, Katie,” she said, one eyebrow raised. “He’ll make ye pay for that fish!”

I stopt in mid-chew. Tho’, as my mother delighted in assuring me, no one could e’er consider me pretty, I was not unacquainted with the amorous advances of young men. Throughout my youth I made friends with whate’er boys lived near us, and more than one had declared his love for me, regardless of my ruddy complexion and crooked teeth. So tho’ I knew Liza’s spiteful jibe was prompted mostly by the considerations I was receiving, I also knew that what she said had more than a grain of truth to it.

I was, of course, doing nothing to “entice” the short savage, yet clearly he was enticed by one particular part of me—my hair. Like my mother and several siblings, I had what they called “good Irish hair”—thick, curly, and red as a flame. The more I thought about it, the more I realized the short savage had been talking to his companion about my hair e’en when we were in the loft. Every morning he watched in open fascination as I retied my hair in a bun, and once whilst I braided my hair for sleeping, he reached out to take one of my curls in his hand, holding it as if it were a tiny bird he’d found fallen from a tree. When I pulled away in alarm, he withdrew his hand, smiling sheepishly.

I found this most unsettling. After all, the savages are known to be peculiar when it comes to hair, plucking their own heads clean or torturing their locks into bizarre coifs, ornamented with feathers and bones. It goes without saying the heathens are notorious for collecting human scalps, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my short friend’s broad smile was prompted by picturing my bright red locks as the prized centerpiece of his personal scalp collection.

But e’en as the thought occurred to me, I knew it could not be true. Whilst I fully believed his taller companion was capable of murder, I knew in my heart this short fellow was far too gentle to be plotting evil against me.

As for his interest in me—well, e’en tho’ my mother snorted at Liza’s warning about the fish and said she’d drown me before she’d let me entice a savage, I knew I was in no position to reject this fellow’s timorous advances should they grow bolder. Not only did my life depend on his good graces, but I could not help but be moved by his many kindnesses. No one had e’er been so solicitous of me, making certain I was as comfortable as possible under such extreme circumstances. How could I not be touched, e’en flattered by his obvious admiration?

I should add that I was not like my mother, who considered savages a scourge of nature, much like rats, fleas, or lice. In truth, I knew little about savages ’til we moved to the frontier when I was fifteen, and then all I knew was stories I heard about their crimes, atrocities, and outrages. The only real thought I’d e’er given Indians was to wonder why my parents were determined to live near beings they so disdained instead of returning to the bosom of civilization where I know I, at least, would have preferred to be. Thus it was that when I suddenly found myself at the mercy of these savage beasts and understood my very survival depended utterly on their peculiarities, you may be sure I was keen to learn all I could of their ways and gratefully accept any favor I was given.

The short savage attempted to make his name known to me, but all I could discern was that it had a lot of “s,” “sh,” and “w” sounds. It took some effort before I could say e’en one small part of his name to his satisfaction, after which he worked to explain in gestures what his name meant. I laughed at his contrivances, and he laughed along with me but continued trying to make me understand. Finally it dawned on me he was saying something about “dreaming” or “seeing things that aren’t there,” and my smile faded into shock.

For as long as I could remember, my mother chid me for being a dreamer, an idler, a gatherer of wool. She accused me of wallowing in dreams the way a hog wallows in mud, saying I used day-dreaming to escape the tedium of my work-a-day world. I ne’er denied it, nor did I understand why the accusation was applied with such venom, but I did understand my mother considered idle reverie a sin. And now here was this man unabashedly proclaiming his very name meant “dreamer” as if it were a mark of great distinction.

Syawa, as I came to call him, saw my shift in attitude and was concerned. When I tried to explain in gestures and grimaces that I, too, was something of a dreamer, he was nigh beside himself with delight. He turned to gabble at his companion with great animation, and I watched uneasily as they discussed my shameful admission.

For his part, the taller man was quiet and aloof, quite comely in his savage way, observing the scenes ’round him with detached curiosity, as I might watch ants on a sandhill struggling to carry off a crumb of cake. He showed not the slightest interest in me and, in fact, rarely looked my way if he could avoid it. His only concern was the safety and happiness of his companion, to whom he was clearly devoted. The bond between them was so warm and affectionate, I at first assumed they must be brothers, but quickly concluded they were too physically dissimilar to be closely related.

Syawa told me his friend’s name, but to me it was naught but a briar-patch of unpronounceable syllables—almost none of the sounds have any equivalent in the English language. The best I could do was pick out an “h,” a “kt,” and an “r.” Thus I came to call the tall one “Hector.”

Once the lines of communication were opened, Syawa ne’er stopt talking. He wanted to know my name, of course, and when I told him it was Katie O’Toole, he laughed and chattered to his friend about this remarkable fact. Hector listened, half-smiling as if he understood what Syawa was saying without necessarily agreeing. Impatient, Syawa turned back to me and asked in gestures what my name meant. I was hard-presst to explain without words that my name meant only that I was my father’s daughter and my family called me Katie.

Syawa went on to make me understand that the sounds of my name were very similar to the phrase in his language which means “sun setting into the sea,” and because the fiery color of my hair reminded him of a sunset, he made much of this coincidence. I must have seemed as dubious as Hector, for my ear failed to hear a similarity between the sounds of his language and mine, but I did not complain when Syawa began calling me “Kay-oot-li.”

Unfortunately, the more I understood my new friend, the less tolerant my mother became of his attentions. She flinched every time he approached, snarling that he stank and was ugly and was clearly mentally deficient. In truth, the frantic pace of our forced march, day after day after day, through hardships of weather, terrain, and privation, had taken a toll on my mother, who was very near the end of her endurance. Liza and I held her up between us as best we could, but the leather strap that bound us frequently tangled in brambles, which made the savages grumble. William warned unhappily that he heard talk of dispatching her.

At some point, when Liza and I had to stop yet again to pry our strap from a bush, Syawa came o’er to cut the thong that bound me to my mother. The other savages protested mightily, clearly insisting I would run away, but Syawa flashed that relentless smile of his and pointed out I was helping my mother, for which I needed both arms. Then he turned to me. I lowered my eyes and breathed heavily, keenly aware all the savages were looking at me. Syawa asked me something, but I was too afraid to look up to see his gestures.

He put his finger on my chin and lifted my face. He smiled as if an exotic butterfly had just landed on his fingertip, and with his free hand he gestured, asking if I was going to run away. I shook my head, my heart pounding as much as it did when he and his tall friend first burst into the loft at home. He turned to the rest of the savages and gestured, assuring them I would stay.

Mother immediately began whispering that as soon as it was dark, I must untie her so we could flee. For the rest of the day, as I practically carried her through the forest, she pestered me about how it was up to me to save us all. Eventually Liza joined in, and we squabbled in whispers ’til William hissed that if we kept this up, the savages would kill us all long before nightfall.

We continued in silence. I spent the evening trying to decipher Syawa’s gestures as he told the assemblage of savages an elaborate story, during which my mother and Liza frequently urged me to untie them. When I continued to ignore them, they grew silent, but every time I glanced at my mother thereafter, I found her glaring at me in furious reproach.

She should have known her hate-stare would have no effect upon me; it was, after all, pretty much the same way she’d looked at me every single day of my life.