Page 24 of Freedom's Kiss
Chapter 11
Florida, 1817
Winnie lifted her hand to shadow her eyes against the sun’s glare off the lake’s sparkling surface. She should be with the rest of the women and men bringing in the corn harvest, but she’d snuck away, hoping to cool her heated skin by wading in the water. She’d return to the work soon enough, and no one would be the wiser.
Settling along the bank, she hiked up the hem of her skirt and worked the leather moccasins off her feet. She wiggled her toes and smiled at the fresh air caressing her damp skin. Almost everyone working in the rows of green corn stalks had shed their shirts. The heat of the summer sun oppressive and the labor strenuous, they’d stripped themselves from the waist up, men and women alike, their upper bodies bare to the elements and each other.
A year among the Indians and Winnie still felt the slowness at which she embraced her new life. No matter how stifling the trade-cloth poncho that hung about her shoulders may be, she could not bring herself to remove the article of clothing and uncover parts of her body she’d rather remain hidden.
Rolling the bottom of her skirt until it reached her knees, she gathered the hem in her hands and stood. Instead of splashing into the water, she quietly tiptoed to the edge and let the liquid lap at her toes. She closed her eyes, savoring the instant relief, and shuffled farther into the lake until the water encased her calves.
A year in her new home, among her new extended family, and she’d grown used to the unusual style of house in which she resided with her father and brother. Achickee, the people called it. Not so much a house as a shelter. Four solid cypress posts, a raised floor, and a palmetto-thatched roof. No walls. At first she’d been embarrassed by the lack of privacy, but when a cool breeze drifted over her at night like a sweet lullaby, she’d been thankful for the practicality of the structure.
She’d also become accustomed to the food, though that was an easy thing when hunger had so long clawed at her stomach that she would be thankful for any tiny morsel. But the supply of fresh game and fish the men brought in coupled with the abundance of squash, corn, beans, and other produce the women cultivated had been easy to not only accept but take an active part in. For the first few days after their arrival, Isaac had loitered around the pot of soup, orsofkee,a delicious dish of hominy and meat, which was constantly cooking over a fire. He seemed particularly agreeable to the people’s belief a person should eat when they were hungry and not at three specific times throughout the day.
Other things, though, were not so easy to accept.
Winnie closed her eyes and tilted her head back, the sun’s warmth not nearly as harsh with her legs in the refreshing water. Times like this, when she was alone and surrounded by the peaceful sounds of nature, she could almost convince herself she had finally, truly forgiven Master Rowlings and the white men for all they’d done—forgiveness being an important part of the Seminole way, as they increasingly reminded her, with the Green Corn ceremony only days away.
But then she’d get a glimpse of Asa’s back, scars raising his skin in long, grotesque puckers. Or the ache of missing Temperance would unearth such pain she feared she wouldn’t be able to draw her next breath.
And the anger that had been planted in the fertile soil of this wild land would grow, robbing her again, stealing her calm and forcing her back into a place of swirling chaos and internal upheaval.
Her friend Martha, a house slave who’d managed to escape her master after years of being used for his and his friends’ enjoyment, clung to the passages in the Bible that claimed revenge was the Lord’s. God forgive her, but the rage within Winnie would not allow her to turn the other cheek if she ever came upon Master Rowlings again. Instead she envisioned herself more like the warriors she’d seen slipping between needle-nose pines and hiding behind giant ferns. If given the chance, she’d nock an arrow and let it fly right into the man’s cold heart.
Martha had warned that Winnie’s anger would only serve to further cheat her of peace, that the only way to receive a quietness of spirit was to forgive. But to forgive the white men for the things they’d done felt like excusing their actions. Which was entirely unthinkable. And so the air of tension that permeated their settlement whenever news of General Andrew Jackson or the movement of the army reached them found a permanent residence within her. While her heart still sought rest, her mind nibbled on the pain of her past and the men responsible for it.
