Sarah Ridge
Running Waters
March 1830
B
eef won’t cure with luck.” Honey yelled from the kitchen to the parlor. “We’re nearly out of sugar, too. Yeast won’t rise without it.”
“I know,” I whispered while making a list of things to purchase in New Echota. Besides Honey’s request for salt and sugar, I added coffee and a tea block to my list. We’d gone without for weeks. I needed to collect the post from Reverend Sam Worcester, purchase supplies, and hopefully meet Harriet and Elias’ new son, William Penn, born just last month. John usually brought supplies to Running Waters, but in his absence, the necessity and responsibility fell to me. Mother Susannah remained in a nearby village, caring for a fevered elderly cousin. Quatie couldn’t rattle along in the wagon, as she was expecting to give birth soon. So, Clarinda and I would go.
Peter came to my parlor and said, “I’ll take you.” I folded the list, placing it in my petticoat pocket.
“There’s no need, Peter, not with so many chores here.” I passed him in a flurry and headed to the kitchen.
He followed. “Work can wait. I’m not comfortable with you goin’ alone.”
I didn’t look at him while I wiped Rollin’s face smeared with jam. “And I’m not comfortable with you so far from Ridge land. I’ll be perfectly safe. There’s no choice.”
Peter said, “Mister John wouldn’t want you to.”
I told Peter what he already knew. “Well, he isn’t here.”
I sighed, exhausted from the truth and restless because of the same. I’d wilted a bit more each week since John left. He might have understood why he needed to stay if I had understood why he felt so compelled to go. But, after berating myself, again, I could think of nothing more that needed doing except taking coins from the box in the bottom drawer of John’s desk to pay for the needed supplies.
When I opened the door to his study, my husband’s scent pushed me back: pine sap, black pepper, ink, and saddle leather. Even in his absence, his essence hovered in the drapes and white walls, inside the pages of his books, among the fibers of the sapphire rug. I felt guilty for being here without his permission.
My father’s study was a forbidden place. Papa said, “A man’s room is no place for silly girls.” My family’s housekeeper, Jane, was the only “silly” female allowed beyond the door. Only when he was gone could she dust or collect empty cups and saucers. Then he wouldn’t have to listen to her prattle on about the cost of things or her tasks that remained unfinished.
I usually didn’t enter John’s study, not because he shunned me, but because I didn’t want to disturb him. I selfishly missed the peace knowing, just beyond the door, John sat writing or reading.
Two weeks ago, Honey, the children, and I had dinner with Major and Susannah. But the father had returned without the son. No one had seen John, Vann, or the others. Honey translated Major Ridge’s words, who remained confident of John’s impending arrival at Running Waters. While momentarily assured and offering him a brief smile, a small voice in my head didn’t believe him. If I listened, the voice made me panic, as if cornered in a stuffy room, too hot from so many people breathing.
I silenced the voice by beginning a task noisy enough to drown out its sound, easy to do on a farm with children. But here, alone in John’s study, the cautionary voice returned, warning how John might not return. The voice sounded like my mother’s.
My parents’ house was only loud when something was amiss, brought in from the outside, like when John arrived so ill. To them, silence equaled happiness. In Mother’s insistent quietude, she was a passive participant in her life, shut-up and buttoned-up, standing quietly behind my father’s work, presenting the image of a dutiful wife, sinless and respectable before Cornwall’s hypocrites. She lived a life of obligation, not choice. To others, she appeared happy, so much so, that when she spoke, all she could think to say was to repeat my father’s words.
But after marrying John for love, I found the opposite to be true. Happiness isn’t a quiet dependency, but a trusting partnership between best friends, between lovers, between souls who hear the other’s heartbeat. Arguments, laughter, echoes through caves, whispers in candlelit bedrooms broke such silence. Happiness isn’t living in separate rooms on separate floors. Love is loud.
I wanted to go back to the night John didn’t kiss me goodbye and shout from the top of the stairs, “Can’t you see? I live for you.”
With prayerful determination to send him home faster, I walked to his desk and opened the bottom drawer where he kept profits from the ferry. Borrowing his quill, I dipped it in ink and wrote the amount I’d taken and its purpose on a small sheet of paper. I dated it and placed it inside the box beside the household’s remaining coin. When I left, I slammed the door shut behind me, reminding myself how loud love should be.
