* * *
And so for the first time in the history of the Croatoan people, a woman was trained in the arts of war. Evergreen Thunder, her instructor, was shocked at how quickly and well White Doe learned, even though glimpses of her uncanny powers had manifested to one degree or another all her life. Her aim with the bow was deadly. She handled the knife well in hand-to-hand combat, executing staggering flips and dives that caught him off guard time after time, even when he knew to expect them. For the specific training she would need to slay Walkers, they used the bodies and skeletons of their enemies. Soon a young maiden barely into her womanhood was smashing skulls and stabbing chests without a qualm.
“You are ready,” said Evergreen Thunder a few months into her training. “We can go to the mainland.”
They went to the village of Dasemunkepeuc, where, unbeknownst to White Doe, her grandfather had accidentally killed many of the Croatoans, believing them to be Roanoacs. The village was deserted by the living. The Roanoacs had abandoned it long ago, and the Croatoans, remembering the tragedy, had also left it alone, despite the supplies that they could have used. According to Ceremonial Fox, whose magics enabled him to see far beyond what mortal eyes could, it was a veritable nest of Walkers.
Evergreen Thunder, Takes From Eagle, Ceremonial Fox, and White Doe landed there midmorning. White Doe was nervous and awkward, and in her eagerness she ran the canoe over Ceremonial Fox’s foot while hauling it ashore.
“Ai!” he cried, hopping and clutching his injured foot.
“I am so sorry!” said White Doe, feeling her face grow hot. She was turning that odd shade of red, that shade that none of the others turned, and she hated it.
“A new war dance, Ceremonial Fox?” teased Evergreen Thunder. Ceremonial Fox glared, then gingerly tested his foot.
It was a brief walk to Dasemunkepeuc, and some of White Doe’s enthusiasm faded. The few buildings still standing were overgrown with vines and wild melons. What had once been high stocks of fresh corn was now little more than dried, picked-over cobs. It was a bad place, with a tense feel to it.
“There is little here to salvage,” said Takes From Eagle. “But that is not the reason we came. White Doe, we can return if you so wish it.”
She wanted to cry out, yes, let us return, I shall fight Walkers soon enough, there is no need to sit and wait for them to come! Instead she said, with a calmness that surprised her, “We have come to kill Walkers. Let us do so.”
They scouted about, hoping to surprise a Walker or two asleep, but luck was not with them. They started a fire and ate their evening meal of stewed meat, fish, fruits, and vegetables early, before the sun set. When they had finished, Ceremonial Fox removed the small pots of paint, blessed them, and carefully painted the warriors in preparation for the battle. The others took naps, but White Doe could not sleep. All she saw when she closed her eyes was the shuffling Walkers, rotting flesh dripping from their faces, approaching with slow, implacable purpose.
The sun began to set. Takes From Eagle added more wood to the fire. White Doe noticed he kept looking at her. The irritation she felt drove out the fear, and she was grateful.
Ceremonial Fox tensed, his alert pose mimicking that of the fox for which he was named. “They come,” he said, softly. White Doe tensed. In the bag slung across her shoulder were the tools she would need: several sharp stakes of wood and a small tomahawk, to bash in the Walkers’ skulls. Now she withdrew a stake, and clutched it, ready to strike as she had been trained. As one, the warriors got to their feet, their backs to the fire, and waited.
The Walkers—seven of them—emerged from the shadows, and White Doe blinked. These did not look like monsters. They looked human. She even saw the familiar face of Careful Listener, who had disappeared a few months ago.
“Father,” she said, “these are not Walkers.” She lowered the hand that held the stake and looked at her father. And that was when the Walker sprang.
Careful Listener’s face contorted before her eyes. His brown eyes went yellow, his face angular and bestial. Hot breath that smelled of old blood assaulted her as he opened his mouth, crammed full of impossibly sharp teeth. Instinct and training kicked in, and White Doe fought back, getting her hand under his chin and shoving upward with her full strength. She saw surprise flit over his obscene features, but he rallied. Twisting, she managed to flip the Walker onto his back. She saw an opening and took it, jabbing the sharp stick into the center of his chest. Careful Listener cried out, sharply, then the next thing White Doe knew she was kneeling on the earth, covered with fine dust.
