10"Pocahontas!" he gasped, pulling her closer to him, pushing himself closer to her. As his hands grasped her hair, he felt relief, dread and fear at once-relief that he had found her, dread and fear that she was dead.
Indeed, the swirling water threatened to engulf them both; she seemed so fragile, half submerged. The water had all but claimed her; she floated with most of her face in the water. John grasped her by the shoulders, pulled her upright. She lolled back like a limp doll. She was bleeding and bruised. She had not been before. She had gone out to the river whole, unblemished; now she was bleeding at her temple, her face soaked in blood, bruises already evident on her face.
The only sounds were the churn of the water and the howl of the wind.; the only sensation, the pain of the cold temperature. The cold was assaulting John's body like a thousand needles, the discomfort of holding a piece of ice multiplied by one thousand times.
And the water would not give up its prize. Even as he stayed with her in those precious seconds-seconds which he could not afford-the water played cruel games, splashing, lashing, swirling.
"Oh, God," he heard himself gasp, spluttering, swallowing some water so icy that it hurt, lungs and throat aching. But he forced himself to call to her.
"Pocahontas," John gasped, wasting precious time trying to determine whether she was alive instead of hauling her to shore.
A particularly hard current came up just then, tugging her away. "I don't think so," he said through gritted teeth as he pulled her close and wrapped legs and arms around her. "Pocahontas," he said again, taking her face in one of his strong hands. Carefully, he washed the blood from her face with freezing water cupped in his hand. The cut on her forehead was less drastic than originally appeared, but still horrifying.
Her eyes were fluttering between open and closed, a half-consciousness. Her color was drained. Her hair was in her face, wild tangles. He grasped at her mouth, and she made a faint sound, between a groan and a sigh. It was enough.
John cursed with chattering teeth and began the long swim to shore, looping the piece of sodden rope around one of her wrists and pulling her arm behind her back so that she wouldn't fight him in sudden fright or cling to him too strongly and pull him under.
The riverbank seemed so far away. The swim was agonizing. Pocahontas was so heavy in the water, which drove them toward rocks, overwhelmed them with waves, encroached on them with ice, and threatened to separate them, unwilling to give up its prize.
Chilled to the point of pain and disorientation, John struggled, nearly losing his grip on her a few times. Finally, as they neared the riverbank, he stopped long enough to disentangle her from his grasp, though he still held on to the rope tied around her wrist. Pocahontas was still barely conscious, shivering violently, her color terrible. She was struggling to stay afloat and not swallow water. John kept a hand under her chin, around her face, squeezing perhaps a bit too tightly.
"Pocahontas," he said forcefully, "listen. I need you to help me. You have to swim to shore. I'm too tired."
Her eyes widened, full of fear. She heard him, she understood. Her teeth chattered as she tried to speak. She flailed in the water in fright and an exhaustion of her own.
"Listen. Swim, now. Do you hear me?" he pushed her away, out in front of him. "Swim. Now," he urged, pushing her along. Water rushed at them, crashed over them. Spluttering and coughing, they swam, exhausted.
She was weak, and John allowed his thoughts to slide to the fact that she was bleeding, that one of her wrists looked a little distended.
He cursed as they swam the final few hundred feet; how had he barely noticed? Blinded to it by greater fears?
There was nothing welcome about the rocky shoreline. Pocahontas grasped at the rough, sharp rocks with trembling hands, failing to get purchase. John grasped her around the waist. "Climb," he ordered, "Now," he urged, hoisting her up with what little remained of his strength. But he reached dry land before her, hauling her out as gently as he could, but just barely-the river's shoreline had rocks deep in the water that bashed their legs. Thin rivulets of scarlet now ran down their chilled skin.
They lay in each other's arms, sprawled, for just a few seconds. John roused himself, knowing that they would both freeze to death. Heedless to the fact that he was just in his drawers-in the middle of a snowstorm-John tended to Pocahontas, who lay clutching at her head, red blood staining the paleness of everything around them-her skin, his skin, the snow. She muttered something like "fell," or it might have been "there."
John had gathered up all his clothes, and found the handkerchief in the pocket of his coat. He pressed it to the cut on her head, telling her to keep it there, but she was fading again.