Clarinda was excited about going to New Echota. She turned the doorknob to the front door and nearly stepped on her dog. Taking her hand, I said, “No, Digaleni. Stay home today.” I barely had time to kiss Rollin’s bushy black hair before he and Digaleni ran behind the house. Digaleni’s long ears dragged to the ground when his nose found trails from skittering squirrels or rogue opossums. He and Rollin would run them off their territory.
Clarinda and I climbed into the wagon and settled on the bench seat behind her Equoni. I looked at my sweet girl in her blue bonnet and swung my arms left to right, asking if she was “ready”. After she nodded, I put two fingers to my mouth and breathed out, pretending to whistle. Clarinda pulled the leather cord from her gingham dress, retrieved her whistle, and blew once. Equoni pulled, and we jolted forward.
Most of the horse-backed travelers on the road tipped their hats and nodded with friendly gestures. However, when no one else passed, I felt an uneasiness, a sixth sense someone followed us. I squeezed Clarinda closer to my side and snapped the reins for Equoni to move faster.
Behind us, horses whinnied over the sounds of shoe clops along the path. I twisted my neck to see two white soldiers in blue military coats, horses led in single file. Ten miles separated us from the well-populated New Echota. My small voice returned, reminding me of the last unfamiliar white man I met in Cherokee territory. He dragged me behind his horse and tried to exchange my life and that of my unborn child for whiskey.
I tucked the reins under my leg and signed to Clarinda. If anything should happen, she should run as fast as she could for home. Trying to be as discreet as possible, I reached under the bench seat for a tool, something I might use as a weapon, preparing for the worst scenario I could imagine. Underneath was a small mallet used to repair a wheel and a wedge to split firewood. An attacker would need to be close to use either.
Equoni followed a bend in the road, and for a moment, I couldn’t see the white soldiers following us. Then, I recognized our hound’s deep bawl. Around the blind turn, horses whinnied, and in the commotion, cruel shouts preceded pistol shots. I put my hand to my mouth after the first report, shuttering after the one that followed. Equoni sped ahead, and it took all my strength to stop the wagon. As soon as the hint of sulfur smoke reached us, twigs snapped after their horses broke into the opposing trees.
With another look back, flopping ears bound toward the wagon with another low-rumbled woof. The soldier’s bullets missed our beloved dog. I got down and opened the back so Digaleni could leap inside. “Good boy,” I said and rubbed his head, grateful he’d chosen to protect us instead of napping in the sunlight. The soldiers detoured, but my paranoia didn’t fade, expecting their sudden reappearance.
Without further incident, we arrived in town, greeted by a wave from Xander McCoy from the porch of his house. He wasn’t wearing his lawyer attire but an open shirt with no waistcoat, sitting on the porch while his wife gathered dirt with her straw broom. They hadn’t packed and moved. Staying reaffirmed his loyalty.
We pulled past Elias and Harriet’s house, the print shop, a smithy, and a boot shop. We stopped first at the point farthest away: Reverend Sam’s residence, where he performed not only his ministerial duties but also served as New Echota’s postmaster.
I took a deep breath, relaxing only when we stopped at the house of a friend.
Reverend Sam stepped onto his porch and wiped his hands on the white, ink-stained apron tied around his waist. “Good to see you, Mistress Ridge. So glad you came. I have letters for Running Waters.”
I waved and answered back, “I hoped there might be.”
Digaleni woofed his greeting. Before I could get down from the seat, Clarinda climbed to the ground and grabbed the stair rail. She stood before Sam with her hand outstretched to shake his. They’d met before, but she was too small to remember.
“Hello, Miss Clarinda,” he remarked, forgetting she couldn’t hear. Stepping from the wheel to the ground, I watched their exchange. Reverend Sam bent over his enormous feet, steadying his tall legs. God pieced that man together, straight up and down. He sat on a bench to study Clarinda’s hands as she signed.
Reverend Worcester asked her to make the gestures again. “Slower?”
I signed for Clarinda to repeat her name, but asked her to sign each letter, one at a time, so Reverend Worcester could “practice”.
He quickly mastered every letter, repeating each back to her. “What is the gesture for thank you?”
I showed him. “Touch three fingers to your chin and extend them to the person you are thanking.” It was logical, straightforward.
He looked astonished. “She is a miracle, and I am a student again. Sophie Sawyer, our teacher, must meet her. My girls are with her now. Could I walk you both to school?” He redirected his attention to Clarinda and spelled her name instead of saying it aloud. I couldn’t tell him how much I appreciated including her in his invitation.