She sprang to her feet and seized another stake in a single smooth motion. Shouting, she leaped onto the Walker who clutched Takes From Eagle. A fluid motion, and the Walker was destroyed.
White Doe whirled to catch the next one, and the next. Dear gods, there are so many. . . . She was dimly aware that she was not alone in this fight. Ceremonial’s chanting voice rose above the furor, and Takes From Eagle swung his club fiercely.
And as quickly as it had begun, it was over. White Doe stood panting, her body slick with sweat, her fine golden hair matted to her brow. They were gone, save the three that lay with smashed skulls at their feet.
A hand fell on her shoulder. She whirled, and was only just able to stop in time to prevent herself from injuring Takes From Eagle. She stared at him, then wordlessly let herself be folded into an embrace. She began to sob. She had not expected it to be so horrible.
“You are very brave. I have never seen anyone fight as you have, little White Doe. We shall call you the Slayer, for you slay with the strength of many men.”
As she recovered and pulled away from her father, she saw Ceremonial Fox regarding her with an odd expression. She did not like that look. Something about it frightened her.
* * *
As the years passed, White Doe became a fixture in all the hunting parties and war parties, and whenever the Walkers were sighted, she would destroy them. Despite her age, she was soon a high-ranking wereowance, included in all councils and consulted in all things. Some muttered against her, jealous of her ability and rank. But most loved her, and chief among those was the son of He Who Flies Out, the handsome, fiery-eyed Seal of the Ocean. Yet he did not speak. Who was he to claim White Doe, the Slayer? Surely she would be the mate of another, more powerful man, and not a youth.
Yet he watched her, with an aching, hungry look on his fine features that spoke more loudly than any words.
Ceremonial Fox was engrossed in blessing his latest batch of gathered herbs when he heard White Doe calling. Since her first battle against the Walkers, she was almost his equal, and had no qualms about lifting the door and peeking in.
“Oh, I am sorry. I will return later, when I won’t disturb you.”
“No, come in. These can wait. What is it, White Doe?” He had a sudden image of her four years ago at Dasemunkepeuc, when she had put on such a brave face to cover her understandable terror at facing Walkers.
But she was a girl no longer. She had proved it with that first battle. Ceremonial Fox let his eyes roam over White Doe and saw not the happy, pretty child she had been, but the striking woman she had become. Her legs were long and lean as she crossed them to sit in front of him, her body taut and strong from fighting. Her breasts, uncovered in the manner of Croatan dress, were full and soft, and would fit just so into the cup of his hands. Her pale hair was long, and although she bound it, unruly, wild tendrils escaped, as if they, like the woman they adorned, could not be tamed. Even the scar on her forehead seemed beautiful to him, a symbol of her uniqueness. A white doe she was, pale and exquisite, with eyes that, like the sea, could drown a man. . . .
“I’m sorry, I did not hear,” he said, realizing she had spoken.
White Doe smiled, and her cheeks flamed red. “A love potion,” she repeated. “There is . . . someone I would have notice me.” Did he dare hope? Why else would she speak so boldly to him? Ceremonial Fox leaned forward. Unable to help himself, he reac
hed and pulled loose a lock of that amazing, corn silk hair. “You do not need a love potion to attract him,” he said, his voice husky with desire.
She brightened, and his heart soared. “You are certain?”
“Oh, yes,” Ceremonial Fox said. “I am certain.”
“It is only . . . I believe he thinks of me as a sister. . . . I will go to Seal of the Ocean right now! Thank you!”
She scrambled to her feet, all graceless fawn in her excited movements, and hasted out. Ceremonial Fox stared after her. Pain such as he had never known seared through him. Foolish, foolish man! You are thirty years her elder! She wants young, hot blood like her own, not your wrinkled old man’s touch. . . .
He could not bear it. Could not bear to see her face light up when she looked at Seal of the Ocean, see the young man’s intent gaze, watch them touch and kiss, see them wed, bless their children. He could not.