He took the knife that he kept in his boot and sliced off her wet deerskin clothing-wet animal hide is difficult to remove any other way-and wrapped her in his coat. He took a few precious seconds to put on the rest of his clothes, and then pressed the handkerchief back to the cut, keeping the pressure steady for a few moments. He was relieved to find that it was just because she was soaking wet, that it appeared worse than it was. Water from her hair was continually washing the blood down the side of her face.
He picked her up, and began the long walk back to shelter.
Nearing numbness in body and in mind, he finally reached their little camp. He had almost no more strength left, but the weight of her, barely stirring in his arms, spurred him on. He set her down on the sleeping mats he hastily prepared in one corner of the shelter, then banked up the fire with aching, stiff hands.
It would only be a matter of time before the fire warmed their little shelter. He stared at it like a hungry animal eyes prey, willing it to grow in strength.
Once the fire was going, he took off the clothing he had put on, and then took his coat off of Pocahontas, who lay curled on her side, trying to say something. John went to the other side of the shelter, which held their packs and provisions. He came back with the bag belonging to her.
"Pocahontas, it's alright," he said, "it's John. 'Tis alright now. You were in the river. But you're safe now." As he talked, he dressed her in dry clothing.
As he did so, he thanked God and the spirits her people worshiped; he had insisted that she pack some heavier winter clothes, clothing heavier than that her tribe traditionally wore. She had taken a liking to some of the women's clothes in the Jamestown settlement, so he had been happy when their discussion of winter clothing had ended with him purchasing a few items for her.
So, on went the knit stockings, the cotton shift and then the woolen overshift, a garment without sleeves but that was made from a warm, light wool. Next, he bundled her into a blanket and settled her more comfortably on the sleeping mats and furs, settling one of the pillows under her head.
He took a moment to dress himself in dry clothing from his own bag, and laid all of the salvagable clothing items out to dry near the fire.
"Now, let's just rest," he whispered, more to himself than anything, sinking down gratefully beside her, pulling her into his arms. They lay shivering under the blankets, arms and legs entwined. She breathed deeply, coughed, then lay still again, a slight rattle in her throat. She clutched at him in her half-sleep, muttering in her language. It was then that he noticed her hands were scraped, from rope burn. The rope on the trap must have snapped suddenly. But one of her wrists was swelling slightly, bruised. He frowned.
He held her until he felt the cold fading from his core, then reluctantly roused himself, draped a blanket over his shoulders-for he was still cold-and tended the fire and to a few other tasks.
Pocahontas was aware that her awareness was not quite right. She registered some things very clearly, sharply-John's voice (deep, soft); his breath (cinnamon); his scent (sandalwood, soap, gunpowder, salt), his hands (rubbing hers to warm them). And how close he was to her, and that they were in bed together. His warmth. That was another thing she registered clearly; snuggling into him and breathing him in.
After what seemed like a while, Pocahontas shifted in his arms. She was wrapped snugly in a soft blanket, with warm, dry clothing on made of unfamiliar but comfortable fabric. She remembered that it had been dark, and cold. Then, someone had been talking to her ... now, why was the firelight so bright?
Her fingers and toes had stopped tingling. But she was drowsy, and thirsty, and her head hurt ... all at once. She was also a little confused.
How did she get here? Why was she wrapped in a blanket? Why did her head hurt? Why was her knee scraped? Why were her hands scraped? Why was her wrist throbbing and aching?
She shifted again. "Mmmhmf," she mumbled into his shoulder as she shifted away.
She bunched the blanket in her fingers, let it go: a nervous gesture. She drifted off, then woke up with her mouth open.
"John?" she tried his name on dry lips. He was no longer beside her. She tried to sit up and then winced, putting a hand to her head, to the spot that hurt. It was sticky, and she pulled her hand away with a repulsed cry.
The room spun for a moment, then she saw him clearly, tending to something at the fire. They were back in their camp shelter. A wave of hot dizziness washed over her. Pocahontas closed her eyes; opened them again. "John," she said a little more urgently, coughing.
The man she trusted with her life, trusted the life of her father with, looked up from his task by the fireside, and quickly went to her side. Just as her face crumpled into tears, he took her into his arms. "Tis alright, love," he said as she clung to him, the blanket slipping off her shoulders.
But things were not alright in that moment. She felt dizzy and ill, something felt like it was lodged in her chest and throat, her head ached. And she was starting to remember.
Just as she had started focusing on him at the fire, so memory of what happened had started coming back. What had happened such a short time ago, something so horrifying that it felt long ago.