John and I protected Clarinda from outsiders. In a world that thought the deaf were feeble-minded, our care was necessary. We didn’t want anyone to make her feel inadequate, as she was so bright. But undoubtedly, from a missionary teacher, Clarinda’s feelings would be unharmed.
“Yes, but before we go, would you gather the letters, please?”
“Of course. God’s miracle, this child, distracted me.”
Clarinda and I followed him into his office. There were many shelves holding framed slots, with another sitting on the floor. Letters and newspapers overflowed some, while others remained empty. Next to them sat a stained desk with a dark ring in the corner from repeatedly spilling overfilled teacups. Ink spots traveled from the well to where the man’s papers sprawled along the desk’s surface. Spent candle wax ribboned down from the taper’s stub, unlit in its pewter saucer.
He scanned the boxes. While he looked, I asked, “How is Ann? I haven’t seen her for quite some time.”
“We can go see her if you’d like.” He looked over his shoulder through a glass window toward the back of the house. “She’s outside with her hands in soapy water.”
“We’ll see her another time then.”
“Have you met little William Penn yet?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “I hope to do so today.”
Reverend Sam said, “Elias named his son to honor Reverend Jeremiah Evarts, with Evarts’ pen name. Just last week, he was printed in the National Intelligencer.” Reverend Sam didn’t recite Evarts’ words from memory but shuffled through newspaper scraps on his desk. He found the issue he sought when it fell on the floor. He bent his long legs to stoop and squinted his eyes to read the fine print. “‘Removal of any nation of Indians from their country by force would be an instance of gross and cruel oppression.’”1 He looked at me and remarked about how John would agree.
“Wholeheartedly,” I said.
Reverend Sam reached atop his desk with his long fingers for his eyeglasses. He found them and wrapped the ends around his ears. He stretched to full height, nearly touching the ceiling, and continued to read the quote with clearer sight. “‘All attempts to accomplish this removal of the Indians by bribery or fraud, by intimidation and threats, by withholding from them a knowledge of the strength of the cause, by practicing upon their ignorance and their fears, or by vexatious opportunities, interpreted by them to mean nearly the same thing as a command—all such attempts are acts of oppression and therefore entirely unjustifiable. ’”2
Reverend Sam replaced the paper on his desk. “When John returns, I need his counsel. Georgia wants me to pledge my allegiance to follow their laws while I preach and live here. But I think it a betrayal, no matter what Georgia threatens. I follow God, Cherokee law, and the directives of the Foreign Mission Board, not the political dictates of selfish men.” He took off his apron with a furl, retrieved and donned his black frock coat. “John will know what I should do.”
I wondered whether I should tell the Reverend about the white soldiers who followed us. But then, considering the demands made upon him already, I thought my worries better kept to myself.
He passed us, assuming we’d follow his lead. He bounded through the exterior door and to our wagon seat and snapped the reins to move Equoni into his barn. When he returned, our lop-eared hound walked beside him, where we waited by the foot of his stairs.
“Let’s walk, shall we? Will be good to stretch.”
We traveled to the center of town to Miss Sawyer’s schoolhouse. Sam didn’t knock before entering the classroom but opened the door with one hand while holding the other behind his back, acting as both observer and authority.
“We’re at a schoolhouse. Where children learn from a teacher,” I signed.
Clarinda asked me whether the teacher inside knew more than her papa.
I shook my head to the contrary. “No, not more than Papa, I imagine.” And the voice in my head repeated his name. I looked across the town streets, hoping to see him ride to Elias’ house. Then, from my imagination, John looked across the walking crowd and found me standing where I watched him.
My daydream faded when I heard Miss Sawyer instruct her pupils to complete the arithmetic lesson on their slates. Both boys and girls responded in unison, and she and Reverend Sam stepped down the stairs, leaving the door cracked to listen for any misbehavior.
Sophie Sawyer was a sharp woman with squared features, except for her smile. She had a teacher’s heart. “Good morning, Mistress Ridge. It has been ages. Reverend Sam says there’s someone here I need to meet.”
“This is Clarinda, our daughter. She just turned six.”
Miss Sawyer gathered her gray skirt and knelt so her eyes would be level with Clarinda’s. Our daughter curtseyed and studied Miss Sophie’s kind face.
