She was so caught up in these sensations she didn’t notice at first that one hand was gently exploring against her soft entrance. With one knee, he pushed her unresisting legs apart. She tensed slightly, then relaxed. She felt a soft tickle as he nudged his way into her, ever so slowly. Finally, his length fully enclosed within her, he held her close to him. Then began the rocking motion that felt so good. Wrapping her long legs about his waist, she forced him closer. Her fingers dug into his buttocks; her small whimpers encouraged his pulsing rhythm. He drove into her, pounding into her with all the power in his big, muscular body. Suddenly she felt a wave of incredible sweetness sweep over her and engulf her entire being. Its beauty was so powerful that tears ran down her face.
“My darling, my darling,” she murmured brokenly as he too, struggled and reached that sweet release he had long sought. Never, ever had anyone told her that loving a man could be like this! “I didn’t know, I didn’t know it could be so beautiful,” she sobbed into his shoulder.
He raised his head to look at her, tears streaming down her face, and he knew she, too, felt as he did, that feeling that was beyond words, that feeling that he and she were one. Profoundly moved, he held her to him, murmuring over and over into her soft dark hair, reassuring her, “Hush, hush my love, it’s all right.”
All through the long, cold night they slept in each other’s arms.
Hesquiat Summer Village
Feast Giver moaned. He lay on the hard cedar planking that was his bed. Crab Woman looked up from tending the fire. Had she heard something? She shook her head. Nothing.
She went back to her task. Prodding some fern roots out of the hot ashes, she piled them carefully onto a cedar platter. She shuffled slowly over to where her injured husband, Thunder Maker, lay. He looked so thin. Ever since…No, she didn’t want to remember that night.
Sitting down heavily beside him, she lifted his head off the bed. Sunken cheeks, hollow eyes stared out at her. His head lolled in her hands. She dropped it with a thumping sound back onto the fur-covered plank. She waved a steaming hot fern root at him. It was one of his favorite foods. The old man turned his face to the wall.
What is the matter?
she thought helplessly. He was wasting away before his family’s—what was left of them—very eyes. Ah well, perhaps that slave could get him to eat.
Signaling to Cedar Bundle, Crab Woman sat there stolidly until the younger woman approached. “See if he’ll eat some of these fern roots. I can’t get him to eat a thing. I have no patience with him today.”
Cedar Bundle nodded and sat down by the sick man. Ever since she had been given the job of tending the injured chief, Cedar Bundle had watched as he responded slowly, little by little, to her. She found she enjoyed taking care of him, and she was the only person who could get the ailing chief to eat. Even his favorite wife, Abalone Woman, could not always get him to drink the nutritious soups and teas she prepared. More and more of his care fell on the willing shoulders of Cedar Bundle. And because she genuinely wanted to see him recover, she did her best to make his convalescence comfortable.
Crab Woman made her way slowly to where her stepson, Feast Giver, lay. All these sick people lying around were making her irritable.
Feast Giver’s breathing was hoarse, his body in the same position as when she had last checked him. Just as she was turning away, she heard it. A moan. She walked back to his bedside.
For several days after the attack by the Ahousats, Feast Giver had fought a raging fever. Thunder Maker’s second wife, Abalone Woman, had done all she could to bring the young man back to health. She had an extensive knowledge of herbal remedies passed down through her family for generations.
The fever was past, but Feast Giver’s injuries, though few, were very serious. A glancing blow to the side of his head was responsible for the young man’s frequent lapses in and out of consciousness. A huge purple and black bruise covered one shoulder.
An internal injury, a stab wound in his ribs, was only now slowly healing. To aid his recovery, Abalone Woman had insisted that he drink a cold, foul-tasting tea several times a day. Crab Woman had watched as Abalone Woman had prepared it. After pounding equal portions of Red Alder, Grand Fir and Western Hemlock barks, Abalone Woman had steeped them in hot water. Once the infusion cooled, she had directed Crab Woman to give it to Feast Giver.
Crab Woman loathed the messy job. If the unconscious man wasn’t dribbling the medicine all over his face and her, then he was spitting it back at her! Really! And after all she’d done for him!
Crab Woman leaned over the young man, listening for further moans. She saw the flutter of his eyelashes.
