Somewhere to Dream (Berkley Sensation) Read online

  I was shocked when Maggie revealed her secret to them, and I told her so. Before then, we had never told anyone outside of our family about Maggie’s dreams. Our grandmother, who had been burned at the stake for speaking of her own dreams, had passed the gift to Maggie from beyond the grave. So we’d always kept quiet about what Maggie could do with her mind. Selfishly, I feared not only that Maggie would be put to death if she were discovered, but that her persecutors would kill her family as well. Or worse, they might discover Maggie’s quiet sister, Adelaide, had her own secrets. The image of flames snapping in a pile of tinder at my feet, crawling up my body with a broiling hunger, kept me quiet. I’d told no one of my selfish fear, but Maggie knew.

  “Why would you do that?” I demanded. “Telling them only puts us in danger.”

  Maggie shook her head. “I don’t think so. The feeling here is . . . I don’t know.” She looked at me, her eyes lit with that strange, dreamy look she sometimes carried. She knew I understood some of what she lived with, though she didn’t know how deeply. No one did. Not even me. But she knew she could talk to me about it, if no one else. “Can you hear it, Addy? The wind? How it flows through everyone here, connects them all?”

  I shook my head and looked away. I didn’t even try to listen. If I’d opened myself up to it, I would have sensed the messages in the breeze. My gift was strong enough for that. But I didn’t want to know the messages. My life was complicated enough without throwing in more threats.

  “Well, I do,” she insisted. “It feels as if someone holds my hands here. As if they believe in me—in us, Addy.”

  Lying in the quiet dimness of the council house those first few days, I had time to think. I came to the conclusion that Maggie’s gift had somehow sounded the call that had brought them to our rescue in the woods. These people heard more than just sounds, and I believe they sensed her plea for help. From the beginning, they accepted us as part of the village, teaching us their language and lessons as we became more comfortable with this new world. The women came to Maggie in the mornings, asking about her dreams, wondering how what she’d seen might affect them or their families. I stayed silent in the corner of our house, or in my bed, listening.

  Then Grandmother Wah-Li took Maggie under her aged wing. She had been taken to the old woman’s house after two days, leaving me to sleep and mend. When she returned to our house, she glowed. She sat with me and held my hands, beaming like the sun.

  “It’s all right, Addy. We’re meant to be here.”

  “Oh? What does that mean?” The words came out shorter than I’d intended, but she made me nervous with her grand words.

  “Addy, don’t be angry. And I’m not crazy. But being here means so much. We belong with these people. They’ll take care of us. Oh, Addy. I wish I could tell you how wonderful I feel. I met Grandmother Wah-Li, and she is . . .” She hesitated, her sparkling eyes looking skyward as she searched her thoughts. She grinned, then flinched as one of the cuts on her lip split. “She is a magical being. It’s as if her spirit is tied to mine. Addy, I felt her inside my head.”

  I stared at her, lost for words. What did that mean? When I didn’t speak, she did, waving her bandaged hands and pacing the room while she talked about what had happened.

  “And Addy,” she said, coming back to sit in front of me. “She gave me a gift.”

  “What? Where is it?”

  Maggie pointed to her head and grinned. “I can understand their language. She did something to me when she was inside my mind, and now I understand what the people are saying. I’ll teach you, and we’ll be fine here.”

  Just like that, Maggie practically became Tsalagi.

  The Cherokee girl who had visited us throughout the first few days became Maggie’s closest friend. I watched in agony as I was replaced. But I couldn’t hate the girl, no matter how I tried. She said her name was Kokila, and she was sweet and kind. To be fair, Kokila spent hours with both of us, watching, learning, teaching, chattering in her foreign words. But because of Wah-Li’s gift to Maggie, my sister shared her jokes, laughed when she did, followed along, translating as if she’d always known the words. And I watched.