Sam gestured at Clarinda’s hands and said, “Watch.”
Clarinda looked at me when she saw their lips move. I spelled Miss Sawyer’s name. Clarinda reciprocated by introducing herself as she had done before.
Miss Sawyer said, “What did she say?”
I made the signs and spoke the letters “C.l.a.r.i.n.d.a.” A horizontal wave signified the mountain ridges denoting our surname.
Miss Sawyer put her hand to her chest with glee and asked, “Does she read?”
“Yes, in both syllabary and English, but only simple words and phrases. So, I spell slowly.”
“Truly a gift from God,” Miss Sawyer remarked.
I confirmed, “She is. Entirely.”
Sounds from a gathering crowd interrupted us. Two Cherokee on horseback rode into town. Immediately, people abandoned their chores and their porches to surround them. We could no longer see anything, but the resulting disarray brought by their arrival. Xander McCoy ran from the collection of people toward Elias’ house.
Reverend Sam followed their increasing noise to find out what caused such trouble.
Miss Sawyer said, “I must return to the children. We will pray all is well.”
I nodded our goodbye and took Clarinda’s hand to follow the continuously building crowd.
“Sarah!” Harriet called, watching us pass the open yard. Elias ran past her, down the stairs toward the fray. Harriet cradled William Penn in one arm and used the other to call us over. Clarinda and I followed Digaleni, who flopped up the Boudinots’ stairs without urgency.
We embraced, and I touched the infant’s cheek, speckled with milk spots. “He’s beautiful,” I said, but the increased shouting caused us to look up from the baby’s face. Several men caught a wounded warrior sliding from his horse. With his hands held to his bloody chest, the others needed to carry him into the McCoy’s inn.
I asked Harriet, “What could have happened?”
She responded with another question. “Has John returned home?”
“Not yet. Why?” My volume matched my panic. “Were these men with John?” My worst fear, spoken by my mother’s voice inside my mind, overwhelmed me. I sat in Harriet’s rocking chair and reached out for Clarinda to sit on my lap. I needed to hold her. For however long we sat there, beside the uproar, seeing the injured man, I too became mute, deaf to the world beyond my fear.
Reverend Sam and Elias whispered together while they returned to the porch. Harriet stepped aside so her husband could see us. Elias didn’t hesitate and kneeled to take my hand.
“Sarah,” he said, looking at Sam over his shoulder.
“Was John with them?” I asked once and then repeated myself. The first, too quiet to be understood, and the second all too demanding. If Elias didn’t answer, I knew the worst to be true.
“John and Vann were not there when this happened.” I breathed in relief, but knew Elias had more story to tell, or he wouldn’t have continued to hold my hand.
He looked for silent advice from his wife before continuing his story. “The men found a whiskey wagon. John sent them to bring it here as evidence. But on the way home, they stopped and opened a cask. Chewoyee drank more than his companions, and they tied him to a tree to shut him up. And, in his cups, he made so much noise that he attracted over twenty Georgian guardsmen tracking the smoke from the burned village. The men fought. Guards beat Chewoyee in the head. The butt ends of their rifles mangled his body. According to Rattling Gourd, all four of them were arrested, bound hand and foot, and led toward the Carroll County jail. Now sober but wounded, Chewoyee fell from his horse. When the guardsman dismounted to tie him to his saddle, he realized his prisoner was dead. Without care, the guard left Chewoyee’s body where it fell.”
Reverend Sam added, “The three fled. But only Rattling Gourd and Waggon escaped. Waggon has a large knife wound in his chest. Assumedly, Mills was rearrested, and held in jail.”
I found Elias’ eyes. “But John and Vann weren’t with them? You said they weren’t with them.”
Elias’ eyes first looked pitifully at Clarinda, who burrowed under my chin. Then to me, he said, “No one knows where John and Vann are.”
Harriet said, “I pray the evil brought on by these days will leave us.”
Elias stood beside a waiting Reverend Sam, both expecting tears. But instead, I said, “Two white soldiers on the road followed us here. They tried to kill Clarinda’s hound when he chased them.”
Elias looked with telling eyes toward Reverend Sam. He said, “The guards can’t find John and Vann either. They’re watching the house.” Elias rubbed his forehead, then held the bridge of his nose. After taking a deep breath, he said, “I’ll dispatch quick word to Major Ridge and Chief Ross. I’m sure the warden at the jail interrogated Mills. Mills knew Major Ridge followed Chief Ross’ orders to burn the village. We must send the Light Guard to protect them all.”