The crunch of snow under her moccasins, the repetitive hauling motion of pulling in the traps. The moment she had realized the second trap was caught on something deep underwater; her frustration as the rope snapped. The burning sensation as the rope had scraped up her hands.
Cursing and turning away from the churning river, kneeling in the snow, packing snow on her bleeding hands. Then, as she got up to return to her task, feeling like she was being watched. Even though her hands were bleeding now, she had to finish her task. She told herself it was nothing-she was alone out here, and she would be back at camp soon.
But the feeling didn't fade as she walked toward the first trap that she'd already pulled from the water. There was no retrieving the second right now. For all she knew, it would be iced over by nightfall, down below her in the water.
Kneeling by the first trap and opening it, reaching for a shiny, fat fish that had stopped flailing. That feeling again-the hair on her neck prickling. Peering into the rushing snow, seeing a shadowy figure.
"John?" she called into the wind, which snatched her words away. Going back to her task; reaching for the small knife at her waist, sliding the blade into the fish.
Seeing the shadow fall over her. Looking up into it, and barely being able to scream before the man wrenched her up from where she crouched. He grabbed her knife and threw it into the snow away from them.
She was so stunned to see him that she couldn't fight, couldn't scream. She was so confused-why was he here? The man, dressed in warm winter clothes embellished with gold trim and with a heavy jeweled brooch holding his cloak-made of expensive, luxurious ermine-closed at his throat, was a menacing presence. He was as strong as ever, towering over her, overpowering her with his strength. Almost instantly, he had pinned her arms behind her back with one hand and clamped the other hand over her mouth.
"Surprise," he hissed, grinning like a madman.
He shoved her forward, toward the edge of the bank, forcing her to look over the steep drop, her stomach lurching. Rushing, black water; ice floes; rocks everywhere.
"Did you really think, princess, that you and your people were rid of me?" the man's deep, oily voice slithered in her ear. "Oh, no. You've not seen the last of me." The man chuckled, sinister, into her ear as he turned her to face him, stroking her face in mock tenderness. Her deep brown eyes went wide with horror.
"And your man ... what a fool he is, letting you out on your own in a storm. I was wondering just how you two would work out, after he saved your father and all. Pity, if anything happened to you ... oops!" He shoved her forward so that her feet slipped over the edge of the bank.
While she was shrieking in terror, he was laughing maniacally, and pulled her back to solid ground. "There, there. It was only a bit of fun."
"Let me go," she pleaded, shocked that she could find words in any language at a moment like this. Her voice was hoarse with terror, high with shrieking. "Please. I ... I won't tell anyone in Jamestown that you are here. Please, just let me go." Her heart was racing, terror was churning in her stomach. She felt dizzy with panic, closed her eyes and began to sob as she looked out over the precipice that she had just hung over.
"Oh, no, princess. That's too easy, to just let you go. My, my," he said, stopping to consider her for a moment, looking at her intently. "It still is a marvel that a ... thing ... like you can speak ... so ... clearly. Smith was right in one respect. You are beyond compare, princess. But the rest, I can't ... I can't quite ..." The man sneered before he next spoke. "I would never ... lie with an animal. Even a pretty one such as yourself."
She spat at him in disgust and derision, but this earned little reaction. He merely cocked an eyebrow, sneered again, and said, "Allow me to explain, princess, why I followed you out here; and explain my presence. The shocked look on your face is priceless. You look like you've seen a ghost.
After Smith's little stunt with your father, I managed to escape. Everyone was so busy, bustling about trying to save him. It was quite a lovely distraction. Oh, don't look so surprised, princess. I slipped away. I bribed officials, so the official story is that I'm locked away in a London prison. But obviously, how could I be? No, no ... I slipped away to allies from an earlier colony down the coast. ... I amassed wealth and bided time, and now I'm back to get what's mine."
Indeed, he looked wealthy and well fed, not struggling like her tribe was at the onset of what everyone thought would be a harsh winter. To better prepare for it, John Smith had sold most of his belongings in order to build a snug little cabin for himself and Pocahontas, and the two of them had contributed plenty of labor hours to shoring up a communal food store that the tribe and the settlers were going to share. That's why they were out here, now.
Now, she regarded this old enemy with growing horror, confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't tell me so much time has passed that your people don't recall," he said. "The gold, you brute."
"There is no gold. Several expeditions have come and gone since then. You're mad, out of your mind."