  Two days after Maggie met Grandmother Wah-Li, it appeared the old woman decided I’d had enough rest. Kokila told Maggie, “Grandmother Wah-Li wishes to see your sister.” And Maggie translated smoothly, but I shook my head. Kokila, her smile warm and friendly, tugged my arm and led me toward the outside. She seemed not to notice my panic. I glanced over my shoulder at my sister, who had turned toward the other women already, not bothered for me at all. Had she forgotten? This would mean stepping into a dark place with strangers. This was something I simply couldn’t do.

  “Come with me, Maggie,” I begged.

  “I can’t,” she told me, and the calm in her voice smoothed her face into a soft smile. “It’s you she wants to see.”

  At her refusal, I felt suddenly exposed. As if someone had peeled off my clothing and stood me in front of a crowd. I was very alone, and I wasn’t used to being alone. The one time I had been separated from my sisters—but no. I couldn’t think of that. This was nothing like that. Besides, those memories were safely hidden away behind the wall in my mind. Still, my voice shook.

  “Please, Maggie? I can’t go in there alone.”

  “Kokila will be with you. You’ll be fine.” Finally her eyes filled with a familiar reassurance, and she pressed my hand between hers, trying to share her strength. If only she could have. “Go on. Then come back and tell me what happened. I promise you’ll feel good about her. It’s a new beginning for us, Addy. Don’t be afraid.”

  Ducking reluctantly out of our stuffy house, I followed Kokila across an open space to the council house and stooped through the low door. It was darker inside than where we were living, the space lit only by a pile of glowing embers in the centre of the room. Four women sat by the fire, their faces flickering orange, the shadows of their features giving me an eerie, skull-like impression of vacant spaces. Kokila nodded at me, smiling, then gestured toward the women. But I didn’t want to go. It wasn’t so much the fear of the unknown that paralyzed me. It was something deeper. Maggie had told them her secret, opened her mind and heart to total strangers. That had been her decision to make, I supposed, but I didn’t want to reveal any secrets to these women. My heart raced, and I fought the urge to shove Kokila aside so I could flee into the sunshine.

  One of the women muttered something and pointed her crooked finger accusingly at me.

  “I’m sorry?” I said. She repeated the odd syllables and her finger drifted, suggesting an empty place on the floor.

  Kokila patted my hand as if I were a little girl and gently forced me down. “Sit.”

  When I was seated, Kokila smiled again, then turned and left without a sound. My ability to breathe went with her. From deep within me rolled a series of tremors, forcing fear through my chest, through my throat, finally through my eyes, where it escaped and slid down my cheeks in hot, revealing tears. It was as if my bones wanted to shake me hard enough so my mind could escape whatever had me frightened.

  I stared at the women through the dim light of the house, but the one who had spoken before only smiled. Finally, when no one moved, I took a deep breath of the sage-scented air. My damp hands pressed against my lap as I tried to control the shaking, and I stared down at where they linked. It was the only place I could look, unwilling as I was to meet the intense stares of the women. My heart beat so quickly that I feared it might burst into flames.

  As I sat curled into myself, I felt a heavy breath of warm air waft over me, redolent with herbs, tickling like a summer breeze at the top of my head. Except there was no breeze in the stifling building, and I knew that. Regardless, I closed my eyes, feeling soothed, relieved to disappear in the growing warmth. The sensation embraced me, melting into what felt like a whisper-thin vapour on my cheeks, my chin, my neck.

>   And the air had a voice. Its strange, floating melody caressed my nerves, softening their tension, and though the notes and words seemed familiar, they came from somewhere I’d never been. A sensation of half-remembered lullabies cascaded over me, rolling in waves over my eyelids, my lips, tumbling over my shoulders and settling like an embrace in my chest. My heart slowed. I opened my eyes and stared at my hands. They were still.

  I felt no fear.

