demand of her. “No!” she gasped, resisting for the first time. “I can’t do this!”
“It will be all right,” White Moon whispered, close to her ear. “See, the women will stay all around you. No man will see what he should not. This is one of the lessons you must learn today—that Shawnee women stand together and protect one another.”
And so it was as the women’s chief had said. Clarissa passed through the village, concealed in her nakedness by the throng of women who surrounded her. For a moment she glimpsed Wolf Heart’s face above the crowdboth of them being taller than most Shawnee. In the brief meeting of their eyes, she read his concern, and she realized how much he had worried about her acceptance of this strange ritual.
Lifting her chin, she forced her paint-smeared features into a brave smile. His gaze softened with love, and in the next instant the swarm of women had swept her away from him, moving swiftly downhill toward the bank of the river.
They skirted the garden plots where corn, beans and squash sprouted in hills of rich river-silt. Clarissa could feel the earth under her feet growing damp, then wet. The women were in high spirits now. When one stately matron began to sing, the others joined in, matching theirsteps to the chant as they marched Clarissa hip deep into the chilly water. There, still laughing and chanting, they began to scrub away the paint that covered her skin.
There was nothing gentle about the scrubbing. The women used wadded grass, weeds, even sand to scour every inch of her painted flesh. “We will scrub away all the white in you!” the women’s chief laughed as she attacked Clarissa’s back with a piece of woven rush matting. “What is left will be all Shawnee!”
Clarissa clenched her teeth against the sting of her abraded skin, knowing it would disgrace her to show pain. The women laughed and sang as they scrubbed, taking so much time that it was all she could do to keep from screaming, breaking loose from them, plunging out of the river and running for the woods. Where were her clothes? Ruined, to be sure. What on earth was she supposed to wear?
At last, mercifully, the torture ended. Clarissa was dunked beneath the flowing water to remove the last traces of the paint. Then, as the women whooped and sang, she waded out of the river, as pink and raw as a newborn baby.
The sun was warm but the river breeze still carried a whisper of spring chill. By the time she reached the bank, her teeth were chattering and her stinging flesh had puckered into goose bumps. She did not feel Shawnee. She only felt sore and wet and cold. Even when White Moon stepped forward with an enfolding blanket she could not stop shivering.
The two young girls, Red Fawn and Laughing Bird pressed close and began to comb the tangles from Clarissa’s hair. From where she stood, bundled in the blanket, she could see Swan Feather sitting on a flat rock above the level of the wetness, her gnarled brown handsclutching a thick bundle. White Moon strode up the bank, took the bundle from her and brought it back to Clarissa.
“This is for you,” she said, smiling. “Many hands helped in the making of it, even your own.”
Puzzled, Clarissa unrolled the bundle, only to gasp in astonishment as it fell open in her hands to reveal a long fringed tunic of the softest white buckskin, decorated around the neck with an elegantly simple pattern worked in quills and tiny glass trade beads. There were leggings, as well, and a pair of beautiful new moccasins, exactly the size of her own feet.
She clutched the gift, overcome by its beauty and the generosity of the givers. Only then, as her fingers caressed the baby-soft buckskin, was she struck by something the women’s chief had told her.
“Such fine work is beyond the skill of my hands,” she said cautiously, not wishing to offend. “I took no part in making these things.”
“Oh, but you are wrong!” White Moon’s black eyes sparkled. “It
“It will be all right,” White Moon whispered, close to her ear. “See, the women will stay all around you. No man will see what he should not. This is one of the lessons you must learn today—that Shawnee women stand together and protect one another.”
And so it was as the women’s chief had said. Clarissa passed through the village, concealed in her nakedness by the throng of women who surrounded her. For a moment she glimpsed Wolf Heart’s face above the crowdboth of them being taller than most Shawnee. In the brief meeting of their eyes, she read his concern, and she realized how much he had worried about her acceptance of this strange ritual.
Lifting her chin, she forced her paint-smeared features into a brave smile. His gaze softened with love, and in the next instant the swarm of women had swept her away from him, moving swiftly downhill toward the bank of the river.
They skirted the garden plots where corn, beans and squash sprouted in hills of rich river-silt. Clarissa could feel the earth under her feet growing damp, then wet. The women were in high spirits now. When one stately matron began to sing, the others joined in, matching theirsteps to the chant as they marched Clarissa hip deep into the chilly water. There, still laughing and chanting, they began to scrub away the paint that covered her skin.
There was nothing gentle about the scrubbing. The women used wadded grass, weeds, even sand to scour every inch of her painted flesh. “We will scrub away all the white in you!” the women’s chief laughed as she attacked Clarissa’s back with a piece of woven rush matting. “What is left will be all Shawnee!”
Clarissa clenched her teeth against the sting of her abraded skin, knowing it would disgrace her to show pain. The women laughed and sang as they scrubbed, taking so much time that it was all she could do to keep from screaming, breaking loose from them, plunging out of the river and running for the woods. Where were her clothes? Ruined, to be sure. What on earth was she supposed to wear?
At last, mercifully, the torture ended. Clarissa was dunked beneath the flowing water to remove the last traces of the paint. Then, as the women whooped and sang, she waded out of the river, as pink and raw as a newborn baby.
The sun was warm but the river breeze still carried a whisper of spring chill. By the time she reached the bank, her teeth were chattering and her stinging flesh had puckered into goose bumps. She did not feel Shawnee. She only felt sore and wet and cold. Even when White Moon stepped forward with an enfolding blanket she could not stop shivering.
The two young girls, Red Fawn and Laughing Bird pressed close and began to comb the tangles from Clarissa’s hair. From where she stood, bundled in the blanket, she could see Swan Feather sitting on a flat rock above the level of the wetness, her gnarled brown handsclutching a thick bundle. White Moon strode up the bank, took the bundle from her and brought it back to Clarissa.
“This is for you,” she said, smiling. “Many hands helped in the making of it, even your own.”
Puzzled, Clarissa unrolled the bundle, only to gasp in astonishment as it fell open in her hands to reveal a long fringed tunic of the softest white buckskin, decorated around the neck with an elegantly simple pattern worked in quills and tiny glass trade beads. There were leggings, as well, and a pair of beautiful new moccasins, exactly the size of her own feet.
She clutched the gift, overcome by its beauty and the generosity of the givers. Only then, as her fingers caressed the baby-soft buckskin, was she struck by something the women’s chief had told her.
“Such fine work is beyond the skill of my hands,” she said cautiously, not wishing to offend. “I took no part in making these things.”
“Oh, but you are wrong!” White Moon’s black eyes sparkled. “It
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