On a Hillside

A nice breeze pushed away the sticky heat which sat on our shoulders as I led John out one of the town’s gates. Together, we walked up the hillside overlooking Mallard Creek. On the water, sunlight rippled like a cascade of shimmering stars. From here, we had an unobstructed view of the town. I turned to see John’s expression. He nodded, while grinning. Satisfied, I motioned for him to sit down with me.

As we sat, I asked, “What is your given name?”

“Nourouhquotkan, but please call me by my English name, John.”

I clutched at myself and shivered.

“Are you cold?” He took off his cloak and offered it.

“Oh, no, I am fine. So, John it is.” This was not going as I had hoped. Is there anything worthy about this man? “So, why did you give me the knife for a gift? You mentioned something about fighting.”

A pained stare crossed his face.

I winced. Oh, no, I’ve responded too harshly.

Vanished, Without a Trace

After a moment, John closed his eyes and shook his head as if to banish a memory. He opened his eyes and released a long breath, letting it whistle between his teeth. “I lost my sister not long ago. If only I would have been with her. She vanished without a trace. A search was made for her and the other missing children. We found nothing, leaving one answer; they had been taken by the English, for the slave trade.”

Before I could stop myself, I reached out to touch his shoulder. “The Tuscarora have many enemies, none of whom would strike us head on. Despite this, the capture of women and children by raiders sent from South Carolina has become all too common.” I searched his face and noted the pain in his eyes.

He cleared his throat. “South Carolina slave traders do not do the dirty work themselves. Instead, they arm our enemies, Yamasees and Catawbas, turning them loose on us. No town or village is safe.”

I could only nod in agreement.

“I am told that once captured, our women and children are shackled and marched the many long miles to Charles Town. Some are sold to local planters to work in their fields. Most, go on slave ships to England’s sugar islands, Barbados and Jamaica.”

This made me shake with rage, and my heart raced as if it would break out of my chest.

Hope Hurts

“I’ve lost hope of ever seeing her again. Hope hurts… when it is replaced by grief. It is a dull ache deep in one’s bones.”

I had experienced such grief with the loss of my mother. The ache had not faded, but I had made peace with it. Looking at him, I recognized tenderness in his tear stained face.

Embarrassed, John blotted away the tears.

Also, see What Matters Most