  I looked at the women but only truly saw one of them. She was ancient, with wrinkles crisscrossing deeper wrinkles, her lips folded under where teeth should have been. What was left of her silver hair was only strands, and those were as fine as a baby’s. But her eyes were alive, twinkling with youth and wisdom. They questioned, answered, offered, demanded, but expected nothing. She kept her gaze on mine, and I became aware of her actual voice. It was more of a croak than a normal voice, but I listened as she muttered words not meant for me. The other women made small sounds of assent, then, with some effort, roused themselves and followed Kokila’s silent exit.

  I was alone with Grandmother Wah-Li, except I had never felt less alone. In truth, I felt as if I would never again be alone as long as she existed.

  “I am Wah-Li,” I heard, and remembered Maggie’s stories. The old woman was inside my head! Now she was in mine, talking and listening at the same time. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  I believed her. My body felt light, almost fluid with relief. I felt absolutely no fear. I didn’t remember having ever, in my entire life, experienced that kind of freeing sensation.

  “U li helisdi, Oohdeeyuhlee Ageyujah,” she said, but her eyes spoke in a language I somehow understood. “Welcome, Shadow Girl. I see you as I saw your sister. You and she are new to our family but have been in my heart for many lifetimes. You do not wish it, but I see your Hidden Power, your Guhsgaluh Ulaniguhguh. You and I, we will find it together. It will not be the ugliness you fear.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Moving Onward

  I didn’t have much choice but to move on, move ahead. The world around me showed no signs of slowing. Maggie stepped right into the Cherokee world without a backward glance, which was how she always did things. I didn’t think there’d ever be much to add to my life, since it no longer got either bright or dark after that one eternal day I refused to remember. But I did what I could. I let the Cherokee voices and songs, the smells and sounds of the village, soothe my pains and bind a tentative wrapping over my wounds. I tried to be happy. I tried to understand them and my place among them.

  The Cherokee were a generous, loving people. Their world was all about family. The entire tribe was one big family, and now Maggie and I were a part of it. The People lived at peace with Mother Earth, offering prayers of thanks before hunting, before eating, offering songs of praise for just about any event. Their closeness was almost smothering at times, their connections to each other unquestionable and impossible to break, should anyone ever wish to try. Their bond seemed even stronger than familial love. It went blood deep, as if being connected to each other was vital to their existence. Their children laughed together, cried with whichever parents they chose. They were all one.

  But they were also a cruel, vicious people. Any hint of threat to their families or to their pride was punished without mercy. When white settlers began multiplying, their farms spreading like a stain across the Keowee Valley, the Cherokee wanted them to go back to their homelands. Of course, the settlers had no intention of leaving. They had discovered a harsh but fertile land where, given a lot of hard work, they might someday prosper. They spoke of sharing with the native people, of staying separate from the Indians yet still reaping the benefits of the land, but it was not to be. The two worlds could never coincide in a state of peace. The white folks considered the Cherokee to be little more than barbarians and treated them as such. The Cherokee saw the settlers as unwanted vermin who showed no respect for Mother Earth and had to be exterminated.

  Among the men in the tribe, there were constant grumblings about the whites, complaints hissed through bared teeth as they worked themselves into a froth. The elders held out hope of living in peace with these strange pale people, but the warriors saw the truth. They were adamant: get rid of them before they get rid of us.

  They sent out scouts, who studied the timber homes from a distance, watching the comings and goings, learning what they could about the enemy. Every day they crept closer, surrounding the oblivious settlers like coyotes around a dog. Eventually they were spotted, and the white men gathered, raising hysteria levels and planning their defence. When the first rifle shot cracked through the air, it echoed for miles. It also killed a careless Cherokee youth who had been keen on getting as close as he could, answering a dare from his friends. That was when it started, the back-and-forth killings. The Cherokee, given a perfect excuse to release their fury, did exactly that, enthusiastically burning and slaughtering. Once the bloodletting began, the frenzy spread, and fighting wasn’t reserved for white people. The strange-looking Choctaw, with their flattened brows, were always spoiling for a fight. They attacked our village frequently, and as a result they were punished accordingly, again and again.