If Ceremonial Fox could not have White Doe, then no one would.
* * *
As Ceremonial Fox had known he would, Seal of the Ocean delightedly accepted the unusual courtship initiated by White Doe, and within a day they were formally betrothed. Ceremonial Fox did not participate in the celebration; there was much he needed to plan. The next day, after making the necessary preparations, he took White Doe aside and asked her to come to his house after nightfall. Obedient, she did so, sitting in front of him and looking at him expectantly.
“White Doe, we need you to go to Roanoke.”
White Doe looked at Ceremonial Fox askance. “We’re not permitted to go there. You yourself have forbidden it, because of the spirits who—”
“There are no spirits,” said Ceremonial Fox. He leaned forward intently. His dark eyes were deep pools in his face. “That was a lie we had contrived to tell you, White Doe. For your own good.”
“Why would you need to tell me a lie about Roanoke?”
“Because you came from there,” the conjurer said intently. “You were not found in the wild, a gift from the mantoac. You are the daughter of men like us. Pale men, with hair the color of sunlight.” He reached, as if to touch her long yellow hair, then curled his fingers into a fist and brought it back to his lap. “They came from across the sea. When you were but a few months old, the Walkers came for them. They slew your family, White Doe. Killed, feasted upon, and perhaps even Turned them. The only reason you survived was because your mother made the holy mark on your forehead. When Takes From Eagle and I came the next morning, we found only you alive. We took all the canoes, filled their ship with bodies, and set it afire, and stranded the Walkers on Roanoke. I commanded the water spirits to prevent them even trying to leave. There they have remained, feasting upon the wild beasts and hungering for human blood.”
White Doe stared. She didn’t want to believe him. She couldn’t believe him. It would mean that everything Takes From Eagle, her beloved father, had told her was a lie. She began to breathe shallowly, her fertile imagination racing with images of people who looked more like her than Ceremonial Fox or Takes From Eagle or even Seal of the Ocean, people with pale skin and sea blue eyes and corn yellow hair.
Her parents. Her true parents, slain by the Walkers. Left to rot on the beaches of the Forbidden Island—
—or else Walking the beaches themselves—
Gorge rose in her throat, and she choked it down. Tears burned in her eyes, her eyes that were not brown like those of the Croatoan, but sea blue.
“Why do you tell me this?” she whispered, and she could feel her heart breaking inside her chest.
“Because you are the Slayer,” Ceremonial Fox replied, whispering the word fiercely. “It is time you freed us from the fear that somehow, someday, the Walkers of the Forbidden Island will be able to cross to our home. For now, the water spirits accept my commands. But someday I will be gone, and I do not know that the water spirits will obey my successor. And, someday, the people across the sea might return to Roanoke, bringing canoes with which the Walkers could cross. These Walkers will be worse, far worse, than the others.”
“Because . . . because they are the Walkers from across the sea. Because they are . . . they were . . . like me?” She lifted her tear-stained face to his, silently pleading for a denial.
“Yes. And because for many years, they have hungered and been denied. You are the Slayer, and they were your people. It is only right that you destroy them.” The conjurer paused, then added, “Takes From Eagle thought you too weak to know. He feared you would go soft inside, knowing that they were your family. He would not approve of my telling you this, of asking this of you.”
Anger rose inside White Doe, chasing out the crippling sense of betrayal. “He would rather put our people in danger than let me do what I was born to do? He lied to me for that?” When Ceremonial Fox nodded, she squatted back on her heels, thinking. Finally, she looked at him and knew by his expression that her eyes were as stormy as the sea could become.
“I will go to Roanoke. I will slay the Walkers. And when I return, I will speak with Takes From Eagle.”
“When you return,” Ceremonial Fox agreed silkily, “then Takes From Eagle will be shamed by your bravery.”
* * *
Roanoke was two days’ journey to the north. In the predawn stillness, before anyone had risen, White Doe took a canoe and filled it with the tools she would need. Without even a backward glance at the place she had called home all her life, she slid the canoe into the water.
