reach any other settlement before full dark fell. Marlborough, another praying village which held a mix of colonists and Pennacook natives, was a full twenty-five miles to the northeast. And to remain out alone while raiders were near was sheer folly.
At last her father reluctantly nodded.
Together the two men unhitched Arah and saddled him. Her father turned to Prudence. “Up you go, my dear.”
She shook her head. She searched for phrasing which would let her worn-down father mount without hurting his pride. “I’m afraid I am quite sore from sitting throughout our long journey, Father. I am not as sturdy as you are. Please allow me to walk with Askuwheteau, to give my legs a chance to stretch.”
To her relief he did not argue further. “Of course, my dear,” he agreed, and climbed up.
Askuwheteau took one last look around the remnants of his village. Then he headed into the forest, leading the way for his two English friends.
The woods closed in around them, dark and somber. But Prudence’s heart lifted. Askuwheteau was at her side – she was safe. The soothing sound of crickets echoed in her ears as streaks of moonlight dappled through the leaves.
Askuwheteau’s gaze was shadowed and she was reminded again of the desolate scene they had just left. She drew close to Askuwheteau and softly asked, “Who attacked your village? Surely the militia would not have burned a praying village.”
His eyes continually scanned the depths of the forest as they walked. “No. It was a neighboring tribe. One which had been jealous of our fine fields and our access to the lake.”
Prudence nodded. Tussling between the various tribes and sub-tribes was a constant in the region. It was how they made their claim on the best hunting grounds and planting fields.
Askuwheteau’s eyes were steady. “I am sure that part of the attack on us was, indeed, due to Metacomet’s war against the English. The raiders were upset that we have left the true way of our ancestors. They turn on us because we have chosen to understand that Great Spirit is equally named God and that there are ways to respect him which we did not previously know of.”
His shoulders lifted in a soft shrug. “But I think they were equally motivated by a desire to clear us off our traditional summer grounds. This chaos gave them an excuse to ensure, in the years to come, that they had control over the lush fields and fertile soil.”
Prudence could barely put breath to her question. “Was anybody hurt?”
He shook his head. “No. I spotted the raiders when they were on the far side of Lake Manchaug. There was ample time to gather the children and to move all to safety.” His eyes shadowed. “But not all are now with us. Several of the men have gone south to join up with Metacomet. They fear this fighting of tribe-against-tribe will doom us all. They feel the only way to ensure our survival is to drive the English out for good.”
Prudence’s heart fell. “The English will never leave,” she told him. “We are not like you. You create a camp for winter hunting, then leave that behind to set up fresh homes by your summer fields. You are used to moving across the landscape in tune with nature.”
He chuckled and turned to look at her. “And do you not travel in that wagon of yours, from craggy hill to forest clearing, sharing your stories?”
She blushed. “I’m not like other women,” she murmured. “When we stop in at taverns I’m often treated as if I’m a half-wild heathen, despite my family’s ministry.”
He raised an eyebrow at that. “And at the same time there are some in my tribe who feel you are a pressed-tight outsider looking to erase our past.”
She gave a wry smile. “I suppose I do not fit well into either culture. I never have. I’ve always been kept at a distance by everyone.”
His hand brushed against hers, and his voice was low. “Not by me.”
Her throat closed up and she looked out into the woods. Just two weeks ago her father had brought her to the town of Dedham, south of Boston. A widowed accountant, about her father’s age, had made clear his interest in her. It had taken every skill in diplomacy she could draw on to put him off. For her heart had been caught long ago, on the banks of Manchaug, as securely as any pumpkinseed …
He glanced over, concern in his eyes. “I apologize; I did not mean to upset you.”
She kept her gaze averted. “No, no, it is all right. I have always treasured our friendship.”
Friendship.
Saying the word brought tightness to her throat, but there was no other way. She knew what her father would say to even the hint of an idea that she marry a native. As much as her father dedicated his life to bringing them into the fold, there was still a sharp distinction in his mind between them and us. Between the natives and a true, proper Englishman.