  Neither Maggie nor I ever went on any of the raids. Few of the women did. But I saw the warriors return, blood-streaked and burned by gunpowder, eyes gleaming with ghoulish delight as they described the battles. I watched the warriors march captive men back to the village one day after a raid, and I asked Kokila what had become of their families. She told me the women and children were usually left behind in their still-smoking homes, believing their menfolk were as good as dead. The thought reminded me of when my father had died. My mother and sisters and I had been left on our own, faced with the daunting prospect of living without a male provider. I pitied the widows and wondered if their fates might be worse than those of the men. That was my initial thought.

  I had been wrong. Had there been any sort of competition regarding who would suffer more, the prize went to the captive men. Some were kept as slaves, treated little better than dogs, but some were doomed to another fate. Sickly green with terror, drenched in sweat and fear, the prisoners were led into the centre of the village. There they were surrounded by shrieking dancers whose painted faces only added to the confusion.

  For a few days after that, captives were kept in solitary confinement, fed small bits of food, and ignored, for the most part, by everyone. I understood and hated the reason for this confinement. They wanted their victims to be paralyzed with fear by the time they were punished for their pale-skinned existence. The Cherokees’ skill at instilling terror was unmatched. If the captives fell into an uneasy sleep, one of the women dashed in, screeching unintelligible threats, poking their wounded bodies with sticks or slapping their faces with open hands. If anyone dared attempt an escape, they were stripped naked, bound to a pole in the centre of the village, and flogged to the bone for the crime of fearing for their lives.

  After the first time, I could never again be witness to the Cherokees’ idea of destroying their enemies. The man I saw tortured was old enough to be my father. After two days of near starvation, he was forced to run between two lines of tribespeople, all of whom swung their weapons of choice. They beat him mercilessly, slamming his head with clubs, whipping the backs of his knees so he fell and had to struggle back to his feet. He ran desperately, stumbling toward what he would have prayed was a safe haven.

  He survived, but only because it was part of the ritual. The Cherokee believed the greater the torture they inflicted, the greater the honour to their ancestors. They needed their victim to be alive when they tied him to a stake and danced around him, hurling obscenities he couldn’t understand, whipping him with branches, using tomahawks to shear skin off his legs and stomach.

  The tribe, the people I knew as caring, loving individuals, who had nursed me back to health with the same care a mother would use tending an infant, cheered and sang as the
man’s fingernails were torn off. When the screams weakened, the warriors were handed long splinters of pine about a foot and a half long. One end was sharpened. The warriors used what was left of the man’s tortured body as a target, and when the pieces of wood stuck out of him like quills on all sides, they lit them. The man still breathed as his flesh roasted, his heart still beat as they hacked into him with tomahawks, sliced off his fingers, and held the stumps to the growing flames.

  I raced from the village, running as far as I could, afraid to let any of the others witness my reaction. What if they saw my horror? What if they knew my heart bled with the poor soul whose body now spattered and sizzled within the flames? Would I, too, be strapped up and torn to shreds for their entertainment?

  Their depravity disgusted me. And through the systematic torture and killing of my own people, the Cherokee proved the white men correct. These kind, loving, healing people were barbarians who revelled in the agony of others.

  My white-blond hair and blue eyes tied me to the wretches on the stakes. My new home and friends rooted me here. In truth, I belonged to neither, and that knowledge sharpened my loneliness to a dangerous edge.

  And yet when the excitement died down, the dead cut loose and disposed of, life in the village continued as if nothing had happened. The women taught me basket weaving and put me to work sewing. We gathered at the stream for bathing and cleaning clothes, giggling with gossip as we worked. I was treated like a friend, a sister, a daughter. My closest friend was an older woman named Nechama, the village healer. She worked with both Maggie and me, teaching us how to mend the warriors when they returned from raids, how to help a sick child, how to welcome a babe into the world.