Her old enemy only laughed. "That's what you want us to think. But we're not stupid, princess. The Spanish found plenty, and now, our turn here is long past due."
The snowstorm was intensifying; blowing sheets of snow obscured the finer points of the man's face, threatened to snatch away his words. But his voice was deep and powerful and he held her in an iron grip, close enough to kiss her.
"There is no gold here! They found gold far away from here, to the west, and across the sea from their colonies down the coast ..." Her eyes widened in alarm and her breath caught. "Those are the allies you speak of who helped you? You would be a traitor to England?"
The man laughed again, charmed at her naivete, her blind loyalty to the country the man she loved came from.
"All England ever did for me was hold me down socially. It's a pathetic society of social climbers and sycophantic fools. But when I pledged my loyalty to Spain, things changed. I became rich and powerful. No one on the original expedition to Jamestown knew that I had betrayed them."
"Once they find out ..."
The man tightened his grip, twisted her wrist behind her back, cut off her rising shriek of pain by clamping his other hand over her mouth.
She writhed and heaved against him, tears streaming down her face as the pain became unbearable, as he came close to snapping her wrist.
"There will be no finding out, princess. No one will know. Because I'm going to kill you. I'm going to kill you, make it look like an accident, and then go find John Smith at your cozy little camp, and convince him to kill himself. You see, he can't live without you. You'll just slip and fall into the river here, and it will destroy him."
Her heart in her throat, Pocahontas couldn't scream. She loved John so much ... she would do whatever she could to protect him.
"And with you out of the way ... Pocahontas ...it will be so easy. Everyone respects you, everyone fawns over you. But with you gone, you see, there will be no one left as a barrier to what they all really want-well, all but your lovesick man-which is the utter desolation of your people."
Letting go of her wrist, he eased her down to the ground, releasing his hold on her. She sank to her knees, crying, clutching her arm to her chest. He watched her for a moment, then reached down taking her face tenderly in his hands, like a lover would. She flinched and groaned, trying to pull away, trying to get to the knife he had tossed away, if only she could find it ...
But he held a pistol to her head now, the cold kiss of metal to her brow. She froze.
"Good girl. Stop fighting and listen."
"So, how will it happen, exactly? Well, princess, I've watched both Jamestown and the village for the past two years, and now couldn't be a better time. Oh, yes, dear, I have spies. Don't act so surprised.
You shouldn't just kneel there with your mouth hanging open. It's rude. ... But, I imagine that at times your man wants you like that ... although again, I can't really see the appeal of certain acts with the likes of you.
So anyway, finding you here, when this weather blew in, was just the keenest thing. Ah ah!" he chided, "I didn't say you could move. Stay still, there's a good girl."
"I have spies in Jamestown, loyal to the Spanish crown, who helped manufacture my little escape," he elaborated, "and they've had their eyes on you, your father, and Smith for the past two years. Now is the time. Once you and Smith are eliminated, the head of the chief will fetch us hundreds of galleons, and we'll move in to slaughter both your people and the English. This colony was a failure from the start-starvation and food hoarding; malaria; infighting; not to mention John Smith's little dalliance with you. Now, be a good girl and get up."
Pocahontas slowly got to her feet, not looking her old enemy in the eye, a sign of deference in her culture and, she hoped, a gesture of meekness and fright that would throw him off.
It worked. He made a satisfied sound in his throat, a harrumph of approval and smugness, of confirmation that he had her right where he wanted her. He lowered his pistol. At that moment, Pocahontas lunged at him, clawing for his eyes with her fingers. She was as light as a cat against him, and quick, but the blowing snow and the numbing cold blunted her effectiveness. Too quickly, he had her overpowered and lay on top of her.
Pinned underneath him, she struggled. His heavy winter clothing weighed her down even more. He grasped her face, much too tightly. "Do you know what really gets to me, princess?" he snarled, "The fact that you haunt every second of my dreaming in the night time, and that I find myself imagining you during the day, too, every time I see a woman with dark hair. You've infected me like some insidious poison, ever since Smith had the nerve and the stupidity to bring you to the fort with your father to broker negotiations that first terrible winter. I can't get you out of my mind. I ought to drag you back to the woods and take you, or even here."
He watched her squirm in horror, scrabble at him with her hands. He pinned her hands. "You filthy savage," he breathed, "No matter how many times I dream of those scenarios, I know I never could. I never could lie with an animal. So I'll just be done with it then."