I said, “Quatie cannot feed soldiers now. She’s expecting.”
A familiar voice surprised me, one I was grateful to hear. Arch stood at the bottom of the stairs. He said, “I’ll take the messages to Chief Ross and Major Ridge after I drive Mistress Ridge and Miss Clarinda to Running Waters. I’ll protect them.”
Sam said, “Let me go tell Ann. I’ll go to Vann’s cabin at Cave Spring.”
I put Clarinda to her feet and took her hand. “I need supplies before we leave.” The request seemed silly, left over from who I was earlier this morning.
Arch held out his hand to help me down the stairs. He said, “Hurry, Little Spider.” Every time he called me so, it reminded me of the power and worth held by the smallest of God’s creatures. I squeezed Clarinda’s hand tighter.
Reverend Sam called after us. “I’ll bring your wagon round the front of the store.”
I embraced Elias and whispered in his ear. “You’ll let me know if you hear anything more?”
“I’ll ride to you myself with any news.”
I couldn’t cry and alarm Clarinda any further. I’d not signed a word. Seeing adults, those she trusted, talking with serious faces would scare her enough. So, I lied and signed, “Everything is fine,” and smiled. She stopped our walking and slapped her leg, so Digaleni would follow.
I bought our necessary items quickly. Arch hefted the cloth sacks into our wagon. I lifted Clarinda into the back. Digaleni hopped in beside her, and they sat together on the sacks of salt and sugar.
Arch slid a musket under the seat before snapping the reins.
It was a mile or so out of town before he spoke. “I’m leaving this gun with you, loaded and ready to fire when I ride on to warn Ross and Major.”
I said, “There’s no need.”
“There is genuine need.”
“I don’t know how to shoot it.”
He reached for my hand and squeezed. “Aim and squeeze the trigger.”
I didn’t let go. “John never taught me.”
“He will.” Arch didn’t say any more, nor did he let go of my hand.
Once home, I told him, “Saddle Equoni. Go to Ross’ and Major’s house.”
“Keep the gun beside you. I’ll return with more men.”
“I could never kill anyone,” I said.
Arch insisted and handed me the gun. “Never say never. Don’t answer the door.”
I informed all at home of the situation. Peter and Honey rocked on the front porch, humming hymns with Arch’s rifle resting between them. Laughing Water and Will patrolled the outbuildings, the kitchen, my hothouse, the corncrib, the smokehouse, and the barns. Walking Stick, armed with more throwing knives than I cared to think about, remained mounted and rode the boundaries of our grazing fields.
Night fell before Sunflower and I put the children together in the parlor, making their beds near the fire. Neither of us would sleep.
Sunflower lit the candle tapers in the sconces on the wall before sitting near me and twisting vines. Her hands moved so fast I could not follow the pattern of her weaving. Opening my eyes from constant prayer, I stopped her hands with mine, hoping to borrow a shred of her courage.
The mantle clock marked the passing time. I sat in John’s armchair, rocking Susan’s cradle with my foot. I made absentminded stitches in one of her dresses, thinking how soon she’d grow out of it. But my attempt to embroider was pointless, pulling the needle free and un-threading every stitch I’d just made.
I paced with my hands on my back. If John and Vann were close, I didn’t want them to come home, not tonight, not with soldiers patrolling the woods. I clung to the hope that John and Vann, wherever they were, were together and safe—not in some jail cell like Mills or, worse, lying dead on the road. I couldn’t allow myself to fixate on such conjured visions.
Several shots echoed beyond Ridge Valley. Our bodies shuttered. Hearing it, Sunflower bent over with a sob. Her reaction came from her memory, from her barren heart. My cup was empty of any comforts to offer. I’d spent such faith on hope.
Riding in a full gallop, Major Ridge led a band of four or five other painted Cherokee, whooping and screaming as they approached. Their lit torches circled the house, leaving riders stationed at intervals. Arch stopped his horse near the front door, and withdrew a long gun from his saddle, holding it across his chest. My father-in-law, with all his might, dismounted beside Arch.
He opened the door and closed it quickly behind him. Large boots made wide strides down the hallway, stopping after seeing his sleeping grandchildren on the floor. I put my finger to my lips before he gestured for us to come to him. Sunflower and I were safe, held tight against his chest. But we had no way of letting John and Vann know they weren’t.