It was with a great struggle that Feast Giver awoke. He mightily resisted being drawn back into the black vortex from which he had barely escaped. At last he was able to see a large vague shape hovering over him. Focusing, he recognized Crab Woman, his father’s chief wife.
“What—what happened?” he mumbled.
“Battle,” came the succinct answer. Then in an earsplitting shriek, “Abalone! Come quickly! He wakes!”
Feast Giver groaned, trying to shut out the loud noise. He closed his eyes briefly and opened then to see Abalone Woman, his father’s second wife, waving Crab Woman away.
“What--what happened?” he asked again, the words clearer this time.
Before Abalone Woman could answer, he passed out. She looked anxiously at Crab Woman. “I don’t like the way he keeps waking up, then losing consciousness. It’s not a good sign. I’m afraid that one of these times he won’t wake up.”
Crab Woman sighed heavily. “Let’s wake him up then. He’s been lying around here too long, anyway.”
“It’s not that easy—“ began Abalone Woman. She winced as Crab Woman called loudly to the unconscious man. Surely such a sound would drive the poor man’s spirit away!
A harsh cawing pounded at Feast Giver’s ears, penetrating his darkness. A crow? A raven? Why was a raven screeching at him? He came out of his stupor, his glazed eyes settling on the large dark figure calling his name with such vigor. Crab Woman again. “Go away with that infernal noise,” he muttered irritably.
“He’s awake,” announced Crab Woman triumphantly to her co-wife.
“Of course I’m awake.” Feast Giver’s voice was stronger now. He turned slowly to face Abalone Woman. “You were telling me what happened—“ he prompted.
“Are you sure you’re up to hearing this?” she questioned cautiously. She feared bad news would send her patient back into a swoon.
“Yes, yes,” he answered impatiently. “Tell me what happened.”
Abalone Woman hesitated, unsure. He had been ill for so long. “There was a raid. The Ahousats…” she began tentatively.
“Aah yes,” he mumbled. It was slowly coming back. The fighting, the screaming, his sister’s wedding feast. Betrayal. He groaned anew. “Why—why am I not--?”
“Dead?” she finished for him. “Crab Woman dragged you to safety after you fell from the blow on your head. She hid you in a corner, under some cedar mats. But Fighting Wolf found you. He tied you up with your father, surrounded by our dying warriors. Fighting Wolf wanted revenge. He decided to let you live. His revenge was your humiliation and loss of your good name.” Her voice broke and she looked away.
Feast Giver nodded. Everything was slowly coming back to him. He noticed Crab Woman was still standing nearby, watching. “Crab Woman,” he called. He reached out and took her hand when she came closer. “Thank you for saving me from the Ahousats,” he said earnestly.
The old woman shrugged and withdrew her hand. “It was nothing.” Her small, bright eyes blinked several times.
“Nothing to you, perhaps, but my life to me.” He tried to chuckle, but only a small gurgle came out.
“Hush,” soothed Abalone Woman. “You must rest now.”
“No,” and his voice sounded firm again. “I must know. What of my father?” Feast Giver feared the worst. The old man would have fought to the death.
“Thunder Maker lies on his bed, wasting away from shame and humiliation. His physical wounds are not good but the wounds we cannot see, the wounds to his pride and his heart, are serious indeed,” Abalone Woman answered sorrowfully.
Feast Giver paused a long moment, considering. At last he asked, “And Sarita? My sister. Is she—?”
“She’s been taken,” Abalone Woman answered gently. “She was stolen by the Ahousats in the raid. Several of our young women were stolen,” she added sadly.
Feast Giver struggled to sit up. He grabbed Abalone Woman’s hand. She pushed him carefully back onto the bed furs. “Abalone, I swear to you I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all! I’ll find my sister and bring her home and I’ll kill every Ahousat dog I can find!” He lay panting from the exertion of his outburst.
Abalone Woman looked at him sadly, suddenly afraid for him and for her people. So much death and destruction! Would it never end?
“Please,” she said softly, “don’t worry yourself with such matters. It’s more important that you get well.”
He nodded, already drifting off again. “I’ll get better, Abalone. When I do, those Ahousats—“ He was asleep, his breathing strong and even.
Feast Giver was as good as his word. From that day on, his health continued to improve. Gone, however was the happy, joking young man that all knew and loved. In his place was a grim, determined man, seldom given to laughter. And when small children came to visit him, the children he used to laugh and play with, and hunt for crabs on the beach with, he dismissed them and turned his face to the wall.