He rolled off of her, dragged her upright. She staggered, unsteady. "Perfect," he smirked, eyeing the storm, which was growing stronger.
He advanced on her, pushing her closer to the edge as he forced her to back away from him. Desperate, Pocahontas rushed to get away darting around and to the side of him, but he was too fast, too strong. "You bastard," she snarled at him.
He only laughed.
She swung at him, but he was too strong, too fast, and the snow was coming down much too fast for her to react, as it was making it hard to see. With a few swift moves, he had slapped her across the face and then, as she reeled from the blow, hit her hard on the temple with the butt of a pistol.
The pain was shattering, and the warm blood that streamed down her face was disorienting and horrifying.
"It looks like you'll have a little accident out here after all," the man snarled, and shoved her toward the steep bank.
"You'll trip and fall and go into the water, and no one will come look for you. And I'll get what I want."
And then, a mighty shove ... and nothing ... nothing but air, wind ... and the hard slap of water.
Now, as a chill and a sweat came over her at once as she clung to the man who saved her, warm by a fireside, she could not remember if she screamed during the descent. She remembered a cold that was unbearable, harsh, turbulent water. Choking, flailing, then falling into stillness.
John's embrace was so warm, so strong, so true and comforting. But everything that had happened was so ... the room spun, violently this time. The ache in her head intensified. She pulled away, squirming to get out of his arms.
"Pocahontas ..." he tried to pull her close again, but she pushed him away. She coughed, and then more violently, her stomach churning. She scrambled out of the camp bed, to the door, and ran a few hundred feet into the snow on unsteady legs. She stumbled over the hem of her shift, caught herself. Then, in a little copse of trees, alone, she retched and coughed the river and the terror out of her stomach and lungs.
Feeling somewhat better, she walked back to their camp. John met her halfway, anxious. "Get inside, love. You've gone and got your stockings damp with snow."
He sat her down on the camp bed again, and took off her stockings, put them by the fire.
She rested her head in her hands, drawing her knees up, closing her eyes. She listened to him tinkering around their shelter, utensils clinking, water pouring. Something started to smell good and medicinal. After a time, she heard him come over. She kept her eyes tightly closed, tears squeezed out of the edges. He touched her arm. "Pocahontas," he said gently, "drink this. It will settle you."
Reluctantly, she looked up at him, and he pressed the tin cup into her hands, covering her hands with his own warm ones. His thick, wavy blonde hair was tangled and damp, almost dry now. Some color was just starting to come back into his pale cheeks.
"Drink it," he urged gently. "It will settle you."
The drink was hot and herbal.
"What is it?" she asked after a while, her voice hoarse. She must have been screaming, after all.
"Ginger, cinnamon and clove tea. I brought some along because I didn't know what we might need. I wasn't so sure how you would react if we had to stay overnight out here, and it looks like we will be. It's a full-on storm out there."
"Are you always this prepared for your hunting trips?" She looked at him; he was mixing up something in a small dish. Next, he picked up a clean handkerchief, soaked it in whatever was in the dish.
"Yes. From experiences of my own, a few nights in the wilderness can be rough. You don't know what you might encounter, or ingest. In your case it was a frightful amount of icy water. Hold still. I need to tend to this cut on your head."
Pocahontas pulled away, violently, nearly sloshing the tea out of her cup.
"Easy! Pocahontas, let me help you. It's alright."
"No ..."
John stared at her, holding the handkerchief soaked in whiskey and lavender oil.
"What on earth is wrong?" he asked, perplexed. "It will only hurt for a moment or two. Alcohol burns, but ..."
"I'm not afraid of the remedy," she said, and he noticed how hoarse her voice was; noticed the bruises that had bloomed across her cheeks, and on her forehead where the butt of pistol had struck. Her wrist, he noticed, was bruised as though it had been twisted ... but no, no. He had simply tied the rope to her wrist.
The level of fear in her eyes was uncharacteristic for the situation. John was confused, out of his element. Perhaps they were both a little out of their minds, in shock from the cold.
"Pocahontas, I need to understand. I know this was frightening, but you're alright now. I pulled you from the water. You're warm now."
He put the handkerchief into the dish, and then came toward her. He gently stroked her hair, smoothing it away from her face; it fell in damp, knotted tangles. He gently brushed his hands across her shoulders, grasped her hands. Her color was better. She was warm.
"I need to understand," he said again.
"I ...
I didn't fall. I was pushed."