He and I walked to the kitchen, where I offered him food and water. Before he could sit down, he unstrapped an arsenal attached to his waist and chest and laid the weapons of metal and bone across my table. He leaned back in the chair, stretching his long muscular legs in front of him, and sighed.
I wrapped my shawl closer around my arms, angry at his calm demeanor. “Aren’t you worried?” I spoke. “If he can get home, he’ll ride into a trap.”
Major said nothing. What that meant, I couldn’t fathom.
Frustrated by his silence, I said, “I can’t stay closed in here another minute. I’m going outside.” I nodded toward the door, so he would understand. He gestured, granting his permission.
Alone for the first time in hours, I glared toward the tree line, imagining the worst hiding under it. John’s family never failed to protect my children or me from dangers they could and couldn’t see. I knew this, although Major’s insistence put John in danger. As I paced to one side of the porch, I blamed him, and walking to the other, forgave him. Peace in the middle ground remained elusive.
There was little space to feel gratitude for all the despair in my heart. Trembling hands touched my flushed cheeks. I didn’t know what to do with all I felt, not able to walk it off or climb the hills to ease whatever in my body made my heart pound. I dropped my shawl, picked up my book from the seat of a nearby chair, and threw it into the yard with all my fear and frustration, anger and anxiety. I grabbed a pot of seedlings on the edge of the porch and threw it behind the house. The pot shattered. Tears fell from my eyes, not in grief or sadness, but in helpless rage. I never considered what trouble the sounds might bring. I grabbed another larger clay pot of dirt and hurled it with both hands into the mess. After each heave, I looked around my feet for something else to throw.
I ran the short distance to my hothouse and closed the door, trapping myself inside. Clay pots covered the table with apple and quince tree seedlings I’d started last winter. I didn’t care how well they’d grown. I picked up the first and hurled it against the fireplace’s stone. It hit and shattered against the iron pot used to boil water to steam the room. I grabbed another and held it with both hands above my head, ready to smash it to pieces against the rock floor.
It fell from my hands and split in two. Someone snatched me by the waist with one hand and covered my mouth with the other. I thrashed and kicked, trying to free myself. The man pulled me back against the glass windows, entrapping my arms. I bit his hand and the man’s tight grip released me. I opened my mouth to scream, but before I could gather air, he turned and kissed me, stopping any plea for help from escaping my lips.
My captor’s face was half-covered in black ash and bear grease, with handprints made from the same paint across his shoulders. He held his hands away from his sides, implying I was in no danger. I stepped away and saw the tree roots tattooed on his chest. His smell filled my senses: the bitter tangs of pine sap and black pepper mixed with oil used to soften saddle leather.
He took one step forward. He whispered, “Don’t be afraid.”
I touched him, examined him for bullet holes, as well as the light would allow. “Did the guard shoot you?”
John said, “Sarah, stop. I’m not hurt.”
His fingers crawled up my back, and he stared at my lips. “Walking Stick shot twice in the air, a diversion, nothing more. Guards rode toward the gunfire and allowed warriors to circle me while we rode to the house. I never thought of disguising myself as who I am might save my life.” His grin took my lips.
Another crash of clay pots broke against the river rocks covering the hothouse floor. We collided. My legs surrounded his waist as his arms lifted me onto the table. Flames from the warrior’s torches outside lit his golden eyes. They flickered amid the shining black paint. He tasted the skin over my neck and my chest. I brought his face to mine, whispering, “I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”
He raised and brushed the hair away from my face and looked puzzled before saying, “I’m sorry it took so long to get home.”
I needed to see the eyes of the man I loved underneath the color. With my shift, I wiped away the shadows around his eyes. The warrior’s paint unveiled his adoration. Devotion replaced sorrow. Blame forgave. He rested his forehead against mine, breathed in my breath, and opened his eyes again.
I saw myself there, not helpless but fearless, not disregarded but treasured, not cursed but enchanted. His want became my need. Our heart sounds found their pulse, a beat we shared, familiar and known.
He rocked into me. Our covet of the earthly ground fell away, and we rose to a tremendous and limitless sky. Neither of us was bound to solitude any longer. Fiery sun and icy moon shared the night sky. Nvdo walosi ugisgo, the eclipse.