She stayed close to the shoals, and when night came, she pulled the canoe up onto a sand bar, stretched out a mat, and fell into a fitful sleep. On the evening of the second day, she saw Roanoke.
Despite Ceremonial Fox’s words that these were Walkers, something she understood, and not spirits, she felt a chill fall over her. Once night came, her unnaturally sharp vision could see figures moving about. Could it really be that her blood parents were on the island? Am I watching them even now?
She stayed awake all night in the gently pitching canoe, watching them move. At last, dawn came, and she paddled ashore. Sand crunched as she hauled the canoe safely onto the beach. Her eye caught some strange carvings on a nearby tree—CRO. They meant nothing to her. She took a deep breath, calmed herself, and began.
First, she would seek out likely hiding places and slay as many as she could in the daylight, when they were most vulnerable. When night fell, they would come at her full strength. Fortunately, the Walkers had probably waxed lazy in the intervening years. Nothing was hunting them here on Roanoke.
Until now.
She surprised a few dozen sleeping in the remains of houses inside the circle of wood. Such protection was not unknown to White Doe; the Croatoans sometimes erected wooden barriers. They wore tattered, filthy remnants of strange clothing, and as Ceremonial Fox had predicted, they all were as pale as she. She moved as silently as death itself, with a steady, burning purpose, and dispatched the Walkers before they were even fully roused.
White Doe then scouted out every overhang, looking for caves; every cluster of trees, searching for anything that might serve as shelter for the vile, not-dead Walkers. Several dozen more she found and slew methodically, with a detachment that would have surprised and grieved her adopted father.
Ceremonial Fox told her that he and Takes From Eagle had destroyed only a few. That meant, despite the many she had already killed, more had escaped. They would come for her at nightfall. She would be ready for them.
She built a fire, protection and weapon both. She gathered up the stakes and arrows—special arrows, with no stone arrowheads, only sharpened wooden ends—and resharpened them to fine points.
The sun had only just set when they appeared. Coolly, White Doe nocked an arrow and let fly. Her aim was unerring, and in the space of a few heartbeats she had managed to slay ten of them. Abandoning the bow, she took a stake in each arm.
“Virginia,” came a woman’s voice. White Doe started and looked for the speaker. It was a tall woman, with a face and hair as fair as her
own. She had a sad, resigned look on her face. A male Walker stepped up to join her.
“Daughter,” he said in the Croatoan tongue. “We never thought we would see you again.”
Sudden weakness flooded White Doe. She had hoped that these two in particular were already among the truly dead. They looked kind, friendly. They would have been good parents had they not—
Had they not been Turned to Walkers. Resolve flooded her, and she straightened, again clutching the stakes in a defensive posture.
“Join us, and let us be a family again,” pleaded the woman. Smiling, she stepped forward, hands raised as if to enfold White Doe. For the briefest of moments, White Doe allowed herself to mourn all that could have been. Then she sprang. One stake found its mark in the woman’s breast, the second in the man’s.
After that horrible moment, the killing came easier. She whirled and shrieked and leaped and fought like a demon. More than once, Walker hands or teeth found her flesh. She was soon bleeding, which roused the creatures to a frenzy that made them careless and even easier to kill. They came on and on, wave after wave, until finally, White Doe found herself standing alone, her sweat-slicked body covered with fine dust that faded quickly.
Silence. She gasped for breath, the sound of her own hammering heart ringing in her ears. She could not sense any more.
In one day, White Doe had slain almost a hundred Walkers.
Then, like a wave, the recollection of the faces of her true parents crashed down on her. The stakes fell from her hands, and her knees gave way. Her mind filled with images of Walkers who had once been living, breathing people, White Doe wept piteously, her heart breaking with each racking sob.
“You live,” came a familiar voice. “I am glad.”
She turned her swollen eyes upon the figure of Ceremonial Fox. Yet—there was something amiss. She could almost see through him. Fear began to seep into her.
“But I cannot let you return to Croatoan and marry that mewling boy,” the image of Ceremonial Fox continued. “If you will agree to marry me—”