One day Feast Giver rose shakily to his feet, determined to get out into the sunshine, away from the dark confines of the longhouse. Near collapse, he teetered to the door. Then he felt a strong body support him under the arm. “Take me out into the sunlight,” he demanded of Abalone Woman.
They staggered to the beach, and Feast Giver sank down gratefully amidst the sand and small pebbles at the high tide line. He breathed deeply of the fresh clean air blowing off the sea. How warm the sun felt! He sat watching the rhythmic play of the sparkling waves in the bay, his mind beginning to awake to hatch plans.
But while Feast Giver continued to improve quickly, Thunder Maker’s recovery was much slower. Several times, Feast Giver went to visit his father, only to turn away after long silent vigils, numbed by the change in the old man. Like Abalone Woman, Feast Giver suspected it was a sickness of Thunder Maker’s spirit more than of his body.
One afternoon, Feast Giver stopped by the old man’s bedside. A slave woman hovered in the background, a bowl of soup in her hand. “How do you feel today, Nuwiksu?” he asked quietly. Perhaps today his father would speak.
The old man looked at him for a long moment. “Not good, my son,” he answered at last.
This was more than his parent has said to Feast Giver in a long time. Encouraged, Feast Giver continued, “Where do you hurt, Nuwiksu? I mean besides the wound in your shoulder,” he added hastily. He knew that the cut tendons in the old man’s shoulder must ache painfully and would take a long time to heal.
While he waited patiently for his father’s answer, he noticed the slave woman set aside the soup and approach the bed. She began fussing with her patient. Feast Giver, annoyed, watched her needless ministrations, but said nothing.
A bitter chuckle drew his attention back to his father. “Where I hurt is here,” and Thunder Maker folded his good arm and pressed his hand to his heart. “My people are gone. My daughter and young women are stolen. My warriors are dead.”
Feast Giver watched his father intently, unaware of the slave woman’s warning glances. His concentration was interrupted when the woman had the effrontery to lean over and whisper into Thunder Maker’s ear.
This woman does not know her place
, thought Feast Giver angrily. But Thunder Maker, instead of reprimanding her sharply, merely waved a hand. “It’s alright, Cedar Bundle,” he assured the slave woman. “I feel better talking about what happened. I’ve been silent far too long.”
“I understand,” murmured Cedar Bundle, eyes downcast momentarily. “Can I get you some water?” she asked solicitously.
Thunder Maker nodded and turned back to his son. “My name is nothing now,” he said bitterly. His speech halting, he described Fighting Wolf’s vengeful taunts. “He’s had his revenge!” the old man finished. “I am nothing. I have nothing—nothing worth living for.”
Feast Giver remained silent. The despair and self-blame in his father’s words overwhelmed him. If the old man really felt so useless, then, indeed, he would continue to waste away, thought Feast Giver.
The slave woman returned with the water just in time to hear Thunder Maker’s last words. “Thunder Maker,” she chided, as Feast Giver’s jaw dropped. “How can you say you have nothing to live for? What about your son? He’s not lost to you.” In a gentler voice, she added, “He knows you’re a wise chief; he looks to you for hope. We all do.”
Feast Giver was about to chastise the woman for speaking out of turn, when his father sighed heavily. “What you say is true, Cedar Bundle. I am fortunate to have my son, alive before me. But sometimes the weight of my people’s sorrows overwhelms me and I forget to hope.”
All three were silent. At last Feast Giver roused himself. “We must retaliate for what the Ahousats have done to us. Those Ahousats bastards can’t get away with killing our warriors and taking our women!” He ground out the words between clenched teeth.
“And will retaliation give you hope, my son?” asked Thunder Maker, his eyes focusing thoughtfully on the young chief. “Will revenge right the wrongs done to us?”
“Of course!” snapped Feast giver with confidence.
The older man shifted his gaze to Cedar Bundle, then back to his son. Almost inaudibly, Thunder Maker objected, “But so many will suffer.”
Feast Giver leaned forward to hear the words more clearly. Thunder Maker spoke up. “My son, you’re all I have left. I don’t want to lose you, too. Don’t talk to me of revenge.” He passed a weary hand across his brow. “Leave me now. I must sleep.”