For Love of Ivy by Susan Evans McCloud

Author:Susan Evans McCloud [McCloud, Susan Evans]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Deseret Book Company
Published: 2020-06-03T00:00:00+00:00

9

To make a virtue of necessity,

And live, as we do, in this wilderness.

SHAKESPEARE

I looked out and saw the gathering cloud of dust. Then, straining, I discerned the shapes of copper bodies, and shiny, black heads that glistened in the sun. Indians! Yanno must be coming!

The heat of June was shimmering, breathless. I ventured outside as little as I could and this was just what I needed to pull me out of my lethargy. I hastily finished the work I was doing and set the stew far back on the fire. The little group was closer now. Some of the men rode horses—and there were children.

I ran outside. The air seemed to throb and rise in waves that rippled on and on. I shaded my eyes with my hand. Where was Yanno? I couldn't pick him out from among the braves. The cold feeling I had almost forgotten crept into my stomach. There were no faces I recognized here. Who were these people? What could they want from me?

I stood with my face a mask, like their faces, my back held straight, my head thrown high. Why was Hamlet always gone at times like this? They drew close and one, a spokesman, pulled out from the others. I waited for him to approach me and didn't speak. But what I saw sent shivers along my spine.

The children with the group were Indian slave children, most probably stolen from some enemy tribe. Miserable little creatures, they barely looked human. I dug my fingernails hard into my palm.

The three little faces before me were smeared with blood and dirt, and gaunt with hunger. Their hair had been shingled with butcher knives and fire, but that wasn't the worst that the fire brands had done.

Their captors had hacked the fleshy parts of their bodies with knives, then stuck live fire brands into the wounds. The thin little bodies were caked with blood and ashes. I clenched my teeth; I felt that I might be sick. A fire of anger and pain welled up within me. I wanted to spit at the face that was watching mine. I wanted to torture him as he'd tortured those children.

"You want?" he said, in sloppy, gutteral tones. "Sell—cheap."

He reached back and pulled one of the captives forward. The little girl was six, perhaps seven years old. She stared straight ahead, her dark eyes wide and blank.

Could I buy this child? If only Hamlet were here! To buy her, I knew, might very well save her life. I had heard the stories of Wanship and Walker and others. Without care, the child might easily starve to death, or, if she angered her captors, have her brains dashed out on a rock. Her life to them meant less than nothing at all. Quickly I calculated what I might give.

"Wait," I cried, and ran quickly back into the house, snatching all I dared trade without Hamlet's permission. I set it in a bundle before the chief: bright beads, a little mirror

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