She gave a small smile. “I am at peace with being something of a mystery to those colonists who hide for security behind their town walls. My father’s traveling ministry means I can understand the way your tribes move across the landscape.” She sighed. “But the Nipmuc, the Wampanoag, and the other tribes are butting against colonists who treasure strong walls and sturdy houses. The English are taught that all land exists to be owned and possessed.”
His brow creased. “How can anyone lay claim to a tree? To the grass? These things come and go. They are swept away and renewed. They are part of the world around us. Can one man claim any of this? Claim all deer; all boars? Is not our world created by God for the use of whoever needs it?”
“And yet that clearing which was burned held your traditional planting grounds,” she pointed out. “You expected to be able to return there with each new spring. In a way you think of that space as yours to return to. You said yourself the other tribe drove you out, in part, to claim it for themselves. So that they could reap the benefits of its fertile soil.”
He pursed his lips. “I suppose that is true. But that is a matter between the members of the Nipmuc tribe. The stronger will stake its claim. That is our way.” His gaze shadowed. “Who are these English to come in from across the great ocean and push us all out?”
She gave a soft shrug. “You call us English, but it’s the year of our Lord 1675. The first settlers fled from England back in 1620. Many of those colonists fighting now are the grandchildren who know no other life. This is their home. Our allegiance in our mind may be with England, but our home – our heart - our life – is here.”
She glanced back at her father, riding contently on Arah. Her gaze swept to the serenity of the woods around her.
To the strong, brave warrior who walked by her side.
Twining emotion rose within her, mixing anguish and desperate dreams.
Her heart, truly, was here.
He lifted his head, looking ahead. His voice eased out of him with relief. “We are home.”
Prudence blinked. She could see it now. The faintest flicker of the glow of a campfire shone between the trees. Their steps quickened and in a few minutes they were within the shadows of the wigwams.
Gentle warmth swept through her.
There were the tribe members she had come to know so well. Eight-year-old Boy-who-laughs with his lopsided grin, dark shock of hair, and deerskin britches. The wise Morning-Dove in her crimson cotton dress and long gray hair braided down her back.
Askuwheteau’s father, the sachem Machk, came forward with his young wife, Sokw. Before Machk could speak, Sokw’s eyes flashed sharp at Askuwheteau. “You should not have risked the tribe’s safety to go for them. Your job is here. To watch over us.”
Machk serenely waved a hand toward the lake. “There was no cause for concern. My elder brother, Manchaug, drowned in this lake. His spirit remains here and watches over us all.”
Her mouth turned down. “And now you are sachem, my husband, and we must put the needs of our tribe above all else.” Her eyes shot to Prudence and Minister Lockwood. “Certainly above any English.”
Machk turned to the minister. “You must excuse my wife. The attack on our village has been quite stressful, as you can imagine.” Hi
s face took on a glow. “And we have only just learned that she is with child.”
Her hand went possessively to her abdomen, and her eyes swept challengingly to Askuwheteau.
His face went still. It was a long moment before he spoke. “So soon? But my mother was only laid in the sacred soil at the Catching Fish moon.”
Prudence wrapped her arms around herself. She remembered that chilly March day with clarity. The men had to work hard to dig out the hole to lay Askuwheteau’s mother to rest. Given how tenaciously the woman had fought to live, all through the long months of her illness, it had seemed a fitting tribute.
Machk nodded, his eyes shining with pride. “Great Spirit has blessed our new family.”
Prudence’s father spoke. “You mean God, of course.”
Machk’s gaze was peaceful. “Great Spirit is God.”
Her father opened his mouth –
Prudence gently took her father by the arm. “These people have just been through a great scare, and they are probably exhausted from having to build a fresh set of wigwams from scratch. Come, let us find a place to hobble Arah. And you must be starving.”
He relented and followed along behind her as she brought the horse to the far edge of the clearing. Prudence brushed Arah down while her father removed the saddle and bridle. Together they cleaned those in the lake. At last those chores were settled and they moved back to the edge of the campfire.
Morning-Dove made a place for them and handed