If only she could forget like Asa or move on like Isaac. They’d had no problem leaving their former life behind and embracing the new. Her brother, no longer holding on to survival with slipping fingers, thrived in the untamed landscape, under the instruction of Nokosi.
Nokosi, a man of mystery even after all this time. Though at one point she’d thought he’d scorned Isaac, she’d been surprised when he’d offered to teach her brother the ways of the warrior and mold him into a man Winnie was proud of. In a few days’ time, he would experience the ceremonies of manhood during the Green Corn festival.
“There are many dangers for you,Pakse.”
Winnie spun, water sloshing with her quick movement, and curled her toes around the sand at her feet to stay upright.
Nokosi stood at the bank, his tan skin glistening as the sun reflected off the sweat beading across his broad, naked chest. His turban was missing from his head, revealing thick black hair that framed his face and grazed his shoulders.
Her heart drummed against her ribs at the sight of him, a reaction she was becoming all too familiar with.
Though still wading about the lake, her skin flushed at the nickname he’d given her upon their arrival at the settlement.Pakse.It meant “tomorrow” in Muskogee, only one of the languages many of the Indians in the camp a mile west of theirs spoke. Like the man himself, the nickname he’d chosen for her was a puzzle. One she hadn’t figured out yet. The definition had been easy enough to decipher, as many of the former slaves had learned to speak the natives’ languages as well as some useful Spanish. But what did it mean?
As appreciation for the man grew, she’d imagined the name a code for his intentions. That tomorrow he’d come to their community, like so many warriors had, with the intention of claiming a wife—her. But many tomorrows came and went, and so did Nokosi, never staying or claiming, though she’d found that her heart had started to follow him wherever he went.
“Do you not fear alligators, water moccasins, or an army scout?” Only the tiniest flicker at the corner of his mouth belied his amusement, quickly resettling into his perpetual scowl.
She must have been spending too much time with Martha, because another verse her friend loved to repeat sprang to her mind. Too bad she knew firsthand what man could do to her and that it was worth being fearful of.
“Forgive my laziness.” Winnie ducked her head, hiding her body’s response to him. She retreated from the lake, lowering her skirt as the water line receded down her legs. Once on shore, she picked up her discarded moccasins. “I only wanted a cool down. I’ll be gettin’ back to harvest.”
In his presence, she felt herself a fool. Ever since that day in the woods when her family had stumbled upon Scipio, Nokosi, and the other warriors, she’d been unnaturally drawn to the impenetrable man. Something about the tilt of his jaw and the frame of his shoulders drew her to him. But it was the depth of intelligence in his eyes and the kindness with which he treated her brother that intrigued her beyond all thought.
He seemed to watch her as well. Whenever he visited the Negro settlement, she could feel his eyes on her, as if weighing her spirit in the palm of his hands. His expression remained unreadable, but he didn’t hide his interest. Why then had he not said anything to her father? He must know she’d be agreeable to such a union, and unlike the white men who used black women to satiate carnal desires only, she’d witnessed the love a Seminole warrior could hold for a wife with skin darker than his own.
Winnie made to move past him but stilled when he laid a hand on her arm. She looked up, caught in his gaze like a rabbit in a snare. Too often he had this hold over her. If she wasn’t careful, she’d find herself in slavery once more, heart voluntarily bound to a man who had not enslaved himself to her as well.
“Pakse, you will wear yourself out with this struggle. It is good to have a spirit strong enough to fight, but equally important to lay down the spear. Life cannot bloom in soil choked by bitter roots.” He let his hand skim down her arm and then drop to his side. “You must forgive at the Green Corn ceremony or all of your tomorrows will be as all of your yesterdays.”
Her skin heated where he’d touched her, but she ignored the sensation. He was yet another person who found it so easy to overlook the offenses done them. But how could she? No white person had ever admitted that their actions against slaves were wrong. If there was no repentance, how could there be forgiveness? Besides, didn’t the Bible also say an eye for an eye? She’d argued that point with Martha once, and her friend had only shaken her head with a compassionate, patient look on her face.
